University of Virginia Library

My dear Caroline,—Lent came so frightfully
early this year, that I was very much afraid
my new bonnet à l'Impératrice would not be out
from Paris soon enough. But fortunately it arrived
just in time, and I had the satisfaction
of taking down the pride of Mrs. Crœsus, who
fancied hers would be the only stylish hat in
church the first Sunday. She could not keep
her eyes away from me, and I sat so unmoved,
and so calmly looking at the Doctor, that she
was quite vexed. But, whenever she turned
away, I ran my eyes over the whole congregation,
and would you believe that, almost without

an exception, people had their old things?
However, I suppose they forgot how soon Lent
was coming. As I was passing out of church,
Mrs. Croesus brushed by me:

“Ah!” said she, “good morning. Why, bless
me! you've got that pretty hat I saw at Lawson's.
Well, now, it's really quite pretty; Lawson
has some taste left yet;—what a lovely
sermon the Doctor gave us. By the by, did
you know that Mrs. Gnu has actually bought
the blue velvet? It's too bad, because I wanted
to cover my prayer-book with blue, and she
sits so near, the effect of my book will be quite
spoiled. Dear me! there she is beckoning to
me: good-bye, do come and see us; Tuesdays,
you know. Well, Lawson really does very
well.”

I was so mad with the old thing, that I could
not help catching her by her mantle and holding
on while I whispered loud enough for every
body to hear:

“Mrs. Croesus, you see I have just got my
bonnet from Paris. It's made after the Empress's.
If you would like to have yours made over in

the fashion, dear Mrs. Croesus, I shall be so glad
to lend you mine.”

“No, thank you, dear,” said she, “Lawson
won't do for me. Bye-bye.”

And so she slipped out, and, I've no doubt,
told Mrs. Gnu that she had seen my bonnet at
Lawson's. Isn't it too bad? Then she is so
abominably cool. Somehow, when I'm talking
with Mrs. Croesus, who has all her own things
made at home, I don't feel as if mine came from
Paris at all. She has such a way of looking at
you, that it's quite dreadful. She seems to be
saying in her mind, “La! now, well done, little
dear.” And I think that kind of mental
reservation (I think that's what they call it) is
an insupportable impertinence. However, I don't
care, do you?

I've so many things to tell you that I hardly
know where to begin. The great thing is the
livery, but I want to come regularly up to that,
and forget nothing by the way. I was uncertain
for a long time how to have my prayer-book
bound. Finally, after thinking about it a great
deal, I concluded to have it done in pale blue

velvet, with gold clasps, and a gold cross upon
the side. To be sure, it's nothing very new.
But what is new now-a-days? Sally Shrimp has
had hers done in emerald, and I know Mrs.
Croesus will have crimson for hers, and those
people who sit next us in church (I wonder
who they are; it's very unpleasant to sit next
to people you don't know: and, positively, that
girl, the dark-haired one with large eyes, carries
the same muff she did last year; it's big enough
for a family) have a kind of brown morocco
binding. I must tell you one reason why I fixed
upon the pale blue. You know that aristocratic-looking
young man, in white cravat and black
pantaloons and waistcoat, whom we saw at Sara
toga a year ago, and who always had such a
beautiful sanctimonious look, and such small
white hands; well, he is a minister, as we supposed,
“an unworthy candidate, an unprofitable
husbandman,” as he calls himself in that delicious
voice of his. He has been quite taken up among
us. He has been asked a good deal to dinner,
and there was hope of his being settled as colleague
to the Doctor, only Mr. Potiphar (who
can be stubborn, you know) insisted that the Rev.
Cream Cheese, though a very good young man,
he didn't doubt, was addicted to candlesticks.
I suppose that's something awful. But, could
you believe any thing awful of him? I asked
Mr. Potiphar what he meant by saying such
things.

“I mean,” said he, “that he's a Puseyite, and
I've no idea of being tied to the apron-strings
of the Scarlet Woman.”

Dear Caroline, who is the Scarlet Woman?
Dearest, tell me, upon your honor, if you have
ever heard any scandal of Mr. Potiphar.

“What is it about candlesticks?” said I to
Mr. Potiphar. “Perhaps Mr. Cheese finds gas
too bright for his eyes; and that's his misfortune,
not his fault.”

“Polly,” said Mr. Potiphar, who will call me
Polly, although it sounds so very vulgar, “please
not to meddle with things you don't understand.
You may have Cream Cheese to dinner as much
as you choose, but I will not have him in the
pulpit of my church.”

“The same day, Mr. Cheese happened in about

lunch-time, and I asked him if his eyes were
really weak.

“Not at all,” said he, “why do you ask?”

Then I told him that I had heard he was so
fond of candlesticks.

Ah! Caroline, you should have seen him then.
He stopped in the midst of pouring out a glass
of Mr. P.'s best old port, and holding the decanter
in one hand, and the glass in the other,
he looked so beautifully sad, and said in that
sweet low voice:

“Dear Mrs. Potiphar, the blood of the martyrs
is the seed of the church.” Then he filled up
his glass, and drank the wine off with such a
mournful, resigned air, and wiped his lips so
gently with his cambric handkerchief (I saw
that it was a hem-stitch), that I had no voice to
ask him to take a bit of the cold chicken, which
he did, however, without my asking him. But
when he said in the same low voice, “A little
more breast, dear Mrs. Potiphar,” I was obliged
to run into the drawing-room for a moment, to
recover myself.

