"I see our brother, who has just sat down, lives on Grumbling street,"
said a keen-witted Yorkshireman. "I lived there myself for some time,
and never enjoyed good health. The air was bad, the house bad, the water
bad; the birds never came and sang in the street; and I was gloomy and
sad enough. But I 'flitted.' I got into Thanksgiving avenue; and ever
since then I have had good health, and so have all my family. The air is
pure, the house good; the sun shines on it all day; the birds are always
singing; and I am happy as I can live. Now, I recommend our brother to
'flit.' There are plenty of houses to let on Thanksgiving avenue; and he
will find himself a new man if he will only come; and I shall be right
glad to have him for a neighbor."
This world was not intended for a "vale of tears," but as a sweet Vale
of Content. Travelers are told by the Icelanders, who live amid the cold
and desolation of almost perpetual winter, that "Iceland is the best
land the sun shines upon." "In the long Arctic night, the Eskimo is
blithe, and carolsome, far from the approach of the white man; while
amid the glorious scenery and Eden-like climate of Central America, the
native languages have a dozen words for pain and misery and sorrow, for
one with any cheerful signification."
When a Persian king was directed by his wise men to wear the shirt of a
contented man, the only contented man in the kingdom had no shirt. The
most contented man in Boston does not live on Commonwealth avenue or do
business on State street: he is poor and blind, and he peddles needles
and thread, buttons and sewing-room supplies, about the streets of
Boston from house to house. Dr. Minot J. Savage used to pity this man
very much, and once in venturing to talk with him about his condition,
he was utterly amazed to find that the man was perfectly happy. He said
that he had a faithful wife, and a business by which he earned
sufficient for his wants; and, if he were to complain of his lot, he
should feel mean and contemptible. Surely, if there are any "solid men"
in Boston, he is one.
Content is the magic lamp, which, according to the beautiful picture
painted for us by Goethe, transforms the rude fisherman's hut into a
palace of silver; the logs, the floors, the roof, the furniture,
everything being changed and gleaming with new light.
"My crown is in my heart, not on my head;
Not decked with diamonds and Indian stones,
Nor to be seen; my crown is called content;
A crown it is that seldom kings enjoy."