BY MARY CRAIG SINCLAIR (Contemporary American writer) Last night I woke, and in my tranquil bed I lay, and thanked my God with fervent prayer That I had food and warmth, a cosy chair Beside a jolly fire, and roses red To give my room a touch of light and grace. And I thanked God, oh thanked Him! that my face Was beautiful, that it was fair to men: I thought awhile, then thanked my God again. For yesterday, on Broadway I had walked, And I had stopped to watch them as they stalked Their prey; and I was glad I had no sons To look with me upon those woeful ones-- Paint on their lips, and from a corpse their hair, And eyes of simulated lust, astare! The Woman of the Streets BY ROBERT BLATCHFORD (See pages 66, 121) Consider now the outcast Jezebel of the London pavement. Fierce and cunning, and false and vile. Ghastly of visage under her paint and grease. A creature debased below the level of the brute, with the hate of a devil in her soul and the fire of hell in her eyes. Lewd of gesture, strident of voice, wanton of gaze, using language so foul as to shock the pot-house ruffian, and laughter whose sound makes the blood run cold. A dreadful spectre, shameless, heartless, reckless, and horrible. A creature whose touch is contamination, whose words burn like a flame, whose leers and ogles make the soul sick. A creature living in drunkenness and filth. A moral blight. A beast of prey who has cast down many wounded, whose victims fill the lunatic ward and the morgue; a thief, a liar, a hopeless, lost, degraded wretch, of whom it has been well said, "Her feet take hold of hell; her house is the way to the grave, going down to the chamber of death." In the Strand BY ARTHUR SYMONS (English poet and critic, born 1865) With eyes and hands and voice convulsively She craves the bestial wages. In her face What now is left of woman? whose lost place Is filled with greed's last eating agony. She lives to be rejected and abhorred, Like a dread thing forgotten. One by one She hails the passers, whispers blindly; none Heeds now the voice that had not once implored Those alms in vain. The hour has struck for her, And now damnation is scarce possible Here on the earth; it waits for her in hell. God! to be spurned of the last wayfarer That haunts a dark street after midnight! Now Shame's last disgrace is hot upon her brow. The Bridge of Sighs BY THOMAS HOOD (See page 59) One more Unfortunate Weary of breath, Rashly importunate, Gone to her death! Take her up tenderly, Lift her with care; Fashion'd so slenderly, Young, and so fair! Look at her garments Clinging like cerements; Whilst the wave constantly Drips from her clothing; Take her up instantly, Loving, not loathing.