How to Create the Perfect Wife

by Wendy Moore

  At Oxford, Day took charge of his own education. Without a set syllabus or the pressure of exams—for Day had no intention of taking his degree—he devised his own reading list. For lack of tutorials to discuss points of scholarly interest, he exchanged views with Bicknell. The pair fed their appetite for free thinking by snapping up the most controversial works of the moment. Day obtained an English translation of Voltaire’s inflammatory Dictionnaire Philosophique soon after its publication in 1764. Back in his room, he devoured the Philosophical Dictionary with its dozens of entries on everything from adultery, kissing and love to tolerance, tyranny and tears. Burned in Paris and Geneva and banned elsewhere for its criticism of the Catholic Church, it was staunchly defended by Day. “I cannot say I think it calculated to do so much Harm, as to deserve a public Execution,” he told Bicknell. When he overheard a student in an Oxford bookshop applauding rumors that the book was to be banned in London too, Day angrily challenged him. In the manner of many censors, it turned out that the student had not read a word of the book.

  Day was equally drawn to the views of the Scottish philosopher David Hume, who was condemned by many for his atheistic outlook. He admired Hume’s book An Enquiry Concerning Human Understanding, with its rational approach to explaining how people reason and shape ideas. Scientific explanations for human emotions such as love seemed to make perfect sense to Day’s logical mind. As he consumed atheistic texts, Day’s skepticism about religion grew. The contemptuous child who had challenged the village vicar was ready to reject religious authority altogether. But in its place he needed an alternative philosophy—a new faith.

  Engaged on a path of solo research, Day devoted his time to “the discovery of moral truths,” which he pursued, according to one friend, “with the severity of logical induction and the depth of metaphysical research.” Like any bright and inquiring adolescent, he was struggling to find a meaning to life. A clever young man about to inherit a fortune but with no interest in material pleasures, religious devotion or political pursuits—how was he going to spend his life?

  Briefly considering a career in law, Day enrolled at Middle Temple, where Bicknell was already a student, in early 1765 while he was still at Oxford. For young bachelors with no particular interest in studying law, the Temple always provided a convenient address and useful connections. Day even talked of taking chambers there when he finished university, but he had no real intent—and certainly no need—to practice law as a career. Searching for a purpose that would govern his future, Day came to the conclusion that the pursuit of virtue should become his life’s goal.

  Virtue was a noble ideal—and one that had gained totemic status among eighteenth-century writers and thinkers. Samuel Johnson defined virtue as moral goodness, moral excellence or valor in his dictionary published in 1755. Writing nine years later, in his Philosophical Dictionary, Voltaire described the noun as “Beneficence towards the fellow-creature.” But these dictionary definitions were regarded as a gross oversimplification for many of the era’s other great minds. Combining lofty notions of patriotism, bravery against tyranny, fairness in the face of social injustice and charitable acts to those in need with more prosaic ideas of politeness and good breeding, virtue could mean all things to all people.

  The philosopher John Locke, whose ideas remained influential throughout the eighteenth century after his death in 1704, argued that social graces were an essential component of virtue; acquiring good manners was therefore a vital part of a young man’s education. Virtue was hence the territory of the rich and well-educated male. But Bernard Mandeville, in his satirical poem The Fable of the Bees: or, Private Vices, Publick Benefits published in 1705, insisted that good deeds were really motivated by vanity and self-love. Vice, in his view, was therefore an important stimulus to the economy and a benefit to society. Other writers, such as Edward Gibbon, called for a return to the traditional values of the ancient Greeks and early Romans. It was loss of civic virtue—a gradual sliding into decadence and degeneracy—that had led to the downfall of the Roman Empire, he argued. But modernists, like Hume, believed that past ideas of virtue were anachronistic in the present day.

  The nature of virtue taxed novelists too. Samuel Richardson, Henry Fielding, Fanny Burney and Charlotte Smith all wrestled with defining it. Through fiction they each explored the apparent contradiction that although virtue was generally held to be the preserve of well-bred, well-educated and wealthy men, in reality it was more often to be found in poor, poorly educated and poorly regarded young women—and occasionally men—from the lowest social orders.

