Prostitution in the Gilded Age

by Kevin Murphy

  In 1892, the police bore down. Thanks to these efforts, the respectable residents near Fair, Worcester, and Prindle Streets, heaped praise on Captain James Brewer and his police force. To the decent neighbors, the purification of Prindle Street represented the event of the decade. Old-timers were overjoyed as the street was renewed. They rubbed their eyes in surprise and sung to high heaven.

  Facing Prindle Street, but situated on Worcester Street, a Catholic school educated youngsters for decades without any peace at all. Right around the corner sat the old Fair Street Public School, another longtime sufferer. The bizarre atmosphere and depraved characters of Prindle Street annoyed the young students of both schools, but their teachers saw no recourse until Captain Brewer set to work.

  When the police had finally broken out all of the Prindle Street houses, one resident gushed, “Today is the first time that the shades in the windows of the Catholic school have been raised. . . . It was an awful evil which the children from both schools were forced to witness [because they were] so close to it.”[169]

  In 1900, Lucy lived with Johnny Fellows and a collection of inmates on New Haven Avenue in Derby. Lucy’s bizarre life wound down slowly, with little to show for the effort but a worn-out body and broken heart. Completely out of ideas, Lucy Chapman was taken to the poorhouse in Bridgeport on Saturday, February 14, 1903.

  A reporter noted, “Lucy led a happy life until the spirits got the best of her and she developed into one of those gay young girls who sought ‘pleasure at the very mouth of the canon of destruction.’ Anyone could have told her that Johnny Fellows wasn’t worth the effort, but Lucy loved him with all her heart. As he was forced from city to town, she followed him faithfully. Men once fought to stand in Lucy’s shadow. Now she gave Johnny Fellows all that a woman could give but he cast her off. Even so, Lucy just smiled and said, ‘A short life and a merry one.’”[170]

  Lucy Ann Rich Cheever Chapman’s body was discovered in a cheap hotel on Bank Street in Bridgeport on September 25, 1904. Toward the end, even Lucy’s diamonds were gone. No relatives claimed the body, so some former associates met at Kelley’s Saloon and raised a few dollars to give Lucy a decent burial at Park Cemetery in Bridgeport.[171]

  As early as the 1860s, the fair, pure, generous, cultured young women of the world were changing—and it wasn’t necessarily a welcome change. After the American Civil War, while the great bulk of the population sat comatose with grief, those fine, delicate, young girls from the finest homes began marching in a different direction. For English-speaking people, the London newspapers identified it first.

  “At one time ‘a fine young girl,’ meant the ideal of womanhood—a girl with a pure and dignified nature, who would make her husband’s house—a home. Her delicacy derived from being treated like a hothouse flower. She would be an attentive mother, industrious housekeeper, and judicious mistress. American men were mesmerized by the languid grace, subtle fire, childlike affection, and vivacious sparkle of the trim and sprightly Gilded Age women.”[172]

  But the pendulum halted—pregnant with the potential for reversal—and the new woman emerged. “She dyed her hair and painted her cheeks. She dreamed of a life of fun and luxury. She sacrificed decency because she had become too fast to cope with the old morals. The young voluptuary dressed to please herself, and no garment made a big enough statement for her. If a sensible fashion lifted the gown out of the mud, she raises hers to the knee. She used Rowland’s Macassar Oil, frizzing her hair like a savage. The fact that her sticky, oily hair left a nasty stain on seatbacks and cushions was of no consequence to her.”[173]

  “Along with purity of taste, she has lost the far more precious purity of perception. What the demimonde does in its desperate grasp for attention, she also does in imitation. But when she lowers her dress below her shoulder blades, other mothers shelter their daughters. She cannot be made to see that no good girl can afford to appear bad.”[174]

  “This imitation of the demimonde in dress leads to degradation. It leads to crude slang and bold talk. Moreover, it leads to the love of pleasure and indifference to duty; to the desire for money before love or happiness. Queens of the demimonde seem gorgeously attired and sumptuously appointed, and our young ingénue knows them to be flattered and feted by men of every station. She is hungry for what the women of the demimonde have—but she counts no costs. She sees the gilding, but not the base metal at the core.”[175]

