The chatty, charming history of personal ads
Genteely dressed lady sought for Netflix and chill
A woman named Helen Morrison posted one of the first personal ads, in the year 1727, in the Manchester Weekly Journal. In several words, she professed her desire for a nice gentleman — but society had yet to warm up to such a practice. The message caught the attention of one man, the city mayor, who committed the lady to an asylum for a month.
Forgotten as she may be, Morrison remains a trailblazer, and small martyr, for the countless people to have turned to media to boost their chances at finding romance.
The personal ad carries some unpleasant stigma. There has always been the suspicion that a proper, well-adjusted member of society should be able to find a mate in the real world, just like anyone else. And for most of its history, people taking out personal ads did so in a climate that easily found something desperate, dangerous, or doomed about the prospect of finding love by appealing in public to a mass of strangers. Yet with the internet, the institution marches on, and it’s stronger than ever.
The first personal ads likely began to appear in periodicals in the 1690s. These early postings were a product of their time and place; a point when marriage was more about the responsible than the erotic. Thus, many early ads emphasized social and economic pragmatism over the possibility of romantic love. One might find a wealthy bachelor looking for a well-born lady, or a recent widow in search of a new gentleman for the household.
In 1722, one Bostonian took out space in the New England Courant to parody the frequently naked, transactional concerns of the personal ad. “Any young Gentlewoman,” it read, “that is minded to dispose of herself in Marriage to a well-accomplished young Widower, and has five or six hundred pounds to secure to him by Deed of Gift, she may repair to the Sign of the Glass-Lanthorn in Steeple-Square, to find all the encouragement she can reasonably desire.” It was written by a 16-year-old Benjamin Franklin, who helped usher in a long line of people who turned to the classified section to inspire art and entertainment, from Heinrich von Kleist to Nathanael West.
In 1748, we already see iterations of the Missed Connections posting, although of a more urbane character, as writers were especially conscious of how public their pronouncements were. In the General Advertiser, a man took out an ad to capture the attention of a “lady, genteely dressed,” whom he saw leading a train of horses. (Steamy!) “This is to acquaint her,” he wrote, “that if she is disengaged and inclinable to marry, a gentleman who was on that occasion is desirous of making honorable proposals.”
Over a century later, a self-described “gentleman with high social reputation” would make his own contribution to the genre, in order to beckon a woman he had danced with at a New York masquerade ball, who had laughed “like a siren” and “waltzed like a fairy.”
By the nineteenth century, the personal ad had realized itself as we know it today: a tool for the middle and upper classes to find love and companionship. These blocks of text managed to fit in their terse space expressions of the writer’s virtues and desires. In 1863, one “wealthy, pretty, and agreeable” 18-year-old sent out a signal for a “wealthy, stylish, handsome, and fascinating” gentleman. “None other need apply,” she wrote. That same year, a dutiful, young cavalry officer wrote an ad to find a “patriotic” woman of “intelligence, accomplishments, and good sense,” in case he had perished in the Civil War before having an heir.
In 1897, influential journalist William T. Stead established the Wedding Ring Circle, designed to compensate for the loss of the family-orchestrated tradition of matchmaking, which had fallen by the wayside in the anonymous modern city. His Circle was a social network before the time of mass electronic communication. Members would be given subscription to the club’s monthly magazine, Round-About, access to photos of other members, and space in the magazine to discuss “the subject that interests them most.” Members could even correspond anonymously (and thereby, it was thought, more freely), and would reveal identities when their mutual consent had reached the authority of the Circle’s Controller, who vetted correspondence in the main office.
Later, a man named Alfred Barrett, in 1915, established Link, which he described as “the only monthly practically devoted to love interests.” Personal ads soon became platforms for certain people to find those who shared similar identities and concerns. Bohemians, intellectuals, and leftists could now find others of their ilk. The Link was also a useful medium for gays and lesbians in England to meet in secret. Here, young male advertisers would put out coded messages in which they called themselves “musical” or “unconventional” — a useful adaptation in a climate where homosexuality was condemned.
Today, the same utility and purpose of the personal ads of old have been extended and augmented by the internet. One still self-advertises for potential mates, everywhere from Facebook to Tinder to OKCupid. One can even join networks tailored to people of particular stations, from education, to religion, or income bracket. Today, Craigslist is the go-to for Missed Connections, from the cute girl reading Infinite Jest on the subway to the future father-of-your-baby you met at a Motörhead concert. And the likes of Grindr can still provide safe spaces, in climates where gay people want to communicate under the radar of an intolerant society. A point emphasized by a recent controversy in which a straight reporter cruised the app during the Rio Olympics.
But the traditional personal ad still thrives in certain spaces. The New York Review of Books is famous for its section, where sophisticated older women might describe themselves as “thoughtful,” “slender,” and “spirited.” The London Review of Books even compiled a “best of” volume for their own colorful and erudite personals.
As we live more online, the stigma around meeting people over the web has basically disappeared, and couples whose story begins on Match or OKCupid or Tinder are becoming all the more common. (I, for what it’s worth, met my girlfriend on Twitter.) No matter what happens to the personal ad of the magazine and newspaper, the electronic outlets are multiplying, and the rules of the game are much the same. If anything, we’re only getting better at self-advertisement.
