The Widows' Might: Widowhood and Gender in Early British America

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The Widows’ Might

The Widows’ Might

Widowhood and Gender in Early British America

Vivian Bruce Conger

NEW YORK UNIVERSITY PRESS

New York and London

www.nyupress.org

© 2009 by New York University

All rights reserved

Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

Conger, Vivian Bruce.

The widows’ might : widowhood and gender in early British

America / Vivian Bruce Conger.

p. cm.    Includes bibliographical references and index.

ISBN–13: 978–0–8147–1674–8 (cl : alk. paper)

ISBN–10: 0–8147–1674–1 (cl : alk. paper)

1. Widows—United States—History. 2. Widows—United States—

Economic conditions. I. Title.

HQ1058.5.U5C657    2009

306.88’3097309032--DC22          2008044251

New York University Press books are printed on acid-free paper, and their binding materials are chosen for strength and durability. We strive to use environmentally responsible suppliers and materials to the greatest extent possible in publishing our books.

Manufactured in the United States of America

10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

For the two most important people in my life,

Elizabeth Ann Russell Bruce and Darius John Conger

Contents

Acknowledgments

Introduction: Lay In A Stock Of Graces Against The Evil Day Of Widowhood

1 Though She Were Yong, Yet She Did Not Affect a Second Marriage: The Cultural Community and Widow Remarriage

2 Prosperity & Peace May Alwais Him Attend That to the Widdow Prove Himselfe a Friend: Widows and the Law

3 To the Tenderness of a Mother Add the Care and Conduct of a Father: Widows and the Household

4 Tho She No More Increase One Family, She May Support Many: Neighborly Widows

5 Through Industry and Care Acquired Some Estate of My Own … Much Advanced the Same: Widows in the Economic Community

Conclusion: Witnesses to a Will of Madam Toys

Notes

Bibliography

Index

About the Author

Acknowledgments

The list of those to whom I am indebted in helping me complete this work is, indeed, long. I could not have accomplished this task without the financial and emotional support of a great many people and places, and that help is very gratefully acknowledged. My only regret is that the people I recognize here will never understand the extent to which their assistance, patience, and understanding eased my way through every step of a process that was both a wonderfully joyful and enlightening exploration and a long, arduous, and sometimes painful undertaking.

The faith various institutions have demonstrated in me by their generous financial support is deeply appreciated. First, I extend my thanks to Cornell University: to the History Department for providing not only the opportunity to study with and learn from some of the best scholars in the country but also financial support through the Martha Barrett Scholarship and the Gertrude A. Gillmore Fellowship, and twice through a Daughters of the American Revolution Fellowship; to the Sage Graduate School for awarding me the Three-Year Teaching Fellowship; and to the Women’s Studies Program for providing me with a research grant from the Beatrice Brown Award Fund. I thank St. Michael’s College for a Faculty Development Grant. I thank Ithaca College for generously supporting me throughout the years with two Provost’s Office Small Grants, a Provost’s Office Grant for Faculty Summer Research, and a School of Humanities and Sciences Emerson Collaborative Grant. Finally, I thank the American Historical Association for awarding me a Littleton-Griswold Research Grant and the American Antiquarian Society for awarding me a Frances Hiatt Fellowship. These awards provided me not only with time away from teaching responsibilities but also money for travel to archives and historical societies.

I would be remiss if I did not begin my thanks to various libraries and archives with the single most important institution responsible for the completion of this work. I thank very much the librarians at the Mormon Family History Center in Ithaca, New York, for all their help. For two years, whenever the Family History Center was open, I was there coding wills. The volunteer librarians placed countless microfilm orders, helped me manage uncooperative microfilm readers, provided additional space for me, and found rooms in which I could eat lunch. Over the years, they were unfailingly friendly and cooperative; in fact, they gave me access to my sources when they were otherwise scheduled to be closed or on vacation. We became very good friends, and their interest in my research gave me an additional source of inspiration. I owe a special debt of gratitude to them.