  While philosophers and novelists battled with this thorny conundrum, the young Thomas Day was certain that he had the measure of virtue. It was, in his opinion, a simple, definable and unmutable concept. “Surely there is such a Thing as Virtue,” he insisted to Bicknell, “it exists in Reality, & only wears different Appearances as it conforms to the different Customs & receiv’d Prejudices of the Times.” In a rapidly changing world, where advances in technology, expanding commerce and growing industrialization were combining to plunge ideas of personal liberty and human rights into flux, Day believed “the true Standard of Virtue has been, is, & shall always be the same.”

  And so before he was even out of his teens, Thomas Day resolved to become the very model of the model virtuous man. Inspired by the heroes of classical history he determined to commit his energies, talents and—most importantly—his fortune to doing good works. Like the Stoics of ancient Greece, he would devote himself to a life of simplicity and self-sacrifice, he would scorn all luxury, fashion and pleasure, and he would practice philanthropy and altruism. Just as Alexander the Great had been “struck with a passion for glory” after visiting the tomb of his warrior hero Achilles in Troy, so Day had been motivated to dedicate his “passions, pleasures, fortune and talents” to the pursuit of virtue through his adoration of classical heroes, according to a close friend. In the midst of the debauchery and decadence at Oxford, the idealistic young Day decided to live his life according to the highest standards of honest, upright and moral behavior—at least as far as he defined these. But it would be no easy option. As one friend put it, Day dedicated himself to “the unremitting practice of the severest virtue.” Like a monk committed to penitential devotion, Day regarded virtue in the light of a religion. He would take no personal pleasure in his worship of virtue; he would wear virtue like a hair shirt.

  Determined on his true path in life, Thomas Day lacked only one thing: a soulmate to share his life’s work. For a single man in possession of a fortune—as Jane Austen would later astutely note—must be in want of a wife. Intelligent, healthy, young and—soon to become—wealthy, Day should have been near the top of Oxford’s list of most popular bachelors.

  Many young women in search of an ideal husband would probably have been willing to overlook Day’s pockmarked face and rounded shoulders, his ungainly gait and his awkwardness in mixed company in favor of his large fortune. Some might even have found his long hair and shabby clothes endearing in a rebellious young student. But his refusal to engage in small talk, to learn the latest dance steps or to acquire the social manners of the day did little to appeal to the opposite sex. Day’s contempt for “modern refinements,” as one friend put it, meant that he took “no pains whatever to improve his external appearance or manner.” In fact he was fully conscious of his lack of grooming and the effect this might have on those he met. In one letter to Bicknell, he referred to his own “Want of Elegance in Table, Dress, Equipage” and admitted: “I have a Kind of natural, rough [way] with my Words, my Actions, my Manner of Life.” But he was nevertheless determined not to do anything about it.

  At the same time, Day’s gloomy, melancholic outlook and dogmatic, overbearing manner did nothing to enhance his allure. Although Day loved to declaim at length, if his views were at all contested he would respond “more deeply and fully than is agreeable to the fashionable tone of conversation,” a friend diplomatically explained. In short
he had a fiery temper that was liable to erupt whenever his opinions were challenged.

  But if these deficiencies were not sufficient to deter interested women, Day had only to describe his anticipated future lifestyle to send them running desperately in the opposite direction. “With his customary frankness he used to declare his intended mode of living,” wrote the same friend, “but he did not often meet with marks of approbation from his female hearers.” Above all it was Day’s peculiar views on women—even by the misogynistic standards of the eighteenth century—that did most to deter any likely candidates for his heart.

  In the eyes of the law, women in eighteenth-century Britain enjoyed few independent rights. Essentially they were deemed completely under the control of their fathers until they married and their husbands after marriage. The handing over of a woman by her father to her husband on her wedding day possessed a literal as well as a symbolic meaning. Upon marriage, women also handed over any property and money to their husbands since the law decreed that a wife’s existence was entirely subsumed by her husband.

