Prostitution in the Gilded Age

by Kevin Murphy

  The Law and Order League of New Haven operated as the most questionable municipal reform group. It first came together in 1884, using the Citizens Law and Order League of Massachusetts as a model. The group never achieved any semblance of professionalism and proved ineffectual under its first president, Mark S. Chapman of Winchester, Connecticut. In 1893, a reorganized Law and Order League arose under Secretary Samuel Thrasher, a grandstanding egomaniac who was determined to clean up the State of Connecticut with “piratical police work.”[229]

  Thrasher made enemies. Rather than convincing the police of his seriousness in stamping out vice in the state, he quickly got the reputation as a craven grandstander. In New Haven, Police Superintendent James Wrinn prepared to raid three illegal “policy” shops when Thrasher, with his Law and Order League, ran a raid two days in advance of Wrinn’s sortie. He did the same thing to the New Haven police in March 1900. Since the policy writers knew every cop in the city, the collecting of evidence proved difficult. Meanwhile, Thrasher collected the evidence quickly because “he hired ‘passe’ ministers, jailbirds, and students hungry for a few dollars.” Quickly then, Thrasher ran his own raid.[230]

  For the longest time, Samuel Thrasher refused to visit Hartford. When pressed, he said privately that it served the League’s interest best—financially—to leave immoral Hartford to her fate. But the newspapers came down hard on Thrasher. “There is more wickedness to the square inch in Hartford today than there is in any of the cities which the [League] has visited; still, Hartford is given the go-by in the league’s action. . . . The immoral condition is so well-known that people looking for a good time leave Bridgeport, Waterbury, New Haven, Stamford, and other cities, to visit Hartford and have their time out. . . . “[231]

  Samuel Thrasher’s integrity was on the line and he at length had no choice but to visit the Capitol City. The work of the Law and Order League, coupled with pressure from the muckraking Bridgeport Sunday Herald, began taking a toll on Chief of Police George Bill as well as Hartford’s Democratic Mayor Miles Preston (1896-1900), not to mention his successor, Republican Mayor Alexander Harbison (1900-1902).

  Samuel Thrasher’s Law and Order League conducted a series of liquor raids in Hartford. One January, the Law and Order League raided several drugstores on liquor law violations. In February of the following year, they raided fourteen disorderly houses and found wine and beer in ten of them. The owners were arrested for selling liquor without a license and were forced to appear in police court.[232]

  This annual visit seemed like the most absurd farce that any city had to endure. The proprietors weren’t molested for a whole year, and then the Law and Order League showed up for a little winter housekeeping. Not only did this antagonize the local police, it irked the public because Thrasher’s bunch acted like interlopers.[233]

  Samuel Thrasher’s power grew for a decade, but eventually the public turned against the Law and Order League because it secured evidence against liquor dealers by entrapment, which fair-minded people disdained. Sensing an end to his game, Thrasher pitched the General Assembly on the idea of a state police department, which would replace the Law and Order League. Naturally, Thrasher hoped to land the top job, but he got nothing. The Connecticut State Police Department was organized in 1903, with Superintendent Thomas F. Egan of Southington at the helm and Arthur L. Story of Norwich acting as his assistant.[234]

  Hartford’s Chief of Police George Bill had adopted a hard line, but ten months after he had given the written orders to close, most of the old houses were back in business and new ones were springing up like weeds—in previously respectable neighborhoods. Beyond that, the number of streetwalkers reached a new peak. It was time for another raid. Chief Bill planned this latest raid meticulously and waited patiently at the station house for the madames and their inmates to arrive. Later, Chief Bill said outright that this new raid resulted because his order to close on July 1, 1898 had been ignored. The proprietors and madames had discounted all risk in the name of profit.

  On St. Patrick’s Day in 1899—beginning just before midnight and lasting until two in the morning on March 17—the Hartford police staged their biggest raid yet. Over forty women of the half-world crowded into the muster room of the new police station on Market Street. The massive room, with its big white pillars, resembled a stock exchange, with all the houses of ill repute represented. The madames and girls of each house were clustered together in groups around the big room. Like members of different trading firms, the girls from each house banded together.