Well, after he had lunched, I told him that

I wished to take his advice upon something
connected with the church, (for a prayer-book
is, you know, dear,) and he looked so sweetly
at me, that, would you believe it, I almost wished
to be a Catholic, and to confess three or four
times a week, and to have him for my confessor.
But it's very wicked to wish to be a Catholic,
and it wasn't real much, you know: but somehow
I thought so. When I asked him in what velvet
he would advise me to have my prayer-book
bound, he talked beautifully for about twenty
minutes. I wish you could have heard him.
I'm not sure that I understood much of what
he said—how should I?—but it was very beautiful.
Don't laugh, Carrie, but there was one
thing I did understand, and which, as it came
pretty often, quite helped me through: it was,
“Dear Mrs. Potiphar;” you can't tell how nicely
he says it. He began by telling me that it was
very important to consider all the details and
little things about the church. He said they
were all Timbales or Cymbals—or something of
that kind; and then he talked very prettily about
the stole, and the violet and scarlet capes of the
cardinals, and purple chasubles, and the lace
edge of the Pope's little short gown; and—do
you know it was very funny—but it seemed to
me, somehow, as if I was talking with Portier
or Florine Lefevre, except that he used such
beautiful words. Well, by and by, he said:—

“Therefore, dear Mrs. Potiphar, as your faith
is so pure and childlike, and as I observe that
the light from the yellow panes usually falls
across your pew, I would advise that you
cymbalize your faith (wouldn't that be noisy
in church?) by binding your prayer-book in
pale blue; the color of skim-milk, dear Mrs.
Potiphar, which is so full of pastoral associations.”

Why did he emphasize the word “pastoral?”
Do you wonder that I like Cream Cheese, dear
Caroline, when he is so gentle and religious—
and such a pretty religion too! For he is not
only well-dressed, and has such aristocratic
hands and feet, in the parlor, but he is so perfectly
gentlemanly in the pulpit. He never
raises his voice too loud, and he has such
wavy gestures. Mr. Potiphar says that may be

all very true, but he knows perfectly well that
he has a hankering for artificial flowers, and
that, for his part, he prefers the Doctor to any
preacher he ever heard; “because,” he says,
“I can go quietly to sleep, confident that he
will say nothing that might not be preached
from every well-regulated pulpit; whereas, if
we should let Cream Cheese into the desk, I
should have to keep awake to be on the lookout
for some of these new-fangled idolatries:
and, Polly Potiphar, I, for one, am determined
to have nothing to do with the Scarlet Woman.”

Darling Caroline—I don't care much—but did
he ever have anything to do with a Scarlet
Woman?

After he said that about artificial flowers, I
ordered from Martelle the sweetest sprig of immortelle
he had in his shop, and sent it anonymously
on St. Valentine's day. Of course I
didn't wish to do anything secret from my husband,
that might make people talk, so I wrote—
“Reverend Cream Cheese; from his grateful Skimmilk.”
I marked the last words, and hope he

understood that I meant to express my thanks
for his advice about the pale-blue cover. You
don't think it was too romantic, do you, dear?

You can imagine how pleasantly Lent is passing
since I see so much of him: and then it is
so appropriate to Lent to be intimate with a
minister. He goes with me to church a great
deal; for Mr. Potiphar, of course, has no time
for that, except on Sundays; and it is really
delightful to see such piety. He makes the responses
in the most musical manner; and when
he kneels upon entering the pew, he is the admiration
of the whole church. He buries his face
entirely in a cloud of cambric pocket-handkerchief,
with his initial embroidered at the corner;
and his hair is beautifully parted down behind,
which is very fortunate, as otherwise it would
look so badly when only half his head showed.
I feel so good when I sit by his side; and when
the Doctor (as Mr. P. says) “blows up” those
terrible sinners in Babylon and the other Bible
towns, I always find the Rev. Cream's eyes fixed
upon me, with so much sweet sadness, that I
am very, very sorry for the naughty people the

Doctor talks about. Why did they do so, do you
suppose, dear Caroline? How thankful we ought
to be that we live now with so many churches,
and such fine ones, and with such gentlemanly
ministers as Mr. Cheese. And how nicely it's
arranged that, after dancing and dining for two
or three months constantly, during which, of
course, we can only go to church Sundays, there
comes a time for stopping, when we're tired out,
and for going to church every day, and (as Mr.
P. says) “striking a balance;” and thinking about
being good, and all those things. We don't lose
a great deal, you know. It makes a variety, and
we all see each other, just the same, only we don't
dance. I do think it would be better if we took
our lorgnettes with us, however, for it was only
last Wednesday, at nine o'clock prayers, that I
saw Sheena Silke across the church, in their little
pew at the corner, and I am sure that she had
a new bonnet on; and yet, though I looked at
it all the time, trying to find out, prayers were
fairly over before I discovered whether it was
really new, or only that old white one made
over with a few new flowers. Now, if I had
had my glass, I could have told in a moment,
and shouldn't have been obliged to lose all the
prayers.

