Above is the proto-blogger: a Linotype compositor. From the days of Gutenberg, publishing had been completed by assembling tiny chunks of metal with embossed letters on the top edge. The Linotype machine simplified the process by casting those metal letters in entire lines at a time, by means of a keyboard, ready to go to the press. I’ve seen these amazing machines in operation first-hand, and have several text ‘slugs’ around here, some with my and my kids’ names on them. The machines are completely mechanical, produce an amazing amount of text in a very short amount of time, and later versions (they were used well into the late 20th century) even had the ability to operate unmanned, receiving instructions via the news-wires. Unlike blogging compositors today, due to their size and expense Linotype machines rarely made it to the ranks of amateur publishers, but did help move the ability to composite type from the hands of skilled master typesetters to anybody that could be trained to use the keyboard. If you’d like an overview of how these amazing machines worked, you can see a section from an article in The Book Of Wonders.
Back of real-photo postcard, with one handwritten line of text: Miss Sarah Thompson. Divided back and style indicates 1910s.
From the encyclopedic series The Book Of Knowledge comes this bit of practical information: “How To Build A Magic Lantern“. These are what we’d call today a “slide projector”. At the time, however, slides were images on largish pieces of glass, and the light source was an open flame. The instructions rely on store-bought lenses, but the body is completely manufactured by hand from materials such as brass, japanned tin, and wood. If the steampunks among you are interested in building a paraffin-powered LCD projector, this is a starting point.
Who’s that behind the tree? Why, it’s Mrs. Pfeiffer! Helene and her mother visited a nursery for a fine day outside, and that rapscallious Mrs. Pfeiffer brought levity to their day by composing very difficult riddles and singing scandalous bar-room tunes she learned from a set of Victrola records her husband borrowed from the Lodge and hid under his humidor. Or so I gather from two photos taken a hundred years ago — I may be reading a bit too much into it.
I also enjoy this photo for the excellent white-birch bench surrounding the tree. The arm-rests are arranged as an ‘x’, allowing open seating on all sides. I can’t see how it’s fastened together, but it seems sturdy enough — as a bench in a nursery, the raw-woo, bark and all, has a great beauty to partake, when walking through the gardens with your mother and that pernacious Mrs. Pfeiffer.
Don’t look now, Helene, but your fishing excursion isn’t going to get very far. Helene sent a copy of this photo to Marie (along with several others), probably because Marie was along on this girls-day-out. It’s sure good she’s near shore, though; unswamping a canoe in a long dress and snazzy hat would be quite difficult. Helene doesn’t appear too nonplussed — she’s got a few other canoes behind her to pick from.
What’s these guys’ stories? Sometime in the 1910s, maybe twenties, three lads got together for a group shot — and it must’ve been important that they be wearing hats. The style of hat is called a ‘newsboy’, ‘Gatsby’ hat, or driving cap, and was popular with the trendy kids of the early 20th century. The button-close breast pockets on the two gents on the right has a very military feel to it, and echoes the late 19th century. The lad on the left shops at a different tailor: sans vest, modern shirtcollar, his collar is lower, wider below the collar on the notched lapel, and is missing the breast pockets. Maybe he’s older, and doesn’t rely on Mom to do his clothes-shopping. Any which way, they’re a sharp looking group of guys.
