A Contented Spirit

International Tract and Missionary Society · Oakland, California · May 22, 1884

FromSigns of the Times, Vol. 10, No. 20.

A Contented Spirit.

"THERE goes Miss Benton in her carriage; how pretty she is! I do not believe there is a girl in this town who is as free from care and as happy as she," said Amy Norton, turning from the window with a tired, weary look on her face.

There was just the least bit of petulance in her voice, and a lady who had been sitting near, busily writing, raised her eyes from the page, as the tone, not the words, made an impression on her ear.

"What is the matter, dear?" she asked, for the girl sighed as she lifted the ruffles of dark cloth she had been hemming, and began to sew again, putting her needle swiftly in, as if from the very expending of her energy there came relief. She did not answer the question for a moment, and it was repeated, as Mrs. Lacy put down her writing and crossed to her side. Lifting the girl's downcast face, she looked into the eyes, which were full of unshed tears, and gently said:—

"You are tired, Amy, dear; let us have a little talk; lay your sewing by for a time. Now tell me what it is that has made you unhappy?"

There was no resisting Aunt Fanny's loving voice and words, and Amy half ashamedly put aside her work, as she said:—

"I am not exactly unhappy, aunty, but I could not help thinking how differently some people are placed in this world, and how unequally riches and other privileges are distributed. Here I am, the daughter of a poor clergyman, the eldest in a family of six children. Mother would be overworked if I did not help her in mending, dressmaking, and housework. I am fond of my books; you know how I enjoy music, how I would love to continue my lessons, and have the opportunity of hearing good music oftener, and yet all is so different from what I want it to be. I am not often discontented, but I am so tired this afternoon, and the day is too glorious to be indoors, and I felt if this dress had not to be finished for Bertie to wear to church to-morrow, I would gladly escape to the woods, and take a long rest. And while I was wishing to be free as a bird, I saw Miss Benton drive by in her lovely carriage, and I could not but contrast our lives. She was beautifully dressed, as usual, and she never seems to have anything harder to do than to enjoy herself, and she is just my age, and—and—and," here poor Amy broke down utterly, and sobbed out a few incoherent words. Mrs. Lacy soothed her for a little in silence, then began tenderly:

"As you truly say, Amy, you are not often discontented. Your patient, cheerful doing of the tasks which lie before you, even though they are distasteful oftentimes, is very pleasant for me to see. You are relieving your dear mother, and giving her the leisure she could not otherwise obtain, and her sweet face, where anxieties and past cares have left their traces, is growing young again. Your father, too, is happy in his work, feeling that all the burdens and privations of a poor clergyman's lot are not borne alone by his loved wife, but are shared by a loving daughter, who is constantly striving to aid those about her. You see, dear, you are doing a good work; this is your mission, for a time at least, while your little brothers and sisters need care. Sometimes it may seem dull and monotonous, these daily tasks, but a contented spirit, which God gives to his sincere followers, will help you along wonderfully. Contentment is a great blessing, and we are all told to cultivate it ourselves. We may have our trials and privations, but we have besides much for which to give thanks daily. Our health, our kind friends, and hosts of other mercies are ours. We must try and remember, too, that we are in far better circumstances than many others."

"I know all that, aunty," interrupted Amy, "but I am sure rich people have far less to annoy them than poor people have. I do not believe Miss Benton knows what it is to 'count the cost.' She has every single thing that money can buy."

"Yes, everything," repeated Aunt Fanny, slowly, "everything but health."

"Oh, I forgot!" cried the girl, a blush dyeing her cheeks. "It never seems as if she were sick; she is always so bright, and is able to drive about. I did not remember that she could walk only a very little, poor girl. How I should feel if I were prevented from walking when and where I wished."

Mrs. Lacy smiled.

