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Frank James Western Outlaw

Frank James turned himself in to Missouri Governor Thomas Crittenden in 1882. He surrendered his pistol and gun belt in a quiet room at the Capitol in Jefferson City, asking only for a fair trial.

He got it. After several weeks behind bars, Frank was acquitted. Public sentiment had softened, and the state couldn’t prove its case. Unlike the Youngers, Frank James never spent a day in the penitentiary.

He lived out the rest of his days quietly guiding tourists, giving the occasional interview, and tending to chickens on his farm. He died in 1915, an old man who had once terrorized the railroads.

Wyatt Earp Western Lawman

 

If you pointed a gun at Wyatt Earp, you’d best mean business and be ready to “burn powder.” The glint in his eyes and the guns on his hips meant business.

Wild Bill Hickok Gunfighter, Lawman, and Gambler

Wild Bill and Davis Tutt squared off in the town square of Springfield, Missouri, on July 21, 1865. They stood fifteen paces apart, hands twitching at their sides. Only one man walked away.

Clay Allison Gunfighter

Clay Allison entertained himself by shooting up dance halls and small towns, making respectable gents leap around barefoot while he riddled the floor with bullets. He didn’t need much of a reason—just a little liquor and a bad mood.

Doc Holliday Gambler, Gunfighter, Lawman

When he wasn’t raising hell with a pistol, Doc Holliday spent most of his time at the tables, dealing faro or sitting in on a game, and if someone crossed him, they weren’t long for this life.

Custer's Last Stand

All two hundred and ten men in Custer’s command died in the fighting at the Little Big Horn. The Bismarck Weekly Tribune described the gruesome scene in their July 12 issue. Lieutenant Bradley told General Terry, “He had found Custer with one hundred and ninety cavalrymen. They lay as they fell, shot down from every side. General Custer shot through the head and body, seemed to have been among the last to fall.” (Century Magazine. 1890)

Lincoln & McClellan at Antietam

“After the battle of Antietam, I went up to the field to try to get him to move and came back thinking he would move at once,” Lincoln told his secretary John Hay. “But when I got home, he began to argue why he ought not to move. I peremptorily ordered him to advance. It was nineteen days before he put a man over the [Potomac] River. It was nine days longer before he got his army across.” (Elson, Henry W. The Photographic History of the Civil War. 1912)

Major Robert Anderson Surrender Fort Sumter

 

The War Department instructed Major Robert Anderson to prepare for battle but not assume a warlike stance. The government could not reinforce or supply the garrison without bringing the conflict to a head. Anderson was to make do with the materials and men he had. He was to walk a fine line between readiness and disaster. Not long after, the fall of Fort Sumter launched the Civil War. (Elson, Henry W. The Photographic History of the Civil War. 1912)

President James K. Polk

 James K. Polk was probably the most unsociable, drab, stick-in-the-mud ever elected president. Fun was a four-letter word in his book. Sports, drinking, dancing, and anything to do with being around people didn’t make his A-list. Instead, he was short, scholarly, lived for his work, and avoided face-to-face conversations and confrontations. (Munsey’s Magazine. January 1897)

Actresses Helen Macbeth and Dorothy Dorr

 

Actresses Helen Macbeth and Dorothy Dorr shooting pool. (Greenbook Magazine, 1910).

Comedians Harry Watson and George Bickel.

Comedians Harry Watson and George Bickel on a fishing trip. (Greenbook Magazine, 1910).

Actress Louise Barthel

Louise Barthel of Chicago’s German Comedy Opera Company (colorized photo of an image in the Greenbook Magazine, 1908)

Actor William Courtenay

Actor William Courtenay (colorized photograph of an image published in Greenbook Magazine, 1908)

Actress Lotta Faust Walking Dog

 Actress Lotta Faust walking her dog in New York. (colorized photograph of an image in Greenbook Magazine, 1908)

Actress Grace Hazzard at Colonial Theatre

Actress Grace Hazzard leaving the stage door of the Colonial Theatre in New York (colorized photograph from an image in Greenbook Magazine, 1908)

Actor Frank Daniels

Actor Frank Daniel’s at his home in Rye, New York. (colorized photograph of an image in Greenbook Magazine, 1908).