  Reporters detailed the important players. Of course, commanding the most attention stood the stately Jennie Hollister “who has lived unmolested for twenty years.” And what raid would be complete without decrepit Mary Ann Atherton of the River House, with almost forty years in the business? Last among the big three was Ada Leffingwell. Poor, fat, broken-nosed Ada, wanted desperately to be a class act, but always came up short. Besides these premier madames, and their girls, were the lesser lights who on this special night, were not ignored. The others—who had built their houses on State, Main, Front, Commerce, Market, Ford, Ann, Grove and Temple Streets into something of substance—were there too. Representatives of all the houses passed by the captain’s desk with decorum. The mayhem filled a special notebook of the event, and reporters scribbled excitedly, “The scene was a lively one. Messenger boys were scurrying to and fro, darting in and out of the big doors. Hacks drove up and whipped away. Diamonds flash and silken skirts rubbed together. . . . Here and there, a tear was shed, but for the most part, forced smiles filled the room. . . . Some, in evening dress, were protected by seal skin jackets, while all wore head gear profuse with plumes. . . . Outside the closely curtained room, a large crowd of men, boys, and girls, could be seen at the doors eager to get a glimpse of what was going on inside.”[235]

  “Jennie Hollister was released upon bonds furnished by Ada Leffingwell and the other girls in the house were released upon bonds furnished by Jennie. Ada was released on bonds furnished by Jennie Hollister and the girls in the house were released on bonds furnished by Ada. (Self-bonding was not allowed.) Mary Ann Atherton and her girls were released on bonds furnished by the bail bondsman Angelo Conti.”[236]

  The bonds of Billy and Cora West, and Al Russell and his madame, Annie Castaybert, were all posted by Mo Harris, another sport who traveled regularly to New Haven prizefights with Billy West and Al Russell.[237]

  Jennie Hollister posted the bonds for Carolyn Webster and Jennie Smith of 181 State Street. The various proprietors were charged with keeping disorderly houses and their bonds were placed at $300 each. The bonds of the frequenters were fixed at $100 each. Judge Bill was kept busy for two hours taking bonds.[238]

  According to the chief’s well-orchestrated plan, the police made simultaneous raids on all the houses of ill repute just before midnight. Upon appearance in the police court the following day, because of a nasty backlog, Judge Perkins continued the cases until Wednesday, March 22, 1899. All of the proprietors pleaded not guilty. They posted bonds and were released until their appeals could be heard in superior court.[239]

  On June 6, 1899, the June term of the superior court began with Judge Alberto T. Roraback on the bench. Nine proprietors charged with keeping houses of ill-fame were in court—Jennie Hollister, Ada Leffingwell, Mary Ann Atherton, Carolyn Webster, Emma Kealey, Lillian Stanley, Anna Castaybert, William West and Eva Beck; another eighteen women were charged as frequenters, and Billy West’s wife, Cora, was charged with living in a house of ill fame. Judge Milton Shumway—who made a switch with Judge Roraback at the last minute—heard the cases. As he mulled over an appropriate sentence, Judge Shumway said that he thought a fine of $100, plus three months in jail, would satisfy the court. The lawyers for the proprietors had their work cut out for them. Nonetheless, by arguing that Judge Bill in the police court had only envisioned a $100 fine, Judge Shumway hesitated. After a little more wrangling, the proprietors each received $100 fines, but no jail
time.

  Democratic Governor Luzon Morris of New Haven, Connecticut, appointed Judge Milton Shumway of Danielson to the superior court. Morgan Bulkeley denied Luzon Morris his rightful place as governor in 1891, by using a technicality to steal a second term right out from under Morris. Not to be denied, Morris won the office in 1893 and served one term as governor. When Judge Shumway dangled the possibility of jail terms under the noses of the biggest brothel keepers in the city, one might suspect that Morgan Bulkeley had explained his plan to the judge. Though this has a refreshing feel, it is extremely unlikely. The two men probably had no working relationship at all. That said, Judge Shumway’s interest in putting the proprietors of Hartford’s houses of ill fame in jail suggests that he had strong moral feelings against prostitution, and tried—albeit without sufficient resolve—to shut the bawdy houses down in 1899.

