sits there croaking like a night owl or a tenth-rate journalist. My Dismal
Jemmy is not to be exorcised by argument. He can only be driven out by a
little sane companionship.

So I turn on a light and call for one of my bedside friends. They stand
there in noble comradeship, ready to talk, willing to remain silent, only
asking to do my pleasure. Oh, blessed be the name of Gutenberg, the Master
Printer. A German? I care not. Even if he had been a Prussian--which I
rejoice to think he was not--I would still say: "Blessed be the name of
Gutenberg," though Sir Richard Cooper, M.P., sent me to the Tower for it.
For Gutenberg is the Prometheus not of legend but of history. He brought
down the sacred flame and scattered the darkness that lay on the face of
the waters. He gave us the _Daily Owl_, it is true, but he made us also
freemen of time and thought, companions of the saints and the sages,
sharers in the wisdom and the laughter of the ages. Thanks to him I can,
for the expenditure of a few shillings, hear Homer sing and Socrates talk
and Rabelais laugh; I can go chivvying the sheep with Don Quixote and
roaming the hills with Borrow; I can carry the whole universe of
Shakespeare in my pocket, and call up spirits to drive Dismal Jemmy from my
pillow.

Who are these spirits? In choosing them it is necessary to avoid the
deep-browed argumentative fellows. I do not want Plato or Gibbon or any of
the learned brotherhood by my bedside, nor the poets, nor the novelists,
nor the dramatists, nor even the professional humorists. These are all
capital fellows in their way, but let them stay downstairs. To the intimacy
of the bedside I admit only the kindly fellows who come in their
dressing-gowns and slippers, so to speak, and sit down and just talk to you
as though they had known you ever since you were a little nipper, and your
father and your grandfather before you. Of course, there is old Montaigne.