is a sham with them:  they have drill and etiquet instead of manners, fashions instead of tastes, small talk instead of intercourse.  Everything that is special to them as distinguished from workers is a sham:  when you get down to the real element in them, good or bad, you find that it is something that is common to them and to all civilized mankind.  The reason that this isnt as clear to other workmen who come among them as it is to me is that most workmen share their ignorance of the things they affect superiority in.  Poor Jackson, whom you all call the Yankee cad, and who is not a cad at all in his proper place among the engineers at our works, believes in the sham refinements he sees around him at the at-homes he is so fond of.  He has no art in him—­no trained ear for music or for fine diction, no trained eye for pictures and colors and buildings, no cultivated sense of dignified movement, gesture, and manner.  But he knows what fashionable London listens to and looks at, and how it talks and behaves; and he makes that his standard, and sets down what is different from it as vulgar.  Now the difference between me and him is that I got an artistic training by accident when I was young, and had the natural turn to profit by it.  Before I ever saw a West End Londoner I knew beautiful from ugly, rare from common, in music, speech, costume, and gesture; for in my father’s operatic and theatrical companies there did come now and then, among the crowd of thirdraters, a dancer, an actor, a scenepainter, a singer, or a bandsman or conductor who was a fine artist.  Consequently, I was not to be taken in like Jackson by made-up faces, trashy pictures, drawling and lounging and strutting and tailoring, drawing-room singing and drawing-room dancing, any more than by bad ventilation and unwholesome hours and food, not to mention polite dram drinking, and the round of cruelties they call sport.  I found that the moment I refused to accept the habits of the rich as standards of refinement and propriety, the whole illusion of their superiority vanished at once.  When I married Marian I was false to my class.  I had a sort of idea that my early training had accustomed me to a degree of artistic culture that I could not easily find in a working girl, and that would be quite natural to Marian.  I soon found that she had the keenest sense of what was ladylike, and no sense of what was beautiful at all.  A drawing, a photograph, or an engraving sensibly framed without a white mount round it to spoil it pained her as much as my wrists without cuffs on them.  No mill girl could have been less in sympathy with me on the very points for which I had preferred her to the mill girls.  The end of it was that I felt that love had made me do a thoroughly vulgar thing—­marry beneath me.  These aristocratic idle gentlemen will never be shamed out of their laziness and low-mindedness until the democratic working gentlemen refuse to associate with them instead of running after them and licking