Long before people anonymously asked the internet whether they were being unreasonable, Londoners slipped questions into a coffeehouse mailbox and waited for a panel of self-appointed “Athenians” to reply. Their worries involved romance, marriage, appearance, mental distress, science, superstition, recreation, and one impressively direct question: What is love? These ten letters from the Athenian Mercury show that technology changes quickly, but human confusion keeps excellent historical records.
Before Dear Abby, There Was the Athenian Mercury
In 1691, London printer and bookseller John Dunton launched a twice-weekly broadsheet first called the Athenian Gazette, or Casuistical Mercury and later known as the Athenian Mercury. Readers could submit questions anonymously, often through a coffeehouse, and receive answers from the supposedly learned “Athenian Society.” The grand name suggested a room full of philosophers. In reality, the regular answering team was much smaller and included Dunton and two of his brothers-in-law.
The publication covered theology, natural philosophy, mathematics, politics, dreams, ghosts, courtship, sex, marriage, and household conflict. Thousands of questions appeared between 1691 and 1697. Later compilations circulated under the title The Athenian Oracle, preserving private worries that would otherwise have disappeared with the morning gossip. Modern historians describe the periodical as the first personal advice column because it turned anonymous individual problems into public reading and moral discussion.
The following letters are paraphrased rather than reproduced word for word. That keeps the language readable while preserving the substance of the questions and the flavor of the replies.
Ten Questions That Made Seventeenth-Century London Pause
1. Can a Red-Haired Suitor Hide His Hair Long Enough to Marry?
One young man loved a woman who strongly disliked red hair. Instead of deciding that a bride who hated his natural appearance might be a risky lifelong investment, he asked for a dye that would survive rain and sweat for a couple of weeks. He intended to repeat the process and worried that discovery after marriage would be disastrous.
The Athenians suggested that a skilled painter might stain the hair, although new red growth would eventually create a two-colored “bullfinch” effect. Beneath the comedy sits a modern problem: changing yourself to win approval. The advice team solved the cosmetic puzzle but barely addressed the deception. Even in 1691, apparently, the bigger relationship red flag could hide beneath a very fashionable hat.
2. What Should Be Done When a Man Hears Threatening Voices?
A correspondent described a gentleman who believed distant people were speaking directly to him and threatening his life, although companions nearby heard nothing. The writer asked whether remote communication was possible, what caused the experience, and how it might be stopped.
The reply is striking because it did not immediately blame spirits. The Athenians proposed that the experience could arise from a disorder of the brain, bodily illness, melancholy, or social isolation. They recommended medicine, outdoor walking, and agreeable company. That response mixed observation with seventeenth-century limitations. Today, hearing threatening voices can be associated with several medical or mental health conditions and deserves prompt professional assessment, not a historical walking prescription. Early treatment of psychosis is associated with better outcomes.
3. Did a Family Dog Predict Death?
Another reader recalled a dog that howled toward the churchyard shortly before several members of the household died. Because the behavior appeared repeatedly, the family wondered whether the animal possessed prophetic knowledge.
The Athenians admitted that they did not know what to make of such stories. They speculated that the dog might somehow “foresmell” an approaching death, while also suggesting that the phenomenon seemed beyond ordinary nature. Modern explanations are less supernatural but still fascinating. Dogs can detect changes in scent, hormones, routine, posture, and behavior associated with illness. That does not prove that they predict death, but it helps explain why an observant animal may react before people understand what is changing.
4. May a Miserable Husband Pray for His Wife to Die?
A separated husband announced that he never intended to live with his “ill” wife again. He then asked whether he could properly pray for God to take her away so he could marry someone else and finally become happy.
The reply delivered a compact seventeenth-century roast. If the wife was good enough for heaven, the Athenians reasoned, she should be good enough for him. Rather than requesting her death, he should pray for improvement, accept divine will, and wait patiently. The answer is morally severe but refreshingly unimpressed by self-serving piety. The husband wanted heavenly authorization for an earthly convenience; the columnists declined to stamp the form.
