Worcester daily spy. [volume] (Worcester [Mass.]) 1850-1888, 1862-05-31

them as souvenir OF the joyful meeting
caused by picture from his camera.
From the Providence Journal, May q,
Musical Sweeps
"a solemn, strange and mingled air.
Twas sad by fits by starts twas wildn
There was quite an excitement in our streets
on Friday and Saturday, pleasant excite
ment, however, and nothing to cause alarm,
like flies and drums. Somebody, man with
the shadow Of Ethiopia on his brow, and the
sunshine of Italy in his eyes and teeth, was
on professional tour through the city, tax
ing the ''grand rounds" like the Hippozoonom-
adon. No advertisement had heralded his
coming, and no band of music preceded his
march.
Yet he came piping if not dancing,-and
as he exalted with the musical trumpet of his
throat stave from GLORY Hallelujah," his
measured journey from street to street re-
sembled the ovation of a caravan. Some
thing small and smutty, like a speck of SCOT,
futtered along in the wind in advance of the
singer, catching as with the whistle of black
bird each swell of melody, and prolonging it
into delicate staccatos, until the undulating
air was filled with musical echoes.
No one knew the man. Whether his name
were John or Julius appeared not on his coat
sleeve. A tin plate, attached to his dusty
hat, and inscribed with mystical symbol,
which perhaps was trade mark, informed the
community that like Fastatf, he had a voca-
ton, and that his days and energies were prin-
cipally devoted to jobs in chimneys and car
pets. He was ''boss-sweep, from the hor-
ders of Dixie, and the little blossom of black
ness tiuttering before him, quavering to his
quavers, and obeying each tap of his magi-
cal wand, as ever and anon it struck the side
walk, was the cunning instrument of his art,
and the tricksy Puck that flew hither and
thther at his bidding. Onward they Jared,
the man and the boy,
singing in shrill responses
up and down the street, caring little for the
crowd that followed, and pausing in their
warblingS only for customers and orders.
1t was pleasant tune they sang, and as
one gazed and listened it filed the heart with
glad surprises of ancient times, when the
minstrel sang of border chivalry,
"Of good Earl Francis, dead and gone,
And of Earl Waller, rest him, q od'
Onward they Jared, the man and the boy
1t was pleasant tune they sang, because it
brought back those days of thirty years ago,
when hearthstones were cheerful with the
blaze and crackle of walnut and oak,-when
the atmosphere of dwellings was fresh with
the aromatic breath of forests,-when the
entered into human dreams, and the kitchen,
with its yawning fireplace, unviSited by any
culinary devices of modern art, smelt like a
rose in the nose.
1t was a pleasant tune they sang, because
it brought back that cry Of the sweep, which
long since became thing of memory, And
yet shadow of melancholy crossed the heart
as we listened to the tender peep of that little
bobolink of the brush, and thought of the ne
cessities of his mortal lot. We saw him in
imagination entering the threats of ancient
chimneys, climbing up and up in his dusty
ambition into their cavern0us mysteries, con-
sorting with spiders and venerable rats, hold
ing converse with the owl and the raven, and
at last emerging from the blackncss of dark
ness into the glimpses OF the sky, to celebrate
in brief song of triumph that moment of vic
tory, to him the great joy of life.
To-day chimney-to-morrow chimney
and the next day chimney; and in the last
perhaps an accidental pang of suffocation
or bruising fall,-and the story of the sweep
is told. And should he, by some luck of his
stars, escape the fatal chances of YOUTH and
lnger into the years Of old age, what is his
life but fulignous succession of Chimneys in
one shape or another, an unending prospect
of SCOT and dust, and dim hope of some dis
tant Paradise, whose light shines only at
the top Of tiue. Sad lot, we must con-
fess, and we feel dint of pity as we turn
from our imaginations to listen once more
to the innocent minstrel And now we
seem to hear plaintive strain running
through his happiest music, the cry of
the whippoorwil mingling with the jubilant
carol of the lark. We seem to see in the
wrinkles of SCOT and smoke that cover his face
the corrugations of sad reflections, and the
expression Of despair beyond the comfort of
philosophy. Some thing like charity stirs
within us. We feel an impulse to bestow an
aims on the little sweep, but the street is pub
lie, and our modesty is greater than our char
ity. We determine, however, to give him the
benefit of a paragraph, and we give it cheer
fully, commenting him to all good people, in
the words Of one whose heart was charity it.
self:-"Reader, if thou meetest one of these
small gentry in thy early rambles, it is good
to give him penny. 1t is better to give him
twopence."