Dating in the 1700s: The Deranged Rules That’ll Make You Grateful for Your Phone
You think dating is rough now. The dry texts, the situationships, the guy who unmatched because you said you like pineapple on pizza. Fair enough. But pull up a chair, because three hundred years ago, getting together with someone was so unhinged it will make you want to marry your phone out of sheer gratitude. I went digging into how people actually courted in the 1700s, and some of it sounds made up. It is not. Here we go.
Your dating profile was an oil painting
Forget six carefully chosen photos and a witty prompt. In the 1700s your “pic” was a miniature portrait, a tiny painting you commissioned, which took weeks to finish and cost a small fortune. And here is the thing about paying an artist to paint you: he was going to make you look good. So yes, they had catfishing too. The difference is you did not find out until you met in person, by which point your families had often already signed the papers. Swiping left was not really an option once there was a contract.
You were never, ever alone. Ever.
An unmarried woman was not allowed to be alone with a man. Not on a walk, not in a room, not for five minutes. Every single date came with a chaperone, a professional third wheel whose whole job was to sit there and make sure nothing happened. And the chaperone was not only guarding her honor. Part of the gig was shielding her from “fortune hunters, rakes, and charlatans,” which is a period-accurate way of saying broke guys trying to marry rich. Picture every first date arriving with a bodyguard who is also an accountant. That was just Tuesday.
Sliding into the DMs meant mailing someone your hair
Couples exchanged love tokens. Sweet, right? Flowers, sure. A little painted eye, okay, weird but fine. And also, very commonly, a lock of your actual hair. Snipping off a chunk of yourself and sending it to your crush was a legitimate, respectable romantic move. Try that today. Match with someone, have a lovely chat, then seal a lock of your hair in an envelope and post it to them. Enjoy explaining that to the police.
And now, bundling
Okay. Buckle up. This is the one.
In much of the 1700s, especially in rural America, when a young couple was courting, the girl’s parents would put the two of them in bed together. Overnight. In the same bed. On purpose. This was called bundling, and it was considered the responsible way to do things.
Now, it was supposed to be innocent. They stayed fully clothed. Often the parents would nail a literal wooden plank, a “bundling board,” straight down the middle of the bed to keep the two of them on their own sides. Sometimes they would sew the girl into a fabric bag first, like a human sleeping-bag burrito. Then everyone went to sleep, parents in the very next room, while the two kids lay there in the dark getting acquainted through a piece of lumber.
The parents arranged this. They encouraged it. A plank and a prayer, and off to bed you go with a near-stranger.
The plank did not work
You are already ahead of me. It turns out that putting two attracted young people in a bed all night and politely asking them to behave produces exactly the results you would expect. By the late 1700s, historians who lined up marriage records against birth records found that somewhere between 30 and 40 percent of American brides were pregnant on their wedding day. The bundling board, it seems, was more of a gentle suggestion. And nobody was especially scandalized, provided the guy did the honorable thing and married her.
So the system was, roughly: sleep next to a stranger all night with a board between you, and if nature took its course, wonderful, you are engaged now.
Love was a business deal anyway
Here is the part that ties the whole circus together. For most of the 1700s, marriage was not really about the two people in it. It was a merger. Dowries changed hands. Property and family alliances were on the table. And the second a woman married, the law more or less erased her as an independent person, her money and belongings became her husband’s. You were not choosing a soulmate. Your families were closing a deal, and you were the paperwork.
So, about that dry text
Next time you are annoyed that someone took four hours to reply, or you are trapped in a situationship that flatly refuses to define itself, take a breath and remember the alternative. You could be sewn into a sack, next to a man you have met twice, with a plank down the middle of the bed, while his mother listens through the wall, having mailed him a lock of your hair last week to seal the deal.
Your phone is a miracle. Ghosting is a luxury. And the fact that you can find someone who actually wants to meet up tonight, no chaperone, no plank, no oil painting, is the most romantic thing the 1700s could never have imagined. So quit complaining, and go use it.