  “It is this envy of pleasure and indifference to the sins of the demimonde that does the damage. She brushes too closely to them. Her psyche is damaged in ways unknowable. Ultimately, she pays too high a price for the association. Whatever serious thoughts she might give to marriage, she hasn’t a clue that, if children come, they would find only the cold welcome of a stepmother. If her husband should awaken to the fact that he has married someone who will spend his money on herself, and shelter her indiscretions behind his good name, he will be the wiser, but too late.”[176]

  Yes, the demimonde did not operate in isolation. As Jennie Hollister grew up on Market Street, she saw the women of the demimonde walking in the tenderloin—the precursors of Diamond Lucy Chapman—drawing a crowd as they walked fetchingly along. As a schoolgirl, Jennie Hollister slipped involuntarily into the mold of the nice young woman, but she was easily led astray. While other girls had a strong hand on the tiller at home, Jennie Hollister’s parents had their own problems and Jennie had no governor on her imagination, yearnings, and actions. She was free to chart her own course. Like so many hundreds of thousands of young girls of the Gilded Age, Jennie chose poorly, but stuck with her choice bravely nonetheless.

  Just as the women of the European demimonde embraced tattooing with abandon, so did their American counterparts. In Philadelphia, a physician fresh out of medical school commented on tattoos as an unreliable means of identification when he noted, “The leg mark [presumably a small lady bug, or some such] . . . would be a poor means of identification in this country, for I know of a number of young ladies in this city who have their limbs decorated in a similar manner. . . . Two young wives, whom I attended recently, had crosses tattooed on their limbs, and one young woman I know, had the initials of her favorite suitor pierced in the skin just above the ankle. . . . Among the favorites are serpents with their tails in their mouths, forming a ring, which are tattooed just above the knee.”[177]

  Among the demimonde, this physician had seen “any number of cases.” He stated that most of the female tattooing was performed at the home of the patron . . . and . . . he was of the opinion that the tattooing would spread like wildfire . . . .”[178]

  The Philadelphia reporter went to the heart of the city’s red light district—6th and Callowhill Streets—to find out more. He visited the house of a tattoo artist and found a chatterbox, attired in plain silk . . . with her fingers stained in India ink.[179]

  “I have to maintain much secrecy . . . for many of my patrons belong to the best families. . . . To some it’s painful; others not. I have known some to faint while undergoing the tattooing; still others will laugh and joke throughout the entire operation, evincing no unpleasantness whatsoever. . . My best customers are members of the demimonde. . . . Lately they have become almost crazy over it. Still, I have quite a practice among respectable women . . . .”

  “Speaking of the demimonde recalls a little incident . . . . Last week I was called upon by one of them to tattoo the name of a well-known politician on her limb, which I did. The next day another woman of the same class called for the same purpose. I remarked to her the coincidence. Turning around in the chair, she said, ‘If any other woman bears his name, tattoo it on the bottom of my foot, so that I may express my contempt for him . . . .’ My prices range from $5 to $25, and for more elaborate designs, $50. Most of my customers, however, are of the $5 class, for which some will tattoo crosses, monograms, or circles.”[180]

  In Hartford, the wild young girls of the demimonde dressed in the most colorful patterns and allowed their behavio
r to skirt the outer limits of decency. Meanwhile, Jennie Hollister rested at the other end of the spectrum. Her clothing was of the highest fashion—and conservative. Her jewelry matched her clothing perfectly. Jennie did not flaunt herself. She was a stately woman who did not live like a part of the demimonde; neither did she attend their parties. Jennie’s clientele came from the upper echelons of society and the business community. If Jennie Hollister must be considered a part of the demimonde, her lofty perch was out of reach for the half-world’s rank and file.

  A glaring example of the demimonde’s disparate worlds springs from a simple night on the town. Much like the Mardi Gras in New Orleans, or Carnival in Madrid, the annual outing for the members of the demimonde in Hartford over time became the annual Masquerade Ball and Carnival of the Young German-American Association in the Auditorium Building.

