Chamberss Edinburgh Journal, No. 437 | Page 7

meet with young women,
properly so called. The calling of a crossing-sweeper, so far as it is
carried on by females, is almost entirely divided between children or

young girls, and women above the age of forty. The children are a very
wandering and fickle race, rarely staying for many weeks together in a
single spot. This love of change must militate much against their
success, as they lose the advantage of the charitable interest they would
excite in persons accustomed to meet them regularly in their walks.
They are not, however, generally dependent upon the produce of their
own labours for a living, being for the most part the children of parents
in extremely low circumstances, who send them forth with a broom to
pick up a few halfpence to assist in the daily provision for the family.
The older women, on the other hand, of whom there is a pretty stout
staff scattered throughout the metropolis, are too much impressed with
the importance of adhering constantly to one spot, capriciously to
change their position. They would dread to lose a connection they have
been many years in forming, and they will even cling to it after it has
ceased to be a thoroughfare through the opening of a new route, unless
they can discover the direction their patrons have taken. When a poor
old creature, who has braved the rheumatism for thirty years or so,
finds she can stand it no longer, we have known her induct a successor
into her office by attending her for a fortnight or more, and introducing
the new-comer to the friendly regard of her old patrons. The exceptions
to these two classes of the old and the very juvenile, will be found to
consist mostly of young widows left with the charge of an infant family
more or less numerous. Some few of these there are, and they meet
with that considerate reception from the public which their distressing
cases demand. The spectacle of a young mother, with an infant on one
arm muffled up from the driving rain, while she plies a broom
single-handed, is one which never appeals in vain to a London public.
With a keen eye for imposture, and a general inclination to suspect it,
the Londoner has yet compassion, and coin, too, to bestow upon a
deserving object. It is these poor widows who, by rearing their
orphaned offspring to wield the broom, supplement the ranks of the
professional sweepers. They become the heads of sweeping families,
who in time leave the maternal wing, and shift for themselves. We
might point to one whom we have encountered almost daily for the last
ten years. In 1841, she was left a widow with three small children, the
eldest under four, and the youngest in arms. Clad in deep mourning,
she took up a position at an angular crossing of a square, and was

allowed to accommodate the two elder children upon some matting
spread upon the steps of a door. With the infant in one arm, she plied
her broom with the other, and held out a small white hand for the
reception of such charity as the passers-by might choose to bestow. The
children grew up strong and hearty, in spite of their exposure to the
weather at all seasons. All three of them are at the present moment
sweepers in the same line of route, at no great distance from the mother,
who, during the whole period, has scarcely abandoned her post for a
single day. Ten years' companionship with sun and wind, and frost and
rain, have doubled her apparent age, but her figure still shews the
outline of gentility, and her face yet wears the aspect and expression of
better days. We have frequently met the four returning home together
in the deepening twilight, the elder boy carrying the four brooms
strapped together on his shoulder.
The sweeper does better at holiday seasons than at any other time. If he
is blessed with a post for a companion, he decks it with a flower or
sprig of green, and sweeps a clear stage round it, which is said to be a
difficult exploit, though we have never tried it. At Christmas, he
expects a double fee from his old patrons, and gets it too, and a
substantial slice of plum-pudding from the old lady in the first floor
opposite. He decks the entrance to his walk with laurel and holly, in
honour of the day, and of his company, who walk under a triumphal
arch of green, got up for that occasion only. He is sure of a good
collection on that day, and he goes home with his pocket heavy and his
heart light, and treats himself to a pot of old ale, warmed over