I also want to thank the librarians at Forbes Library, in Northampton, Massachusetts; the Essex Institute, in Salem, Massachusetts; Plimoth Plantation, in Plymouth, Massachusetts; the Massachusetts Historical Society, in Boston, Massachusetts; the Maryland Historical Society, in Baltimore, and the Maryland Hall of Records, in Annapolis, Maryland; and the Library of Congress in Washington, D.C., for their generous and gracious assistance in my quest for unpublished letters, sermons, account books, and legal records.

I want to thank my fellow graduate students at Cornell University for their loyal support during my years in residence at Cornell. I also want to thank the members of the history graduate student research forum for allowing me to present parts of my work to them for their insightful comments. I especially want to thank my very good friend Michael Wilson. Throughout our years together at Cornell, he was a friendly but critical reader of several of my chapters, he was a constant source of moral support and social interaction, and, most important of all, a warm and loving friend who shared the good as well as the bad times with me. Professors I. V. Hull and Rachel Weil of Cornell University read my work closely and made intelligent and thought-provoking comments on it.

I want to thank my colleagues in the Kenyon College History Department, Joan Cadden, Pam Scully, and Ellen Furlough. They generously gave me their scholarly advice and friendly support as I struggled to finish my book while teaching full time. Most important, however, I want to thank William Scott for reading and critiquing my work at every phase of the long process of bringing this book to fruition. He has been an invaluable colleague and a wonderful friend. His comments, sometimes brutally honest but always insightful and helpful, have made this work what it is. I can never repay what he has done for me. I only hope he knows how grateful I am and that there is a special place in my heart for him.

I want to thank my colleagues in the Ithaca College Department of History, especially Joanne Izbicki and my very good friends Leslie Horowitz and Karin Breuer. They read various chapters of this work at bi-weekly meetings during which we critiqued, agonized, gossiped, laughed, and cried over beer and sandwiches. They offered valuable comments and even more valuable emotional support. Where would I be without them?

The anonymous readers of the manuscript pushed me hard to make this a better book. Their suggestions were sometimes painful but always helpful. Ultimately, of course, I bear complete responsibility for the final product, but I appreciated their input and I hopefully I lived up to their expectations.

When I first went to Cornell to work with Mary Beth Norton, I was shy and insecure about my ability to complete a Ph.D. She must have seen the potential in me, for throughout the past ten years she has willingly and even enthusiastically turned me into a professional historian with a great deal of confidence. While I was still doing coursework, she provided invaluable comments on my written work, gave me the opportunity to be a teaching assistant for her courses, and passed along important advice about getting through graduate school and about being a professional historian. Her copious, in-depth comments on this book have made it a much more precise, clear, and analytically rigorous work. I thank her for that. However, she has come to be more than an adviser; she has come to be an invaluable friend and colleague. For all that Mary Beth Norton has generously given to me, I am truly thankful.

Although my mother, Elizabeth Ann Russell Bruce, did not live to see me return to college as an adult, while she was alive, she always supported my desire to do so, and I am certain that she was guiding me throughout the process, pushing me when I got discouraged, and providing me with the spunk and the determination I needed to see it through. I am what I am today because of my mother, and for that I will be eternally grateful.

My husband, best friend, and most avid supporter, Darius John Conger, has seen me through the joys and the traumas of my academic career. He gave me guidance when I sought it and let me struggle on my own when I needed to. Throughout the years, he cooked and cleaned for me, listened eagerly as I talked about my work, waited patiently as I went off on research trips, provided invaluable computer assistance, encouraged me, and, most important of all, loved me. I could not have accomplished my goals without him by my side.

Introduction

Lay in a Stock of Graces Against the Evil Day of Widowhood

On August 30, 1673, in Boston, Massachusetts, Dorothy Upshall, widow of Nicholas, wrote a will in which she divided her earthly goods among two daughters, a grandson, three granddaughters, one brother, and two sisters. Thirty-five years later and about 402 miles south of Boston, in Charles County, Maryland, Elizabeth Diggs, widow of William, left her estate to six sons and three daughters, demanding that daughter Mary receive her share immediately while her other children wait until all her debts were paid. Eighteen years later and 440 miles further south, in Charleston, South Carolina, Catherine LaNoble, widow of Henry, bequeathed her estate—the landed portion of which, she specifically noted, her mother had given her—to two daughters, a son-in-law, a grandson, and a granddaughter.¹ Nearly one thousand widows over a 120-year time span across Massachusetts, Maryland, and South Carolina repeated this seemingly mundane ritual of devising their estates, whether personal property, landed property, or both.

