Turok update!
Those marketing geniuses at Acclaim are at it again. This time they’re offering $10,000 in savings bonds to the first family to have a child on September 1 and name it “Turok.” (via Derryl Murphy)
The best collection of actual roadside signs I’ve ever seen.
The article I discuss here is “An ‘Online Community’ of the Nineteenth Century” by Pat Pflieger, published at Merrycoz.org’s excellent site, Nineteenth-Century American Children & What They Read. You can have it unframed or framed; the latter version lets you see the interesting and substantial footnotes alongside the main text as you read. Here’s the intro:
Almost 150 years before the Internet, the letters column of Robert Merry’s Museum shaped its subscribers into a virtual community. Flame wars, gender-swapping — you name it, they did it. Illustrated; with links to pieces at this site.“A virtual community” is one way to put it, though my home continuum would call it a fandom, and refer to its basic activity as letterhacking. She says MUD where we’d say confabulation. But we’re not so far removed; the underlying concepts are the same.
The basic story is that in 1848 a children’s magazine, Merry’s Museum, started making a regular feature of its letter column, “Merry’s Monthly Chat with His Friends”. What made it different was that readers weren’t just commenting on the previous month’s issue; they wrote little essays and descriptions of their own activities, and set puzzles for the other readers. The editor, and later the editorial staff, were given distinct personalities, and the readers were encouraged to think of themselves as a family, meeting in the parlor for an evening’s home-grown entertainment.
In retrospect, what happened was entirely predictable: The ongoing conversation mutated from talking politely about subjects of general interest, to talking informally to and about each other. They made puns (“Take everything for granted, and then grant everything taken, and may Grant take everything!”, said one youngster in 1864), developed idiosyncratic in-group language, and occasionally flamed each other. The participants started swapping portrait photos, and wearing membership badges in hopes of recognizing each other should they ever cross paths. Some of them finally got together in person in John N. Stearns’ parlor in 1865—a gathering which, by Ghu, they referred to as “the Convention”. (I hereby irresponsibly toss that date into the Leeds in 1937 vs. Philadelphia in 1936 (as opposed to New York in 1937) argument.)
Naturally, the volume of traffic swiftly outgrew the available bandwidth, at times filling up to 11 pages of a 32-page magazine. Is this not familiar?
Uncle Robert found as early as 1844 that not all the letters received would fit into the pages of the magazine: “… as to printing all your epistles, you must consider that I have Bill Keeler’s stories to put in, and the Old Man’s in the Corner, and a great many other things. I have, indeed, so many matters crowding into my columns, that I am this month obliged to leave out Dick Boldhero altogether! However, I find that our subscribers like Our Correspondence very well, and therefore I shall put in as much of it as my space will allow.” (1844.2.63)I have written and published editorials very like Uncle Robert’s. I’m only sorry I didn’t think up the double-back-action high-pressure condensatory manipulator that goes ker-clickety-crunch-ker-clickety-crunch.The font size in the letters column decreased; leading grew lighter, to leave more space for words. The column expanded between months: “Last month [when the Chat was 3 pages long] we were compelled to break off in the middle, while several persons were watching their opportunity to speak,” Uncle Hiram wrote at the beginning of a 5-page column of letters. “Some, who had their speeches all ready, were obliged to hold in, for want of time and room. This time we have resolved to give every one a chance, and have therefore invited the company two hours earlier than usual.” (1854.2.252)
Sorting out those letters too difficult to read or written in such a way that the type setter would have difficulty didn’t filter out enough letters to keep the Chat manageable: “Last month we had ten pages of Chat, and this month—if we printed all that we want to—we should have twenty.” (1855.1.121)
The editor tried printing only extracts, but soon realized that “If I fill our space with extracts, I shall omit hundreds of letters as good as those that are noticed.” (1854.1.60) Instead, Hiram Hatchet wielded an imaginary ax to cut letters to a manageable size; and when this ax “burned up” in the fire that destroyed the Museum’s offices in 1861, a mechanical “double-back-action-high-pressure-condensatory-manipulator” went “Kerr-clickety-crunch-kerr-clickety-crunch” as it chopped the messages.
So much is familiar: The slight paranoia of the perpetually WAHF‘d; the universally esteemed articles that get no comments because no one can think of anything to add; the cautious use of “The Problem” to refer to the great algebra flamewar of 1855 (and the use elsewhere of “algebra” to refer to something other than mathematics); the occasional assumed pen-name and persona that reeks of Mary Sue; and more besides. Do have a look. My descriptions aren’t enough.
The end was sad:
In 1868, with the Museum sold to publisher Horace B. Fuller, the party ended: the new editor, Louisa May Alcott, published only letters “of general interest,” usually with a little moral. …