In 1940, the average worker in the United States earned $1,368 a year — roughly $25 a week. And while that figure did rise during the course of the decade, it still sounds like a meager amount by today’s standards, thanks to inflation. Back then, however, a dollar could stretch remarkably far.
According to the inflation calculator provided by the U.S. Bureau of Labor Statistics, $1 in 1940 is equivalent to $23.34 in 2026. So, a dollar was enough to stock up on some essential groceries or cover a modest night out. Here’s a look at exactly what you could buy for a buck back in 1940.
A 1-pound loaf of white bread cost about 10 cents in 1940, meaning $1 bought you 10 loaves at that price. But a loaf could often be found for even less if you shopped around, so a dollar could get you as many as a dozen loaves, making bread an important staple in most homes.
In 1940, a dozen large white eggs cost about 33 cents (and possibly as little as 27 cents), so you could get at least three dozen eggs for a dollar. Being relatively affordable, eggs were considered the perfect protein, and most households ate them daily. And if you wanted bacon with your eggs, you could get at least 4 pounds of bacon for a buck.
In the U.S. today, a standard Hershey’s milk chocolate bar typically costs between $1.80 and $2.20. Back in 1940, it cost just 5 cents, so a dollar could get you 20 bars. The size of the bar might have differed slightly, though — Hershey was committed to maintaining the 5-cent price point throughout the 1940s and up through the 1960s, but it adjusted the size of the bar to account for fluctuating cacao prices. Coca-Cola also maintained a 5-cent price point in the mid-20th century, so you could get 20 bottles of Coke for a dollar, too.
In 2025, the average price for a pound of coffee surpassed $9. In 1940, a dollar could buy around 4 pounds of coffee, enough to keep a household caffeinated for at least a week. But a couple of years later, things took a turn for the worse: Coffee was rationed in America from November 1942 to July 1943 to make sure there was enough for the soldiers fighting in World War II.
The price of gasoline has been on the rise in 2026, with the national average for a gallon now passing the $4 mark. In 1940, $4 would have been a shocking price, since at the time, a gallon of gas cost around 15 cents. While that’s still quite high accounting for inflation, you could buy 6 gallons at the pump and still get change for a dollar.
In 1940, a standard movie ticket cost a quarter, and matinee showings could be as little as 10 cents. It was a good year for movies, too. You could watch Charlie Chaplin in The Great Dictator; Cary Grant, Katharine Hepburn, and James Stewart in The Philadelphia Story; and Disney’s Pinocchio and Fantasia, all without spending more than a dollar.
A first-class stamp cost 3 cents in 1940, and remained the same price until 1959 (when it increased to 4 cents). So, for $1, you could stamp 33 letters — more than enough to keep up with family and friends in an age long before email and social media.
According to Yelp, the cost of a men’s haircut in the U.S. today typically ranges from $25 to $40 (though it can, of course, be cheaper or much more expensive). In 1940, a standard men’s haircut in a barbershop cost around 50 cents, and might have included a shave. For women, a standard cut in a 1940s salon would likely have exceeded a dollar — but would still have been far below the $60 or so charged by a midrange salon today.
A pair of medium-quality women’s silk stockings cost about a dollar in 1940. That same year, nylon stockings became available to the American public for the first time, causing quite a stir — customers rushed to stores in the thousands, and 4 million pairs sold out in four days. Nylon was generally cheaper than top-tier silk, but nylon stockings were a premium product upon their nationwide release — being stronger, more durable, more elastic and less prone to wrinkling than silk — and demand was extremely high, driving the price up to around $1.25 a pair. So, if you only had a dollar, you’d have to stick with silk.
On the night of Sunday, April 14, 1912, the RMS Titanic was sailing through the North Atlantic on its maiden voyage from Southampton, England, to New York City. Most passengers and crew had no idea that within hours, the ship would strike an iceberg and descend into one of the most famous maritime disasters in history.
At the time of its launch, the Titanic epitomized the height of ocean liner engineering and luxury; it was well equipped to feed its more than 2,200 passengers and crew for the approximately weeklong transatlantic crossing. The food served varied depending on class, from French-influenced fine dining to hearty dishes meant to sustain passengers during the voyage. Based on surviving menus and other archival documentation, here’s what we know about how passengers dined on the night the Titanic sank.