Far from being mundane, will making signaled a significant private and public event in a woman’s life, in her family’s life, and in her community’s life. At the most personal level, leaving a will meant that a woman was facing her own mortality. It must have been a highly emotional time, a fearful time fraught with internal and external conflict. But it also must have been a powerful time. A woman who created a will believed she had something of value to leave, and she wanted to determine who would receive it. Even if she and her husband had talked over the family’s future, it was an act over which she had the ultimate say. At a more formal level, widows’ wills reflect the place widows occupied in early British America. Widows were no longer wives and mothers with clearly defined gender roles within the household but rather fell within several contested sites of socially constructed gender roles. Cultural, legal, communal, and economic ideals ensured that widows would not be allowed to wield absolute power and control generally reserved for men. However, as heads of households, they were expected to oversee the family and to represent its interests as their husbands had once done. A widow who left a will understood her responsibilities to her family and to her community, and she must have felt a great deal of satisfaction at being able to contribute to another’s economic well-being. But just as they did not necessarily bequeath their estates as men did, neither did all widows across colonies and time bequeath their estates in the same manner. As widows’ wills reveal, many widows successfully contested or appropriated their rights and responsibilities for their own reasons, reasons based on age, economic status, tradition, family relations, personal experience, and individual quirks.

The title of this book, The Widows’ Might, expands upon the biblical parables found in the gospels of Mark and Luke. In Mark 12:41–44 and in Luke 21:1–4, we learn about a poor widow who put two mites into the collection box along with the rich who cast in much as they proceeded through the Women’s Court in the Temple at Jerusalem. A mite was a small bronze or copper coin worth about an eighth of a cent and was the smallest denomination made at the time. Whatever the monetary value of the mite, the real message was clear. Although the amount the widow gave seemed insignificant in comparison to what the rich contributed, what made her gift extraordinary was that she gave all she had, even all her living, while the rich gave their superfluity, their surplus. Her contribution was greater because her sacrifice was greater and thus more meaningful. The widow’s mite symbolizes women’s strength, courage, and sacrifice in the face of abject poverty and their abiding faith that God will provide for them. Some of the widows in this study were, indeed, poor when they bequeathed what little estates they had left. Most, however, were women of some means. In both instances, early American widows did have the mite and the might, the economic and social power, to publicly proclaim in their wills their concept of the early American family. This is not meant to diminish the religious significance of their actions. Widows read the Bible and understood the story of the widow’s mite; like her, they had faith in God. Widows also read advice books and heard sermons addressing their complex and complicated gender roles in early American communities. As a result, they gained faith in their own strength, courage, and might to provide for their families and friends in the meantime.

Modern researchers recognize that widowhood is a critical stage in women’s lives and that the disruption caused by a husband’s death and a widow’s need to remarry depends not only on the extent to which her husband was a part of his wife’s life but also on the status of widow in the community, a social role strictly prescribed by custom.² Contemporary observations apply equally well to seventeenth- and eighteenth-century Anglo-American widowhood. Until recently, historians of colonial women or communities have downplayed, even dismissed altogether, widows as unimportant, irrelevant, or—as in the case of witchcraft—socially and economically anomalous (if not highly problematic). Because they assumed that marriage and rapid remarriage were the prevailing experience of seventeenth- and eighteenth-century women, widows usually occupy an obligatory paragraph, section, or chapter in histories of Anglo-American women.³ Those earlier historians generally assumed that knowledge of widows contributed little to the study of early American womanhood and to the study of early American society. When they did study widows, they did so largely to shed further light on the lives of married women. Widows offered a contrast to married womanhood. As in any study of the other, understanding what married women were not helped to clarify what they were. Yet widows were not simply an other. They were not generally conceived of as being outside the norm. In fact, other women and many men took the presence of widows in their midst as a matter of course. They were constituent members of society, and, like all social groups, they were both troublesome in some ways and useful in others. They were more visible and had potentially greater influence within their communities and on gender roles in general than has previously been understood. What ultimately makes widows an important group to examine is that they were among the completing definers and constructors of their society.