Frank James Bank Robber

Frank James turned himself in to Missouri Governor Thomas Crittenden in 1882. He surrendered his pistol and gun belt in a quiet room at the Capitol in Jefferson City, asking only for a fair trial.

He got it. After several weeks behind bars, Frank was acquitted. Public sentiment had softened, and the state couldn’t prove its case. Unlike the Youngers, Frank James never spent a day in the penitentiary.

He lived out the rest of his days quietly guiding tourists, giving the occasional interview, and tending to chickens on his farm. He died in 1915, an old man who had once terrorized the railroads.

Condon Bank Coffeyville, Kansas

A typical day outside the Condon Bank in Coffeyville, Kansas, until Grat Dalton, Bill Powers, and Dick Broadwell walked inside, guns in hand. Bob and Emmett Dalton entered the First National Bank across the street.

Emmett Dalton Western Outlaw

Emmett Dalton said the Coffeyville raid was a suicide mission, but “I was damned if I did, and damned if I didn’t. If I stayed out, I’d still hang. So, I rode in.”

Death of the Dalton Gang

Deputy sheriffs standing by the dead bodies of Bob and Grat Dalton. The town had done what no one else could. They’d taken down the Dalton Gang and lived to talk about it.

Black Bart California Stagecoach Robber

 

Black Bart was one of the most prolific stagecoach robbers to haunt the Old West, and he did it without firing a shot. He was polite, calm, and—most curious of all—he left poetry behind at the scene of his crimes.

Billy the Kid New Mexico Outlaw

Pat Garrett said Billy the Kid was always laughing—he ate and laughed, drank and laughed, fought and laughed... killed and laughed.

Pat Garrett The Man Who Killed Billy the Kid

After his election as sheriff of Lincoln County, Pat Garrett formed a posse and hunted the Kid down. Billy surrendered, was hauled to Mesilla, and convicted of killing Sheriff Brady. He was sentenced to swing on May 13, 1881.

John Wesley Hardin Western Gunfighter

 John Wesley Hardin was the meanest, orneriest, deadliest cuss to sling iron in Texas. He once shot a man for snoring. That’s not a tall tale either.

Clay Allison Western Outlaw

 Clay Allison entertained himself by shooting up dance halls and small towns, making respectable gents leap around barefoot while he riddled the floor with bullets. He didn’t need much of a reason—just a little liquor and a bad mood.

Lawman Bill Tilghman

Bill Tilghman was “tall and slim, straight as an arrow,” and “was not afraid of anything living.” He didn’t talk much, and the word “quit” wasn’t in his vocabulary. Once he got his man in his sights, that was the end of the story.

Harry Tracy Oregon Outlaw

Harry Tracy & David Merrill escaping from prison.

On June 9, 1902, Harry Tracy and David Merrill made their break from the Oregon State Prison. They were working in the prison foundry when Tracy grabbed a rifle and dropped guard, Frank Farrell. Another prisoner, Frank Ingraham, tried to stop them—Merrill shot him in the leg. It later had to be cut off.

Out in the yard, the place turned into a shooting gallery. They gunned down the fence guard, Thurston Jones Sr. with shots to the chest and gut. Guard Bailey Tiffany was next. He was shot dead while standing watch. Duncan Ross hit the dirt and played dead. The escapees climbed a ladder, dragged Tiffany with them, and used his corpse as a shield. As they hit the tree line, Tracy put a bullet into Tiffany’s head. Three guards lay dead in three minutes.

That night, Tracy and Merrill holed up in the woods. Around 10 p.m., they met a man named Stewart and made him strip before breaking into his house. A few days later, they forced Mrs. H. Akers to cook them breakfast, then looted her pantry.

On June 15, they stole a team of horses near Oregon City. The next day, they crashed Charles Holtgrieve’s home on the Columbia River, demanded a meal, and made five men row them across. Outside Vancouver, they mugged a rancher named Reedy for his clothes, then disappeared for two weeks.

Arapahoe Chief White Whirlwind

Chief White Whirlwind was a leader of the Arapaho people during the 1800s.

In 1864, U.S. soldiers attacked a peaceful camp of Cheyenne and Arapaho people along Big Sandy Creek. Many Native Americans, including women and children, were killed.

In 1867, Chief White Whirlwind and other leaders signed the Treaty of Medicine Lodge, aimed to bring peace between Native American tribes and the U.S. government. It involved relocating tribes to reservations.