But, as I was saying, those poor old people in
Babylon and Nineveh! only think, if they had
had the privilege of prayers for six or seven
weeks in Lent, and regular preaching the rest of
the year, except, of course, in the summer—(by
the by, I wonder if they all had some kind of
Saratoga or Newport to go to?—I mean to ask
Mr. Cheese)—they might have been good, and all
have been happy. It's quite awful to hear how
eloquent and earnest the Doctor is when he
preaches against Babylon. Mr. P. says he likes
to have him “pitch into those old sinners; it
does 'em so much good:” and then he looks
quite fierce. Mr. Cheese is going to read me
a sermon he has written upon the maidenhood
of Lot's wife. He says that he quotes a great
deal of poetry in it, and that I must dam up the
fount of my tears when he reads it. It was an
odd expression for a minister, wasn't it? and I
was obliged to say, “Mr. Cheese, you forgot yourself.”
He replied, “Dear Mrs. Potiphar, I will

explain;” and he did so; so that I admired him
more than ever.

Dearest Caroline,—if you should only like him!
He asked one day about you; and when I told
him what a dear, good girl you are, he said:
“And her father has worldly possessions, has
he not?”

I answered, yes; that your father was very
rich. Then he sighed, and said that he could
never marry an heiress unless he clearly saw it
to be his duty. Isn't it a beautiful resignation?

I had no idea of saying so much about him,
but you know it's proper, when writing a letter
in Lent, to talk about religious matters. And,
I must confess, there is something comfortable
in having to do with such things. Don't you
feel better, when you've been dancing all the
week, and dining, and going to the opera, and
flirting and flying round, to go to church on
Sundays? I do. It seems, somehow, as if we
ought to go. But I do wish Mrs. Croesus would
sit somewhere else than just in front of us, for
her new bonnets and her splendid collars and
capes make me quite miserable: and then she

puts me out of conceit of my things by talking
about Lawson, or somebody, as I told you in
the beginning.

Mr. Potiphar has sent out for the new carpets.
I had only two spoiled at my ball, you know,
and that was very little. One always expects
to sacrifice at least two carpets upon occasion
of seeing one's friends. That handsome one in
the supper room was entirely ruined. Would
you believe that Mr. P., when he went down
stairs the next morning, found our Fred. and
his cousin hoeing it with their little hoes? It
was entirely matted with preserves and things,
and the boys said they were scraping it clean
for breakfast. The other spoiled carpet was in
the gentlemen's dressing-room where the punchbowl
was. Young Gauche Boosey, a very gentlemanly
fellow, you know, ran up after polking,
and was so confused with the light and heat
that he went quite unsteadily, and as he was
trying to fill a glass with the silver ladle (which
is rather heavy), he somehow leaned too hard
upon the table, and down went the whole thing,
table, bowl, punch, and Boosey, and ended my

poor carpet. I was sorry for that, and also for
the bowl, which was a very handsome one, imported
from China by my father's partner—a
wedding-gift to me—and for the table, a delicate
rosewood stand, which was a work-table of my
sister Lucy's—whom you never knew, and who
died long and long ago. However, I was amply
repaid by Boosey's drollery afterward. He is a
very witty young man, and when he got up
from the floor, saturated with punch (his clothes
I mean), he looked down at the carpet and
said:

“Well, I've given that such a punch it will
want some lemon-aid to recover.”

I suppose he had some idea about lemon acid
taking out spots.

But, the best thing was what he said to me.
He is so droll that he insisted upon coming
down, and finishing the dance just as he was.
The funny fellow brushed against all the dresses
in his way, and, finally, said to me, as he pointed
to a lemon-seed upon his coat:

“I feel so very lemon-choly for what I have
done.”

I laughed very much (you were in the other
room), but Mr. P. stepped up and ordered him
to leave the house. Boosey said he would do
no such thing; and I have no doubt we should
have had a scene, if Mr. P. had not marched
him straight to the door, and put him into a
carriage, and told the driver where to take
him. Mr. P. was red enough when he came
back.

“No man shall insult me or my guests, by
getting drunk in my house,” said he; and he
has since asked me not to invite Boosey nor
“any of his kind,” as he calls them, to our
house. However, I think it will pass over. I
tell him that all young men of spirit get a little
excited with wine sometimes, and he mustn't
be too hard upon them.

“Madame,” said he to me, the first time I
ventured to say that, “no man with genuine
self-respect ever gets drunk twice; and, if you
had the faintest idea of the misery which a little
elegant intoxication has produced in scores
of families that you know, you would never
insinuate again that a little excitement from

wine is an agreeable thing. There's your friend
Mrs. Crœsus (he thinks she's my friend, because
we call each other `dear'!); she is delighted to
be a fashionable woman, and to be described as
the `peerless and accomplished Mrs. C-œ-s,' in
letters from the Watering-places to the Herald;
but I tell you, if any thing of the woman or
the mother is left in the fashionable Mrs. Crœsus,
I could wring her heart as it never was wrung—
and never shall be by me—by showing her the
places that young Timon Crœsus haunts, the
people with whom he associates, and the drunkenness,
gambling, and worse dissipations of which
he is guilty.

