A Soiled Dove of the Civil War

written by Rosa Morgan

Ashamedly, I shall go by the name of Scarlet, for I was born into a life of gentility and would loathe to disclose my Christian name. If it eases your conscious to disregard my feelings, I shall duly understand, because before finding myself in such dire circumstances, I too would've judged harshly a 'soiled dove'. A sequence of misfortunes befell me: the onset of the Civil War, death of my beloved husband, and loss of home. With no kin for aid, I turned in desperation to an advertisement of easy money, whereby I'd pose in my undergarments for photographs popularly circulated amongst the soldiers.



A local madam enticed me with an even more lucrative proposition, promising me her brothel, or men's club was frequented by only the most reputable gentlemen. It was not only my stomach aching with hunger and winter's freezing nights looming that led me further down that slippery slope of damnation, but also my utter sense of grief and despair.





My very livelihood was dependent upon the selling of my flesh, and I said and did whatever was necessary to survive. I cannot fully describe the numbness I felt, nor the horror of those debauched hours.







In truth, the term 'gentlemen' could not be applied to our patrons, and my downfall, both figuratively and literally came when one of them found sport in sending me down a flight of stairs. I survived the broken bones, but the scar inflicted upon my face dramatically lowered my saleability and I became a camp follower of the Union troops.





I ended up in Nashville's notorious Smokey Row, a Sodom where hookers skyrocketed with the war from two hundred to fifteen hundred. Syphilis and gonorrhea ran rampant and some believed it was our intent to spread the diseases to the enemy troops, but I can say with painful truth, no woman knowingly takes on this plague.

-->   When I thought it couldn't get worse, Lt. Col. George Spalding, in an attempt to clean up the city, forced me, along with other 'public women', to board the steamboat, Idaho. We were sent to Louisville, but not allowed off the ship, and so sailed onto Cincinnati. Starving and ill, we eventually returned to Nashville, whereupon the well-intentioned colonel began regulating prostitution. We were medically examined weekly, licensed, and taxed, lest we find ourselves hospitalized or in the workhouse. I w I wish I could tell you I eventually found a life of redemption or a moment's peace, but my life ended in beggary and violence in the gutter, I called home. Pray do not look upon me as a faceless statistic, but rather take me to your bosom as Sister, Daughter, and Mother, and stop the exploitation of women that continues to this day.

The Iron Horse Comes to Town

written by Rosa Morgan

September 5, 1872 was a day the two brothers would never forget. They stood side by side watching history unfold before them, and yet each was experiencing feelings markedly contrary to the other.

With his hands balled into fists and his jaw clenched, Simon stared down the monster bearing down on them. It had cut a swath across the land, like a gaping wound that would never heal. Families were uprooted from ancestral homes and livelihoods lost due to its conquest. The cyclops' one eye shown ominously through the day's fading light, and its black vaporous smoke filled the air. The very ground beneath their feet rumbled with its approaching bellow, and when it's piercing whistle blew, he felt heartsick, for the peace of his homeland was forever gone.


Frederick hooked his thumbs into his suspenders, his chest was puffed up with pride, and the glint in his eyes reflected his deep satisfaction. His whole life had been devoted to developing steam engine locomotives. His interest was sparked as a boy when he read about the first American built locomotive, the Baltimore and Ohio's Tom Thumb. It was an engineering triumph, even though it had lost the impromptu race against that damnable horse and carriage. There would be no belts slipping off pulleys on this day.






Huffing and puffing with iron scraping shrilly, the The Santa Fe's train rumbled to a stop into Dodge City's newly built depot. The band struck up and the crowds surged forward, each wanting to touch the magnificent beast. Frederick knew all too well of his brother's prejudices, but he'd hoped seeing its arrival would alter his opinion. "Isn't she magnificent? The rail and its Iron Horse is our future. We'll have efficient commerce, expansion of the West, burgeoning cities, cattle from Texas and coal from Colorado!"


Simon studied the politicians climbing the engine with their waving flags and the railroad men with their pockets bulging with profits. Congress had granted the railroad companies land all across Kansas and they in turn sold it cheaply to farmers, who would then need the train to transport their goods. He turned to his brother, "Mark Twain was woefully right when he said, 'A railroad is like a lie, you have to keep building it to make it stand."


1917 State Fair Staged Train Collision

Union Pacific

The Language of the Fan

written by Rosa Morgan
-->

As a gentleman who cultivates the skills of seduction, I pride myself on having recently learned the latest rage of fan communication. By way of this small article of a woman's toilet, a woman can convey the subtlest of emotions without the formality of an introduction. I'm a weekend guest at Lord and Lady T's country estate and shall advantageously employ this new-found knowledge. I spy two gentle creatures of the fairer sex; beribboned in the latest fashion, they're most comely to my eyes. However, they take no notice of me, nor employ their fans other than to cool themselves in this overheated domicile.

-->

Hm, now here's a coquette eager for intercourse. Peeking coyly from behind her silk veil, she lets her fan rest on her right cheek. Her answer is 'Yes', to whatever my proposition may be. I nod acknowledgment of her meaning, then avert my eyes to disengage her. The weekend is just beginning, and though I do not wish to burn any bridges, I'm certain there are even more attractive damsels to conquer.

