SOME OF OUR GENTLEMEN.
SOME OF THE SERVANTS IN OUR STREET.
These gentlemen have two clubs in our quarter—for the butlers at the Indiaman, and for the gents in livery at the Paddington Arms—of either of which societies I should like to be a member. I am sure they could not be so dull as Our Club at the Poluphloisboio, where one meets the same neat clean respectable old fogies every day.
But with the best wishes, it is impossible for the present writer to join either the Plate Club or the Uniform Club (as these réunions are designated), for one could not shake hands with a friend who was standing behind your chair—or nod a how-dye-do to the batter who was pouring you out a glass of wine;—so that what I know about the gents in our neighbourhood is from mere casual observation. For instance, I have a slight acquaintance with, 1, Thomas Spavin, who commonly wears the above air of injured innocence, and is groom to Mr. Joseph Green, of Our Street. “I tell why the Brougham oss is out of condition, and why Desperation broke out all in a lather! Osses will this eavy weather; and Desperation was always the most mystest hoss I ever see.—I take him out with Mr. Anderson’s ounds—I’m above it. I allis was too timid to ride to ounds by natur; and Colonel Sprigs’ groom as says he saw me, is a liar,” &c., &c.
Such is the tenor of Mr. Spavin’s remarks to his master. Whereas all the world in Our Street knows that Mr. Spavin spends at least a hundred a-year in beer; that he keeps a betting-book; that he has lent Mr. Green’s black Brougham horse to the omnibus driver; and at a time when Mr. G. supposed him at the veterinary surgeon’s, has lent him to a livery stable, which has let him out to that gentleman himself, and actually driven him to dinner behind his own horse.
This conduct I can understand, but I cannot excuse—Mr. Spavin may; and I leave the matter to be settled betwixt himself and Mr. Green.
The second is Monsieur Sinbad, Mr. Clarence Bulbul’s man, whom we all hate Clarence for keeping.
Mr. Sinbad is a foreigner, speaking no known language, but a mixture of every European dialect—so that he may be an Italian brigand, or a Tyrolese minstrel, or a Spanish smuggler, for what we know. I have heard say that he is neither of these, but an Irish Jew.