“Timon Crœsus is eighteen or nineteen, or,
perhaps, twenty years old; and, Polly, I tell you,
he is actually blasé, worn out with dissipation,
the companion of blacklegs, the chevalier of
Cyprians, tipsy every night, and haggard every
morning. Timon Crœsus is the puny caricature
of a man, mentally, morally, and physically. He
gets `elegantly intoxicated' at your parties; he
goes off to sup with Gauche Boosey; you and
Mrs. Crœsus think them young men of spirit,—

it is an exhilarating case of sowing wild-oats, you
fancy,—and when, at twenty-five, Timon Crœsus
stands ruined in the world, without aims or capacities,
without the esteem of a single man or his
own self-respect—youth, health, hope, and energy,
all gone for ever—then you and your dear Mrs.
Crœsus will probably wonder at the horrible harvest.
Mrs. Potiphar, ask the Rev. Cream Cheese
to omit his sermon upon the maidenhood of Lot's
wife, and preach from this text: `They that sow
the wind shall reap the whirlwind.' Good heavens!
Polly, fancy our Fred. growing up to such
a life! I'd rather bury him to-morrow!”

I never saw Mr. P. so much excited. He fairly
put his handkerchief to his eyes, and I really
believe he cried! But I think he exaggerates
these things: and as he had a very dear friend
who went worse and worse, until he died frightfully,
a drunkard, it is not strange he should
speak so warmly about it. But as Mrs. Crœsus
says:

“What can you do? You can't curb these
boys, you don't want to break their spirits, you
don't want to make them milk-sops.”

When I repeated the speech to Mr. P., he said
to me with a kind of solemnity:

“Tell Mrs. Crœsus that I am not here to judge
nor dictate: but she may be well assured, that
every parent is responsible for every child of his
to the utmost of the influence he can exert,
whether he chooses to consider himself so or
not; and if not now, in this world, yet somewhere
and somehow, he must hear and heed
the voice that called to Cain in the garden,
`Where is Abel, thy brother?' ”

I can't bear to hear Mr. P. talk in that way;
it sounds so like preaching. Not precisely like
what I hear at church, but like what we mean
when we say “preaching,” without referring to
any particular sermon. However, he grants that
young Timon is an extreme case: but, he says,
it is the result that proves the principle, and a
state of feeling which not only allows, but indirectly
fosters, that result, is frightful to think of.

“Don't think of it, then, Mr. P.,” said I. He
looked at me for a moment with the sternest
scowl I ever saw upon a man's face, then he
suddenly ran up to me, and kissed me on the

forehead (although my hair was all dressed for
Mrs. Gnu's dinner), and went out of the house.
He hasn't said much to me since, but he speaks
very gently when he does speak, and sometimes
I catch him looking at me in such a singular
way, so half mournful, that Mr. Cheese's eyes
don't seem so very sad, after all.

However, to return to the party, I believe
nothing else was injured except the curtains in
the front drawing-room, which were so smeared
with ice-cream and oyster gravy, that we must
get new ones; and the cover of my porcelain
tureen was broken by the servant, though the
man said he really didn't mean to do it, and I
could say nothing; and a party of young men,
after the German Cotillon, did let fall that superb
cut-glass Claret, and shivered it, with a dozen of
the delicately engraved straw-stems that stood
upon the waiter. That was all, I believe—oh!
except that fine “Dresden Gallery,” the most
splendid book I ever saw, full of engravings of
the great pictures in Dresden, Vienna, and the
other Italian towns, and which was sent to Mr.
P. by an old friend an artist, whom he had

helped along when he was very poor. Somebody
unfortunately tipped over a bottle of claret
that stood upon the table, (I am sure, I don't
know how it got there, though Mr. P. says Gauche
Boosey knows,) and it lay soaking into the book,
so that almost every picture has a claret stain,
which looks so funny. I am very sorry, I am
sure, but, as I tell Mr. P., it's no use crying for
spilt milk. I was telling Mr. Boosey of it at
the Gnus' dinner. He laughed very much, and
when I said that a good many of the faces were
sadly stained, he said in his droll way, “You
ought to call it L'opera di Bordeaux; Le Domino
rouge.” I supposed it was something funny, so
I laughed a good deal. He said to me later:

“Shall I pour a little claret into your book
—I mean into your glass?”

Wasn't it a pretty bon-mot?

Don't you think we are getting very spirituel
in this country?

I believe there was nothing else injured except
the bed-hangings in the back-room, which were
somehow badly burnt and very much torn in
pulling down, and a few of our handsomest

shades that were cracked by the heat, and a
few plates, which it was hardly fair to expect
wouldn't be broken, and the colored glass door
in my escritoire, against which Flattie Podge
fell as she was dancing with Gauche Boosey;
but he may have been a little excited you
know, and she, poor girl, couldn't help tumbling,
and as her head hit the glass, of course
it broke, and cut her head badly, so that the
blood ran down and naturally spoiled her
dress; and what little escritoire could stand
against Flattie Podge? So that went, and was
a good deal smashed in falling. That's all, I
think, except that the next day Mrs. Crœsus
sent a note, saying that she had lost her largest
diamond from her necklace, and she was sure
that it was not in the carriage, nor in her own
house, nor upon the sidewalk, for she had carefully
looked every where, and she would be very
glad if I would return it by the bearer.

Think of that!