-->

I do say, Miss Agatha is a vision in pink, and as I recall, a cracker in croquet. Though she's quite enamored with her nosegay, I shall attempt to attract her attention. Balderdash! She's twirling the fan in her right hand, thus relaying she's in love with another. No need to waste my time here.

-->

There's sister Clara grasping her fully opened black Chantilly lace fan in both hands, which means she's asking that rake to forgive her of some trespass. Heavens, I shall have to reveal to her, the man's propensity for cards and fast women. Or perhaps, I shan't, for it will place me in those same seedy environs.

-->

Dear Mrs. Whitmore is glancing my way, pressing her fan to her lips; a definitive invitation to be kissed. I dare say, her porcelain skin has never suffered the effects of the sun, and her dazzling blue eyes are surely a result of the prudent use of belladonna. Regretfully, I cannot succumb to her flirtatious enticements, for her boorish husband is also in attendance, and an expert shot.

-->

Alas, my own heart betrays me, for Aliza Cranfield has entered the room. Catching my eye, she slips her fan's tassel over her delicate wrist, and with an adept flick, opens it wide. “Come hither,” it commands, and like a pup, I obey. Her vellum fan with mother-of-pearl blades is not adorned with the usual sentimental poem or decorative watercolor; nay, it holds signatures of our age's greatest gentlemen: Strauss, Rossetti, Dickens, and Tennyson. With her feminine wiles she has males at her beck and call. I have pursued the minx for months, to no avail, but now, she has placed her fan near her heart, telling me in no uncertain terms that I have won her love. Can it be true, she is now shutting the fan oh so slowly, promising to marry me. Farewell to my bachelorhood's roving eye, for I desire nothing more than the sweet embrace of Aliza.

-->

More Fan Language

LETTING THE FAN REST ON THE LEFT CHEEK: "NO."

OPENING AND CLOSING THE FAN SEVERAL TIMES: "You are cruel."

HIDING THE EYES BEHIND AN OPEN FAN: "I love you."

TOUCHING THE FINGER TO THE TIP OF THE FAN: "I wish to speak with you."

FANNING SLOWLY: "I am married."

FANNING QUICKLY: "I am engaged."

TWIRLING THE FAN IN THE LEFT HAND: "We are being watched."

PRESENTING THE FAN SHUT: "Do you love me?"

A CLOSED FAN TOUCHING THE RIGHT EYE: "When may I be allowed to see you?"

THE NUMBER OF STICKS SHOWN ANSWERED THE QUESTION: "At what hour?"

THREATENING MOVEMENTS WITH A FAN CLOSED: "Do not be so imprudent"

COVERING THE LEFT EAR WITH AN OPEN FAN: "Do not betray our secret."

Dear Reader, Have we lost the eloquent art of courting? Should we return to the language of the fan?

Aestheticism Threatens a Marriage

written by Rosa Morgan

Lenore blushed as Archibald carried her across the threshold and into the beginning of their life together as man and wife. As soon as her feet touched the hall's bare floor, she said with unbridled passion, "Dear, we'll have to order a Brussels carpet for this area." Stepping it off with her high buttoned shoes, she announced, "I'd say that stretch is a good fifteen feet long. And we must replace this hideous hall tree, posthaste! Why it looks like a Chinese pagoda, and lacks all function whatsoever. There's not even a bench to sit upon and remove one's wet wellies."



Though Archibald had hoped, nay imagined all day, an expedient dash up the stairs to the bedchamber, he could not but, indulge his wife's wish to peruse the house. He had purposefully kept from her his radical Aesthetic beliefs, hoping to gradually influence her. "I'm happy to see your enthusiasm for your new home, and I'm not disinclined to admit I've taken much pleasure in decorating it." Lenore's nostrils flared, "Pleasure? The value in a home's arrangement is its ability to imbue morality and purpose. It is with our rational minds and scientific bent that we must approach it."



Turning away from this man she now felt a stranger, Lenore ventured into the front parlor where she was confronted by ebony and gilded furniture, Japanese fans, and blue and white vases stuffed with peacock feathers. She felt the room spin, and would have fainted if there had been a fainting couch readily at hand. "Have I unknowingly wed a Bohemian; one who believes art is for art's sake? Pray do not tell me you parrot the philosophy of that decadent Oscar Wilde?"









Archibald was feeling ill himself, and brandishing his hip pocket flask, brazenly took a swig of hard liquor. With his voice choking with emotion, he proclaimed, "Yes, my love, I adhere to Wilde's advice; his lecture, 'The House Beautiful' is unparalleled in capturing my own belief that life must be lived intensely and that interior decorating is a means of self-completion!"
The young bride could see her criticism had truly injured her husband's sensibilities. She offered, "Now that I become accustomed to my new environ, I find the peacock feathers not too daunting."
Archibald conceded, "And I can see a hall tree with a bench would be beneficial."
The two lovebirds cooed their way up the staircase. Many an argument over interior design would darken their future, but with patience and diligence, they would find domicile bliss.