The common people of the place know me already, and love me,
particularly the children. When at first I associated with them, and
inquired in a friendly tone about their various trifles, some fancied
that I wished to ridicule them, and turned from me in exceeding
ill-humour. I did not allow that circumstance to grieve me: I only felt
most keenly what I have often before observed. Persons who can claim
a certain rank keep themselves coldly aloof from the common people,
as though they feared to lose their importance by the contact; whilst
wanton idlers, and such as are prone to bad joking, affect to descend
to their level, only to make the poor people feel their impertinence all
the more keenly.
I know very well that we are not all equal, nor can be so; but it is my
opinion that he who avoids the common people, in order not to lose their
respect, is as much to blame as a coward who hides himself from his
enemy because he fears defeat.
The other day I went to the fountain, and found a young servant-girl,
who had set her pitcher on the lowest step, and looked around to see
if one of her companions was approaching to place it on her head. I ran
down, and looked at her. "Shall I help you, pretty lass?" said I. She
blushed deeply. "Oh, sir!" she exclaimed. "No ceremony!" I replied. She
adjusted her head-gear, and I helped her. She thanked me, and ascended
the steps.