Well, we hunted every where, and found no
diamond. I took particular pains to ask the
servants if they had found it, for if they had,

they might as well give it up at once, without
expecting any reward from Mrs. Crœsus, who
wasn't very generous. But they all said they
hadn't found any diamond: and our man John,
who you know is so guileless,—although it was
a little mysterious about that emerald pin of
mine,—brought me a bit of glass that had been
nicked out of my large custard dish, and asked
me if that was not Mrs. Crœsus's diamond. I
told him no, and gave him a gold dollar for
his honesty. John is an invaluable servant;
he is so guileless.

Do you know I am not so sure about Mrs.
Crœsus's diamond!

Mr. P. made a great growling about the ball.
But it was very foolish, for he got safely to bed
by six o'clock, and he need have no trouble
about replacing the curtains, and glass, &c. I
shall do all that, and the sum total will be
sent to him in a lump, so that he can pay it.

Men are so unreasonable. Fancy us at seven
o'clock that morning, when I retired. He wasn't
asleep. But whose fault was that?

“Polly,” said he, “that's the last.”

“Last what?” said I.

“Last ball at my house,” said he.

“Fiddle-dee-dee,” said I.

“I tell you, Mrs. Potiphar, I am not going to
open my house for a crowd of people who
don't go away till daylight; who spoil my
books and furniture; who involve me in a
foolish expense; for a gang of rowdy boys,
who drink my Margaux, and Lafitte, and Marcobrunner,
(what kind of drinks are those, dear
Caroline?) and who don't know Chambertin
from liquorice-water,—for a swarm of persons
few of whom know me, fewer still care for me,
and to whom I am only `Old Potiphar,' the
husband of you, a fashionable woman. I am
simply resolved to have no more such tomfoolery
in my house.”

“Dear Mr. P.,” said I, “you'll feel much
better when you have slept. Besides, why do
you say such things? Mustn't we see our
friends, I should like to know; and if we do,
are you going to let your wife receive them in
a manner inferior to old Mrs. Podge or Mrs.
Crœsus? People will accuse you of meanness,

and of treating me ill; and if some persons
hear that you have reduced your style of living,
they will begin to suspect the state of your
affairs. Don't make any rash vows, Mr. P.,”
said I, “but go to sleep.”

(Do you know that speech was just what Mrs.
Crœsus told me she had said to her husband
under similar circumstances?)

Mr. P. fairly groaned, and I heard that short,
strong little word that sometimes inadvertently
drops out of the best regulated mouths, as
young Gooseberry Downe says when he swears
before his mother. Do you know Mrs. Settum
Downe? Charming woman, but satirical.

Mr. P. groaned, and said some more ill-natured
things, until the clock struck nine, and
he was obliged to get up. I should be sorry
to say to any body but you, dearest, that I
was rather glad of it; for I could then fall
asleep at my ease; and these little connubial
felicities (I think they call them) are so tiresome.
But every body agreed it was a beautiful
ball; and I had the great gratification of
hearing young Lord Mount Ague (you know

you danced with him, love) say that it was
quite the same thing as a ball at Buckingham
Palace, except, of course, in size, and the
number of persons, and dresses, and jewels, and
the plate, and glass, and supper, and wines, and
furnishing of the rooms, and lights, and some
of those things, which are naturally upon a
larger scale at a palace than in a private
house. But, he said, excepting such things, it
was quite as fine. I am afraid Lord Mount
Ague flatters; just a little bit, you know.

Yes; and there was young Major Staggers,
who said that “Decidedly it was the party of
the season.”

“How odd,” said Mrs. Crœsus, to whom I
told it, and, I confess, with a little pride.
“What a sympathetic man: that is, for a military
man, I mean. Would you believe, dear
Mrs. Potiphar, that he said precisely the same
thing to me two days after my ball?”

Now, Caroline, dearest, perhaps he did!

With all these pleasant things said about
one's party, I cannot see that it is such a dismal
thing as Mr. P. tries to make out. After

one of his solemn talks, I asked Mr. Cheese
what he thought of balls, whether it was so
very wicked to dance, and go to parties, if one
only went to Church twice a day on Sundays.
He patted his lips a moment with his handkerchief,
and then he said,—and, Caroline, you
can always quote the Rev. Cream Cheese as
authority,—

“Dear Mrs. Potiphar, it is recorded in Holy
Scripture that the King danced before the
Lord.”

Darling, if any thing should happen, I don't
believe he would object much to your dancing.

What gossips we women are, to be sure! I
meant to write you about our new livery, and
I am afraid I have tired you out already. You
remember when you were here, I said that I
meant to have a livery, for my sister Margaret
told me that when they used to drive in Hyde
Park, with the old Marquis of Mammon, it
was always so delightful to hear him say,

“Ah! there is Lady Lobster's livery.”

It was so aristocratic. And in countries
where certain colors distinguish certain families,

and are hereditary, so to say, it is convenient
and pleasant to recognize a coat-of-arms, or a
livery, and to know that the representative of
a great and famous family is passing by.

“That's a Howard, that's a Russell, that's a
Dorset, that's de Colique, that's Mount Ague,”
old Lord Mammon used to say as the carriages
whirled by. He knew none of them personally,
I believe, except de Colique and Mount Ague,
but then it was so agreeable to be able to know
their liveries.

