“Certainly,” said he, “certainly; you are quite right. If I had Sir Philip Sidney to my ancestor, I should wear his crest upon my ring, and glory in my relationship, and I hope I should be a better man for it. I wouldn’t put his arms upon my carriage, however, because that would mean nothing but ostentation. It would be merely a flourish of trumpets to say that I was his descendant, and nobody would know that, either, if my name chanced to be Boggs. In my library I might hang a copy of the family escutcheon as a matter of interest and curiosity to myself, for I’m sure I shouldn’t understand it. Do you suppose Mrs. Gnu knows what _gules argent_ are? A man may be as proud of his family as he chooses, and, if he has noble ancestors, with good reason. But there is no sense in parading that pride. It is an affectation, the more foolish that it achieves nothing--no more credit at Stewart’s--no more real respect in society. Besides, Polly, who were Mrs. Gnu’s ancestors, or Mrs. Croesus’s, or Mrs. Settum Downe’s? Good, quiet, honest, and humble people, who did their work, and rest from their labors. Centuries ago, in England, some drops of blood from ‘noble’ veins may have mingled with the blood of the forefathers; or even, the founder of the family name may be historically famous. What then? Is Mrs. Gnu’s family ostentation less absurd? Do you understand the meaning of her crest, and coats of arms, and liveries? Do you suppose she does herself? But in forty-nine cases out of fifty, there is nothing but a similarity of name upon which to found all this flourish of aristocracy.” My dear old Pot is getting rather prosy, Carrie. So when he had finished that long speech, during which I was looking at the lovely fashion plates in Harper, I said: “What colors do you think I’d better have?” He looked at me with that singular expression, and went out suddenly, as if he were afraid he might say something. He had scarcely gone before I heard: “My dear Mrs. Potiphar, the sight of you is refreshing as Hermon’s dew.” I colored a little; Mr. Cheese says such things so softly. But I said good morning, and then asked him about liveries, etc. He raised his hand to his cravat, (it was the most snowy lawn, Carrie, and tied in a splendid bow.) “Is not this a livery, dear Mrs. Potiphar?” And then he went off into one of those pretty talks, in what Mr. P. calls the “language of artificial flowers,” and wound up by quoting Scripture,--“Servants, obey your masters.”