Demonstrative People by Charity Snow

Seventh-day Adventist Missionary Society · Oakland, California · Jun 15, 1882

Demonstrative People.

By Charity Snow

Cousin Robert and I were talking over this subject one day, when he said oracularly:—

"There are three kinds of folks in the world. One kind say a good deal more than they mean, are over-poweringly polite, are all gush and sentiment, and are always ready not only to thank you for any favor done them, but seemingly, for the privilege of living upon the footstool at the same time with yourself. The second class express just about what they feel, are polite and appreciative when occasion requires, and impress you with their sincerity and truthfulness. The third class shut themselves up like a clam shell. Whether they swing high or swing low is all one and the same to them, as far as any expression of their feeling is concerned. They speak neither of their joys nor their sorrows, and you might as well look for expression in a barn-door as to try to read their moods in their faces, for they have schooled themselves so that their faces tell no tales. I suppose I am too much that way myself. I can't, for the life of me, seem to express what I do feel. I suppose any quantity of people have done me favors, and have never had the least idea how grateful I really was, because I couldn't tell them," and he added the last almost with the air of one who had not been fairly treated.

"Bless the absurd man," I cried, "how can people know how you feel if you never tell them? Nobody knows your own heart but yourself, and how are people to know you have one at all, if you never show it?"

A slightly startled look crossed his face which would be handsome if he would allow his emotions to play over it, but which, from its fixedness, is in danger of losing all beauty of expression.

Now I have known cousin Robert long and well, and know that he is highly emotional, so do all his best and nearest friends, but a stranger would think him totally indifferent. I have regretted this exceedingly, for I know he is not aware how deep a hold this habit has upon him, and that he would be much happier if he would act his real self, and be much more beloved and respected. Then I can plainly see his influence on his young children, and I know his wife, Jane, keenly feels his manner, though she has such a bright, sunny, transparent nature, that it seems impossible that she could ever be made over into a cold, indifferent, reticent woman. I suppose I showed something of my thoughts in my face, for Robert is keen at reading other people's feelings, even if he does conceal his own.

"The fact is," he broke forth, "I wasn't brought up right. You know father was a hard, stern man, who didn't believe in sentiment or emotion. Mother was just the contrary. The smiles or the tears came very easy. I inherited my mother's tenderness, with just enough of my father's hardness to make me think it unmanly to show my real feelings, especially as father always poohed at us when we manifested any unusual emotion. It's bad for children to be brought up so!"

"Yes," I answered, "it is very bad. Your boy Fred was in here Christmas day, and I gave him a pair of bright wristers I had been knitting for him, and what do you think the little fellow did? After one short look of surprise and delight, which I had to watch sharp to catch, he thrust them into his pocket, cocked his head on one side, fixed his eyes on the farthest point in the ceiling, and uttered the simple word, 'Thanks.' After a little he said, indifferently, 'Guess I'll be going,' ambled slowly out, and walked down the street with his hands in his pockets, whistling. During the day Frank came in, and I produced a similar pair of wristers for him. His face lighted up as he put them on, and said: 'Thank you, they are just what I wanted. All the school boys have them. But ain't they beauties, though? I must run home and show them to mother.' But he stooped in front of the window to hold up both wrists to me significantly, then threw me a kiss and ran away."

"Yes," said Robert, with a little chuckle, "Fred is just like me. It's his misfortune, and Frank is just like his mother. You wouldn't think they were born on the same continent, much less were brothers. I never thought so much about it as I have lately, but I do think Jane's way is the best, though I have sometimes laughed at her. 'Twas only a few days ago that Ed Shorey was in the yard talking to me. You know the Shoreys haven't an idea in common with Jane, as you may say, yet she came to the door and asked him how his family was, sent her love to his wife, and a pocketful of apples to the children. I asked her afterwards if she was not the least bit hypocritical. 'Why, no indeed!' she said, 'I am sure I feel kindly towards them, and I have got love enough left for all my friends. I haven't impoverished myself a bit, and those apples will do the children more good than a dozen lectures. Sometime, when I want to do them good and reach their hearts, I can do it twice as easy for my little entering wedges. When I ask the children, next summer, to come into my Sabbath-school class, I shall get them.'"