In 1692, Cotton Mather claimed that the vast Numbers of Poor widows in Every neighborhood in Boston proved that many women may at some time or other, tast the Sad, Sowre, Tear-ful cup of Widowhood. He believed that women who never expected to face widowhood would soon find the Days of Mourning brought upon them. According to Mather, all women would be well advised to lay in a stock of Graces against the Evil Day of Widowhood. In 1718, Mather explained that his congregation contained at least eighty widows, about 20 percent of the membership. He attributed the high proportion to the fact that Boston’s population consisted of so much of Sea-faring People.⁴

While there are few reliable, concrete colony-wide statistics, historians provide more accurate figures about the incidence of colonial American widowhood than Mather’s. As the following numbers reveal, widowhood varied by colony and across time, and the proportion of widows in the population differed. In late seventeenth-century Essex County, for example, widows made up less than 9 percent of the adult female population and made up approximately 20 percent of those over age thirty. In 1687, widows made up 10 percent of all Boston ratepayers. Widows were 11 percent of the New Haven, Connecticut, proprietors and 5 percent of the heads of households in the towns of Hartford, Wethersfield, and Windsor. The best figures for seventeenth-century Maryland suggest that women outlived their husbands twice as often as the reverse and that, in a society where men died early, almost invariably every woman in the Chesapeake experienced widowhood.⁵

In eighteenth-century Beverly, Massachusetts, widows outnumbered widowers by seven to one. Sixty percent of all marriages in Woburn ended with the death of the husband, and at any one time, 10 percent of adult women experienced widowhood. As the timing of Mather’s sermon to the widows of Boston made clear, both King William’s War (which ended in 1697) and Queen Anne’s War (which ended in 1713) took a heavy toll on Boston marriages. A 1742 census revealed that, by the middle of the century, widows made up nearly 30 percent (1,200) of all adult Boston women. More specifically, widows constituted approximately 8 percent of Boston’s total population and 10 percent of all ratepayers in 1742. In Marblehead, Massachusetts, widows also made up 10 percent of the ratepayers. In Prince George’s County, Maryland, by 1775, nearly one-fourth of the women over age fifty-eight were widows. And, finally, in one parish in colonial South Carolina, widows made up 51 percent of the adult female population and 27 percent of the entire adult population.⁶

Clearly, widowhood was a common experience for women in colonial America. The statistics indicate, however, that the rates of widowhood varied sharply, depending on war, disease, and maritime employment. They also suggest that over time, rates of widowhood increased, and widows rarely accounted for less than 10 percent of the adult female population. The widowed population, in fact, was probably much larger than 10 percent, since many widows lacked the wealth to qualify as ratepayers, a key measure for demographers.⁷ Remarriage rates and differences in who actually remarried help explain the statistical consequences of a husband’s death for Anglo-American colonial women, but they do not explain what it meant to be an individual widow or what it meant to be a member of a group of widowed women.

Historians of early American women initially presented us with opposing images of widows. On the one hand, colonial widows possessed a great deal of power in their communities because they were wealthy. Inheritance could provide widows freedom and independence. Most men who had land to bequeath did so to their wives, even if they denied them the right to sell or dispose of it. Young women with children were more likely to control large portions of their dead husbands’ estate than were older widows with grown sons. Moreover, widows’ ability to control when and whom they remarried granted them power.⁸ Because of this, a characteristic glamour . . . hung round every widow. She could provide her second husband with an inheritance that would enable him to pay his debts, and she was, therefore, a widely sought-after commodity.⁹ Control of wealth gave widows an edge over competitors in the marriage market. This, in turn, encouraged an imperiousness or even downright tyranny in widows and created a widowarchy.¹⁰ However, many widows of affairs chose not to remarry, and they led independent and financially secure lives.¹¹

