376 BROOM-CUTTERS. 



How many eat the bitter bread 

 Of misery, sore pierc'd by wintry winds, 

 How many shrink into the sordid hut 

 Of cheerless poverty. 



THOMSON. 



THERE are few places which furnish so many 

 agreeable walks and rides as the neighbourhood of 

 Windsor. Sometimes I stroll over the unculti- 

 vated heaths, on the borders of which may be 

 seen some solitary low and roughly thatched cot- 

 tages, inhabited by Broom Cutters; a rude and 

 somewhat savage race of beings, discontented 

 with the various enclosures which have taken 

 place in their neighbourhood, over which they 

 and their ancestors have roamed time immemorial, 

 collecting heath and fuel, and their geese feeding 

 on the patches of grass, which here and there were 

 found amongst the furze and heather. They are 

 indeed a curious race, and it is impossible to talk 

 with them without discovering how distinct they 

 are from the fine character of industrious English 

 labourers, a class of men who perhaps have not 

 their equal in the world. The broom-cutter seldom 

 makes his appearance in the day-time. He roams 

 about in the evening and night, cutting heath on the 

 property of others, and generally attended by a rag- 



