servants. Of what avail, then, could his use of the bell prove? It
generally takes the sweep twenty-five minutes exactly to bring the
servants to open the door. Meanwhile, the eminent men of letters in the
street open their windows, and show a very fair command of language
understanded by the people. But the sweep only laughs, and every three
minutes utters a howl which resembles no other noise with which men are
acquainted. Where do young sweeps learn to make this cry which can only
be acquired by long practice? Perhaps it is inherited, like the music of
"the damned nightingales," as the sleepless political economist called
the Daulian birds.

When the sweep is silent, when slumber is stealing over the weary
eyelids, then traction engines, or steam-rollers, or some other
scientific improvement on wheels begin to traverse the streets and shake
the houses. This does not last more than a quarter of an hour, and then
a big bell rings, and the working men and women tramp gaily by, chatting
noisily and in excellent spirits. Now comes the milkman's turn. He,
like the chimney-sweep, has his own howl, softer, more flute-like in
quality than that of the sweep, but still capable of waking any one who
is not a domestic servant in hard training. The milkman also cries "woa"
to his horse at every house, and accompanies himself on his great tin
cans, making a noise most tolerable, and not to be endured. Is it
necessary, absolutely necessary, that the milkman should howl? In some
parts of town milkwomen distribute their wares without howling. They do,
certainly, wear very short petticoats, but that is matter, as Aristotle
says, for a separate disquisition. On the other hand, milkwomen exist
who howl as loudly as milkmen. We cannot but fear that without these
noises it would be difficult to attract the notice of servants. If this
pessimistic view be correct, sweeps and milkmen will howl while London is
a city inhabited. And even if we could secure the services of milkwomen