Now why shouldn't we have the same arrangement?
Why not have the Smith colors, and the
Brown colors, and the Black colors, and the Potiphar
colors, &c., so that the people might say,
“Ah! there go the Potiphar arms.”

There is one difficulty, Mr. P. says, and that
is, that he found five hundred and sixty-seven
Smiths in the Directory, which might lead to
some confusion. But that was absurd, as I told
him, because every body would know which of
the Smiths was able to keep a carriage, so that
the livery would be recognized directly the moment
that any of the family were seen in the

carriage. Upon which he said, in his provoking
way, “Why have any livery at all, then?” and he
persisted in saying that no Smith was ever the
Smith for three generations, and that he knew
at least twenty, each of whom was able to set
up his carriage and stand by his colors.

“But then a livery is so elegant and aristocratic,”
said I, “and it shows that a servant is
a servant.”

That last was a strong argument, and I thought
Mr. P. would have nothing to say against it; but
he rattled on for some time, asking me what right
I had to be aristocratic, or, in fact, any body
else;—went over his eternal old talk about aping
foreign habits, as if we hadn't a right to adopt the
good usages of all nations, and finally said that
the use of liveries among us was not only a “pure
peacock absurdity,” as he called it, but that no
genuine American would ever ask another to
assume a menial badge.

“Why!” said I, “is not an American servant a
servant still?”

“Most undoubtedly,” he said; “and when a
man is a servant, let him serve faithfully; and

in this country especially, where to-morrow he
may be the served, and not the servant, let him
not be ashamed of serving. But, Mrs. Potiphar,
I beg you to observe that a servant's livery is
not, like a general's uniform, the badge of honorable
service, but of menial service. Of course,
a servant may be as honorable as a general,
and his work quite as necessary and well done.
But, for all that, it is not so respected nor coveted
a situation, I believe; and, in social estimation,
a man suffers by wearing a livery, as
he never would if he wore none. And while
in countries in which a man is proud of being
a servant (as every man may well be of being
a good one), and never looks to any thing else,
nor desires any change, a livery may be very
proper to the state of society, and very agreeable
to his own feelings, it is quite another thing in
a society constituted upon altogether different
principles, where the servant of to-day is the
senator of to-morrow. Besides that, which I
suppose is too fine-spun for you, livery is a
remnant of a feudal state, of which we abolish
every trace as fast as we can. That which is
represented by livery is not consonant with our
principles.”

How the man runs on, when he gets going
this way! I said, in answer to all this flourish,
that I considered a livery very much the thing;
that European families had liveries, and American
families might have liveries;—that there was
an end of it, and I meant to have one. Besides,
if it is a matter of family, I should like to know
who has a better right? There was Mr. Potiphar's
grandfather, to be sure, was only a skilful
blacksmith and a good citizen, as Mr. P. says,
who brought up a family in the fear of the
Lord.

How oddly he puts those things!

But my ancestors, as you know, are a different
matter. Starr Mole, who interests himself in
genealogies, and knows the family name and
crest of all the English nobility, has “climbed
our family tree,” as Staggers says, and finds that
I am lineally descended from one of those two
brothers who came over in some of those old
times, in some of those old ships, and settled
in some of those old places somewhere. So you

see, dear Caroline, if birth gives any one a right
to coats of arms and liveries, and all those things,
I feel myself sufficiently entitled to have them.

But I don't care any thing about that. The
Gnus, and Croesuses, and Silkes, and the Settum
Downes, have their coats of arms, and crests, and
liveries, and I am not going to be behind, I tell
you. Mr. P. ought to remember that a great
many of these families were famous before they
came to this country; and there is a kind of
interest in having on your ring, for instance,
the same crest that your ancestor two or three
centuries ago had upon her ring. One day I
was quite wrought up about the matter, and I
said as much to him.

“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 their 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. Oneese says such
things so softly. But I said good morning,
and then asked him about liveries, &c.

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.”

That was enough for me. So I told Mr. Cheese
that as he had already assisted me in colors once,
I should be most glad to have him do so again.
What a time we had, to be sure, talking of colors,
and cloths, and gaiters, and buttons, and knee-breeches,
and waistcoats, and plush, and coats,
and lace, and hatbands, and gloves, and cravats,
and cords, and tassels, and hats. Oh! it was
delightful. You can't fancy how heartily the
Rev. Cream entered into the matter. He was
quite enthusiastic, and at last he said, with so
much expression, “Dear Mrs. Potiphar, why not
have a chasseur?”

I thought it was some kind of French dish for
lunch, so I said:

“I am so sorry, but we haven't any in the
house.”

“Oh,” said he, “but you could hire one, you
know.”

Then I thought it must be a musical instrument—a
Panharmonicon, or something of that
kind, so I said in a general way—

“I'm not very, very fond of it.”

“But it would be so fine to have him standing

on the back of the carriage, his plumes waving in
the wind, and his lace and polished belts flashing
in the sun, as you whirled down Broadway.”

Of course I knew then that he was speaking
of those military gentlemen who ride behind carriages,
especially upon the Continent, as Margaret
tells me, and who in Paris are very useful
to keep the savages and wild-beasts at bay in
the Champs Elysees, for you know they are intended
as a guard.

