In May of 1978, a computer tech named Carl Gartley typed the following message into the flickering, black-and-green screen of an early computer terminal. The company he worked for, Digital Equipment Corporation, was eager to publicize its new computers to the users of Arpanet, the network that would grow into the Internet. The recipients of the email were a catalog of the digital elite (at places like UCLA, PARC, and the Rand Corporation) who possessed the mainframe computers and access privileges necessary to be on the web in the late 1970s.
The message itself was not exactly a model of the writer’s art, but it got its point across:
DIGITAL WILL BE GIVING A PRODUCT PRESENTATION OF THE NEWEST MEMBERS OF THE DECSYSTEM-20 FAMILY; THE DECSYSTEM-2020, 2020T, 2060, AND 2060T. THE DECSYSTEM-20 FAMILY OF COMPUTERS HAS EVOLVED FROM THE TENEX OPERATING SYSTEM AND THE DECSYSTEM-10 <PDP-10> COMPUTER ARCHITECTURE…
WE INVITE YOU TO COME SEE THE 2020 AND HEAR ABOUT THE DECSYSTEM-20 FAMILY AT THE TWO PRODUCT PRESENTATIONS WE WILL BE GIVING IN CALIFORNIA THIS MONTH.
The early email users who received the message were appalled and confused in a way that seems quaint today. “This was a flagrant violation of the use of Arpanet," huffed one, with these famous last words: "Appropriate action is being taken to preclude its occurrence again.”
Arpanet, it's worth remembering, was a U.S. government property at the time, “not intended for public distribution although not ‘top secret’ either,” as another response to the DEC spam put it. One devil's advocate arguing for a freer use of the email medium made what may be the earliest reference to Internet dating: “Would a dating service for people on the net be 'frowned upon' [by Arpanet administrators]? I hope not.” (The author of this prescient email happened to be legendary programmer and free software advocate Richard Stallman.)
On the whole, though, unsolicited emailers were pariahs in the early days of the Internet. They offered a first glimpse of a future in which digital gatekeepers selected by government agencies and elite universities got swamped by a horde of anonymous jerks and tacky advertisements. These early debates about the form and function of electronic messages heralded the public, uncontrolled, and uncensored Internet we know today.
The history of trolling over long distances, however, stretches back at least to the Victorian era.
Robert Whitaker, a historian of international crime and policing, studies fraudulent letters from the 19th and early 20th centuries that were part of an international con known as the Spanish Prisoner Scheme. “In this confidence trick,” he explains,
the criminal contacts the victim offering a large sum of money in return for a small advance of funds that the criminal—posing as a distressed yet reputable person—cannot provide because of some impediment (usually imprisonment or illness)… The successful prisoner is one that can combine a too-good-to-be-true offer with a compelling narrative that the victim can, literally, buy into.
As Whitaker notes, schemes like this strike us as modern inventions, the provenance of Nigerian email scammers and shady characters on Craigslist trying to get you to wire them money. Yet the human desire for lucre—and the unscrupulousness methods we often employ in its pursuit—knows few limitations, geographic or historic. As Whitaker desribes, the main difference between our 21st-century cons and those of the Victorian period is one of delivery method.