Some people, I suppose, if they were treating you to a few chapters in the history of this singular man, would weave the threads together in a different manner from mine. They would begin, very likely, by telling where the chap was born, who were his father and mother, how many brothers and sisters he had, what their names were, whether he had any uncles and aunts, and if he had, what kind of uncles and aunts they were, and all that sort of thing. And they would describe Mike's appearance exactly—tell you whether he had black eyes or blue, gray eyes or brown, red eyes or green. But I don't see much use in that.
Indeed, I am not sure but I shall keep you ignorant as to how he looked, and let you learn what there is worth learning in his character—for character is the great thing, after all, you know—by the stories I shall tell of him. I might, it is true, take every branch, and leaf, and bud, and flower, of his character, and pick it all to pieces, and show you, in this way, what he was made of. But you would get tired of all that. So I'll take another course. I'll tell you what he said and did—what he said and did at different times, at different periods in his life, and in different circumstances. Don't you think this is the best way to make you acquainted with him? I do; for, if you find out what a person says, and does, and thinks, you find out what he is.
One or two things, however, I must say about this Mike Marble, by way of general introduction.
He was born at a very interesting period—about nine years before the breaking out of the American Revolution. He was quite an old man before he went to his final rest. Indeed, it is but a few years since I saw his weather-beaten face, all lighted up with smiles. Unlike many other men, when they get to be old, he never made a practice of carping at every thing he saw about him, because it was not exactly in the style of 1776. He believed that there was wisdom among our grandfathers and grandmothers, but that there is wisdom, also, among their grand-children.
I have told you that he had some oddities. I have hinted, too, in a sort of whisper, that I do not consider a man an absolute Pagan, because he happens to be a little odd. Something more than this I could say of Uncle Mike, odd as he was; but I guess you will find out what I think of him, before I get through. Suffice it to say, that, while I didn't like him because he was odd, I did like him, in spite of his oddities. He was a fine old man. As the world goes, he was a most excellent man. He had his faults, a plenty of them; though I have sometimes thought
"That e'en his failings lean'd to virtue's side."
Some of them did, I know. He had his faults, nevertheless. I confess that. He always had them, no doubt. Faults are common things among mankind and womankind. But, with your consent, we will trip lightly over all that part of our hero's history which is shaded with blemishes.
