The Tell-Tale Heart
Dead men tell no tales. That is, unless they decide to document their tales in a very antiquated, distinguished-looking leather bound diary, an archetype of what one would expect to find deep in the vault of the Pusey Archives. Ebenezer Turell, Class of 1721, was perceptive enough to do just that. The student of divinity founded the Telltale, America’s oldest known student publication, which ran from Sep. 9, 1721 through Nov. 1, 1721 on a roughly weekly basis and circulated throughout the Harvard student body in manuscript form.
The list of subscribers reads like a glossary at the end of a U.S. History textbook: notable ministers such as John Davenport, Samuel Marshall, John Taylor, and Nathaniel Rogers, just to name a few, were at the forefront of colonial America’s Protestant congregation. Turell himself went on to become a fairly well-known minister in Medford, Mass.
One could assume that such intellectuals probably pontificated upon the greatest issues of their time—taxation without representation, colonial rule, revolutionary stirrings in Boston, etc. The Telltale should capture a glimpse of scholarly life during a pivotal point in American history.
This, however, is far from the case. The oldest college periodical is essentially a gossip rag.
Turell’s diary, the sole surviving record of this publication, contains 13 numbered manuscript issues handwritten in a faded calligraphy that betrays their age. Encased in crimson leather packaging added by a previous owner for protection in the early 1900s, the book nearly disintegrates at the slightest touch and must be viewed upon a Styrofoam cradle. Today’s reader must use weighted strings to hold down the pages, as the paper practically dissolves if handled with too much force. Inkblots and other mysterious blemishes conceal much of Turell’s writings, and the edges of each leaf are jagged and crude. What’s left of the Telltale resembles a fifth grade history project soaked in coffee stains and artificial tea “burns.” However, these crumples are natural; each tarnish tells a story that is probably somehow relevant to Harvard’s lengthy history.
Turell prefaces his first article with his intentions: “This paper was entitl’d the Telltale or Criticisms on the Conversation & Behavour of Scholars to promote right reasoning & good manner.” Apparently, he originally planned to distribute a “lifestyle” newspaper, a cross between the teachings of a Hindu guru and the etiquette of Emily Post. However, his cause grows murkier with each issue.
Turell’s articles gradually devolve into more and more inane territory and begin to read like a diary rather than news for popular consumption. His fourth article is devoted entirely to the analyses of his own dreams. He discusses a woman known as Mrs. Kate and debates whether or not to consider her “more beautiful than Venus,” or to view her as perhaps “an antidote against Matrimony.” Other dreams delve into the disturbing, detailing “four Fellows pushing and shoving one another,” and a “person of very Dark & swarthy complexion in a Slovenly Dress with 7 patches & 5 sparks on his Face.” No explanations are offered for these particular nightmares.
In the Telltale’s 12th issue, Turell attempts an exposé of the “Spy Club.” He explicitly lists its suspected members and reveals their code names: Telltale, Volubility, Blablonge, Sharpsights, Intelligence, Quick, and Courage. As he warns the reader, much mystery shrouded the Spy Club. Despite its enigmatic air, Turell’s writings are the only historical record of the existence of such an organization.
At its heart, the Telltale may not revolutionize our view of early colonial times, as it lacks the hard-hitting journalism betraying the seedy underbelly of Puritan culture we so wish it revealed. However, it does prove that—even before the age of Tumblr and Facebook—we all really just like to write about ourselves.