  The letter of the law was compounded by society’s expectations. Whether they were wives or daughters, sisters or mothers, women in eighteenth-century Britain were required to be demure, passive and deferential to men. Most women had little choice therefore but to comply with their legal and conventional inferior status. Yet for all the law books and conduct guides conspiring to construct complete submission to men, the Georgian era produced some of the most spirited, flamboyant and forthright women of all time who achieved deserved success in the arts, science and politics.

  The traveler and writer Mary Wortley Montagu, for example, introduced smallpox inoculation—using live virus—in the teeth of opposition from the all-male medical establishment in Britain after witnessing the practice performed by peasants in Turkey. The portrait artist Angelica Kauffman was accepted into the predominantly male art world to the extent that she became one of the founders of the Royal Academy. And the classicist Elizabeth Carter was so revered as a linguist that Samuel Johnson believed her Greek translations were superior to those of any male scholar, although he was quick to point out that she could also make a pudding. Inevitably there were some men who grumbled loudly at this apparent overturning of the natural order, yet many others applauded female attainment and supported women’s greater role in society.

  With his forward-thinking views on liberty and human rights, Thomas Day might have been expected to march in the vanguard of female emancipation. In fact, his views on women were ludicrously old-fashioned even by the norms of his day. Embarked on his crusade to virtue, like a medieval knight in armor, Day saw himself as the protector and defender of weak and helpless women—whether they liked it or not. While still a student at Oxford, Day developed a perverse fixation with the concept of female purity and an intense horror at the idea of female seduction. At one point, as a seventeen-year-old student, he heard of an aristocratic rake—probably a fellow scholar—who seduced a young woman and then abandoned her to penury. Incensed by this behavior, Day dashed off a letter challenging the philanderer to a duel. His gauntlet was evidently ignored. But Day’s obsession only increased. In his mind, women could fit one of only two roles: as a pure and taintless virginal maiden or a helpless victim deflowered by a brutish male predator, a stance that no doubt echoed his childhood shock at his mother’s apparent seduction by his stepfather.

  Setting himself up as a self-appointed champion of fallen women, Day began to develop his very own, and very particular, ideal of female perfection. Borne out of his fascination for classical myth and romantic notions of pastoral innocence, Day conceived his idea of the perfect woman. She would be young and beautiful like a Greek or Roman goddess. She must be pure and virginal like a simple country maiden. Hardy and fearless, she would possess the physical constitution of a Spartan bride. Artless and unaffected, she would have the plain tastes in clothing, food and lifestyle of a humble peasant girl. And above all, she would regard Day as her master, her teacher, her superior. She would be completely subservient to his needs and whims. She would be utterly in thrall to his ideas and beliefs. Searching for this paragon of female virtue would occupy many of Day’s ensuing years.

  It did not take him long to realize that he was unlikely to find such a confection of beauty and purity amid the squalid temptations of Oxford—although he tried. Despite his shuffling embarrassment in female company, Day was preoccupied with looking for a potential partner from the moment he arrived at university. His letters to Bicknell from Oxford were peppered with references to women, named or otherwise, who failed to meet his precise specifications. In many cases, their shortcomings seemed chiefly to do with their lack of appreciation of Day.

  When he felt himself spurned by a woman he admired, Day reacted with an almost violent temper. “I think I never saw so damn’d conceited a Bitch as Leonora,” he stormed in one letter to Bicknell. In another letter he asked: “How does the amiable Miss Charlotte? Salter’s Flame—he really I believe fancys himself in Love with her.” And then he added: “Were I capable of having any Inclination for a Woman otherwise than in a carnal Way I might perhaps be his Rival.” Having concluded that love was an illogical fantasy concocted by novelists for gullible readers he had developed a strangely sexual, yet simultaneously asexual, attitude toward women. “I could never love a wife,” he told Bicknell in one revealing aside. Obviously, since the belles of Oxford did not live up to his exalted ideal, he would have to look further afield for the virginal bride of his fantasies.

