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.

Actress Blanche Ring

 

Blanche Ring was a full-blown cyclone in a corset. A whiskey-voiced dynamo with a devilish grin, she didn’t just perform on stage—she owned it. She could belt out a tune, crack a joke, and flirt her way into the hearts (and wallets) of every man in the audience before the orchestra finished warming up.

Born in 1871, Blanche came from theater royalty. Her family practically breathed greasepaint. She hit the stage early and never looked back, kicking down doors in vaudeville before strutting into Broadway like she had built the damn place herself.

The Yankee Consul (1904) changed everything. Blanche strutted onto the stage and belted out “In the Good Old Summertime,” and just like that, she was a star. The song became a sensation. People were humming it in bars, in horse-drawn cabs, in the gutters outside Coney Island. The New York Times called her performance “a rollicking delight” and said she had “a voice that wraps around you like a warm breeze and a laugh that promises trouble.”

Blanche didn’t do dainty. She was big, brassy, and had a knowing twinkle in her eye that made men weak in the knees. She thrived in roles that let her be playful, a little wicked, and always in control. In The Merry Widow and the Devil (1908), she practically stole the show with her wisecracks and winks, making sure nobody left the theater without knowing damn well who Blanche Ring was.

She was a vaudeville queen who could swing between Broadway and the burlesque circuit without missing a beat. And she knew how to sell a song. “Rings on My Fingers” (1909) became another monster hit. She strutted onto the stage, flashed that devil-may-care smile, and sang about a woman who played her way into luxury. The audience ate it up.

Actress Roselle Knott

 

Roselle Knott didn’t just act—she dared. She walked onto the stage like she owned it, flashing a sharp smile that could cut glass and delivering performances that made critics scramble for their thesauruses. She wasn’t the biggest name in theater, but she didn’t need to be. Knott had presence, nerve, and a reputation for being as unpredictable as she was talented.

Knott hustled her way up through the ranks of American theater, refusing to play the shrinking violet. She was a leading lady with an edge, the kind of actress who could make a playwright’s dialogue sound twice as sharp just by saying it. By the early 1900s, she was headlining productions that had audiences buzzing.

Her real breakthrough came in When Knighthood Was in Flower (1901), where she played Mary Tudor with a mix of regal grace and barely concealed fury. The New York Times called her “a revelation,” adding that she “possesses a fire and wit that elevate the role beyond mere historical drama.” Translation: she stole the show.

But Knott didn’t let herself get boxed into one kind of role. She bounced between high drama and sharp-edged comedy, keeping audiences guessing. In The Love Route (1906), she played a tough, whip-smart woman who didn’t take any nonsense from her male co-stars. One critic called her “a force of nature wrapped in silk and dynamite.”

Offstage, Knott had a reputation for being as fiery as her performances. She wasn’t one of those delicate, wide-eyed ingénues who played nice with producers and press. She knew her worth and wasn’t afraid to demand it. When one theater manager tried to short her pay, she threatened to walk out mid-run. He caved.

She toured relentlessly, hitting stages across the country and even venturing overseas. Crowds loved her. Critics admired her. But Broadway, fickle as ever, started shifting toward newer, flashier stars. By the 1910s, her name wasn’t lighting up marquees the way it used to.

Did she fade away? Hell no. She just took her talent elsewhere. She toured, did regional productions, and kept audiences on their toes. The industry might have moved on, but Roselle Knott never stopped doing what she did best—owning every stage she stepped on.

After she passed in 1948, the Boston Globe said, “Miss Knott acts as if she’s the only person in the room who knows how the story ends.” And maybe she was.

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Apache Indian Warriors in 1883

Century Magazine published this illustration of Apache warriors in 1883.

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Dorothy Campbell Women's Golf Champion

 

Dorothy Campbell made history in 1909, winning both the British and U.S. Women’s Amateur Golf Championships—something no one had done before. Then she did it again in 1910, proving it was no fluke. Her swing was smooth, her short game deadly, and her nerves—steel.

Reporters took notice. One wrote, “Miss Campbell plays with a steadiness and precision that unnerves her opponents.” Another said, “She has the rare gift of making difficult shots look effortless.”

Fellow golfers admired her skill. Marion Hollins, a champion herself, said, “Dorothy Campbell thinks her way around a course better than anyone I’ve seen.” Alexa Stirling called her “the toughest competitor of her era.”

Dorothy didn’t just win—she crushed her opponents. She won the Canadian Women’s Amateur three times. She added another U.S. Amateur title in 1924, long after most players would have retired.

She died in a car accident in 1945 at the age of 61.

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Political Cartoon showing Kaiser Wilhelm Sword Fighting Czar Nicholas II of Russia

 

This 1915 political cartoon shows Kaiser Wilhelm battling Czar Nicholas II for control of Russia.

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Political Cartoon of Kaiser Wilhelm Saluting American Flag WWI

 

This political cartoon showing Kaiser Wilhelm saluting the American flag appeared in the New York World in 1915. It was before the American entry into the war, so maybe they thought he was afraid to take us on.

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Batchelor’s Glee Club on the Battleship Maine

 

This 1898 photograph shows the Batchelor’s Glee Club on the Battleship Maine before its sinking in Havana Harbor.

“The club’s fame rested chiefly on its dogs, which were in great request among the officers and men alike.”

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Cartoon of Father Christmas in War Zone World War I

 

Father Christmas finds children in the war zone—World War I.

The whispers to the girl: “What did I tell you? I said he’d find our chimney.”

From La Baionnette, Paris. (1917)

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Queen Wilhelmina of Holland in World War I

 Queen Wilhelmina of Holland and Princess Juliana in 1917.

When World War I erupted in 1914, the Netherlands had one goal—stay out of it. Queen Wilhelmina kept her country neutral while the war raged all around.

She strengthened the Dutch military, kept a sharp eye on foreign affairs, and made sure her borders were secure. The Queen often visited troops, riding on horseback through muddy camps. Soldiers adored her. One Dutch paper said, “Her Majesty stands firm as a lioness, guarding the gates of our nation.”

Neutrality, however, wasn’t easy. Germany and Britain pressured the Netherlands. German U-boats lurked in Dutch waters. The British stopped Dutch ships, and food shortages hit hard.

Wilhelmina refused to be bullied. When the Germans tested Dutch resolve, she told her generals, “We will fight to the last man and the last bullet.”

The war ended in 1918, and the Netherlands remained unscathed.

Wilhelmina had pulled off the impossible. She kept her nation neutral, her people safe, and her crown firmly on her head. A Dutch newspaper summed it up: “Through storm and shadow, Queen Wilhelmina has stood, unbowed and unbroken.”

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