by Marion Meade
Free Woman
The Life And Times Of Victoria Woodhull
Marion Meade
Acknowledgments
For their help during my research for this book, I would like to thank the staffs of the Sophia Smith Collection at Smith College, the Schlesinger Library at Radcliffe College, and the New-York Historical Society.
For my daughter—Alison
Foreword
The Presidential election of 1920 was one of the most important in U.S. history. This ground-breaking event marked the first time that women were eligible to vote, and millions of them showed up at the polls. (Republican Warren G. Harding was elected.)
After a seven decades-long battle for the vote, who remembered, for instance, the historic election of 1872 – won by the incumbent Ulysses S. Grant—an election noteworthy because another of the candidates that year was a woman. Not that people had taken Victoria Woodhull seriously at the time.
“I am too many years ahead of this age,” observed Woodhull, and that is exactly right. As there was no place for her in the 19th century she was soon forgotten. But in the 1970s, when another generation of feminists was banding together to fight for their civil rights, her accomplishments seemed worth celebrating. Was the time ripe for a comeback, I wondered?
Victoria Claflin Woodhull was an intense, statuesque beauty, one of ten children born to a poor family in Homer, Ohio. After only a few years of schooling she married at fifteen and had two children with a husband who turned out to be an alcoholic.
And yet, astonishingly, just a dozen years later she and her sister Tennessee rolled into New York City and proceeded to make a name for themselves in the business world. With backing from the tycoon Cornelius Vanderbilt, the independent-minded sisters embarked on two unprecedented ventures: a Wall Street investment firm, and a muckraking newspaper (it once printed Marx and Engel’s Communist Manifesto).
For years, feminists had struggled to win equal rights. Along came Woodhull, aglow with confidence. What set the outsider apart from other activists was a combination of brains, beauty, and brass.
Doyennes of the women’s rights movement initially turned up their noses at Woodhull. The power players at the time were Susan B. Anthony, a sober 50-year- old unmarried former teacher, and Elizabeth Cady Stanton, 55-year-old wife of an attorney and mother of seven. For years this conservative team, along with many other veteran feminists, had toiled over practical strategies to bring about change. The ambitious Woodhull pressed ahead without much regard for their hard work or their safe political methods. Confrontational, she had views of her own. In addition, she personally was not entirely respectable. Unlike most women she worked outside the home, and she was also divorced with a messy private life. Clearly she was a person they couldn’t ignore, and so despite misgivings the suffragists determined to work with her.
She scooped the honor of being the first woman to address Congress. Before the House Judiciary Committee, she presented legal arguments to prove that the Constitution already gave women the right to vote. The 14th and 15th Amendments granted that right to all citizens. Were not women citizens?
If the feminist establishment had a problem with Woodhull’s controversial political approach, the average American found utterly shocking her advanced views on sexual freedom (dubbed “free love” in the 19th century). In all matters, personal and political, she rejected the double standard. As a result, she was presumed to be a prostitute.
For a time, Woodhull was one of the most prominent women in the whole country. She kept making news:
first female stockbroker
first woman to publish her own weekly newspaper
first woman to address Congress
first woman to run for President, on the Equal Rights party ticket
After that it was downhill, though, because her fighting spirit broke, little by little. Marrying a banker, she moved to England, where politics would play no part in her life. She lived to see American women get the vote, dying in 1927 at the age of 88.
A modest biography of Woodhull would, I hoped, bring her back to public view. For me, the book was a restoration project, as well as a labor of love.
In pre-computer days, biographers wrote on typewriters—mine was a trim little Olivetti Lettera 22—and we gathered our material by old-fashioned foot work. Without the Internet, we were obliged to trot from library to library, filling out call slips and making notes on 3 x 5 index cards. Much of my research was done at the New-York Historical Society, Columbia’s Butler Library, and the Boston Public Library. Copies of Woodhull and Claflin’s Weekly were available on microfilm at the New York Public Library. My odyssey took me to Vassar, Radcliffe, and Smith to consult their extensive files on the suffrage movement. I also managed to locate a rare 1928 biography with the repugnant title, The Terrible Siren, a deplorable portrayal of Woodhull as a trashy tabloid celebrity.
Free Woman was published by Alfred A. Knopf as a young adult biography in 1976. I would have earned more working at Burger King. The publisher paid an advance against royalties of $1,500 and invited me to a company book party at a Third Avenue ice cream parlor in Manhattan.
From time to time, I received inquiries about optioning the book for a “biopic,” but enthusiasm never translated into a movie. Then, in 1980, a lavish musical about Woodhull opened on Broadway. “This show,” wrote one critic, “looks like a dinner theater's homegrown answer to "Hello, Dolly!" and it's becalmed almost to a fault. You want a good night's sleep? Pay your money and rest in peace.” Unsurprisingly, Onward Victoria closed after a single performance.
Several dozen countries have been governed by female presidents or prime ministers by now, some of the most famous women being Margaret Thatcher, Golda Meir, and Indira Gandhi. In the U.S., California congresswoman Nancy Pelosi, former Speaker of the House of Representatives (2007-2011), was third in line for the office of President (after Vice President Joseph Biden).