Chief White Whirlwind traveled to Washington, D.C. in 1873, and met with President Ulysses S. Grant. Along with other leaders, he discussed issues affecting their people, seeking better treatment and rights.

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Japanese Geisha Girls

Cosmopolitan Magazine published this photo of Japanese Geisha Girls in an 1898 issue.  (We colorized the photo)

Joshua Speed And Abraham Lincoln

You might know Joshua Speed as Abraham Lincoln’s closest friend, the guy who may (or may not) have known all of Lincoln’s secrets — including the fangy, bloody ones if you’re a fan of Abraham Lincoln: Vampire Hunter.

But before we go full Hollywood, let’s get real for a sec. Who was Joshua Speed, and why did he matter so much?

Joshua Speed was born in 1814 in Kentucky. He came from a well-connected, wealthy slaveholding family, which would become an awkward talking point later, considering Abe freed the slaves. But when Lincoln arrived in Springfield, Illinois, in 1837 — broke, depressed, and carrying nothing but a carpetbag and a dream — Speed stepped in and gave him a job and a place to live.

Speed eventually moved back to Kentucky, married a woman named Fanny, and continued to be Abe’s go-to guy for emotional support. When the country was splintering apart, Lincoln leaned on Speed, for help keeping Kentucky from joining the Confederacy.

Fast forward to 2012, and history decided it needed a little more…bite. Enter Abraham Lincoln: Vampire Hunter — the movie that asked the bold question: “What if the Great Emancipator was also a Great Decapitator?”

Joshua Speed gets a whole new job title in the movie: assistant vampire slayer. Speed is recast as the loyal wingman who helps Lincoln wage a secret war against bloodsucking monsters who just happen to be pro-slavery.

Edwin H. Stanton Nearly Became A Dictator After Lincoln's Assassination

Edwin Stanton damn near staged a one-man coup after Abraham Lincoln’s assassination at Ford’s Theater.

He turned Petersen House into the White House as Lincoln lay dying. He set up a de facto command center in the back bedroom, had guards posted, messengers sprinting, and generals lining up like schoolboys outside the principal’s office. While Vice President Andrew Johnson was reportedly half-drunk, Stanton took charge, “Find Booth,” he said. “Arrest everybody.”

Stanton’s War Department became a full-blown surveillance state with bayonets. He rounded up hundreds of suspected conspirators. One man was arrested for renting John Wilkes Booth a horse. He had newspapers shut down, editors jailed, and mail intercepted.

And if anyone questioned him, he steamrolled them with the Constitution in one hand and a saber in the other. Habeas corpus? Never heard of it.

Stanton ignored Andrew Johnson. He kept control of the military. He handed out appointments, and used the Army to enforce his own policies when Johnson tried to boot him.

When Johnson tried to fire Stanton in 1868, he refused to leave, and barricaded himself in his office at the War Department.

Had Stanton decided to “suspend” democracy for “national security,” the country might’ve gone along with it — we were still reeling from the Civil War, Lincoln was dead, and Andrew Johnson had the charisma of a soggy biscuit. If a strongman was ever going to rise in America, this was the moment. And Stanton was close to seizing it.

Author Nathaniel Hawthorne

 

If there’s one thing Nathaniel Hawthorne understood, it was sin. Not just the kind you confess on Sundays, but the deep, gut-wrenching, life-ruining kind that haunts generations. Maybe that’s because he had his own ghosts rattling in the family closet.

His great-great-grandfather, John Hathorne, was one of the Salem witch trial judges who sent people to the gallows without so much as a blink. That little piece of family history must have gnawed at Hawthorne because he spent his entire career wrestling with Puritan guilt. His father died when he was a kid, and Nathaniel grew up under the shadow of a somber, widowed mother. He went to Bowdoin College in Maine, rubbing elbows with future president Franklin Pierce and poet Henry Wadsworth Longfellow. After graduation he holed up in his mom’s attic for a decade, writing stories no one read and living an isolated existence.

Then came The Scarlet Letter (1850), the book that turned his brooding into literary gold. If you think high schoolers complain about it now, imagine how it hit in the 1850s—scandalous, biting, and loaded with more moral dilemmas than a Sunday sermon. The story of Hester Prynne, forced to wear the infamous “A” for adultery while her hypocritical lover, Dimmesdale, wastes away with guilt, was a brutal slap to the face of the Puritan past. The book made Hawthorne famous, but he still had to take government jobs to pay the bills.

