And then of a sudden there came to me
memories of a young Irishman, with whom I was once intimate, and
had spent long nights walking and talking with, upon a very
desolate coast in a bleak autumn: I recalled him as a youth of an
extraordinary moral simplicity--almost vacancy; plastic to any
influence, the creature of his admirations: and putting such a
youth in fancy into the career of a soldier of fortune, it occurred
to me that he would serve my turn as well as Mr. 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. . . .
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.
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