University of Virginia Library

THE FAMILY OF THE LAMBS.

The family of the Lambs had long been among the most
thriving and popular in the neighbourhood; the Miss
Lambs were the belles of Little Britain, and every body
was pleased when Old Lamb had made money enough to
shut up shop, and put his name on a brass plate on his
door. In an evil hour, however, one of the Miss Lambs
had the honour of being a lady in attendance on the Lady
Mayoress, at her grand annual ball, on which occasion
she wore three towering ostrich feathers on her head.
The family never got over it; they were immediately
smitten with a passion for high life; set up a one horse
carriage, put a bit of gold lace round the errand boy's hat,
and have been the talk and detestation of the whole neighbourhood
ever since. They could no longer be induced to
play at Pope-Joan or blind-man's-buff; they could endure
no dances but quadrilles, which no body had ever
heard of in Little Britian; and they took to readimg novels,
talking bad French, and playing upon the piano.

Their brother too, who had been articled to an attorney,
set up for a dandy and a critic, characters hitherto unknown
in these parts, and he confounded the worthy
folks exceedingly by talking about Kean, the Opera and
the Edinbro' Review.

What was still worse, the Lambs gave a grand ball,
to which they neglected to invite any of their old neighbours;
but they had a great deal of genteel company from
Theobald's Road, Red-lion Square, and other parts towards
the west. There were several beaux of the brother's
acquaintance from Gray's Inn Lane and Hatton
Garden; and not less than three Aldermen's ladies with
their daughters. This was not to be forgotten or forgiven.
All Little Britian was in an uproar with the
smacking of whips, the lashing of miserable horses, and
the rattling and jingling of hackney coaches. The gossips
of the neighbourhood might be seen popping their
night caps out at every window, watching the crazy vehicles
rumble by; and there was a knot of virulent old
crones, that kept a look-out from a house just opposite the
retired butcher's, and scanned and criticised every one
that knocked at the door.

This dance was a cause of almost open war, and the
whole neighbourhood declared they would have nothing
more to say to the Lambs. It is true that Mrs. Lamb,
when she had no engagements with her quality acquaintance,
would give little hum-drum tea junkettings to some
of her old cronies, “quite,” as she would say, “in a
friendly way:” and it is equally true that her invitations
were always accepted, in spite of all previous vows to
the contrary. Nay, the good ladies would sit and be delighted
with the music of the Miss Lambs, who would
condescend to strum an Irish melody for them on the
piano; and they would listen with wonderful interest to
Mrs. Lamb's anecdotes of Alderman Plunket's family
of Port-soken-ward, and the Miss Timberlakes, the rich
heiresses of Crutched-Friars; but then they relieved their
consciences and averted the reproach of their confederstes,
by canvassing at the next gossiping convocation every
thing that had passed, and pulling the Lambs and
their rout all to pieces.

The only one of the family that could not be made fashionable
was the retired butcher himself. Honest Lamb,
in spite of the meekness of his name, was a rough hearty
old fellow, with the voice of a lion, a head of black

hair like a shoe-brush, and a broad face mottled like his
own beef. It was in vain that the daughters always
spoke of him as “the old gentleman,” addressed him as
“papa” in tones of infinite softness, and endeavoured to
coax him into a dressing gown and slippers, and other
gentlemanly habits. Do what they might, there was no
keeping down the butcher. His sturdy nature would
break through all their glossings. He had a hearty vulgar
good humour that was irrepressible. His very jokes
made his sensitive daughters shudder; and he persisted
in wearing his blue cotton coat of a morning, dining at
two o'clock, and having a “bit of sausage with his tea.”

He was doomed, however, to share the unpopularity
of his family. He found his old comrades gradually
growing cold and civil to him; no longer laughing at his
jokes; and now and then throwing out a fling at “some
people” and a hint about “quality binding.” This both
nettled and perplexed the honest butcher; and his wife
and daughters, with the consummate policy of the shrewder
sex, taking advantage of the circumstance, at length
prevailed upon him to give up his afternoon's pipe and
tankard at Wagstaff's; to sit after dinner by himself and
take his pint of port—a liquor he detested—and to nod in
his chair in solitary and dismal gentility.

The Miss Lambs might now be seen flaunting along
the streets in French bonnets, with unknown beaux; and
talking and laughing so loud that it distressed the nerves
of every good lady within hearing. They even went so
far as to attempt patronage, and actually induced a French
dancing master to set up in the neighbourhood; but the
worthy folks of Little Britain took fire at it, and did so
persecute the poor Gaul, that he was fain to pack up fiddle
and dancing pumps, and decamp with such precipitation,
that he absolutely forgot to pay for his lodgings.

I had flattered myself, at first, with the idea that all
this fiery indignation on the part of the community, was
merely the overflowing of their zeal for good old English
manners, and their horror of innovation; and I applauded
the silent contempt they were so vociferous in expressing,
for upstart pride, French fashions, and the Miss
Lambs. But I grieve to say that I soon perceived the
infection had taken hold; and that my neighbours, after
condemning, were beginning to follow their example. I
overheard my landlady importuning her husband to let
their daughters have one quarter at French and music,

and that they might take a few lessons in quadrille. I
even saw, in the course of a few Sundays, no less than
five French bonnets, precisely like those of the Miss
Lambs, parading about Little Britian.