Financier J. Pierpont Morgan

 

J.P. Morgan stepped up twice when the U.S. economy faced collapse.

In 1893, the economy crashed. Railroads failed. Banks collapsed. Panic spread. The biggest problem? The U.S. Treasury was running out of gold. At the time, paper money was backed by gold. If reserves fell too low, the government could default.

By early 1895, gold reserves had dropped below $100 million. Confidence was sinking, and Congress refused to act. The government needed gold fast.

Morgan and the Rothschilds arranged a $65 million bond sale, paid in gold. The deal stabilized the Treasury and restored confidence. Morgan profited, but without him, the economy might have collapsed. President Grover Cleveland defended the deal, saying, “It was necessary to save the country from disaster.” The New York Times called it “a masterstroke of financial genius.”

Twelve years later, another crisis hit. The stock market crashed. Banks teetered as people rushed to withdraw their money. Panic spread fast.

Morgan locked the top bankers in his library and refused to let anyone leave until they had a plan. Strong banks propped up weak ones. Morgan secured millions to keep the stock market open. “No one wished to resist him,” one banker admitted. The Washington Post wrote, “In the absence of a central bank, Morgan alone stood between the nation and ruin.”

His actions stopped the crisis, but it was clear the country needed a central bank. In 1913, Congress created the Federal Reserve. Senator Robert Owen later remarked, “Morgan’s power was undeniable, but no republic should rely on one man.”

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Andrew Carnegie Philanthropist

 

Andrew Carnegie made a fortune in steel, and then he gave most of it away.

Born in Scotland in 1835, he moved to America as a child. He worked his way up from a poor factory boy to the richest man in the world. By the 1890s, Carnegie Steel dominated the industry. In 1901, he sold it for $480 million. Then, he focused on giving.

Carnegie believed, “The man who dies rich dies disgraced.” He set out to give away his fortune before he died.

He built over 2,500 libraries. “A library outranks any other one thing a community can do to benefit its people.” Cities and towns had to promise to maintain them, but Carnegie paid for the buildings. The New York Times called it “an extraordinary gift to the common man.”

He funded universities and scientific research, giving millions to establish Carnegie Mellon University in Pittsburgh. He created the Carnegie Institution for Science. President Theodore Roosevelt praised him, saying, “Mr. Carnegie has done more for education and learning than any man of his generation.”

He supported world peace, and built the Peace Palace in the Netherlands, hoping to prevent war. He created the Carnegie Endowment for International Peace. Critics called him naïve, but he believed, “The time will come when men will see war as foolish as dueling.”

Inventor Thomas Edison

 

Thomas Edison changed the way people lived.

His first big success was the phonograph in 1877. The New York Times called it “the most marvelous invention of the age.” Edison believed it would be used for business, but its primary use was for entertainment.

His most famous invention was the electric light bulb. By the 1870s, gas lamps lit homes and streets. They were expensive, dangerous, and dim. Others had tried to make electric light work, but it was unreliable.

Edison tested thousands of materials before finding the right filament—carbonized bamboo. In 1879, he demonstrated a bulb that burned for hours. “We will make electricity so cheap that only the rich will burn candles,” he declared.

But a bulb alone wasn’t enough. He built the first power plant in New York in 1882. It lit up parts of Manhattan. Business leaders took notice. The Wall Street Journal wrote, “Edison has harnessed lightning for the masses.”

His next challenge was moving pictures. In the 1890s, he developed the Kinetoscope, an early movie viewer. People lined up to watch short films. The movie industry was born.

Edison also improved the telephone, the telegraph, and the battery. He held over 1,000 patents. But he didn’t always work alone. His lab in Menlo Park was filled with talented assistants. Some, like Nikola Tesla, later became rivals.

Edison’s motivation was simple. “I find out what the world needs,” he said, “then I go ahead and try to invent it.”

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Marie Brema Opera Prima Donna

 

Marie Brema was a mezzo-soprano with a powerful voice and striking stage presence. Critics and audiences adored her.

She made her operatic debut in 1891 as Ortrud in Lohengrin at Drury Lane. The Times praised her “majestic presence” and “rich, expressive voice.”

Brema excelled as Brangäne in Tristan und Isolde and as Fricka in The Ring Cycle. In 1899, she sang Kundry in Parsifal at Bayreuth, the first English singer invited to do so.

The Musical Times wrote that she brought “a unique intensity and fire” to Carmen. She could shift effortlessly from dramatic Wagnerian heroines to the flirtatious, free-spirited Carmen.

Edward Elgar chose her for the first performance of The Dream of Gerontius in 1900. It was a challenging piece, but Brema delivered. The Manchester Guardian called her singing “deeply moving, full of pathos and grace.”

After retiring from the stage, she became a professor at the Royal Academy of Music. Many future stars trained under her guidance.

Brema’s career was full of firsts. She was the first Englishwoman to sing at Bayreuth. She helped shape British opera in an era dominated by European singers. Her voice, described as “rich as velvet and as powerful as a storm,” made her unforgettable.

She passed away in 1925, but her legacy remains.

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Actress Elsie Janis

 

Elsie Janis was a star before she even hit double digits. Born in 1889 in Columbus, Ohio, she was onstage by two, a vaudeville sensation by ten, and a Broadway headliner before most kids finished high school. She had it all—comic timing, a powerhouse voice, and a stage presence that could knock an audience flat.

