Chamberss Edinburgh Journal, No. 437 | Page 2

the principal theatre of their industry. Independent,
too, of the unbroken stream of carriages which renders sweeping during
the day impossible, and the collection of small coin from the crowd
who dart impatiently across the road when a practicable breach presents
itself, equally so, it is found that too dense a population is less
favourable to the brotherhood of the broom than one ever so sparse and
thin. Had the negro of Waithman's obelisk survived the advent of
Shillibeer, he would have had to shift his quarters, or to have drawn
upon his three-and-a-half per cents. to maintain his position. The
sweepers who work on the great lines of traffic from Oxford Street
west to Aldgate, are consequently not nearly so numerous as they once
were, though the members of the profession have probably doubled

their numbers within the last twenty years. They exercise considerable
judgment in the choice of their locations, making frequent experiments
in different spots, feeling the pulse of the neighbourhood, as it were, ere
they finally settle down to establish a permanent connection.
We shall come to a better understanding of the true condition of these
muddy nomads by considering them in various classes, as they actually
exist, and each of which may be identified without much trouble. The
first in the rank is he who is bred to the business, who has followed it
from his earliest infancy, and never dreamed of pursuing any other
calling. We must designate him as
No. 1. The Professional Sweeper.--He claims precedence before all
others, as being to the manner born, and inheriting his broom, with all
its concomitant advantages, from his father, or mother, as it might be.
All his ideas, interests, and affections are centered in one spot of
ground--the spot he sweeps, and has swept daily for the last twenty or
thirty years, ever since it was bequeathed to him by his parent. The
companion of his childhood, his youth, and his maturer age, is the post
buttressed by the curb-stone at the corner of the street. To that post,
indeed, he is a sort of younger brother. It has been his friend and
support through many a stormy day and blustering night. It is the
confidant of his hopes and his sorrows, and sometimes, too, his agent
and cashier, for he has cut a small basin in the top of it, where a passing
patron may deposit a coin if he choose, under the guardianship of the
broom, which, while he is absent for a short half-hour discussing a red
herring and a crust for his dinner, leans gracefully against his friend the
post, and draws the attention of a generous public to that as the
deputy-receiver of the exchequer. Our professional friend has a
profound knowledge of character: he has studied the human face divine
all his life, and can read at a glance, through the most rigid and rugged
lineaments, the indications of benevolence or the want of it; and he
knows what aspect and expression to assume, in order to arouse the
sympathies of a hesitating giver. He knows every inmate of every
house in his immediate neighbourhood; and not only that, but he knows
their private history and antecedents for the last twenty years. He has
watched a whole generation growing up under his broom, and he looks

upon them all as so much material destined to enhance the value of his
estate. He is the humble pensioner of a dozen families: he wears the
shoes of one, the stockings of another, the shirts of a third, the coats of
a fourth, and so on; and he knows the taste of everybody's cookery, and
the temper of everybody's cookmaid, quite as well as those who daily
devour the one and scold the other. He is intimate with everybody's cat
and everybody's dog, and will carry them home if he finds them
straying. He is on speaking terms with everybody's servant-maid, and
does them all a thousand kind offices, which are repaid with interest by
surreptitious scraps from the larder, and jorums of hot tea in the cold
wintry afternoons. On the other hand, if he knows so much, he is
equally well known: he is as familiar to sight as the Monument on Fish
Street Hill to those who live opposite; he is part and parcel of the street
view, and must make a part of the picture whenever it is painted, or else
it wont be like. You cannot realise the idea of meeting him elsewhere;
it would be shocking to your nerves to think of it: you would as soon
think of seeing the Obelisk walking up Ludgate Hill, for instance, as of
meeting him there--it could not be. Where he goes when he leaves his
station, you have not the