5. How Can a Husband Escape a Violent, Financially Abusive Marriage?
One innkeeper’s husband described a wife who drank heavily, insulted him before customers, controlled the household income, moved money beyond his reach, threatened to bury him in debt, and appeared determined to ruin him. His letter combined desperation with bitter humor, including the admission that she “wore the breeches.”
The Athenians concluded that changing her was nearly impossible. Their proposed solutionhave several strong men confine her while he sold the property and fledwas dangerous, coercive, and unacceptable by modern standards. Still, the letter matters because it records a man describing domestic abuse, humiliation, economic control, and fear. It also reveals how few safe legal or social remedies were available. The column recognized his suffering but answered it with another form of force, a reminder that historical advice can be revealing without being admirable.
6. Does the Thames Freeze From the Bottom Up?
A reader had argued with a gentleman who believed the River Thames froze first at the bottom. Unable to win with philosophy or “right reason,” he appealed to the Athenians as though submitting a dispute to seventeenth-century search results.
The column correctly rejected bottom-first freezing, noting that surface water is exposed to cold air and that fish retreat to deeper water in winter. Its explanation invoked the “nitrosity” of the air, which was not modern physics, but the basic observation was sound. Water reaches its greatest density above the freezing point; colder water and ice remain nearer the surface, allowing deeper water to stay liquid in many lakes and rivers. The answer is a wonderful example of transitional science: a correct conclusion arriving in a carriage pulled by an outdated theory.
7. Why Do Some Men Grow No Beard?
One of the shortest questions asked why certain men had no beards. The Athenians blamed insufficient bodily heat and imagined that hair-producing moisture moved toward other parts of the body when facial pores were not properly opened.
That theory has not aged as gracefully as a well-trimmed mustache. Facial hair growth is influenced by genetics, age, androgen activity, and how hair follicles respond to hormones such as testosterone and dihydrotestosterone. The old answer shows how early medical reasoning often relied on inherited ideas about heat, moisture, and bodily balance. It also proves that beard anxiety did not begin with grooming influencers and aggressively scented oils.
8. Did a Witch Frighten an Innocent Servant to Death?
A servant was suspected of robbery and sought a sorceress to identify the real thief. On the way, a mysterious woman approached him, claimed to know his purpose, and showed him the thief’s form. According to the letter, the servant was so terrified that he died within days.
The Athenians offered two possibilities: the woman was the Devil, or she was a witch acting with diabolical assistance. They treated death from fright as ordinary enough to need little explanation. The response captures a world in which supernatural causation could sit comfortably beside practical advice and emerging scientific curiosity. It also shows why accusations based on visions, magical identification, or panic were so dangerous: fear could become evidence, and evidence could become a sentence before anyone checked the facts.
9. Is Dancing a Sin?
A 19-year-old had been urged by friends to learn dancing but feared that it came from pagan ritual, weakened religious devotion, encouraged improper thoughts, and violated the Seventh Commandment. He requested a speedy answer, possibly before someone dragged him onto the floor.
The Athenians defended dancing as a natural expression of joy. They argued that sinful thoughts and wasted time were possible consequences, not unavoidable ones. If public dancing genuinely caused temptation, the young man could learn privately with an instructor. This was a balanced answer for its era: recreation had a legitimate place beside study and work. In modern terms, the panel recommended boundaries rather than banning the entire playlist.
10. What Is Love?
The final question contained only three words: “What is love?” Centuries later, philosophers, poets, neuroscientists, musicians, and dating-app users are still typing longer versions of the same inquiry.
The Athenians described love as a combination of friendship and desire governed by honor and virtue. Friendship gave it spirit; desire gave it substance; honor held the arrangement together. Their formula avoided both icy companionship and uncontrolled passion. It may sound formal, but its core remains recognizable: attraction alone is not enough, affection alone may not be romantic, and lasting love needs an ethical structure. For a team that occasionally blamed witches, this was remarkably sturdy relationship advice.
The ten episodes above are preserved through editions and modern discussions of the Athenian Mercury and Athenian Oracle. They reveal the broad range of questions the publication entertained, from intimate conflicts to natural philosophy and supernatural fear.