First-class passengers were served an elaborate multicourse dinner that reflected the peak of Edwardian fine dining. A surviving dinner menu from April 14, 1912, preserved in the Royal Museums Greenwich collection, was further explored by journalist Dana McCauley’s book Last Dinner on the Titanic: Menus and Recipes From the Great Liner, giving us a clear idea of how passengers spent this ill-fated evening.
The first-class dinner began with a selection of light starters and soups, including hors d’oeuvre varies (assorted appetizers), oysters, consommé Olga (a clear beef broth finished with julienned vegetables and a splash of port wine), and cream of barley. The fish course followed, featuring salmon with a buttery mousseline sauce and cucumber.
Next were the more substantial entrées, and they offered a range of choices: filet mignon Lili (beef fillet medallions in a rich sauce), sauté of chicken Lyonnaise (pan-fried chicken and onions in a French-style sauce), vegetable marrow farci (a stuffed squash dish), lamb with mint sauce, roast duckling with apple sauce, and beef sirloin and potatoes served up château style.
There were also a series of side dishes, including green peas, creamed carrots, boiled rice, and parmentier and boiled new potatoes for both crispy and soft potato options.
The meal then transitioned into a series of lighter and cold dishes typical of French haute cuisine. These included punch romaine (a chilled citrus-based drink) and roast squab (pigeon considered a delicacy) with cress, cold asparagus vinaigrette, pâté de foie gras, and celery.
Finally — if there was any room for dessert — the dinner concluded with an extensive sweets selection: Waldorf pudding, peaches in Chartreuse jelly, chocolate and vanilla éclairs, and French ice cream.
Compared to the elaborate French dining of first class, second-class passengers were served a more traditional British-style meal. While simpler in selection, the menu, preserved by Royal Museums Greenwich, still consisted of multiple varied and substantial courses.
The meal began with consommé tapioca, a light soup slightly thickened with tapioca pearls. The fish course followed, featuring baked haddock with sharp sauce (a tangy reduction), then a series of main dishes influenced by familiar British fare: curried chicken and rice, spring lamb with mint sauce, and roast turkey with cranberry sauce.
As in first class, the mains were served with vegetables and starches, including green peas, pureed turnips, boiled rice, and both boiled and roast potatoes. The meal then moved into desserts and sweets, with wine jelly and plum pudding, followed by coconut sandwich cookies and American ice cream.
Second-class passengers were also offered a selection of nuts, fresh fruit, cheese, biscuits, and coffee to round out — and close out — the meal.
Unlike menus for the dining rooms of the upper classes, third-class menus from the Titanic are a rarity in surviving archival materials. What is known about the final meal in steerage comes primarily from the White Star Line, the company that operated the Titanic. Its provisioning records, as well as later historical reconstructions, serve as the best blueprint for this historic meal.
As noted in Last Dinner on the Titanic, the final scheduled meal for third-class passengers was high tea rather than a formal dinner service. (In keeping with working-class British traditions of the period, the main Sunday meal was generally served at midday rather than in the evening.)
In contrast to afternoon tea, high tea was a more substantial savory meal eaten with cutlery. White Star Line provisioning plans indicate that third-class passengers would likely have had a final meal consisting of ragout of beef with potatoes and pickles, stewed fruit, fresh bread and butter, currant buns, and tea. Though far simpler than the lavish multicourse meals served upstairs, the spread was still considered hearty and respectable for the working-class travelers on the ill-fated ship.
Before living rooms and family rooms, there was the parlor — a space designed less for living in than for being seen. Often pristine and a little intimidating, the room was reserved for guests, special occasions, and the careful display of a family’s taste and status. Though the term has mostly disappeared today, the parlor has a long history, from medieval monasteries to middle-class domestic life. Here’s a look back at the rise and fall of the parlor.
The word “parlor” has always been about talking. The term traces back to the Old French parler, meaning “to speak,” and entered English around the 13th century as “parlur” — a word that originally referred to a small window in monasteries through which priests heard confessions. The meaning then expanded to describe a designated room within a monastery set aside for conversation — a space where the otherwise cloistered inhabitants could interact with visitors or speak privately among themselves.
That dual idea — conversation paired with separation — stuck. By the late 14th century, the word had shifted beyond religious life to describe a room set apart from a great hall and offering a measure of privacy. By the 15th century, the concept had settled into domestic architecture as a room in a private home used for receiving guests or holding more formal conversations.
