ogist's whose book is for
all sorts and conditions of men, who may be as merry as he wishes on one
page, as solemn as he chooses on the next, and as pathetic or
sentimental as he likes on the page beyond. One has had to reject, for
instance, humour that is too boisterous or noisy, wit that is too
stinging and acrimonious, anecdotes that are touched with cruelty,
essays that, otherwise cheerful, deviate into the shadows of a too
sombre reflection. One has sought to compile a book of cheerfulness that
is kind and of happiness that is quiet and composed. One has had always
in mind the invalid just able to bear the effort of listening to a
melodious voice. To amuse, to distract, to divert, and above all to
charm--to bring a smile to the mind rather than laughter to the
lips--has been the guiding principle of this book, and the task has not
been easy. It is really extraordinary, to give but one instance of my
difficulties, how frequently the most amusing work of comic writers is
ruined by some chuckling jests about coffins, undertakers, or graves. If
any reader in full health miss from this throng of glad faces, this
muster of elated hearts, the most amusing and delightful of his familiar
friends, let him ask himself, before he pass judgment on the
anthologist, before he mistake a deliberate omission for a careless
forgetfulness, whether those good friends of his, amiable and welcome
enough at the dinner-table, are the companions he would choose for his
most wearisome hours or for the bedside of his sick child. And if in
these pages another should find that which neither amuses nor diverts
his mind, that which seems to him to miss the magic and to lack the
charm of happiness, let him pass on, with as much charity as he can
spare for the anthologist, remembering the proverb of Terence and
counting himself an infinitely happier man for this clear proof of his
superior judgment.

I wished to include in this book, from the literature of other
countries, such gentle, whimsical humour as one finds in the letters of
FitzGerald or the Essays of Lamb. But, with all my searching I could
find nothing of that kind, and judges whom I can trust assure me that no
other literature has the exquisite note of happiness which sounds
through English letters so quietly, so cheerfully, and so contentedly.
Therefore my Bed-Book is almost entirely an English Bed-Book, for I
liked not the biting acid of Voltaire's epigrams any more than the
rollicki