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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