Dear old man! my heart blesses him now, as my memory recalls the scenes in which he used to take a part. With all his oddities and crotchets, he always had a kind and warm heart beating in his bosom. I don't believe that he ever had an enemy in the world. Every body, it always seemed to me, respected him, and those who knew him most, loved him best.
He possessed an art which is worth more than the finest farm in America. It was the art of being happy himself, and of making others happy. He was never out of humor. Nobody could get him into a passion. I never heard of his having wounded the feelings of a single individual, during all the time that I was acquainted with him.
Now some people will say, "Oh, it was Mike Marble's way. That was his disposition. He could not help being good-natured. It came natural to him to make friends. It was as easy for him to scatter happiness all around him, as it was to breathe." I don't know about all that. There may have been something—probably there was something—in Mike Marble's natural disposition, which was pleasant and cheerful. But I guess it cost him some effort to live in the sunshine so constantly. There is such a thing, reader—and I hope you will mark these words well—there is such a thing as keeping the heart fresh, and green, and tender, and loving, by one's own effort; and there is such a thing, too, as letting the heart, by neglect and want of culture, become old before its time, and dry, and tough, and crabbed. You can school your affections. Did you know that? I'll tell you how to dry up all the love and kindness you may have. Shut up your heart, as an oyster does its shell. Shut it up, and be selfish. Do so, and you will soon be sick enough of the world, and the world will be sick enough of you. But I would not do that, if I were in your place. I would advise you to try to keep the heart open, by doing all the kind acts you can. But I must end my tale of Mike Marble.
Dear old man! He has gone to his rest. His voice long since ceased to be heard on earth. He died as he lived—cheerfully and peacefully. The Saviour, in whom he had trusted, was with him in his dying hour, and I cannot doubt that that good man went to dwell with the angels.
Reader, may you, like him, live a life of usefulness, and may you take your leave of the world as peacefully, as hopefully, as cheerfully, at