  Police court continued in this manner—with no significant number of madames or proprietors receiving any jail time—for another seven years. It appeared that none of the judges in the police court, or in the superior court, wanted to be the first to break with tradition. If the massive shift in vice led to 2,000 streetwalkers in Hartford—and the people of the city lost faith in the change—where would they focus their wrath? Probably on the judge who took the first step!

  The Saint Patrick’s Day raid of 1899 signaled a massive shift in the way the police handled vice in the city, though few involved would necessarily have come to that conclusion. Mary Ann Atherton, just as a simple example, had been arrested a number of times for keeping houses of ill fame—going all the way back to 1863. Would she think that her days as a madame were over? Probably not. On the flip side, it had been a decade and a half since such a wholesale raid of houses in the city had been made, and this one included Jennie Hollister![240]

  Many proprietors and inmates knew no other business or trade and determined to continue as usual. It’s only fair to mention that some newspapermen figured out precisely the connection between the new Hartford Bridge and the need to crush the city’s tenderloin and scatter the demimonde. Shortly after the Saint Patrick’s Day raid of 1899, Hicks Street—on the north side of Bushnell Park—saw its first two bordellos. The residents complained and the bawdy houses closed apace, but the pattern wasn’t a surprise to the police or the city’s elected officials.

  As the effects of the Saint Patrick’s Day raid—and others—built up in the early 1900s, the pressure mounted on the tenderloin. Inmates were harder to keep, as they assessed correctly that the city’s attitude toward the demimonde had soured. When a city wallowed in vice for a half-century—and earned a reputation as a wide open place—any reduction in the number of bagnios brought difficulties and chaos. Essentially, it converted inmates into streetwalkers—not only in Hartford, but in other cities as well. Prostitutes go where they can make a living.

  Waterbury got the worst of it. Even as Hartford tried to coerce change, the Brass City quickly became inundated with nymph du paves. The greatest number of displaced inmates from the houses of ill repute in Hartford left for greener pastures, but more went to Waterbury than any other city. Making matters worse, Bridgeport and New Haven coincidentally started cleaning house at the same time and some prostitutes from these two cities relocated to Waterbury too. As if that weren’t bad enough, the fierce new competition forced the girls of Waterbury’s remote roadhouses to enter the downtown area of the Brass City just to make a living. Waterbury was in trouble.[241]

  During the Gilded Age, prostitution was generally regulated as a specific type of vagrancy. When prostitutes were punished as sexual deviants, the statutes used were those against adultery, fornication, or “common nightwalking.” Streetwalkers and nightwalkers were simply women who stroll the streets in search of sex-for-money transactions. From 1699, nightwalking was a punishable offense in most of New England, while the various state legislatures did not enact the necessary laws until near the end of the eighteenth century. Oddly enough, in Massachusetts, it was not until 1917 that a prostitute could be arrested and jailed for prostitution.”[242]

  In all cities, there existed an enormous disparity in the fines levied on madames, inmates, frequenters, runners, cooks, piano players, and other persons associated with houses of ill repute. This shows itself to be especially the case on a coast-to-coast inspection.

  As has been already noted, in the early 1850s, judges like Eliphalet Bulkeley often just discharged a young madame. One would almost expect that there was some kind of tit-for-tat in these proceedings except that Judge Bulkeley wasn’t the type. It seems unlikely that the Judge would attend The Pearl Street Congregational Church every Sunday and attend the meetings of the Pearl Street Ecclesiastical Society every Tuesday night, only to accept IOUs—of the slap-and-tickle variety—from members of the demimonde.

  On average, the cost of a first offense for keeping a bagnio ran between $10 and $20 plus court costs. The second offense was usually double that. Of course, if a madame thought she could run a house without stopping by the station house for a cup of coffee first, her fines could be draconian. Ada Leffingwell found this out in 1892 when she was fined $100 plus costs. Fortunately for all concerned, Ada learned her lesson quickly and prospered in the years ahead. Interestingly enough, when Jennie’s father, Timothy McQueeney, was fined $35 plus costs in 1852 for assaulting Hooker Clapp, madames were getting away with $10 fines or nothing at all. This offers a privileged glimpse into how much the denizens of Hartford cared about assault and how little they cared about prostitution.