The parlor’s journey from the monastery to the middle-class home mirrors broader changes in architecture and social life. In medieval Europe, most domestic life took place in a single large hall. Privacy, in the modern sense, was rare. Over time, however, homes — especially among wealthier households — began to develop specialized rooms branching off from that central space. One of these was the parlor: a smaller, more controlled environment for conversation, business, or receiving select visitors.
Early on, the parlor wasn’t always the front-and-center “best room” we tend to imagine today. In some regions, it functioned as a private chamber or even a bedroom tucked away from the main living area. Only later — by the 18th century and especially the 19th century — did it become firmly established as a formal reception room, often located at the front of the house.
That shift coincided with the rise of the middle class in Europe. As industrialization created new wealth, families increasingly sought to display their status through their homes — and specifically through rooms designed to be seen. By the Victorian era, the parlor had become a kind of stage set: a carefully curated space where the household presented its best self to the outside world.
At its most basic level, the parlor was for receiving guests. Social calls — brief, often highly ritualized visits — were a cornerstone of life in the 18th and 19th centuries, and the parlor provided the setting. Typically located just off the entryway, it allowed visitors to be entertained without granting them access to the more private (and perhaps messier) parts of the home.
But the parlor did much more than host polite conversation. It was also a showcase. By the Victorian era, parlors were often filled — sometimes to the point of excess — with decorative objects meant to signal taste, refinement, and, above all, prosperity. Mass production made a wide array of goods available, and families eagerly filled their parlors with items such as porcelain figurines, vases, mirrors, decorative plates, and framed photographs, as well as ferns in glass cases, taxidermied birds, Japanese fans, peacock feathers, ornate clocks, and richly upholstered furniture.
Much of this work fell to women, who were typically responsible for decorating and maintaining the parlor. Their choices helped define the household’s public image, turning the room into a carefully composed expression of identity and status. Critics at the time — notably sociologist Thorstein Veblen — described this as “conspicuous consumption,” a term Veblen coined in 1899. But for many families, it was simply part of participating in middle-class life.
The parlor wasn’t always a stiff or silent place, however. It was also a center of entertainment. Before the advent of radio and television, parlors hosted a wide range of activities, from amateur theatrical performances to music and games. Families gathered around the piano to sing or dance; guests acted out charades or participated in parlor games such as Sculptor, where players froze into dramatic tableaux. More energetic pastimes — such as Blind Man’s Buff, in which a blindfolded player tried to catch others — could turn the carefully arranged room into a site of chaos. Word games, riddles, and shadow plays offered quieter alternatives, combining amusement with displays of wit and education.
And the parlor’s uses extended even further. In the 19th century, it was not uncommon for families to lay out the dead in the parlor for wakes or viewings, allowing friends and relatives to pay their respects in the home itself. Over time, however, these practices began to shift. As noted in the Oxford Research Encyclopedia of American History, changing middle-class ideas about death moved “a respectable burial from the family parlor to the funeral parlor,” unlinking mourning from the domestic space.
In all these ways — social, aesthetic, and even ritual — the parlor functioned as a kind of public-facing heart of the home.
By the early 20th century, the parlor began to lose its place in everyday life. Part of the problem was practicality. Parlors were often the most elaborately decorated rooms in a house, but also among the least used. Maintaining a space that existed primarily for occasional guests could feel wasteful, especially as ideas about home life shifted toward comfort and informality.
At the same time, social norms were changing. The rigid etiquette that governed formal visits began to fade, and families increasingly preferred spaces where they could relax rather than perform. The very qualities that had once made the parlor desirable — its formality, its separation from daily life — began to make it feel outdated.
In response, a new kind of room emerged: the living room. The name itself signaled a shift in priorities. Rather than a space reserved for appearances, the living room was designed for everyday use — a place to read, talk, and unwind. Later in the 20th century, additional informal spaces such as family rooms and rec rooms further blurred the boundaries between public and private life within the home.
The word “parlor” didn’t disappear entirely, but its meaning narrowed. It lingered in business names — ice cream parlors, beauty parlors, funeral parlors — where it retained its association with receiving the public in a designated space. In homes, however, it largely faded from use.