And of course Hillary Rodham Clinton narrowly lost her bid for the Democratic nomination to Barack Obama.
No doubt, history is still catching up to Victoria Woodhull.
Marion Meade
January 2011
New York City
Preface
She was the first woman in American history to seek the Presidency; in most people's eyes that made her a monster. Among the mildest of the names they called her was "Mrs. Satan." In 1872 the notion of a woman President had sufficient power to shock most people. In an age when females were thought too ignorant to vote, it was a revolutionary idea.
Perhaps others before her may have shared the dream; if so, they never dared expose themselves to ridicule. Political ambition was considered, to say the least, unwomanly. For that matter, any kind of worldly ambition was thought to be unnatural for a woman.
After all, those who had given birth to our nation weren't called the Founding Fathers for nothing. Yes, America had been a brave new experiment in government. True, we were a democracy proclaiming liberty and justice for all. But the question of who shall lead and who shall follow had been decided at the outset. Indeed, it had never even been debated. Politics was deemed a suitable occupation only for men.
Where were the Founding Mothers? They were home raising their children, cooking, and keeping house. These functions are important, and they were even more vital to life in frontier days than now, but women lacked the freedom to choose other work. A woman with political ambitions kept them to herself. If she were extraordinarily lucky, she might marry a man who would someday win high office and then she could be a First Lady. To wish for more was madness and delusion.
No doubt Victoria Woodhull was a bit odd. Few ordinary women would have possessed the emotional energy to pursue her impossible dream. How she first stumbled upon t
he idea is difficult to determine. When she spoke of her past, she was apt to make it sound like a soap opera. She claimed modestly that the Presidency wasn't her idea at all. A vision had appeared to her, a being in a Greek tunic who prophesied that one day she would lead her people. Perhaps so. But one fact remains: even a gutsy woman like Victoria Woodhull could not openly declare that she wanted to be President simply because she wanted to be President.
She rudely violated conventional ideas of what was proper behavior for her sex, and she rejected totally the traditional view that a woman has no right to be ambitious or competitive. Whether as presidential nominee, radical feminist, stockbroker, newspaper editor, socialist, public speaker, "free lover," or divorcee, Victoria Woodhull gloried in her independence.
She was a genuine rebel and nonconformist who possessed a mind of her own which she determined to use. Particularly remarkable was her confidence in her own ability; she believed in Victoria Woodhull. She coveted power, fully aware of the responsibility that goes with it, and when she aimed for the White House, it was not an empty gesture. She meant business.
Her ideas as much as her actions made nineteenth-century America exceedingly nervous. "I anticipate criticism," she once declared. A good thing, too, for she got it.
And yet, because she happened to be an extraordinarily beautiful woman and a compelling speaker, people were sufficiently disarmed to look, listen, and read about her.
She outraged her contemporaries. They may not have liked her. Bur they couldn't ignore her.
In the end, she failed. But at least she dared. She lived her revolutionary beliefs while struggling to live in a hostile world and battling to change it.
History books have omitted Victoria Woodhull. When her presidential campaign has been mentioned, it has rated a token line, usually written in jest. But lately her name is being heard once again. Feminist anthologies now include samples of her eloquent speeches. A documentary film, Our North American Foremothers, gives proper credit to her presidential aspirations. And, in New York City, a group of musicians recently formed the Victoria Woodhull Women's Marching Band.
It would be reassuring to conclude that if she had lived today, her quest for the Presidency might have succeeded. But such a conjecture would surely be misleading. The 1970s were only slightly more prepared than the 1870s were to accept a woman President.
The time for a Victoria Woodhull still lies somewhere over the horizon.
1
Those Crazy Claflins
If a girl could choose the kind of family in which to be born, she wouldn't pick the Claflins of Homer, Ohio. A loud, quarrelsome bunch, they were obsessed by status and money, probably because they had so little of either. They moved a lot, sometimes at the request of their neighbors, because the father, Buck Claflin, was not above pulling a shady business deal now and then. The fifth of his seven children (several more died in infancy), Vicky always regarded her relatives as her cross to bear.
Vicky was different from the rest of the Claflins. She was a winsomely beautiful child with cornflower blue eyes, silky brown curls, and a delicate profile. Her aristocratic bearing won her the nickname "Little Queen." Perhaps this was also due to the fact that Queen Victoria had been crowned ruler of England the year before Vicky's birth. More likely it reflected her unusual poise. She acted regal, like one born to command.
Sometimes she would round up several of the neighboring farmers' children and lecture to them. Standing atop an old Indian mound near her house, she would preach of what might befall them if they weren't good.
"Sinners, repent!" she'd exclaim, borrowing the juiciest phrases remembered from the religious revival meetings she attended with her mother. When the kids grew bored, Vicky would switch to a hair-raising tale of an Indian scalping. For a while the children would listen excitedly, but even so, she couldn't hold their attention for long. They didn't like her. Which was true of the way the adult citizens of Homer felt about all the Claflins.
Homer—where Victoria was born on September 23,1838— hardly looked like a town at all. Slumbering among the rolling Ohio hills about forty miles northeast of Columbus, it existed mainly for the benefit of the surrounding farmers. There were a few homes, a store, a church, a post office, a log-cabin school, and a mill for grinding grain. Vicky's father owned the mill.
