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Chief among its characteristics—­after its sincere religious worship of money and financial success—­I should put its intense self-consciousness as a class.  The world is a steamer in which it is travelling saloon.  Occasionally it goes to look over from the promenade deck at the steerage.  Its feelings towards the steerage are kindly.  But the tone in which it says “the steerage” cuts the steerage off from it more effectually than many bulkheads.  You perceive also from that tone that it could never be surprised by anything that the steerage might do.  Curious social phenomenon, the steerage!  In the saloon there runs a code, the only possible code, the final code; and it is observed.  If it is not observed, the infraction causes pain, distress.  Another marked characteristic is its gigantic temperamental dullness, unresponsiveness to external suggestion, a lack of humour—­in short, a heavy and half-honest stupidity:  ultimate product of gross prosperity, too much exercise, too much sleep.  Then I notice a grim passion for the status quo.  This is natural.  Let these people exclaim as they will against the structure of society, the last thing they desire is to alter it.  This passion shows itself in a naive admiration for everything that has survived its original usefulness, such as sail-drill and uniforms.  Its mirror of true manhood remains that excellent and appalling figure, the Brushwood Boy.  The passion for the status quo also shows itself in a general defensive, sullen hatred of all ideas whatever.  You cannot argue with these people.  “Do you really think so?” they will politely murmur, when you have asserted your belief that the earth is round, or something like that.  And their tone says:  “Would you mind very much if we leave this painful subject?  My feelings on it are too deep for utterance.”  Lastly, I am impressed by their attitude towards the artist, which is mediaeval, or perhaps Roman.  Blind to nearly every form of beauty, they scorn art, and scorning art they scorn artists.  It was this class which, at inaugurations of public edifices, invented the terrible toast-formula, “The architect and contractor.”  And if epics were inaugurated by banquet, this class would certainly propose the health of the poet and printer, after the King and the publishers.  Only sheer ennui sometimes drives it to seek distraction in the artist’s work.  It prefers the novelist among artists because the novel gives the longest surcease from ennui at the least expenditure of money and effort.

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