  Built in 1860, this brick building with brownstone trim rested at 174-188 Asylum Street—just west of the Allyn House (hotel). The first floor featured Emerson Shoes, Oliver Typewriter, O’Brien’s Saloon, Fuller’s Trunks, and Boston Candy Company. Mundane office space took up the second floor, mostly leased to Robert Weller, the designer and engraver. The Auditorium consumed the whole third floor. The 87- by 100-foot hall rented out for every kind of political rally, concert, dance, and ball. On this night, it was the German-Americans and—though clearly not designed this way at the outset—the demimonde.

  This ball took place in the wonderful time between the Franco-Prussian War (1870-71) and World War I (1914-1918), when German-Americans could proudly display their talented singing groups, show off their gorgeous young frauleins, boast shamelessly about their ancestry, and drink steins of first-class German beer all night. Of course, this didn’t last, as Americans were forced to kill German boys in France during the First World War. This killing lasted until Supreme War Lord Kaiser Wilhelm II capitulated and finally abdicated in disgrace at the end of the conflict.[181]

  The wild young girls and boys of the demimonde had no annual ball of their own. However, since the Germans sold tickets indiscriminately—the half-world simply waltzed in and stole the show. There were plenty of townspeople there—especially young girls—but it quickly became the half-world’s marquee night as feral young creatures from the brothels tried to outdo one another in their peculiar displays of raw flesh.[182]

  The German-Americans—embarrassingly short on taste—went for broke on the decorations. Filling the empty space above the masked dancers and half-clad women were red, yellow, and green Japanese lanterns, silk bunting, and American and German flags in abundance. At floor level, the crowd thrilled to the whirling excitement of brightly- colored costumes, black masks, and the reckless abandon of the fleshpots of another orb.

  The affair began with music from the Pope Manufacturing Band. There were two tableaux—the introduction of the Prince and Princess, followed by the Cradle of Liberty, a small patriotic display just to get things started. The real excitement was the kaleidoscope of beer mugs and half-naked females sailing through the air.[183]

  When the jeunesse dorée of the demimonde were involved, the balls escalated into untamed affairs. People marveled at the extreme youth of the girls. They were anywhere from thirteen to seventeen, and sitting on the laps of men old enough to be their fathers—the everlasting push of December bucks toward May fawns.

  But these girls were daring young things who used the arsenic-based Fowler’s Solution “to beautify their forms and create clear complexions. Knowing that the solution was poisonous in careless overdoses . . . they had knowledge of the antidote.” Fowler’s Solution gave the girls’ cheeks a wonderful pink glow as it burst the delicate capillaries of the facial tissue. Add some hydrogen peroxide to the hair, and the result fairly screamed “prostitute!”[184]

  While on the subject, Darby’s Prophylactic Fluid, a very popular disinfectant among prostitutes, figured prominently among the cosmetics of young girls of the demimonde. John Darby—a Williams College graduate—taught botany, mathematics, and chemistry. In 1855, Darby began producing Darby’s Prophylactic Fluid, a simple vegetable product that gained widespread use throughout the country as evidenced by empty Darby’s bottles found in a long-lost red light district near Los Angeles’s Union Depot. Darby helped found East Auburn Male College in 1856, the forerunner of Auburn University.

  There’s a twenty-first century belief that the makers of snake oil elixirs were all con men. However, John Darby’s story does not follow that line. Patent medicines were compounds sold as medical cures—that sadly didn’t work. In the final analysis, the words “patent medicine” meant nothing because these worthless compounds could be trademarked, but not patented. A patent would require proof that the miracle drug in question actually worked—and such proof was not forthcoming. One group of patent medicines—salves that allegedly contained snake oil—made pariahs of snake oil salesmen everywhere.

  So said, snake oil and patent medicines were not really the concern this evening of the young voluptuaries throwing themselves into the air and across the dance floor of the Auditorium. After midnight, the young girls who did not have on short dresses bunched up their garments to achieve the same effect. The footgear, socks, and underwear (or lack thereof) thrust upon the unsuspecting party-goers was enough to make the drunken throng of spectators shout and scream with approval, surprise, embarrassment, and unleashed animal spirits.

