He was a person of interminable and incredibly inaccurate reminiscences.

His long residence in an indigo-producing swamp had affected his memory, which was supported by only very occasional visits to England.
He told me tales of my poor father and of my poor, dear mother, and of Mr.Bromptons and Mrs.Kenwards who had figured on their visiting lists away back in the musty sixties.
"Your poor, dear father was precious badly off then," he said; "he had a hard struggle for it.

I had a bad time of it too; worm had got at all my plantations, so I couldn't help him, poor chap.

I think, mind you, Kenny Granger treated him very badly.

He might have done something for him--he had influence, Kenny had." Kenny was my uncle, the head of the family, the husband of my aunt.
"They weren't on terms," I said.
"Oh, I know, I know," the old man mumbled, "but still, for one's only brother ...