“I do not understand you, sir—perhaps you will give me an outline of your history; and then all will be plain.”
“Miles, oblige me in one particular—it will cost you no great struggle, and will considerably relieve my mind.”
“You have only to name it, sir, to be certain it will be done.”
“Drop that bloody sir, then; it's unbecoming now, as between you and me. Call me Marble, or Moses; as I call you, Miles.”
“Well, be it so. Now for this history of yours, which you have promised to give me, by the way, any time these two years.”
“It can be told in a few words; and I hope it may be of service. A human life, properly generalized on, is at any time as good as most sermons. It is full of what I call the morality of idees. I suppose you know to what I owe my names?”
“Not I—to your sponsors in baptism, like all the rest of us, I suppose.”
“You're nearer the truth than you may imagine, this time, boy. I was found, a child of a week old, they tell me, lying in a basket, one pleasant morning, in a stone-cutter's yard, on the North River side of the town, placed upon a bit of stone that was hewing out for the head of a grave, in order, as I suppose, that the workmen would be sure to find me, when they mustered at their work. Although I have passed for a down-easter, having sailed in their craft in the early part of my life, I'm in truth York born.”
“And is this all you know of your origin, my dear Marble?”
“All I want to know, after such a hint. A man is never anxious to make the acquaintance of parents who are afraid to own him. I dare say, now, Miles, that you knew, and loved, and respected your mother?”