  These parties were supposed to be mixed ale affairs, with a little Rhine wine tossed in to make the Germans happy, but beer and whiskey were the real anchors of the evening, supercharging the high times of the revelers.

  At the bar, people stood twelve deep waiting for drinks. When served, the drinks disappeared so fast it might be asked why the revelers bothered to get out of line. One of the great puzzlements of the evening lay with the free flow of intoxicants long after all the saloons in town were forced to close at midnight. This trick was the result of a human chain of watchers from the front of the hall to the street. As midnight approached, these watchers snapped to attention.

  As expected, a policeman—on his regular patrol—rounded the corner at midnight. The moment he got within a block, word passed along the line and the sale of all intoxicants stopped. When the policeman arrived, soft drinks flowed down the gullets of the alcohol-laden dancers and their partners. The officer inspected the hall carefully, but found nothing and left.

  Liquor sales lasted until four in the morning. Of course, the authorities were acting illogically. If they forced a saloonkeeper to pay $450 for a liquor license, they should protect him. But the police couldn’t be bothered.

  At this annual masquerade ball, there was always a great many girls who were just venturing astray—just starting down the path of dissolution. Some of them were the ones in short dresses and some wore longer gowns. This first masquerade ball launched the party circuit for 1899, and it was well attended. The light and airy entertainment in the early part of the evening passed off nicely, as did the dancing. The respectable fraus and frauleins were there en masse and having a good time. The costumes were beyond festive and the trim young girls of the demimonde enjoyed the ball enormously. These libertines never dressed down. As far as these nymphets were concerned, these balls existed for them alone. It was their brief, fleeting chance to make a statement.

  At this juncture, the bewitching hour descended over the hall, and the respectable German fathers took their daughters home, leaving the ball to the revelers. Saturnalia took wing. Dozens of the best-known girls of the half-world were present. Girls of all classes were there—all sizes, shapes, and conditions. Their vertiginous dancing—the absolute height of the party—got underway bathed in uninhibited depravity and verboten antics. The tricks of these girls could not be described in print. And the girls were all churning cauldrons of sin and wickedness. They exposed all sort of arms, legs, chemises, corsets, and underwear at the same time, so that a lightning-fast pair of eyes saw almost nothing. Each girl joined in the zeitgeist of the moment, b
ut insisted that her well-turned lower limbs were the only ones that mattered. The thrustful competition showed through wide, white smiles.

  After the common council meeting ended at City Hall, nearly the whole board of aldermen attended the masquerade ball. To the great disgust of the girls, the alderman did not offer to buy drinks. Usually the girls could sweet talk these men into financing some of the fun. One of the biggest hits of the evening was a cakewalk done by three State Street prostitutes. These girls had the grace and agility to go into Burlesque—if they could handle the pay cut!

  One young girl, sampling the path of wickedness, disappeared from the hall in a heartbeat. A commotion at the door brought all eyes to a black- bearded man followed closely by his tearful wife. Noticing their daughter across the room—and almost before the girl knew what was happening—they marched her out of the hall.

  Almost simultaneously, a loud slap rippled through the hall, as a woman in a short dress disciplined a well-known man about town because he got a little too frisky. The woman tried to separate herself from this sport, but because she was sitting on his lap, their limbs were too intertwined for the desired relief.

  There were two mysterious dancers, closely masked, who created a great deal of interest. One girl dressed in black and the other in blue. They performed in perfect unison and then disappeared quickly. Later, word got around that the girls lived “on the Hill.” These two were a little more adventurous than most society girls.

  At three minutes to five in the morning, the last couple left the hall. For one fleeting evening, one tiny shard of time, the reckless, futureless prostitutes of the half-world enjoyed a morsel of unbridled joy. Maybe they even managed to capture a few moments of oblivion—which is what they really wanted. Their nubile young bodies took a terrible beating in the tenderloin, just so they could drink and dance with friends for a few hours here and there. Sadly, this was all that the empty promises of prostitution could deliver.