He followed it up with The House of the Seven Gables (1851), a gothic masterpiece steeped in curses and family secrets, and The Blithedale Romance (1852), inspired by his time at Brook Farm

When Franklin Pierce became president in 1853, he rewarded Hawthorne with a cushy job as U.S. consul in Liverpool. By the time he returned to the United States, the Civil War was brewing, and Hawthorne didn’t quite know where he fit in.

Benjamin Franklin, Author, Politician, Nudist

Benjamin Franklin was a genius, a statesman, a writer, an inventor—and an absolute menace when it came to women. By the time he landed in Paris in 1776, he was 70 years old, balding, a little pudgy, and set seducing the entire city.

And Paris was ready for him.

The French adored him. His plain fur hat and folksy charm made him look like a wise, old philosopher straight out of the American wilderness, and maybe just a little sexy.

Women loved him.

Franklin had a way with words. He knew how to make a woman feel special. He wrote flirtatious letters filled with poetic nonsense, winking innuendos, and charm that made his targets swoon. Take Madame Brillon, a married woman and a talented musician. Franklin adored her. They spent hours together, playing chess, discussing philosophy, and exchanging letters dripping with not-so-subtle desire. She played coy, but likely enjoyed the attention.

Then there was Madame Helvétius, a free-spirited widow with a sharp mind and a wilder heart. Franklin was obsessed. He proposed marriage. She laughed. He tried again. She still wasn’t interested. She preferred her dead husband to Franklin’s very alive advances, but it didn’t stop him from trying.

But Franklin wasn’t just seducing women. He seduced the entire country.

Sir John French British General World War I

 

Sir John French was Britain’s top general when World War I began. He was bold, stubborn, and loved cavalry charges. Unfortunately, cavalry was useless in a war filled with machine guns, trenches, and barbed wire.

The London Times called him “a gallant soldier of the old breed.” The Daily Mail praised his “unshaken resolve.” But war would prove otherwise.

In August 1914, French led the British Expeditionary Force (BEF) into battle at Mons. His men fought hard, holding back the Germans with deadly rifle fire. But when he saw what he was up against, French panicked and ordered a retreat.

The next month, at the Battle of the Marne, French hesitated again. French commander Joseph Joffre had to pressure him to attack. When he did, the BEF helped stop the German advance. Some called it a turning point. Others wondered why French had waited so long.

Then came Ypres. For weeks in late 1914, the BEF held off relentless German attacks. It was a heroic stand, but at a terrible cost. The professional British army was nearly wiped out.

By 1915, French was struggling. The war had changed, but he hadn’t. He still believed in fast-moving attacks, even though trench warfare made them impossible.

At the Battle of Loos, he delayed sending reinforcements. British troops attacked without enough artillery support. It was a disaster. The Daily Telegraph wrote, “Our brave lads went forward with courage unmatched, yet the guiding hand faltered.”

Journalist Henri Blowitz

Journalist Henri Blowitz was a one-man leak machine with a taste for drama and cigars. He didn’t chase stories, stories found him.

Born in 1825 in Bohemia as Henri-Georges Stephan Opper de Blowitz, he reinvented himself. By the time he landed his job as the London Times’s man in Paris in 1873, he was already a legend in the making. Not for writing flowery prose—but for getting the goods.

His crowning achievement? The Treaty of Berlin, 1878. A secret agreement between the big European powers—Germany, Russia, Austria-Hungary, the Ottoman Empire, and Great Britain—meant to carve up the Balkans like a roast duck.

Blowitz published the whole thing before the ink was dry.

He got the text from a network of diplomats, spies, and flirty salon girls, then wired it to The Times. Pandemonium followed. Bismarck reportedly howled with rage. European governments screamed. The press cheered.

“I have always considered discretion to be the journalist’s first duty,” Blowitz wrote. “But when the interests of the public are at stake, discretion must bow to duty.”

Translation: He knew what he was doing—and loved the chaos he created.

Actor Lewis Waller

Lewis Waller, born William Waller Lewis in 1860 in Bilbao, Spain, carved out one of the most memorable careers on the British stage during the late Victorian and Edwardian eras. Known for his rich voice, matinee-idol looks, and undeniable stage presence, Waller was one of the defining actors of his generation—especially when it came to romance, swords, and Shakespeare.