What remains is the idea behind it: that a room can be more than just a place to sit. For centuries, the parlor was where households performed their identity — where they spoke, displayed, entertained, and even mourned. Its disappearance marks not just a change in architecture, but a broader shift in how people think about privacy, status, and the meaning of home itself.
Before grocery store shelves became a veritable rainbow of products, many foods looked very different. For most of human history, food got its color from natural plant pigments, what animals ate, and how foods were processed. That began to change in the 19th century with the rise of industrial food production as well as early synthetic dyes, many of which were derived from coal tar byproducts.
Once introduced, food colorants spread quickly. They changed not only how food looked, but also what consumers came to expect. By the early 20th century, food coloring was here to stay, and what we now think of as normal food hues are often anything but natural. Here’s a peek at what seven familiar foods used to look like before modern coloring punched them up.
A brick of bright orange cheddar cheese is a household staple for many, but real cheddar wasn’t originally orange at all. The color we now associate with the cheese began as a marketing trick in 17th-century England, when cheesemakers started adding plant-based dyes.
At the time, farmers were skimming fatty cream off the top of milk to sell separately, leaving behind lower-fat milk that produced paler cheese. The golden hue of traditional cheddar came from the beta-carotene in the grass the cows ate; because that was carried in the milk’s fat, the color disappeared when the fat was skimmed off. Adding color with saffron, marigold, annatto, and even carrot juice helped mask the difference.
The practice made its way to North America and in some cases became even more exaggerated. By the 19th century, some producers were even adding lead chromate to intensify cheddar’s orange color and make lower-quality cheese look more desirable. This was part of a broader era of food adulteration, when appearance mattered more than safety. Today, most orange cheddar still gets its color from annatto and not from aging or flavor — but, thankfully, not from lead either.
Wild salmon owe their vibrant pink-orange color to their diet, specifically carotenoids from krill and other small crustaceans they eat. Farmed salmon, meanwhile, are raised on manufactured feed in ocean net pens and thus don’t naturally consume these foods. Without intervention, their flesh would be a rather unappealing dull grayish color — not exactly the first thing you’d reach for when shopping for dinner.
Salmon’s appearance became important as farmed salmon moved from experimental aquaculture into grocery stores in the late 20th century. Customers, it turns out, were willing to pay more depending on the color of the cut, and so farmers began adding astaxanthin, a naturally occurring carotenoid pigment found in the food wild salmon eat, to their fish feed.
Much of this pigment supply was industrialized and scaled by companies such as DSM, a Swiss-Dutch chemical company. In the late 1980s, DSM (formerly Royal DSM) even introduced the SalmoFan, a color chart resembling a paint swatch, allowing farmers to select the exact shade of pink they wanted their salmon to be — a practice that continues today.
Contrary to what the name suggests, oranges are sometimes not orange at all. When they grow in tropical climates such as southern Florida, high temperatures prevent chlorophyll breakdown in the peel. This leaves the peel a patchy green, even if it’s perfectly ripe. As U.S. citrus production expanded in the early 20th century, oranges from California — where cooler nights naturally encouraged a brighter peel — helped shape consumer expectations by promoting perfectly orange-colored fruit through advertising and packaging.
Florida growers had to compete. In the 1930s, they began using dyes such as Citrus Red No. 2, applying it to the peel and giving the fruit a brighter color. The practice continues today, but as the U.S. government plans to phase out Citrus Red No. 2 dye, growers may need to rely on another method: exposing the oranges to ethylene gas in degreening rooms.
In the early 20th century, concerns over food adulteration led to the 1906 Pure Food and Drug Act, enforcing closer scrutiny of synthetic additives. This included early versions of food coloring such as toxic and synthetic coal-byproduct dyes. At the time, maraschino cherries had already been transformed from preserved Adriatic fruit into a heavily processed product. They were often preserved in sulfur or chemical brine solutions, then rehydrated in sugar syrup, artificially flavored with vanilla or almond, and finally dyed a vivid red using aniline dyes — one of the toxic coal-tar dyes.
So did consumers have to suffer with what The New York Times described as “sickly yellow” maraschino cherries after the Pure Food law? Not exactly. As certain coal-tar dyes fell out of favor, foods were able to get that bright, artificial color through an evolving roster of government-approved synthetic reds.