  New Haven could be a tough place to figure out because the authorities sometimes acted like whiny, petulant children when it came to madames despoiling their gorgeous city and they assessed fines accordingly. As the pressure grew to close all the houses of ill fame, judges upped the ante—as they did with “Mother Mary” Moran in 1899—levying against her the highest fine ever—$100 plus costs. In fairness, it should be mentioned that the 1899 encounter was “Mother Mary” Moran’s thirteenth pinch for running a house of ill repute! Bridgeport, New London, Norwich, Danbury, Waterbury, and Meriden all fell below these costs in their dealings with the characters of the tenderloin.[243]

  In 1872 Dallas, the law was a trifle lenient. “If any person shall keep any brothel house within the limits of this city . . . for the purpose of prostitution . . . every such person so offending, shall . . . be fined in any sum not less than $5 nor more than $100, and may, in addition . . . be imprisoned for not more than 15 days.”[244]

  Memphis citizens were not exactly tickled when they learned of the game in their city. Much like Saint Paul—though without licensing prostitutes—a monthly fine of $25 was levied on madames, with a $10-$15 kicker for each of their inmates, “who more deserve commiseration than to be plundered.”. . . They are . . . extortions, not one jot more justifiable than [bandits] who capture a traveler, demand a ransom . . . of his friends, and, if they refuse, cut off an ear and send it to them.[245]

  As late as 1895, some towns were far behind the curve. In Alexandria, Louisiana, it was ordained “that . . . after the promulgation of this ordinance, no house of ill fame shall be conducted in the corporate limits of Alexandria, within 200 feet of a house where parties reside, when such party shall object . . . or they shall be subject to arrest and fined not less than $10 for each . . . day that they shall conduct said house of ill fame, or shall be imprisoned not less than forty-eight hours for each offense.”[246]

  Sometimes hardheads got exactly what they deserved in court. Adam Metzler, an Indianapolis saloonkeeper who ran a dive at the corner of Missouri and Pearl Streets, was given the limit allowed by the law on three separate charges. “Judge Whallon found him guilty on all charges, fined him $100 and costs and sentenced him to 100 days in the workhouse for keeping a house of ill fame; $100 and costs, and 90 days in the workhouse for selling liquor to minors; and $100 plus costs, and 90 days in the workhouse for allowing minors to loiter in his saloon. . . . Judge Whallon kept his word and gave the keeper of the
resort the limits of the law.”[247]

  The Chinese Exclusion Act, passed by the U.S. Congress in 1882, essentially declared open season on bigotry. This held especially true for San Francisco with its large collection of Chinese aliens. White citizens who frequented white houses of ill fame received a fine of $30, or 30 days in the county hall of detention. Men of Chinese extraction, who frequented Chinese bordellos, were given fines of $300, or 300 days in county detention. These outrageous fines went across the board. Sue Chun, an inmate in a house of ill repute, received a fine of $150, or 150 days in jail. Ah Fook, caught frequenting a Chinese bawdy house, was fined $200, or 200 days in jail. [248]

  With Hartford’s demimonde scrambling, Billy West showed his survival skills. In the Saint Patrick’s Day raid of 1899, West narrowly escaped jail, and he had no intention of hanging around the Capitol City until confined to a cell for three months or more. As luck would have it, he found a fantastic deal in Norwich, Connecticut. At the top of Summit Street—on Hardscrabble Hill to the west of the harbor—sat a tumbledown mansion owned by George and Clara Warren. This house had been in business for decades, and though the Warrens hardly looked like keepers of a house of ill fame, that’s exactly what they were. Over the decades, “Uncle George” and “Aunt Clara” managed to run a model sporting house. It was so revered that “it had never been raided. The whole population of that part of town would have risen up against such a sacrilege. Why, the brother of the Mayor of Norwich, and one of its wealthiest men, married a [woman] from that house.”[249]