Roundabout Papers - Penn State University

Roundabout Papersthe gentleman usher to request the page of the antechamberto entreat the groom of the stairs to imploreJohn to ask the captain of the buttons to desire themaid of the still-room to beg the housekeeper to giveout a few more lumps of sugar, as his Majesty has nonefor his coffee, which probably is getting cold during thenegotiation. In our little Brentfords we are all kings,more or less. There are orders, gradations, hierarchies,everywhere. In your house and mine there are mysteriesunknown to us. I am not going in to the horrid oldquestion of “followers.” I don’t mean cousins from thecountry, love-stricken policemen, or gentlemen in muftifrom Knightsbridge Barracks; but people who have anoccult right on the premises; the uncovenanted servantsof the house; gray women who are seen at eveningwith baskets flitting about area-railings; dingy shawlswhich drop you furtive curtsies in your neighborhood;demure little Jacks, who start up from behind boxes inthe pantry. Those outsiders wear Thomas’s crest and livery,and call him “Sir;” those silent women address thefemale servants as “Mum,” and curtsy before them, squaringtheir arms over their wretched lean aprons. Then,again, those servi servorum have dependants in the vast,silent, poverty-stricken world outside your comfortablekitchen fire, in the world of darkness, and hunger, andmiserable cold, and dank, flagged cellars, and huddledstraw, and rags, in which pale children are swarming. Itmay be your beer (which runs with great volubility)has a pipe or two which communicates with those darkcaverns where hopeless anguish pours the groan, andwould scarce see light but for a scrap or two of candlewhich has been whipped away from your worship’skitchen. Not many years ago—I don’t know whetherbefore or since that white mark was drawn on the door—a lady occupied the confidential place of housemaid inthis “private residence,” who brought a good character,who seemed to have a cheerful temper, whom I used tohear clattering and bumping overhead or on the stairslong before daylight—there, I say, was poor Camilla,scouring the plain, trundling and brushing, and clatteringwith her pans and brooms, and humming at herwork. Well, she had established a smuggling communi-100