  During the long university holidays, Day set off on solitary walking trips to the West Country and Wales. He had hoped to travel abroad, on the customary Grand Tour of Europe, which was regarded as a rite of passage for moneyed young men. But since his tight-fisted stepfather refused him the funds, he had to content himself with a cheap camping holiday in Britain. Equipped with a rudimentary tent and a few possessions, he followed farm tracks through the agricultural landscape of the Home Counties surrounding London to the rugged hills and heaths of Dorset, Somerset and beyond. Far from broadening his mind, however, Day’s travels narrowed his fixed ideas, glorifying his romantic image of peasant life and—especially—peasant women.

  Whenever he arrived at a farmhouse or village, Day made a point of talking to the local inhabitants in an attempt to learn about country ways and customs. According to one contemporary, Day judged that by the “manly exercise of walking” he could get to know “that class of men who, as still treading the unimproved paths of nature, might be presumed to have the qualities of the mind pure and unsophisticated by art.” Although, of course, it was the class of women in whom he was mainly interested.

  With his plain clothes and unkempt hair at odds with his educated voice and evident wealth, Day attracted a mixture of curiosity and mirth when he knocked on cottage doors asking to interview the ragged inhabitants on their philosophical outlook or strode into village inns intent on interrogating the locals over a lunch of bread and water. But the bounty he left behind generally helped to stifle the laughter. He was like a wandering vagrant who gave out alms instead of begging for them.

  Alone on these country expeditions, Day confided his romantic anguish in poems he composed in a large, weather-worn journal—which survives still. Written by the light of a windblown candle in a remote cave or under rain-soaked canvas in a field, his melancholy odes and ballads celebrate the primeval power of untamed nature in the turbulent rivers and stormy seas he saw on his hikes. Almost unerringly his scrawled verses tell tales of pent-up passions and unrequited love—which always end badly.

  One poem, which he wrote while sheltering in a dripping cave poised perilously above the Severn River, describes a “hopeless Love” for a “heav’nly Maid” against the backdrop of the “raging Passions” of the torrent rushing through the gorge below. He called it, with a literal poignancy, “Sonnet written in a Cavern of dangerous Access near Bristol.” As he crossed the Severn into Wales, his anguish only increas
ed. Here he devoted twenty-seven verses to the “hopeless Flame” of a tormented love for a woman who was devoted to a “Hated Rival.” The poem climaxes in a violent revenge as the tortured lover swears to “plunge a Dagger in the Heart,/That robs me of my Fair!”

  Three of the poems in Day’s camping journal invoke the name of Laura. They were probably in homage to the fourteenth-century Italian poet Francesco Petrarca, or Petrarch, who wrote hundreds of poems on the theme of his unrequited love for an unattainable French woman named Laure. It was common for eighteenth-century poets to invoke Laura as their muse. Perhaps Thomas was also thinking of the Leonora who had snubbed him at Oxford. According to a friend, Day was “wounded by the caprice” of the mysterious Laura but wrote his poems “before her fickleness became indisputable.”

  Day’s poems return repeatedly to her who “alone my constant Breast can fire” and lament the fact that the “lovely Laura” will smile only for someone else. In one of these elegies, even more densely packed with passionate metaphors than the rest, he finally adopts the dark cloak of seducer himself: “This once at least, I clasp thee in my Arms,/The next let Ruin join us in the Grave.” For all his protestations about the irrationality of love, young Thomas was plainly as tortured as any other youth by its vagaries. And as he confided his tangled emotions in verse, Laura attained the status of an imaginary ideal.

  During his lonely walks and lonelier nights, Day fleshed out his fantasy of a virginal maid who would meet his exacting specifications. In one poem copied into his water-stained journal in the West Country, he described in detail his perfect woman and the perfect life they would lead together. He sought a “gentle Lady of the West” with “Health’s rosy bloom upon thy cheek” and “Eyes that with artless lustre roll.” This divine maiden would be indifferent to the “eye of Fame” with a “noble mind” not led astray by “false culture.” And most importantly, she would happily live “Sequestered in some secret glade” where she would be “heedless of the praise or blame/Of all mankind, of all but me.” Seeking his flawless soulmate, he declared, was “my only task.”