unday, July 13, 1828, a day of Ohio Valley summer, with oppressive heat and humidity.1 Outside the brick Federalist-style Court House in Cincinnati, Ohio, a group of amazed citizens swirled, some seeking entrance, some there merely to gawk. Inside, the building was about half full; over two hundred men and a few women waited, murmuring about the extraordinary sight they had been promised. A woman was going to lecture, to a mixed audience of men and women, on a secular subject! She was known to some as a popular travel writer, to others as the founder of a notorious experimental community. Some of the audience members were excited, some were merely curious-but a large number were ready to sneer, jeer, and hiss. This woman, famous though she might be, was by her behavior offending some of their most dearly held ideals about the proper conduct of womanhood. At exactly seven o'clock, the crowd's babbling hushed as a tall figure in white made her way up the aisle to the platform. Frances Wright was thirty-three years old. She was unusually tall for a woman of time, over five feet ten inches, and was dressed in a white muslin gown simply cut in the neo-Grecian style was becoming popular. She wore no head covering and her dark hair was simply arranged, falling in natural ringlets. She stood for a moment facing her audience, which could see she held a small paper book with her lecture in it. She was, then, perhaps merely going to read without looking up. That would not be so bad. She might yet be ladylike. Frances Wright lowered her face for a moment, took a breath, and looked out at the sea of friendly and unfriendly faces. Who among us, she began, not glancing at the book she held, that hath cast even an occasional and slightly observant glance on the face of society, but must have
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