There’s not much better than a pat of golden-yellow butter on fresh bread, but the rich dairy product didn’t always look like what we expect today. That’s largely because butter’s natural hue comes from beta-carotene in the fresh grass that cows eat, which shows up in their milk. Butter made in spring and summer, when cows grazed on pasture, was naturally deeper yellow, while winter butter, made from hay-fed herds, often turned noticeably pale.
Seasonal variation lessened once cows left the pasture and entered the industrial dairy era in the second half of the 1800s. So, producers started standardizing color, most commonly with plant-based additives such as annatto, creating a more uniform yellow year-round.
By the late 19th century, the focus on color intensified during the so-called “butter wars” as margarine emerged as a cheap competitor. Margarine was often dyed to resemble butter, prompting legislation in parts of North America that restricted its coloring — or even forced it to be a different color entirely, such as pink. In response, butter producers leaned even more heavily into a consistent golden-yellow hue year-round as a marker of reliability and authenticity.
Before modern additives, processed meat products looked far duller than the vibrant reds and pinks we see today. Fresh meat can appear bright red at first, thanks to oxygen binding to myoglobin, a protein found in muscle. But as oxygen decreases, the pigment changes again and leaves meat a brownish-gray that gives the appearance of spoilage.
That’s partly why producers began using curing agents long before synthetic dyes entered the picture. Early curing relied on naturally occurring nitrates in salt (often called saltpeter), which was widely used for preserving meats. Over time, it was discovered that these compounds convert into nitrites, which interact with myoglobin to form a stable, heat-resistant pigment that keeps it the familiar pinkish-red color seen in bacon or sausages. (It also helped inhibit bacterial growth.) Synthetic dyes, of course, were eventually used, too, such as the once-common Red No. 2 or Red No. 3, creating the vivid reds seen in some regional hot dogs such as Maine’s famed red hot dogs.
Ancient winemakers sometimes used herbs or minerals to preserve and enhance the appearance of their wines. Modern winemakers can color their wine, too: Since the 1970s, a concentrated grape-juice-based additive known as Mega Purple has regularly been used in some mass-produced wines to deepen colors, improve taste, and standardize quality across batches. Lighter-skinned grape varieties, cooler growing seasons, early harvesting, or fermentation hiccups can make some reds paler, and Mega Purple can help round this out.
Mega Purple isn’t the only coloring tool in winemakers’ kits. Some food-grade additives used in the broader food industry, such as FD&C Yellow No. 5, cochineal extract, and carmine, sometimes show up in wine in order to meet consumer expectations.
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7 Surprising Facts About the Age of Dinosaurs
Photo credit: DE AGOSTINI PICTURE LIBRARY / Contributor via Getty Images
AuthorDarren Orf
April 29, 2026
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For millions of years, the predominant class of animal on Earth was that of the dinosaurs — a name that comes from the Greek words for “terrible lizards” (even though dinosaurs were reptiles but not lizards at all). From around 252 million to 66 million years ago, these incredible creatures evolved in every corner of the globe, even Antarctica. Although the age of dinosaurs stretched far longer than humans have even walked upright (186 million years versus 7 million years), scientists have only been aware of the existence of dinosaurs for about two centuries, and our understanding of them changes almost daily as paleontologists uncover more secrets. These seven surprising facts explore the ever-fascinating world of these ancient “terrible lizards.”
The Earth is no stranger to mass extinctions, having experienced five (and currently undergoing a sixth) in its 4.6 billion-year history. But none was quite so devastating as the Permian extinction, otherwise known as the “Great Dying.” Scientists are not certain of its cause (a leading theory is continuous volcanic eruptions in modern-day Siberia), but its deadly results aren’t up for debate: The world lost 90% of its plant and animal species. This cataclysmic event, which occurred around 252 million years ago, marked the end of the Permian Period and start of the Triassic Period. As life recovered from this biological trauma, various animals took root, including the Lystrosaurus, ichthyosaurs, and eventually, archosaurs — the ancestors of dinosaurs. The first dinosaurs appeared in the fossil record around 240 million years ago, and a second extinction, known as the Triassic-Jurassic extinction event, occurred around 202 million years ago, killing off many of their rival archosaur species. With less competition and larger ranges, the small dinosaurs were then able to thrive and evolve into the gigantic reptiles of the subsequent Jurassic and Cretaceous periods.
