Lyndon, and in
place of entering into competition with the Master, would
afford a slight though a distinct relief. I know not if I
have done him well, though his moral dissertations always
highly entertained me: but I own I have been surprised to
find that he reminded some critics of Barry Lyndon after all.
. . .
CHAPTER VII - PREFACE TO 'THE MASTER OF BALLANTRAE' (19)
ALTHOUGH an old, consistent exile, the editor of the
following pages revisits now and again the city of which he
exults to be a native; and there are few things more strange,
more painful, or more salutary, than such revisitations.
Outside, in foreign spots, he comes by surprise and awakens
more attention than he had expected; in his own city, the
relation is reversed, and he stands amazed to be so little
recollected. Elsewhere he is refreshed to see attractive
faces, to remark possible friends; there he scouts the long
streets, with a pang at heart, for the faces and friends that
are no more. Elsewhere he is delighted with the presence of
what is new, there tormented by the absence of what is old.
Elsewhere he is content to be his present self; there he is
smitten with an equal regret for what he once was and for
what he once hoped to be.
He was feeling all this dimly, as he drove from the station,
on his last visit; he was feeling it still as he alighted at
the door of his friend Mr. Johnstone Thomson, W.S., with whom
he was to stay. A hearty welcome, a face not altogether
changed, a few words that sounded of old days, a laugh
provoked and shared, a glimpse in passing of the snowy cloth
and bright decanters and the Piranesis on the dining-room
wall, brought him to his bed-room with a somewhat lightened
cheer, and when he and Mr.
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