148

HOUSEHOLD WORDS.

[Conducted by

and so the poor beasts get the yellow jaundice,
just the same as with men who are always
besotting themselves with beer and gin."

"Mister Slivers! " exclaimed Yawl, rising
from the large wooden arm-chair—his head
covered all over with little, hard, smoking-hot
curls,—and the long white cloth, which had
been tucked in a ring close round his throat,
still hanging down, " Mister Slivers!—it isn't
in flesh and blood to endure this any longer!
I feel that all this is meant for me—it's said
at me—spitefully at me, Mr. Slivers, although
you know very well that I am not a cow-
keeper, that I never was a cow-keeper, nor
none of my family, Sir, nor my father before
me,—con-found you!"

Mr. Slivers stepped back a pace or two at
this unexpected exhibition of spirit in the
usually meek Mr. Yawl; but instantly re-
covering his presence of mind, he applied the
tip of his curling irons to one side of his head,
which he gently tapped, in a quaint, knowing,
insolent, quietly threatening manner, as he
softly uttered the words—" Calves' brains!"

Mr. Yawl reeled, and looked ready to faint.
He placed one hand languidly upon the top
of a wig-block at his side, not seeing what it
was, to support himself.

Slowly, and with a serious countenance, the
remorseless Slivers advanced towards him;
gently untucked and pulled out the cloth from
around Mr. Yawl's throat; folded it up; laid
it upon a shelf, together with his curling-irons
and scissors; went to a little dusty glass
case; pushed back a slide; took down a
gallipot from the top shelf, and a bottle from
a confusion of nicknacks below; and again
approached Mr. Yawl.

"Here," said the barber, extending the galli-
pot, " is some Pomatum de Frenchipostrum,
just come from the Tivoli Gardens of Paris.
It will cool the skull after the heat induced
by curling, and hallay any little soreness from
close pinching. It will likewise materially
assist the growth of the hair, and give it a
gloss. And here is a bottle of Baron von
Softersmere's Anti-Pestiferish Wash, which
I strongly rekkimend to your use every day,
after you have finished the manifacktur of your
milk, to perwent the hodours of your work
from betraying of your secret."

Scarcely conscious of what was being done,
Mr. Yawl allowed the gallipot to be placed in
one hand, and the bottle in the other, as he
made his way out of the door,—the detestable
Slivers whispering as he passed that he
trusted he should see him every morning to
be shaved—and cut and curled on Sundays.

Such, then, is the result of the discoveries,
not only, let us say, of Mr. Dignum and the
pertinacious Mr. Tim Slivers, but of the more
elaborate Mr. Rugg, who has put forth various
papers on the subject of the manufacture of
London milk, and, in especial, a pamphlet,
wherein he collects all his forces on this
important Metropolitan subject.

That there is great truth in Mr. Rugg's
statements, we are, in many respects, well
aware, having obtained, in person, a know-
ledge of the same;—that there is another
view to be taken of London Milk, we are also
prepared to show.

Let the reader accompany us half-a-dozen
miles out of town. We pass through Cam-
berwell, through Peckham, and Peckham Rye,
and we presently find ourselves in a district
that looks uncommonly like " the country,"
considering how short a time it is since we
left the " old smoke " behind us. We alight
and walk onwards,—and certainly, if the
sight of green fields, and cows, and hedges,
and farm-yards, denote the country, we are
undoubtedly in some region of the kind.

We pass down a winding road, between
high hedges of bush and trees, then climb
over a gate into a field; cross it, and then
over another gate into a field, from which we
commence a gradual ascent, field after field,
till finally the green slope leads us to a con-
siderable height. We are on the top of
Friern Hill.

It is a bright sunny morning in September,
and we behold to perfection the most com-
plete panorama that can be found in the
suburban vicinities of London. Standing on
the broad green summit of this hill, with
the face turned towards Friern Dairy Farm,
which is about a mile distant below; you
see, on your extreme right, Shooter's Hill,
Blackheath, and, on clear days like this, the
tops of masts of vessels coming up the river.
Then, Greenwich Hospital, with trains on the
railway—like little fairy carriages, or magic
toys, running alone—coming and going. On a
clear day, also, you may generally see, as now,
the mast-head, containing the lanthorn, of the
Nore Light-Boat. Next, Deptford, with the
masts and sails of ships gliding onward,
beyond and above fields and house-tops,—in
the strangest manner, even though we know
how it all is. Deptford Dockyard, Limehouse
Church, and, still following on the circle, the
Tower of London. Next comes the Monu-
ment, between which and the hill where we
are standing, we descry below in the meadows
the Dairy Farm of Friern Manor. But let
your eye again ascend to move along the
panoramic circle, as before. There you see the
grand sombre dome of St. Paul's; and, on
the highest ground, as you move onwards,
Highgate Church; further onwards, the next
great object that arrests you is Westminster
Abbey. Then, Harrow Hill, Richmond,
Thurlow Park, (we are moving round, re-
member,) and Dulwich College. Below this,
you see Norwood Hill and Cemetery, then
Dulwich Wood. We are working our way
into good field-sport grounds. There is Forest
Hill; fields; scrub; patches of furze, lying
dark and colourless, with here and there a
streak of bright light; and, again, Shooter's
Hill, from which point we started, thus com-
pleting a circle, comprising an extraordinary