west. There were several beaux of their 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 Britain was in an uproar with the
smacking of whips, the lashing of miserable horses, and the rattling and
the jingling of hackney coaches. The gossips of the neighborhood might
be seen popping their nightcaps out at every window, watching the crazy
vehicles rumble by; and there was a knot of virulent old cronies, that
kept a lookout 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 neighborhood
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 humdrum tea-junketings 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 Portsokenward, and the Miss Timberlakes, the rich heiresses
of Crutched-Friars; but then they relieved their consciences, and
averted the reproaches of their confederates, by canvassing at the next
gossiping convocation everything 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 endeavored 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 glozings. He
had a hearty vulgar good-humor that was irrepressible. His very jokes
made his sensitive daughters shudder; and he persisted in wearing his
blue cotton coat