LETTER XX.
William to his Mother.
One of the servants has been very ill. You cannot think how compassionately Emilia attended her. She rose very early this morning to carry her some refreshment, and tried to amuse her. She requested Dr. Bartlett to send for a physician; and she took as much care of her as if the poor girl had been her own sister. Edward reproached her. It well becomes you, said he, to be sure, to wait on the maid. And why not, answered she; you play with the servant to amuse yourself (and such a degree of familiarity is indeed improper) and I take care of the maid, through pity. A servant is a human being; we are differently educated, I cannot make them my companions, but I will ever try to treat them humanely—and remember that they are my fellow-creatures, when they are in distress. Edward was ashamed and ran out of the room. My mother, I thought, always acted in the same manner. I remember well, when our Hannah had the fever, that you took care of her yourself. But it brings to my remembrance something, which makes me sorrowful. How unfortunate you are! Here are so many servants, and you, my poor mother, have only a little girl to assist; you yourself are obliged to do many things—a colonel’s widow should have servants to wait on her; it is mean to work, and do not people despise you for being reduced to such a condition? When I am a man, and have increased my fortune, you shall have servants, and live as a gentlewoman ought to live.