Photo credit: Murray Close / Contributor via Getty Images
Most Dinosaurs in Jurassic Park Didn’t Live During the Jurassic Period
Although the age of dinosaurs often conjures up an image of a tropical planet with stegosauruses and T. rexes running rampant, the scientific reality is more complicated. The dinosaurs actually lived during three different geologic periods: the Triassic, Jurassic, and Cretaceous (known overall as the Mesozoic Era). All three periods played host to giant reptiles we know today as dinosaurs, but each one was distinct, with its own unique cast of dino characters. While the Triassic Period saw mostly small dinosaurs, the Jurassic Period gave rise to monstrously proportioned dinos, and the Cretaceous Period hosted an immense diversity of species. Many of the dinosaurs featured in Steven Spielberg’s 1993 film Jurassic Park — including the velociraptor, triceratops, ankylosaurus, parasaurolophus, and most famously, the Tyrannosaurus rex — actually evolved during the late Cretaceous Period. Only a few starring dinos, such as the dilophosaurus and brachiosaurus (in arguably the best scene in the film), actually lived during the titular Jurassic Period. Thankfully, Hollywood corrected the error with a Jurassic Park-inspired children’s movie in 2020 called Camp Cretaceous.
Photo credit: VW Pics / Contributor via Getty Images
Dinosaurs Measured From a Few Inches Big to Several Stories Tall
Today, the animal class Mammalia features a stunning array of species in all different shapes and sizes, from the 2-gram bumblebee bat to the 200-ton blue whale. The same can be said for the dinosaurs. The smallest of the now-extinct dinosaurs weren’t very big at all; some may have only been the size of a sparrow. On the other end of the spectrum, no creature quite compared to the Titanosaur, an especially gargantuan long-necked sauropod. The largest of this cadre was the Argentinosaurus, a species discovered in (you guessed it) Argentina. Although no complete skeleton of this dinosaur has ever been uncovered, paleontologists estimate it would’ve stood 131 feet tall (taller than a 10-story building) and weighed upwards of 110 tons, making it the largest land animal in Earth’s history.
The world of the dinosaurs was unlike our own. For one, the supercontinent Pangea was beginning to break up during the Triassic Period, so the Earth’s landmasses during the dinosaur age would look unrecognizable to modern eyes. What’s more, the length of a day — the average time it takes Earth to rotate on its axis — wasn’t 24 hours. This is because ever since the Earth’s creation, the planet’s rotation has been slowing down. Some 1.4 billion years ago — long before the dinosaurs — a day on Earth was approximately 18 hours and 41 minutes. At the dawn of the dinosaur age, a day would have been around 23 hours long. Over time, Earth’s rotation continued to slow down as the moon moved further into its modern orbit. Every year, approximately 0.0000135 seconds are added to the length of a day on Earth. Since the end of the Bronze Age (around 1200 BCE), that small change has only added up to 0.047 seconds, but in the many millions of years since the dinosaurs, it made up the difference of an entire hour.
Photo credit: Mohamad Haghani/Stocktrek Images via Getty Images
The Tyrannosaurus Rex (And Many Dinos) Had Feathers
One of the biggest paleontological revelations of the past couple of decades is the discovery that most (if not all) dinosaurs had feathers. Similar to how all mammals have some kind of fur — from an alpaca’s extra-dense coat to the wispy hairs found on elephants — dinosaurs also sported a wide range of feathers. When scientists first identified dinosaur fossils in the 1820s, the consensus was that these extinct creatures were simply large reptiles. While true, many dinosaurs are actually more closely related to birds (which can technically be classified as reptiles). However, the reptilian classification caused paleontologists for more than a century to picture these beasts more like scaly crocodiles than resplendent roosters, so when fossil discoveries in the early 20th century displayed evidence of feather insertion points, paleontologists overlooked them in favor of the accepted “big lizard” paradigm. Now scientists know that many of the dinosaurs of the Jurassic and Cretaceous periods displayed a wide array of colorful feathers. The precise ubiquity of feathers is still up for debate, with some evidence suggesting that early Triassic dinosaurs and also long-necked dinosaurs such as sauropods were perhaps more scaly than feathery. But experts are now starting to change their perception of even the most famous dinos; one paleontologist described the theropod T. rex as a “roadrunner from Hell.”