On the other hand, widows did not always remarry quickly, many widows did not have minor children at their husbands’ death, and thus most widows were not rich. Most inherited neither large amounts of land nor personal goods. Even though some men bequeathed their widows their entire estates, those estates often consisted of one-room houses, livestock, household goods, little cash, and few slaves. The widows suffered from continual harassment by creditors and insecure land holdings. Colonial widows frequently depended on their adult sons and exerted little influence over family matters and children’s behavior. Although eighteenthcentury widows made up an increasingly large proportion of the total population, they played no major role in local commerce. Widows were not rich and powerful businesswomen. Because economic productivity . . . depended on the cohesion of family units headed by men, widowhood was an interlude during which a woman carried out her husband’s wishes for maintaining a well-ordered family. Few widows took advantage of their situation because they internalized the lessons taught to them in the advice books about their proper economic and social roles.¹² This was no widowarchy. Two diametrically opposed words seemed to construct early American widowhood: relict, a mere remnant, a deserted or discarded person, and she-merchant, the affluent trader and head of household who was a powerful and independent member of society.

Recent research helps us bridge the two concepts by reconceptualizing gender in early America, thereby allowing us to reject the starkly drawn images in favor of a more nuanced understanding of widowhood. In her path-breaking book, Good Wives, Laurel Thatcher Ulrich argues that women’s lives were far from static and submissive and that, while women were subservient to men, they could assert themselves to a certain degree within the social framework of life. Mary Beth Norton, in Founding Mothers and Fathers, argues that Filmerian political theory, resting on the Fifth Commandment that one honor one’s mother and father, created a situation in which the state had a major stake in preserving well-ordered families and parental authority. This enabled seventeenth-century elite women, and, in particular, widowed mothers, to wield political and economic power in their families and within their communities. More recently, Ulrich analyzed John Winthrop’s inclusion of numerous women in his history of the Massachusetts Bay Colony. According to Ulrich, Winthrop (the iconic Puritan patriarch), as well as ordinary men and women, recognized that women . . . mattered in the cosmic scheme of things. Ultimately, she claims that high-status women and older women (many of whom were widows) were essential to the colony. Both historians suggest that this was a world considerably less ‘patriarchal’ than we’ve been led to believe.¹³

The historians Karin Wulf, Cynthia Kierner, Terri Snyder, Linda Sturtz, and Cara Anzilotti¹⁴ suggest that this is true to a large extent for the early eighteenth century, as well. In exciting and innovative theoretical models, they explore how women used marital status, wealth, and a gendered cultural ideology to gain autonomy and agency within a society that attempted to define them as marginal. They convincingly argue that the domestic world of women and the public world of men were not constituted as exclusively separate physical and psychological spaces—and thus complicate the previously starkly drawn images of widows. Household and public were realms of activity in which both men and women participated (sometimes successfully, sometimes not), even though women, unlike most men, did so through a complex process of negotiation within hierarchical categories of race, class, and gender. Kierner, Wulf, and Anzilotti argue, however, that women’s public roles remained sex-specific and served the needs of elite white men and the patriarchal structure and thus limited the degree of autonomy and agency women possessed.¹⁵ Yet, ultimately, all see a decline in women’s status (albeit to different degrees and occurring at slightly different times) and a concomitant growing dependence on men as American society became increasingly masculine and women’s access to the public arena of court and politics declined.¹⁶ My analysis of widows who never remarried complicates, even challenges, this declension model.

I focus on widows who did not remarry because they (unlike widows who remarried and reassumed the role of wife) were in a unique position to define or redefine their norms and construct or reconstruct their worlds in response to both the prescriptive literature directed toward them and the actual circumstances in which they found themselves. Widowhood (for women as well as for society as a whole) was normative, not marginal; widows were not necessarily always problematic. While American culture appeared to be predominantly masculine by 1750, my focus on widows suggests that we need to rethink our understanding of prerevolutionary society. I do not want to engage in a discourse of masculine oppression and female resistance, but I do want to make clear the tensions inherent in competing gendered definitions of widow. Through widows we can better understand the structure of the colonial family, community, legal system, and economic structure. They rippled through each of these realms, being affected by and affecting them in anticipated and unanticipated ways. Colonial American history comes not only from the masculine voice of magistrates, ministers, didacts, selectmen, sons, and brothers. It comes also from the feminine voices of widowed petitioners, churchgoers, authors, shopkeepers, and, most important, testators. Listening to those voices reveals the complexity of behaviors, family life, encounters between people, and economic roles.

