I like my servants rough and simple — the ones born in my own house. I like my father's heavy silver plates with no fancy maker's mark. I don't want a table that's beautiful with fancy wood grain, or famous around town because it once belonged to some celebrity. I want a table that's just for eating — one that doesn't make guests stare at it with envy or desire. But even though I'm happy with this simple life, I keep thinking about that schoolboy I saw, dressed up like a little prince. And his slaves covered in gold, surrounded by a whole army of glittering servants.
I like a rough and unpolished homebred servant, I like my servant born in my house: I like my country-bred father's heavy silver plate stamped with no maker's name: I do not want a table that is beauteous with dappled spots, or known to all the town by the number of fashionable people to whom it has successively belonged, but one which stands merely for use, and which causes no guest's eye to dwell upon it with pleasure or to kindle at it with envy. While I am well satisfied with this, I am reminded of the clothes of a certain schoolboy, dressed with no ordinary care and splendour, of slaves bedecked with gold and a whole regiment of glittering attendants.