The Scotch [antikvár]

FOREWORD Books can be broken broadly into two classes: those written to please the reader and those written for the greater pleasiu-e of the writer. Subject to nimierous and distinguished exceptions, the second class is rightly suspect and especially if the writer himself appears in the story. Doubtless it is best to have one's vanity served by others; but when all else fails it is something men do for themselves. Political memoirs, biographies of great business tycoons and the armais of aging actors sufficiently illustrate the point. As I warn the reader this book falls unmistakably into the suspect category. In recent years I have found myself combining periods of intense activity with long intervals of functional idleness — journeys when I could not sleep, intervals between engagements, speeches and conversations that required only a show of attention. It was dining these odd moments, for my own pleasure, that I wrote this book. The story of the Scotch involved no very taxing ideas. I suppose, also, it involved a certain pleasant nostalgia. But