But I knew Mr. P. would be firm about
that, so I asked Mr. Cheese not to kindle my
imagination with the Chasseur.

We concluded finally to have only one full-sized
footman, and a fat driver.

“The corpulence is essential, dear Mrs. Potiphar,”
said Mr. Cheese. “I have been much
abroad; I have mingled, I trust, in good, which
is to say, Christian society: and I must say, that
few things struck me more upon my return than
that the ladies who drive very handsome carriages,
with footmen, &c., in livery, should
permit such thin coachmen upon the box. I
really believe that Mrs. Settum Downe's coachman

doesn't weigh more than a hundred and
thirty pounds, which is ridiculous. A lady
might as well hire a footman with insufficient
calves, as a coachman who weighs less than two
hundred and ten. That is the minimum. Besides,
I don't observe any wigs upon the coachmen.
Now, if a lady sets up her carriage
with the family crest and fine liveries, why, I
should like to know, is the wig of the coachman
omitted, and his cocked hat also? It is
a kind of shabby, half-ashamed way of doing
things—a garbled glory. The cock-hatted, knee-breeched,
paste-buckled, horse-hair-wigged coachman,
is one of the institutions of the aristocracy.
If we don't have him complete, we somehow
make ourselves ridiculous. If we do have him
complete, why, then”—

Here Mr. Cheese coughed a little, and patted
his mouth with his cambric. But what he said
was very true. I should like to come out with
the wig—I mean upon the coachman; it would
so put down the Settum Downes. But I'm sure
old Pot wouldn't have it. He lets me do a
great deal. But there is a line which I feel he

won't let me pass. I mentioned my fears to
Mr. Cheese.

“Well,” he said, “Mr. Potiphar may be right.
I remember an expression of my carnal days
about `coming it too strong,' which seems to
me to be applicable just here.”

After a little more talk, I determined to have
red plush breeches, with a black cord at the side
—white stockings—low shoes with large buckles
—a yellow waistcoat, with large buttons—lappels
to the pockets—and a purple coat, very full and
fine, bound with gold lace—and the hat banded
with a full gold rosette. Don't you think that
would look well in Hyde Park? And, darling
Carrie, why shouldn't we have in Broadway what
they have in Hyde Park?

When Mr. P. came in, I told him all about it.
He laughed a good deal, and said, “What next?”
So I am not sure he would be so very hard upon
the wig. The next morning I had appointed to
see the new footman, and as Mr. P. went out
he turned and said to me, “Is your footman coming
to-day?”

“Yes,” I answered.

“Well,” said he, “don't forget the calves. You
know that every thing in the matter of livery
depends upon the calves.”

And he went out laughing silently to himself,
with—actually, Carrie—a tear in his eye.

But it was true, wasn't it? I remember in all
the books and pictures how much is said about
the calves. In advertisements, &c., it is stated
that none but well-developed calves need apply,
at least it is so in England, and, if I have a livery,
I am not going to stop half-way. My duty was
very clear. When Mr. Cheese came in, I said I
felt awakward in asking a servant about his calves,
—it sounded so queerly. But I confessed that it
was necessary.

“Yes, the path of duty is not always smooth,
dear Mrs. Potiphar. It is often thickly strewn
with thorns,” said he, as he sank back in the
fauteuil, and put down his petit verre of Marasquin.

Just after he had gone the new footman was
announced. I assure you, although it is ridiculous,
I felt quite nervous. But when he came
in, I said calmly—

“Well, James, I am glad you have come.”

“Please, ma'am, my name is Henry,” said he.

I was astonished at his taking me up so, and
said, decidedly—

“James, the name of my footman is always
James. You may call yourself what you please,
I shall always call you James.”

The idea of the man's undertaking to arrange
my servants' names for me!

Well, he showed me his references, which
were very good, and I was quite satisfied. But
there was the terrible calf business that must
be attended to. I put it off a great while, but
I had to begin.

“Well, James!”—and there I stopped.

“Yes, ma'am,” said he.

“I wish—yes—ah!”—and I stopped again.

“Yes, ma'am,” said he.

“James, I wish you had come in knee-breeches.”

“Ma'am?” said he in great surprise.

“In knee-breeches, James,” repeated I.

“What be they, ma'am? what for, ma'am?”
said he, a little frightened, as I thought.

“Oh! nothing, nothing; but—but—”

“Yes, ma'am,” said James.

“But—but, I want to see—to see—”

“What, ma'am?” said James.

“Your legs,” gasped I; and the path was
thorny enough, Carrie, I can tell you. I had
a terrible time explaining to him what I meant,
and all about the liveries, &c. Dear me! what
a pity these things are not understood: and then
we should never have this trouble about explanations.
However, I couldn't make him agree
to wear the livery. He said:

“I'll try to be a good servant, ma'am, but I
cannot put on those things and make a fool of
myself. I hope you won't insist, for I am very
anxious to get a place.”

Think of his dictating to me! I told him
that I did not permit my servants to impose
conditions upon me (that's one of Mrs. Crœsus's
sayings), that I was willing to pay him good
wages and treat him well, but that my James
must wear my livery. He looked very sorry,
said that he should like the place very much,—
that he was satisfied with the wages, and was
sure he should please me, but he could not put

on those things. We were both determined,
and so parted. I think we were both sorry;
for I should have to go all through the calf-business
again, and he lost a good place.

