ealousy of women.

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 "Pocklington 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 reunions
are designated); for one could not shake hands with a friend who was
standing behind your chair, or nod a How-d'ye-do? to the butler who was
pouring you out a glass of wine;--so that what I know about the gents in
our neighborhood is from mere casual observation. For instance, I have a
slight acquaintance with (1) Thomas Spavin, who commonly wears an 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.

He wears studs, hair-oil, jewellery, and linen shirt-fronts, very finely
embroidered, but not particular for whiteness. He generally appears in
faded ve