Evening star. [volume] (Washington, D.C.) 1854-1972, 1904-12-24

leaped from an automobile and called mas
terfully for the porter to carry four ounces
of baggage for us.
The clerk is middle class like ourselves
and is open only to the superiority of the
automobile man or to the familiarity of
the man who tries to wheedle him, thus
pleasing him by showing that he is under
the clerks class.
Nor could we do better if we went to
cheap hotel. If the Prince of Oxide goes to
one, all hands will be paralyZed by the
unexpected honor. But if we go to one, 1t
is simply impudance. The porter won't
even take our baggage. Bless you, they
can all see middle class in us the moment
they set eyes on u.s. ~
And we have tried the grand hotels-those
marble and gold affairs where they have
Peacock lanes and palm rooms and per-
fumed fountains and divorces. Barely have
we entered before the bell boy explains to
us kindly that we are heading for the
wrong corridor The porter lifts our bag
gage with the same suspicious air with
which a supersensitive man might lift a
mysterious brown paper parcel that he
finds in the gutter.
The Famous Wax Works Stare.
AS we follow the bell boy and pass the
divans in the corridors, we are weakly con-
scious of the stare that is known so pain
fully to every middle class person when he
enters a public place. Some of us. after
settling in seat, have tried to cultivate 1t
ourselves, to use on the next middle class
person who enters. But we always fail. 1t
belongs to the upper classes. 1t is to be
seen in perfection in the st. Regis and the
social halls of the sound steamers when the
Newport season is on. 1t is the wax works
Stare-the blighting, chilling, horribly faScl-
mating glare that wax figures emit. If
middle class person tries to make wax
works of himself he will succeed only in
producing an exceedingly and strikingly
truthful imitation of a fool. Wax works
are born, not made.
We flee the divan review and hide in our
room. We want lots of things, but the
bells are not labeled We can't tell whether
any particular push button will bring a bell
boy, fire engine the proprietor himself.
We don't know the way around, and no
body is in sight to tell US. We know too
well that If we forget our position so far
as to ask a guest we will be treated with
crushing pity. Only the middle class ever
loses its way in stylish hotel. All others
are born to it.
exaggerated politeness that may be either
scorn or the fellow feeling of social equals,
but certainly isn't respect. We know that
we are not getting half Of the dishes that
should be served We can see that we are
getting the poorest portions. All around US
we see how the least sign of annoyance
from the butterflies near us brings troop
of walters to the rescue. But we are per-
hearts content. The word has gone forth
-unspoken but none the less plain: mid
die class. Don't mind them! What do they
want here?'
What is FTP
What is it that emanates from us to ex-
pose our true standing unerringly to
conductors, walters, bootblacks and world
polite and social generally?
There isn't any difference in clothes and
features We pay for what We get, and
everybody knows that we will We certainly
don't look poor. Our behavior at table is
as good as, generally better than, that of
the people who patronize US. We notice
that we do not make nearly so much noise
in theaters, hotels or anywhere else. we
observe that most of the persons who, by
the unanimous consent of themselves and
u.s. are in the upper class, have manners
that range from Indifferent to rather bad,
bad worse and very bad indeed.
We aren't guilty of any of these things
Then what Is it that puts us SO hopelesSiy
into our proper class at once?
The answer is simple enough. We are
marked people because we can't carry off
our bad manners with such good manners
as they can. And until we can shall be
middle class.
The future will see a social revolution, or,
TONS The bottom will get on top and the
top will become the bottom. But we will
always remain in the middle. And in the
next generation we will be as unknown as
the pterodactyl-living, but unknown: ex-
listing, but submerged totally, hopelessly,
never to see the surface.