She was the definition of a multi-hyphenate before the term even existed. One night, she’d be belting out a ballad. The next, she’d be cracking jokes like a seasoned comic. The New York Herald once called her “a bundle of dynamite wrapped in silk and lace.” Even the toughest critics couldn’t resist.

Janis took Broadway by storm in the early 1900s. The Vanderbilt Cup (1906) made her a star. The Hoyden (1907) proved she had staying power. The Slim Princess (1911) showed she could do it all. She wasn’t just another stage darling—she had bite, wit, and a delivery that felt modern, even edgy.

Then came Hollywood. She jumped into silent films with A Regular Girl (1919) and Nearly a Lady (1920), but Janis wasn’t just there to be a pretty face. She wanted control. She wrote, produced, and composed music, breaking barriers in an industry that barely let women in the door.

But her biggest gig? World War I. While other entertainers stayed home, Janis grabbed a piano and took her act straight to the front lines. She sang, joked, and lifted spirits for exhausted soldiers. They called her “The Sweetheart of the AEF,” but she wasn’t just there for the nickname—she was the real deal. The New York Times said she gave the troops “the kind of laughter that keeps men standing.”

After the war, Janis wrote a bestselling memoir, The Big Show (1919), turned to screenwriting, and even worked with Walt Disney. She kept reinventing herself, always one step ahead of the industry.

Actress Edna Goodrich

 

Edna Goodrich knew how to make an entrance. Born in 1883, she started as a chorus girl, but she didn’t stay in the background for long. With her sharp wit and even sharper looks, she clawed her way into the spotlight. By the early 1900s, she was one of Broadway’s brightest stars.

She had talent, sure, but she also had nerve. She didn’t just play the ingénue—she played the game. Critics called her “clever and captivating,” but Edna wasn’t just another pretty face. She knew how to work an audience, onstage and off.

Her biggest break came when she joined the legendary Florenz Ziegfeld’s productions. The New York Times raved about her “natural charm and effortless grace.” But it wasn’t just her acting that made headlines. She married Ziegfeld’s biggest star, Nat Goodwin, a move that kept her in the papers almost as much as her performances did.

Edna had a habit of making waves. When her marriage to Goodwin crashed and burned, she walked away with a fat divorce settlement and even more press. She didn’t just survive scandal—she thrived on it. One journalist sniped, “Miss Goodrich plays the role of a divorcée with as much ease as she plays the leading lady.”

Hollywood came calling in the 1910s, and Edna jumped into silent films. The House of Lies (1916) and Her Husband’s Honor (1918) showcased her dramatic chops. But she wasn’t about to let the studio system own her. After a few films, she walked away from Hollywood—on her own terms.

She made just as much noise offstage. Edna claimed to have inside dirt on the biggest stars of the day. She even teased a tell-all book, but the juiciest details never saw the light of day. Still, she had the world wondering.

By the 1920s, she traded stardom for high society, reinventing herself yet again. She was rich, famous, and always in control. When she died in 1972, she left behind a legacy of glamour, gossip, and just enough mystery to keep people talking.

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Actress Isabel Irving

 Isabel Irving knew how to command a room. She didn’t just act—she possessed the stage, bending it to her will with a flick of her wrist and a well-timed smirk. She wasn’t just another turn-of-the-century Broadway starlet fluttering around in corsets and lace. No, Irving had presence. The kind that made men sweat and women sharpen their claws. The kind that made critics fumble for words like “sparkling” and “graceful” because they were too afraid to call it what it really was—dangerous.

She was born in 1871, which meant she grew up in an era when actresses were still teetering on the line between respectable society and the gutter. Irving didn’t care much for the distinction. She had one goal: to own the goddamn stage. And own it she did. She clawed her way up from bit parts to headlining John Drew Jr.’s company in the 1890s—a move that put her squarely in the spotlight and, more importantly, in the papers. The New York Tribune called her “an actress of rare delicacy and wit,” which was a genteel way of saying she could dismantle a man’s ego with nothing but a raised eyebrow.

She had the range to back it up. She could do comedy, drama, and everything in between. In The Liars (1897), she played a woman so cunning and poised that men lined up just to get verbally eviscerated by her. The New York Times gushed about her “effortless charm and razor-sharp delivery.” Meanwhile, her fans—especially the gentlemen—weren’t sure whether they wanted to marry her or flee in terror.

Then came The Girl with the Green Eyes (1902), a performance so sharp it could draw blood. She played a jealous wife teetering between heartbreak and madness, and the critics ate it up. One described it as “a masterclass in slow-burning destruction.” Another claimed, “She makes you want to be jealous, just to see if you could pull it off as well as she does.” It was all true. Irving had a way of making emotions look thrillingly dangerous—like she was toying with them just for sport.

Offstage, she played the game just as well. She toured with William H. Crane, the era’s go-to leading man, and the gossip rags went wild. Were they lovers? Friends? Co-conspirators in some elaborate backstage drama? Crane always brushed off the rumors, but Irving? She just smiled and let people wonder. She understood better than anyone that mystery was the real currency in show business.