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Begbie, Harold, 1871-1929

"The Bed-Book of Happiness"

Thus it spends its
age, and in a few years it will become unintelligible, and then, in the
dust-bin, like poor human mortals in the grave, it will rest from all
its labours. It is impossible to estimate the benefit which such books
have conferred. How often have they loosed the chain of circumstances!
What unfamiliar tears--what unfamiliar laughter they have caused! What
chivalry and tenderness they have infused into rustic lovers! Of what
weary hours they have cheated and beguiled their readers! The big,
solemn history-books are in excellent preservation; the story-books are
defaced and frayed, and their out-of-elbows condition is their pride,
and the best justification of their existence.
In this pleasant summer weather I hold my audience in my garden rather
than in my house. In all my interviews the sun is a third party. Every
village has its Fool, and of course Dreamthorp is not without one. Him I
get to run my messages for me, and he occasionally turns my garden
borders with a neat hand enough. He and I hold frequent converse, and
people here, I have been told, think we have certain points of sympathy.
Although this is not meant for a compliment, I take it for one. The
poor, faithful creature's brain has strange visitors: now 'tis fun, now
wisdom, and now something which seems in the queerest way a compound of
both.


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