"You see, dear, there is alloy in all that seems at first pure and precious; I do not mean to say that poverty brings happiness, and riches drive it away. Far from it; but I do mean to say, throwing aside the question of money, when other things are equal, that those whom we often envy have many hidden trials which we do not suspect, and which, perhaps, we could not bear as easily if we had them as we do our own. People do not always parade their griefs. Poverty is sometimes endured with more fortitude because of the very sympathy we know others have for us; but those discomforts which worry and wear upon us in secret, and which we hide with smiling face from the world, are the burdens which carry more people to the grave with broken hearts than ever poverty and its trials do."

"I never thought of that before, aunty. When I am tired and vexed I am selfish, I know, and apt to think I have more than other people to bear."

"It is a natural feeling to others as well as yourself, darling, and we must all strive to overcome such a spirit. The older you grow, and the more you see of the world, the more readily will you appreciate the truth that 'every heart knoweth its own bitterness.' You will learn the wisdom of being contented with your own lot, doing the best you can with God's help, and above all, never envying those who may seem richer and more fortunate than yourself." Amy was smiling now. Ashamed of her repinings, she was ready to take up her work with loving light in her eyes, then she said:— "I will tell you the quaint story I once read in some old book, which gave the origin of the popular saying, 'There is a skeleton in every house,' or 'closet,' some have it. Perhaps it will help you a little, when you are tempted to envy others. I never find myself wishing I were in the place of one whom I think to be perfectly happy, but the old story, teaching its truth so plainly, comes to my mind, and I take up my burden, heavy though it may be, and try to go on cheerfully, treading the road God's providence has marked out for me. The story goes, that living many, many years ago in the city of Naples, was a wealthy widow, the Countess Corsini. Her one idol was her son, her only child. He was worthy of her great love, and grew up admired and respected by all who knew him. He was educated in the University of Bologna, and by his diligence he soon became celebrated as a great scholar. Every vacation he returned to his mother's villa, and those days were dearly prized by the widow, who lived with no thought but for her son and his happiness. Her only dread was the 'Gorgon thought' which came at times, what if she should lose him? At last, just before he was to return for his holidays, he was taken very ill, and the physicians assured him he must die. He had no fear for himself, but he dreaded the effect of the news upon his mother, knowing her great love for him. He, therefore, sent word that he was very ill, but that a fancy had seized him that he should recover if he was to have a shirt made for his wearing by the woman in Naples who would confess herself to be 'perfectly happy.' The poor mother thought it a strange request, though one easily granted. Surely in the great city were many happy women. All those, however, about whom she made special inquiries, were found to have some sorrow which secretly was clouding their lives. At last she heard of one rich lady, whom the great world pronounced 'perfectly happy,' and to her home she went. A cheerful, middle-aged woman greeted the countess pleasantly, and asked in what way she might aid her. It took but a few moments to tell the story, but as she spoke, the countess noticed her hostess grew very sad, and silently she led the way into a lonely room, from the ceiling to the floor of which hung a curtain; this she drew aside, and there in all its hideousness was a skeleton. It was that of the lady's lover whom she had forsaken to marry her husband. The wicked husband had killed him, and then hanging his body from this ceiling, compelled his wife, night and morning, to look upon the ghastly sight. The countess was much affected by the story, and when the news of her son's death reached her, she perceived the wisdom of his request, and while she mourned his loss most deeply, she felt that others, too, had their griefs, and that she was not alone walking in the dark road of sorrow, but that by her side were many weary and stricken as herself, even though they wore the mask of joy for the world to look upon. One more word, dear," said Aunt Fanny, as she finished the story; "I will close my little sermon by giving you a precious verse, which helps me out of the despondency which often comes, even after I know that I am not the only one with the grim skeleton of sorrow and trouble hanging before me. It is this," and with these words on her lips, Aunt Fanny kissed Amy's sweet face and went back to her writing:— "The little worries which we meet each day, May lie as stumbling-blocks across our way; Or, we may make them stepping-stones to be, Of grace, O Christ, to Thee."