Forgetfulness rises as a tide and creeps upward to drown within us
those stories of the days that were. And because this is true, it
comes to me that you as a memory must stand tallest in the midst of
my regard. For of you I find within me no forgetfulness. I have met
others; they came, they tarried, they departed. They came again; and
on this second encounter the recollection of their existences smote
upon me as a surprise. I had forgotten them as though they had not
been. But such is not your tale. Drawn on the plates of memory, as
with a tool of diamond, I carry you both in broadest outline and in
each least of shade; and there hangs no picture in the gallery of
hours gone, to which I turn with more of pleasure and of good. Nor
am I alone in my recollection. Do I pass through the Fifth Avenue
Hotel on my way to the Hoffman, that vandyked dispenser leans
pleasantly across his counter, to ask with deepest interest: "Do you
hear from the Old Man now?" Or am I belated in Shanley's, a beaming
ring of waiters--if it be not an hour overrun of custom--will
half-circle my table, and the boldest, "Pat," will question timidly,
yet with a kindly Galway warmth: "How's the Old Man?" Old Man! That
is your title: at once dignified and affectionate; and by it you come
often to be referred to along Broadway these ten years after its
conference. And when the latest word is uttered what is there more
to fame! I shall hold myself fortunate, indeed, if, departing, I'm
remembered by half so many half so long. But wherefore extend
ourselves regretfully? We may meet again; the game is not played
out. Pending such bright chance, I dedicate this book to you. It is
the most of honour that lies in my lean power. And in so doing, I am
almost moved to say, as said Goldsmith of Johnson in his offering of
_She Stoops to Conquer_: "By inscribing this slight performance to
you, I do not mean to so much compliment you as myself. It may do me
some honour to inform the public that I have lived many years in