Like most rural villages, Homer was a quiet place inhabited by sober, respectable folk. Nothing very exciting happened there. The women cooked, sewed, and kept house. They raised their children to be well-behaved and say "yes, ma'am" and "thank you." The men tended their businesses and farms, shoed horses, split wood. Everyone went to church on Sunday.
As far as the villagers were concerned, the only good thing about the Claflins was that they lived on the edge of town. People said that Buck was shiftless and dishonest. Once, according to town gossip, he tried to spend some counterfeit money. When the sheriff came to arrest him, Buck pulled a $100 bill from his pocket and ate it.
The housewives of Homer clucked disapprovingly about the Claflin children, who always had tangled hair and smudged faces, wore filthy calico dresses, and generally ran wild. "Those young'uns aren't even properly fed," they declared because the Claflin youngsters were in the habit of showing up at their doors, asking for something to eat.
Buck's ramshackle house, badly needing a coat of paint, was considered an eyesore. Beds, invariably unmade, littered the porch and yard. Dirty, unkempt youngsters wandered in and out, while the house rattled with screams and fights. Roxanna Claflin was hardly a perfect housekeeper and mother. In fact, one of the loudest voices was hers. She had a violent temper.
Buck Claflin would not have gone along with modern notions of child rearing. He belonged to the spare-the-rod-and-spoil-the-child school. He was neither a patient nor a particularly kind man. When his children displeased him, he beat them. A braided switch was kept handy for this very purpose Apparently it got a lot of use. As Vicky would recall many years later, her father "was impartial in his cruelty to all his children. I have no remembrance of a father's kisses."
In her own way, Roxanna was somewhat more loving. At times, she'd nag her youngsters unmercifully or box their ears. Then, full of remorse, she'd caress them and tearfully croon prayers, thanking God for such wonderful children.
Having such parents must have been upsetting for a sensitive, intensely serious child like Vicky. Sometimes she hated them, and yet she vaguely understood that they were barely staying afloat in a sea of economic worries.
The first Claflin to come to the New World was a paid soldier who left Scotland in 1661. Despite the family's early arrival on these shores, none of them managed to distinguish themselves in any way whatsoever. Buck had tried a dozen different trades and not one of them had worked out successfully. A tall man with a jutting chin, he'd lost the sight in one eye from a childhood accident, playing Indians with bows and arrows.
As a youth, he liked to hang out with gamblers and horse traders who congregated in the river towns of eastern Pennsylvania. Desperately anxious to be a successful wheeler and dealer himself, he occasionally had a lucky card game or business deal. For a while he kept store, then traded horses for a living. Finally, he got a job as stablekeeper for a rich family in the town of Selingsgrove, Pennsylvania.
There he met and married Roxanna Hummel, whose father owned the Rising Sun tavern. Although Roxanna couldn't read or write, she had a quick mind and strong religious convictions, both of which appealed to Buck.
Life wasn't easy for the young couple. As they pushed on from town to town, trying to eke out a living, the babies came at regular intervals. One winter they were left homeless when a blizzard destroyed their house.
In spite of their difficulties, maybe because of them, the Claflins developed a very strong sense of family loyalty. They fought among themselves, but when criticized by outsiders, they defended one another fiercely. Mama Claflin was always standing up for her boisterous brood. Once, when they were sent home from Sunday school for a
cting bratty, she promptly trotted down to the church and gave the preacher a tongue-lashing.
Still, the quiet Vicky stood apart from her family. The only one she truly felt close to was her sister Tennessee, seven years younger. Humorous, spunky, and forthright, Tennie admired Vicky and followed her around like a worshipful puppy.
The days before the Civil War, when Vicky was a child, were an age of comparative innocence in American history. It was that period of primitive simplicity recalled so nostalgically by Mark Twain—a benign never-never land where boys like Huck Finn and Tom Sawyer could drift, carefree, down the Mississippi River on a raft. By contrast, life was altogether different for a girl. At least for a girl like Vicky.
In those days, few parents believed in educating girls. Vicky's were no exception. Roxanna Claflin had not gone to school, and as far as she could tell, learning to read and write was a sheer waste of time.
"But, Mama, I want to go to school," begged Vicky.
"Why?" Roxanna demanded in exasperation. "I reckon it'd be different if you was a boy. Ain't no use under God's sun for girls to have book learnin'. God made women for raisin' young'uns and keepin' house."
Her determined daughter pestered and pestered. Finally, when Vicky was eight, Roxanna relented. Vicky began attending the one-room log schoolhouse in town. Some of the other children hated school, and when they acted up, the teacher punished them by putting wire clothespins on their noses.
Vicky, however, was a model student. She loved reciting her ABCs and doing sums on a jagged piece of slate. She had a quick mind, and the teacher paid a lot of attention to her. Her classmates, less admiring, would tease, "Teacher's pet, teacher's pet.” Vicky ignored them.
What troubled her most was that she didn't get to school very often. Yes, her mother had consented, but when housework had to be done, it was a different story.
