A DREAM OF UNFAIRLY-TREATED WOMEN.
I read, before my eyelids dropt their shade,
A leader on weak women and their woe,
In toil and industry, in art and trade,
In this hard world below.
And for awhile the thought of the sad part
Played by them and of Fate's ill-balanced scales,
Moistened mine eyelids, and made ache mine heart,
Remembering these strange tales
Of woman's miseries in every land,
I saw wherever poverty draws breath
Woman and anguish walking hand in hand,
The dreary road to death.
Those pallid sempstresses of HOOD'S great song
Peopled the hollow dark, not now alone,
And I heard sounds of insult, shame, and wrong,
And grief's sad monotone,
From hearts, like flints, beaten by tyrant hoofs;
And I saw crowds in sombre sweating-dens,
With reeking walls and dank and dripping roofs—
Fit scarce for styes or pens.
Death at home's sin-stained threshold; honour's fall
Dislodging from her throne love's household pet,
And wan-faced purity a tyrant's thrall,
With wild eyes sorrow-wet.
And unsexed women facing heated blasts
And Tophet fumes, and fluttering tongues of fire;
And virtue staked on most unholy casts,
And honour sold for hire:
Squadrons and troops of girls of brazen air,
Tramping the tainted city to and fro,
With feverish flauntings veiling chill despair
And deeply-centred woe.
So shape chased shape. I saw a neat-garbed nurse,
Wan with excessive work; and, bowed with toil,
A shop-girl sickly, of the primal curse
Each looked the helpless spoil.
Anon I saw a lady, at night's fall
Stiller than chiseled marble, standing there;
A daughter of compassion, slender, tall,
And delicately fair.
Her weariness with shame and with surprise
My spirit shocked: she turning on my face
The heavy glances of unrested eyes,
Spoke mildly in her place.
"I have long duties; ask thou not my name
Some say I fret at a fair destiny.
Many I have to tend; to make my claim
Some venture: we shall see."
"I trust, good lady, that in a fair field,
The case 'twixt you and tyranny will be tried,"
I said; then turning promptly I appealed
To one who stood beside.
She said, "Poor pay, and plenteous fines, and worse,
Made me rebel amidst my mates' applause.
To insubordination I'm averse,
But have I not good cause?
"We are cut off from hope in our hard place,
Sweet factory? Ah, well, our sweets are few.
We strike for justice. Man might show some grace,
I think, Sir; do not you?"
Turning I saw, ranging a flowery pile,
One sitting in an entry dark and cold;
A girl with hectic cheeks, and hollow smile;
Wired roses there she sold,
Or strove to sell; but often on her ear
The harrying voice of stern policedom struck,
And chased her from her vantage, till a tear
Fell at her "wretched luck."
Again I saw a wan domestic drudge
Scuttering across a smug suburban lawn;
Tired with the nightly watch, the morning trudge,
The toil at early dawn.
And then a frail and thin-clad governess,
Hurrying to daily misery through the rain.
Toiling, with scanty food, and scanty dress,
Long hours for little gain.
Anon a spectral shop-girl creeping back
To her dull garret-home through the chill night,
Bowed, heart-sick, spirit-crushed, poor ill-paid hack
Of harsh commercial might!
These I beheld, the world's sad woman-throng,
Work-ridden vassals of its Mammon-god,
Their destiny to creep and drudge along,
And kiss grief's chastening rod.
And then I saw a spirit surface-fair,
A Mænad-masked betrayer, base, impure,
But with sin's glittering garb, and radiant air,
Gay laugh, and golden lure.
It smiled, it beckoned—whither? To the abyss!
But of that throng how many may be drawn
By the gay glamour and the siren kiss
To where sin's soul-gulfs yawn?
How many? No response my vision gave.
Make answer, if ye may, ye lords of gain!
Make answer, if ye know, ye chiders grave
Of late revolt, and vain!
Dream of Fair Women? Nay, for work and want
Mar maiden comeliness and matron grace.
Let sober judgment, clear of gush and cant,
The bitter problem face!
ERIN AVENGED.—The Irish champions, HAMILTON, PIM, and STOKER, have won the "All-England" (it should be All-Irish) Tennis Championship, both Single and Double, beating the hitherto invincible Brothers RENSHAW, and other lesser Lights of the Lawn. And now at Bisley the Irish Team have, for the third time in succession, won the Elcho Challenge Shield. The old caveat will have to be changed into "No non-Irish need apply!"
QUITE THE NEWEST SONGS.—"Over the Sparkling Serpentine." By the author and composer of "Across the Still Lagoon." "Five Men in a Cab." By the ditto ditto of "Three Men in a Boat;" "Hates Copper Nightmare" to follow "Love's Golden Dream;" and the "General's Dustpan;" also, shortly; a companion song to the popular "Admiral's Broom."
"A GATHERING OF THE CLAN."—According to Debrett, the Earl of CLANCARTY (by the way, the Patent of Nobility granted to this family in 1793, is consequently not a hundred years old) bears on his arms "A Sun in splendour." The authority is too good to imagine for a moment that this can be a misprint!