What These Historical Advice Letters Reveal
The letters are entertaining because the language, theories, and social rules feel distant. Yet the emotional patterns are familiar. A suitor worries about appearance. A spouse wants permission to leave. A victim of abuse feels trapped. A young adult wonders whether pleasure is morally acceptable. A family searches for meaning after death. Someone asks a science question because an argument will not end. Someone else asks what love means and receives an answer that could still survive in a wedding speech.
The format also changed public culture. Anonymity allowed people to expose private dilemmas without fully exposing themselves. Readers became silent jurors, comparing their conduct with that of strangers. The column therefore did more than answer questions; it created a community around curiosity, judgment, reassurance, and gossip. Modern advice podcasts, online forums, social-media confessions, and relationship columns use new technology, but the underlying exchange remains the same: one person says, “Here is my problem,” and a crowd leans closer.
The Experience of Reading a 1690s Advice Column Today
Reading the Athenian Mercury today feels less like opening a dusty archive and more like finding an old group chat whose participants happen to wear wigs. The spelling and theology announce that the documents come from another century, but the emotional rhythm is instantly recognizable. A writer gives only the facts that make him look reasonable. A spouse supplies a dramatic account of domestic misery. A young person asks whether a harmless activity will destroy his moral character. The advisers answer with a blend of sympathy, confidence, wit, and occasional nonsense. In other words, the machinery of advice culture is already running.
The most enjoyable reading experience comes from noticing the collision between good observation and bad explanation. The Athenians understood that ice forms at the surface before they understood the physics correctly. They suspected that threatening voices could originate in the brain or body, yet they lacked modern diagnostic knowledge. They noticed that dogs detect something humans miss, then left the door open to prophecy. Each answer shows intelligent people building conclusions with the tools available to them. Sometimes the house stands. Sometimes the chimney is made of fog.
The marriage letters create a more uncomfortable experience. Humor cannot hide the legal and economic vulnerability behind them. Separation was complicated, formal divorce was rare, property rules were unequal, and social reputation could determine survival. When a correspondent described abuse, the columnists did not have a modern network of shelters, hotlines, counseling, protective orders, or trauma-informed care to recommend. Their answers can therefore sound harsh, coercive, or helpless. Reading them responsibly means resisting two easy reactions: romanticizing the past as charmingly old-fashioned or congratulating ourselves as perfectly enlightened. The documents are valuable precisely because they show people improvising inside imperfect institutions.
There is also an oddly intimate pleasure in hearing anonymous voices cross more than three centuries. Most letter writers left no names, portraits, or biographies. We do not know whether the red-haired suitor dyed his head, whether the reluctant dancer took lessons, or whether the unhappy spouses found safety. Yet for a paragraph, each person becomes vivid. Their question survives because it was ordinary enough to interest thousands of readers and unusual enough to print. History often preserves kings through decrees and generals through battles; an advice column preserves a worried 19-year-old who did not know whether dancing was allowed.
Finally, the experience invites a personal test. Imagine sending one modern problem to the Athenians. Would they understand anxiety about online dating, workplace messages, family boundaries, or a partner’s secret account? Probably more than expected. They might misunderstand the technology, invoke bodily humors, quote a classical poet, and recommend a brisk walk. But they would recognize vanity, jealousy, loneliness, desire, fear, and the wish to be told that one’s preferred decision is also the virtuous one.
That is why these letters remain so readable. They do not prove that people never change. Social rights, scientific knowledge, medical care, and expectations of privacy have changed enormously. What remains is the impulse to turn confusion into a question and send it toward an imagined wiser stranger. The envelope became a post, the coffeehouse became a platform, and the “Athenian Society” became an advice columnist, therapist, podcast host, or comment section. The hope behind the message is unchanged: Please understand what I mean, tell me what to do, and answer quickly.
Conclusion
The Athenian Mercury transformed private uncertainty into public conversation. Its strangest letters involve prophetic dogs, sorcery, bodily heat, and improvised science, but its strongest moments concern problems that still fill advice columns: insecurity, unhappy relationships, moral anxiety, mental distress, and love. The answers were sometimes perceptive, sometimes comic, and sometimes alarming. Together, they offer something more valuable than a collection of curiosities. They show ordinary people thinking aloud at the birth of a media format that still thrives wherever strangers ask strangers for help.
