Men often suggest their business occupations by their walk. A dentist displays the gait and bearing he has when he is coming to the side of your chair to draw a tooth. A printer carries his arm forward, as if feeling for the “case.” The preacher you can almost hear saying “Now we will hear from Brother Hawkins.” The rôles of stage people stick to them on the outside; the tragedian I rarely mistake; the “leading man” can’t get rid of his descriptive look. The villain and the comedian you will know apart, although, strange to say, their real characters are generally diametrically opposite to the parts they play.
Faces are like looking-glasses; they generally reflect the treatment they receive. Driving in the park, the wealthy lady wants Mrs. Jones to know she is on deck—footman, mountings, dog-chairs and all. You can tell her by the “Oh-have-I-to-go-through-with-this-again?” sort of look. The young Wall Street plunger’s face says, “You thought I wouldn’t be here, eh? well, here I am.” One man’s face tells you he is driving with his sweetheart; the simple soft quietude of one woman’s face tells you that she is beyond all else a mother.
As a rule, however,—and more’s the pity—a man’s real nature is obscured when he is in pursuit of gain—absorbed in business, of any kind. You would no more know him then, than you would your own house-cat when the Mr. Hyde side of his nature crops out on your garden fence late at night. Two boys were selling newspapers on a car; the larger in his eagerness for business, pushed the other off. The little fellow fell, dropped and scattered his papers and began to cry. Instantly the big boy was a different being; he lost all thought of business, hurried to his disabled rival, put the little chap on his feet and got his papers together for him.
Some people have a magnetic manner that is both instant and quelling in its effect. A certain woman enters a parlor, and for some subtle, indefinable reason all eyes are fixed upon her. She may not be brilliant yet she holds the winning hand; she bears on her face “a royal flush,” yet let her go out and some inferior will say, “now that she’s gone, we can talk about her.” Her quality is generally called instinctive, but probably it was slowly acquired, for lives are like lead-pencils—it takes long experience to sharpen them so they will leave a clear, keen line. Sometimes this line appears in the profile, which I have often believed a sure indication of character; so did Talleyrand.
Human expression is much affected by geographical location and custom. An American in Japan asked his host’s servants for a bath, and was soon informed it was ready. As he saw nothing to indicate its whereabouts, he asked,
“Where?”
“Look out into the garden, sir.” He looked and saw his hostess and host, the latter being governor of the town, awaiting him, beside an artificial pool, and entirely nude. He was told that according to Japanese custom the first plunge is the right of the guest, so there was no time to lose, for the good people were shivering while they waited. The guest went out looking like Adam before the downfall, and much embarrassed besides. Stepping into the water he found it too hot and begged for cold water; the Japanese take only warm baths, but at once the pool was emptied and cold water was turned in. Meanwhile the lord and lady stood as unadorned as Greek statues, this being Japanese custom while waiting at a bath. Such a performance in New York would cause even Tammany to rally around Dr. Parkhurst, but in Japan it “goes.” This gentle, courteous, considerate family also expressed wonder at the straightness of their guest’s legs, their own being bent through the habit of sitting on them in tailor-fashion;—Japanese custom again.
When men do not act in accordance with their looks, some tradition or custom of their ancestors or associates will account for it; a man is generally a Democrat because his father was one, though it doesn’t invariably follow that because “the governor” is a total abstainer the “Martigny” is unknown to his son. Men unconsciously initiate other men and their ways, because other men have done it. We dress in black when some one dear to us dies.
Why, oh men of Athens, do we do these things? Should any dear relative of mine die, I think I would go to the theatre that night,—if I felt like it. I believe, with Mr. Beecher, in rose-colored funerals; not in those which are gray and ghostly with ashes. There is too much convention about these things. Why do we have all the formal funerals, when the only real sentiment is attended to by the hearts of the bereaved? When the body is dead it should be put away quietly, kindly, reverently, but without any display of tears—and without the cards and flowers. They are the style, you know, but—why cards? Why shouldn’t we send flowers anonymously, so as to spare the real mourners the pains of writing an acknowledgment? Let us steer clear of conventional sorrow when we can, for there is enough of the real article to go round. If the night must come, sprinkle it with stars; if there be the winding sheet of snow, tinkle sleigh bells over it. The living want your love far more than the dead want your tears.