Waller started his career in 1883 with the play Uncle Dick’s Darling and quickly moved up the theatrical ladder. By the late 1880s, he was appearing in productions at London’s most respected theaters, including roles in The Three Musketeers and The Prisoner of Zenda. He became associated with Henry Irving’s Lyceum Theatre and performed with Herbert Beerbohm Tree’s company.

Waller made a name for himself with his Shakespearean work—playing Romeo, Othello, and Henry V, among others. Reviewers often praised his boldness and vocal strength, though some critics noted a tendency toward melodrama. One review called his Romeo “undeniably magnetic, if slightly too eager with the sword.” Still, he won audiences over with his energy and passion.

Though respected in classical roles, Waller’s real popularity came from romantic adventure plays like Monsieur Beaucaire and Brigadier Gerard. These roles combined his knack for physicality, good looks, and charisma. Female fans loved him. A fan club called the “K.O.W. Brigade” (Keen on Waller) sprang up in the early 1900s, with women reportedly attending multiple performances just to see him cross the stage in uniform.

Waller dipped a toe into silent film with a 1915 version of Brigadier Gerard. He died that same year of pneumonia while on tour with the play Gamblers All.

Horace Greeley's Presidential Campaign

Horace Greeley championed abolition, women’s rights, vegetarianism, spiritualism—you name it, he was for it. A man of principle, sure. But also a man with the political finesse of a runaway ox cart.

In 1872, disgusted by the corruption and cronyism of President Ulysses S. Grant’s administration (think: Whiskey Ring, Credit Mobilier, and a Cabinet full of yes-men), the Liberal Republicans broke off to run their own candidate. And somehow, they landed on Horace Greeley. Yes, Greeley—the guy who once told everyone to “Go West, young man,” and once bailed Jefferson Davis out of jail.

Even weirder? The Democrats, desperate and directionless, endorsed him too. Suddenly, Greeley was the nominee of two parties who couldn’t stand each other, trying to play both sides of a very bloody Civil War aftermath.

He ran on a platform of “reconciliation,” hoping to reunite the North and South by offering amnesty to former Confederates and ending Reconstruction. He wanted to root out corruption, decentralize federal power, and bring peace. Noble goals, maybe. But as one political wag put it, “Greeley promised to clean house, but forgot to bring a broom.”

Grant’s campaign, meanwhile, was a juggernaut—well-funded, ruthlessly efficient, and brutal. His team painted Greeley as a flip-flopper, a friend of secessionists, and (worst of all in 1872) just plain weird. One cartoon showed Greeley riding a pig, another had him hugging a Klansman. It wasn’t subtle.

Artist John La Farge

 

John La Farge was a legend who changed the game, and he didn’t always play nice.

Born in 1835, La Farge started as a painter, dabbling in dreamy landscapes and rich, symbolic murals. His paintings were poetic, heavily influenced by the Pre-Raphaelites and his love for Japanese art—before Japanophilia was even cool. But his real claim to fame was stained glass.

Back in the late 19th century, stained glass was flat, lifeless, and frankly, a little boring. Enter La Farge, the mad scientist of color, who figured out how to layer glass to create depth, texture, and an almost psychedelic luminosity. He patented this opalescent glass technique in 1880—before his rival, Louis Comfort Tiffany, could stake a claim. His glass windows weren’t just pretty—they had soul, movement, and an ethereal glow that made churches and mansions feel downright divine.

La Farge’s work was a fever dream of symbolism, mythology, and a little bit of Catholic mysticism (despite his rocky relationship with organized religion). His murals, like the ones in Trinity Church in Boston, had the grandeur of Renaissance masterpieces but with an American boldness—think Michelangelo meets Mark Twain. He blended soft, Impressionistic light with hard, sculptural forms, making his work feel both dreamy and rock solid.

His stained glass, on the other hand, was like looking into another dimension. Rich blues and fiery reds bled into each other like living watercolors, capturing light in a way that had never been done before. He didn’t just design windows—he created portals to the divine.

Unfortunately, genius doesn’t always equate to financial success. John La Farge died in 1910, penniless but artistically undefeated. Louis Tiffany stole his ideas, marketed the hell out of them, and made a ton of money and fame in the bargain.

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