Let a young woman step aside from the
path of right and she is hurled to the depths of the low-land of
vices.
Some years ago a young man died in our city whose family name was
honored and whose father was wealthy. The young man went the pace that
kills and in the very morning of life died a victim to his vices. A
long line of carriages followed him to our beautiful cemetery, his
pall bearers were from the leading families of the city; flowers
covered his grave and the daily papers paid a tribute to the young man
cut down before the river of life was half run.
Soon after, a poor girl died in one of the wicked dens of the city.
She had been left an orphan in early life without a mother's love to
guard and guide her, she went astray. Two carriages followed her to
the stranger's burying ground. In one were two of her kind; in the
other the pastor of the church of which I am a member. He afterward
said to me: "We had to get two negro men at work near by to help lower
her body into the grave."
No wonder woman cries out against these standards, these peculiar
constructions of human sentiment. Public sentiment demands of a man
that he shall be physically brave. If a woman appeals to him for
protection, his bosom must heave with courage like the billows of the
ocean, though he quake in his boots. Yet the woman he defends will
endure pain without a murmur, which would make the man groan for an
hour.
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