A WOMAN'S STORY.

Observer, 21 December 1893, Page 19

A WOMAN'S STORY.

You ask me for my history Why I have sunk so deep ? Do I revel in the title Of " A woman on the street ?" Will you heed me if I tell you Of the first, the fatal fall, That robbed me of my womanhood, My home, my friends, my all. Wrought by the hands of a lover, Whose promises so sweet Lured me to my destruction Then cast me on the street To bear my shame and sorrow As only a woman can Who has placed her fame and honour In the hands of her tempter, man.

Scorned by the friends of my girlhood, Stung by reproaches keen, Spurned and thrust from tiresides Where welcome there once had been. No pity for woman's weakness ; No work for soiled hands to do. Oh, God is it any great wonder, That I have so much to rue ? Nay. Do not touch your pocket, You may keep your cursed gold, Such pity stings more deeply Than midnight's bitter cold. My story is not mine alone, 'Tis that of many a girl Who would fain forget life's memories In the gay voluptuous whirl, While the authors of their misery Stand high in men's esteem, For along the city's highways — Where Justice reigns supreme — Within the Halls of Commerce, Their faces may be seen. Ay, and inside the Temple Of the God of Truth and Love, They sit within their cushioned pews And cast their eyes above. You jeer at such a story ; See yonder glimmering lights, They shine on those of whom I speak, Dare you behold the sights ? The sights of the Sins of a City, Of the Sins of a City's men. When you have seen them for yourself, You will believe me then.

I saw the Sins of a City. I entered the festive hall, And (screened by a friendly curtain) The light held my senses in. thrall. I saw in that motley gathering Men of all ranks and age. Youth with its cluster of curly locks, The hoary head of the sage. The pink and flower of the drawing-room, The men whom mothers seek To win as lifelong partners For the daughters pure and meek. I saw the Sins of a City By day, as well as by night, The tragedy, played 'neath the gas jets, The farce, in the broad daylight. I saw on the city's footpaths The partner of last night's crime. But the women were passed with a shudder, The men, with a smile sublime. I heard from the city pulpits, A curse 'gainst the social sin, But I saw the Church's clerics Uplift their holy chin When a fallen woman they chanced to meet. Nor stretched a hand to save The sorrowing, struggling, wayward one, 'Ere she sank beneath the wave. A whisper will ruin a woman, But the grossest sins of a man Are called by the name of "wild oats" And are no social ban. For woman is woman's enemy And closely each other scan. But men are true to each other For man is the friend of man.