Because seventeenth- and eighteenth-century law stipulated that only single women and widows could leave wills, and because it was believed that the few who remained widowed bequeathed only personal property, those historians inclined to study widowhood were disinclined to examine it through widows’ wills. As a result, women’s public sentiments for the most part remain silenced by the numerical dominance of men’s wills and by the assumptions of the historians who used those sources. Men with little or no real property to bequeath usually did not leave wills, signifying that they understood the supposed insignificance of personalty (that is, nonlanded property) in the patriarchal system. Yet, widows with only personal goods to dispose of—just like those with real property—left wills, indicating that they, despite society’s emphasis on the signifying power of realty, wanted to give meaning to their possessions, as well as to exercise whatever control they could over their own lives and over the lives of their friends and families. Indeed, historians have pointed out the financial importance of personalty for widows, especially as the American economic system changed from family capitalism to corporate capitalism. Even though women may have typically only bequeathed personalty, such bequests were their way of shaping familial, kin, and community structures, as they understood them.¹⁷

Moreover, for women, will making was not just a culminating act; often, it was also their first and only public expression of their usually private thoughts and beliefs. There are frustratingly few extant letters and diaries written by colonial women before 1750. According to Mary Beth Norton, writing required not only a reason to write but also access to paper, a high degree of literacy, and some leisure time, all of which most American women did not achieve until the late eighteenth century. Literacy rates for women lagged well behind those for men; no woman kept a diary in the seventeenth century, and very few women did so well into the eighteenth century—about the same time that boys’ access to writing instruction was extended to girls.¹⁸ Therefore, an analysis of the thoughts and intentions women expressed in their wills—not just in the specific bequests, but in the explanations of or the justifications for those bequests—provides a necessary foundation on which to build our understanding of colonial widows and widowhood. Widows’ wills were obviously legal instruments, but they were much more than that, as a close and careful reading of the documents reveals.

I examined the wills of widows in Massachusetts, Maryland, and South Carolina. My data derive first and foremost from probate records for all widows and for an equal number of men in Charles, Prince George’s, and Kent counties in Maryland; Suffolk, Essex, and Hampshire counties in Massachusetts; and all wills in South Carolina from the first widow’s will through 1750. More specifically, my data set includes 1,885 wills and 1,122 inventories: 962 widows’ wills (51 percent) and 923 men’s wills (49 percent) and 608 widows’ inventories and 514 men’s inventories.¹⁹ Of these, 1,282 wills (68 percent) are from Massachusetts (653 women, 629 men), 317 (16.8 percent) are from Maryland (165 women, 152 men), and 219 (11.6 percent) are from South Carolina (110 women, 109 men). From these wills, I gathered data on the age of the testator, the total number of male and female heirs, the type of realty (that is, landed property), household goods, clothing, personal goods, servants or slaves, stock, crops, and intangibles the testator bequeathed or the intestate had in her or his estate. For each category of goods bequeathed, I recorded the first four recipients, as well as the conditions and type of conditions placed on the bequests. I also noted the identification of executors and administrators. For each inventory, I determined the value of the estate by adding in debts due to the estate and subtracting the debts owed to others from the estate.

Massachusetts and South Carolina were the two most influential colonies of their respective regions (New England and the Deep South), which means that regional traits in these colonies were likely to be the most prominent and easily examined. That provides insight not just into colonial widows but also into emerging regional distinctions caused by differences in economic and cultural systems. Maryland is important because it is a second southern sample that adds more data from a longer time frame and because it offsets concerns that Charleston distorts the South Carolina sample. The use