However, Caroline, dear, I have my livery
and my footman, and am as good as any body.
It's very splendid when I go to Stewart's to
have the red plush, and the purple, and the
white calves springing down to open the door,
and to see people look, and say, “I wonder
who that is?” And every body bows so nicely,
and the clerks are so polite, and Mrs. Gnu is
melting with envy on the other side, and Mrs.
Cræsus goes about, saying, “Dear little woman,
that Mrs. Potiphar, but so weak! Pity, pity!”
And Mrs. Settum Downe says, “Is that the
Potiphar livery? Ah! yes. Mr. Potiphar's
grandfather used to shoe my grandfather's horses!”
—(as if to be useful in the world, were a disgrace,—as
Mr. P. says,) and young Downe, and
Boosey, and Timon Cræsus come up and stand
about so gentlemanly, and say, “Well, Mrs. Potiphar,
are we to have no more charming parties
this season?”—and Boosey says, in his droll way,

“Let's keep the ball a-rolling!” That young man
is always ready with a witticism. Then I step
out and James throws open the door, and the
young men raise their hats, and the new crowd
says, “I wonder who that is!” and the plush,
and purple, and calves spring up behind, and
I drive home to dinner.

Now, Carrie, dear, isn't that nice?

Well, I don't know how it is—but things are
so queer. Sometimes when I wake up in the
morning, in my room, which I have had tapestried
with fluted rose silk, and lie thinking,
under the lace curtains; although I may have
been at one of Mrs. Gnu's splendid parties the
night before, and am going to Mrs. Silke's to
dinner, and to the opera and Mrs. Settum Downe's
in the evening, and have nothing to do all day
but go to Stewart's, or Martelle's, or Lefevre's,
and shop, and pay morning calls;—do you know,
as I say, that sometimes I hear an old familiar
tune played upon a hand-organ far away in some
street, and it seems to me in that half-drowsy
state under the laces, that I hear the girls and
boys singing it in the fields where we used to play.

It is a kind of dream, I suppose, but often, as
I listen, I am sure that I hear Henry's voice
again that used to ring so gayly among the old
trees, and I walk with him in the sunlight to the
bank by the river, and he throws in the flower
—as he really did—and says, with a laugh, “If
it goes this side of the stump I am saved; if
the other, I am lost;” and then he looks at me
as if I had any thing to do with it, and the flower
drifts slowly off and off, and goes the other side
of the old stump, and we walk homeward silently,
until Henry laughs out, and says, “Thank heaven,
my fate is not a flower;” and I swear to love him
for ever and ever, and marry him, and live in a
dingy little old room in some of the dark and
dirty streets in the city.

Then I doze again: but presently the music
steals into my sleep, and I see him as I saw him
last, standing in his pulpit, so calm and noble,
and drawing the strong men as well as the weak
women by his earnest persuasion; and after service
he smiles upon me kindly, and says, “This
is my wife,” and the wife, who looks like the
Madonna in that picture of Andrea Del Sarto's,

which you liked so at the gallery, leads us to a
little house buried in roses, looking upon a broad
and lovely landscape, and Henry whispers to me
as a beautiful boy bounds into the room, “Mrs.
Potiphar, I am very happy.”

I doze again until Adèle comes in and opens
the shutters. I do not hear the music any more;
but those days I do somehow seem to hear it all
the time. Of course Mr. P. is gone long before I
wake, so he knows nothing about all this. I
generally come in at night after he is asleep, and
he is up and has his breakfast, and goes down
town before I wake in the morning. He comes
home to dinner, but he is apt to be silent; and
after dinner he takes his nap in the parlor over
his newspaper, while I go up and let Adèle dress
my hair for the evening. Sometimes Mr. P.
groans into a clean shirt and goes with me to
the ball; but not often. When I come home, as
I said, he is asleep, so I don't see a great deal of
him, except in the summer, when I am at Saratoga
or Newport; and then, not so much, after all,
for he usually only pass Sunday, and I must be
a good Christian, you know, and go to church.

On the whole, we have not a very intimate acquaintance;
but I have a great respect for him.
He told me the other day that he should make at
least thirty thousand dollars this year.

My darling Carrie—I am very sorry I can't
write you a longer letter. I want to consult you
about wearing gold powder, like the new Empress.
It would kill Mrs. Cræsus if you and I
should be the first to come out in it; and don't
you think the effect would be fine, when we were
dancing, to shower the gold mist around us!
How it would sparkle upon the gentlemen's black
coats! (“Yes,” says Mr. P., “and how finely
Gauche Boosey, and Timon Cræsus, and young
Downe will look in silk tights and small-clothes!”)
They say its genuine gold ground up. I have
already sent for a white velvet and lace—the Empress's
bridal dress, you know. That foolish old
P. asked me if I had sent for the Emperor and the
Bank of France too.

“Men ask such absurd questions,” said I.

“Mrs. Potiphar, I never asked but one utterly
absured question in my life,” said he, and marched
out of the house.

Au revoir, chère Caroline. I have a thousand
things to say, but I know you must be tired to
death.