"Of course Jane's is the best way," I replied, "and since we are on the subject I may as well say my say. If Fred's manner is his misfortune it is certainly your fault. You are not to blame for what you inherited from your father, nor for your bringing up. You had no control over those things. But now that you are brought up and realize your deficiency, you should set yourself at work to remedy these defects by the use of your common sense. Neither could you help it that Fred should take on your nature, but you are to blame if you do not do your very best, by example and precept, to eradicate this miserable inheritance in yourself and your boy."

"Well, but, Charity, I am not so very bad as you make me. I feel as much as any one, and Fred is just as warm-hearted and affectionate as Frank, only he don't show it."

"That may all be true, and more's the pity, to spoil a fine nature by an unfortunate manner. Most people take one for what he appears to be. It is like a person with a handsome face wearing an ugly mask continually. People don't see neath. Beauty amounts to but little when it is concealed. You have no right to cover every good quality of mind and heart under a false mask, and you do your boy a grievous wrong if you allow him to go through the world doomed likewise. It is my belief that we should make of ourselves the best and most that we may. Cultivate the good and uproot the bad. We owe it to ourselves, our race, and our God. All the little kindly courtesies in the family and elsewhere should be made much of. There should be sympathy for all with whom we meet, either in their joys or in their sorrows. We should have a healthy interest in the affairs of others, an unselfishness which seeks not every good for one's self, but which pays us back many fold for all our sacrifices in the soul growth which comes to us."

"I know you are right, Charity, I must try to make a change. I'll go home and talk it over with Jane. Thank you for your plain talk. 'Faithful are the wounds of a friend.'"

So he went away. I felt greatly encouraged, for he had said much for him, and I knew him to be too conscientious and persistent to ever get back on the old ground again. Jane came over the next day, jubilant, and I knew the moment I saw her tell-tale face that she had good news for me. As soon as she was seated in her favorite chair before our open wood fire, I looked into her eyes and said, "Well?"

She looked back and began: "After the children had gone to bed last night, Robert told me about your conversation yesterday, and we had a long talk about our different traits and our duties in general, especially towards our children. I thought I knew Robert before, but he revealed depths of tenderness, love, and appreciation which astonished even me, who know him better, perhaps, than any one else does. I think he has taken a long stride forward, and I shall have to use my small feet pretty lively to keep up with him. I hate to acknowledge it even to myself, but it has been the one dark spot in my married life, Robert's reticence and repression. There are so many great things and little things in everyday life where I have so missed the hearty and frank appreciation which I have always been accustomed to in my father's family. And while I have reason to know that Robert's brothers and sisters esteem and love me, I have been chilled by their manners. They are all alike, except sister Lizzie, who is as open as the day. To illustrate: Last Christmas I gave her a set of embroidery. I had made it myself, and wrought much love in with the dainty stitches. The next time I saw her she put her arms round my neck and gave me a kiss, saying, 'I thank you so much for my Christmas gift. It was just what I wanted. You were so good to make it for me.' I gave sister Laura a similar set. Her thanks came in this way. She had occasion to write me a business note, and at the close she added, 'Thanks for the embroidery.' Now I have a way of knowing that she was just as pleased as Lizzie was, and her 'thanks' probably meant as much to her as Lizzie's tender acknowledgment did to her. Yet I can never take quite the pleasure in gifts to Laura that I can to Lizzie. Is it a weakness in my make-up? Don't we all crave the expression of love and appreciation, and ought we not to have it? Should not this heart-want of ours be met and fed? Are the loving expressions wholly nature's gifts, or is it one of the 'family rights' that children be taught the necessity of a better way, until it is theirs by habit, if not by nature? Write about it, Charity."

So I can do no better than to tell you this little story, and let you find and apply the moral for yourselves, dear readers.—Charity Snow, in the Household.