All Land-Based Dinosaurs Died Out Within Nine Months
Mass extinctions are not usually measured in months, but one exception is the K-T (Cretaceous–Tertiary) extinction event that occurred 66 million years ago. When a 6-mile-wide asteroid larger than Mount Everest struck off the coast of what’s now the Yucatán Peninsula, the impact released 100 million megatons of energy, vaporizing the asteroid and sending a massive cloud of material into the atmosphere and across the globe. The resulting rain of molten glass, wildfires, tsunamis, volcanic eruptions, scalding air temperatures, and lasting darkness killed off all land-based dinosaurs within just nine months. Just as two extinction events had given rise to the dinosaurs’ rule on Earth, a third one ended it in a geological millisecond — or did it?
Although swift velociraptors, massive titanosaurs, and carnivorous T. rexes are long extinct, some species of small avian dinosaurs — by some accounts no larger than ducks — survived the cataclysmic blast thanks to their ability to subsist on small amounts of food and forage the world’s destroyed forests with an evolutionary advantage known as a “beak.” It’s from these hardy survivors that all of today’s birds descended. And these avian dinos weren’t the only survivors: Rodent-like mammalian species outlasted the blast in their burrows, eventually awakening to a completely changed world. No longer the constant prey of meat-eating dinosaurs, these rodents ushered in a new age of mammals on land.
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All the Presidents in Height Order
Illustration courtesy of Madison Hunt
AuthorMark DeJoy
April 29, 2026
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When we think of U.S. presidents through history, we don’t tend to picture their physical frame so much as recall a collection of historical facts and anecdotes. If you imagine George Washington, for example, is a mental image of his presence in a room the first thing that comes to mind? Or do you recall a story about a cherry tree, or crossing the Delaware? With a few exceptions here and there, the physicality of presidents has been largely obscured by history. Can you name the tallest president? The shortest? What about the second-tallest or second-shortest? A full list of the height of each president follows, spanning a foot difference from 5 feet, 4 inches tall to 6 feet, 4 inches tall.
Images via Getty Images, illustration courtesy of Madison Hunt
Over 6 Feet Tall
The tallest president in U.S. history was Abraham Lincoln, who stood at 6 feet, 4 inches — and that’s without his signature stovepipe hat. It’s a height that still sounds fairly tall today, but it was extraordinarily tall for the time; the average height for an American male during Lincoln’s presidency was 5 feet, 7 inches, making him 9 inches taller than average. Lincoln’s equivalent height today would be 6 feet, 7 inches — a half-inch taller than the average NBA player.
Given his distinct physical presence, it perhaps comes as no surprise that Lincoln’s appearance was frequently commented upon in his day. The New York Herald once wrote, “Lincoln is the leanest, lankiest, most ungainly mass of legs, arms, and hatchet-face ever strung upon a single frame.” Another reporter wrote of his “shambling gait” in London’s The Times, and described him as “a tall, lank, lean man, considerably over six feet in height, with stooping shoulders, long pendulous arms, terminating in hands of extraordinary dimensions, which, however, were far exceeded in proportion by his feet.” Here are the 18 other presidents who stood over 6 feet, if not quite as noticeably as Uncle Abe.
– Abraham Lincoln: 6 feet, 4 inches (193 cm) – Lyndon B. Johnson: 6 feet, 3.5 inches (192 cm) – Donald J. Trump: 6 feet, 3 inches (191 cm) – Thomas Jefferson: 6 feet, 2.5 inches (189 cm) – Chester A. Arthur: 6 ft, 2 inches (188 cm) – Bill Clinton: 6 feet, 2 inches (188 cm) – George H. W. Bush: 6 feet, 2 inches (188 cm) – Franklin D. Roosevelt: 6 feet, 2 inches (188 cm) – George Washington: 6 feet, 2 inches (188 cm) – Andrew Jackson: 6 feet, 1 inch (185 cm) – John F. Kennedy: 6 feet, 1 inch (185 cm) – Barack Obama: 6 feet, 1 inch (185 cm) – Ronald Reagan: 6 feet, 1 inch (185 cm) – James Buchanan: 6 feet, 1 inch (185 cm) – Gerald R. Ford: 6 feet, 1 inch (185 cm) – James A. Garfield: 6 feet, 1 inch (185 cm) – Warren G. Harding: 6 feet, 1 inch (185 cm) – James Monroe: 6 feet, 1 inch (185 cm) – John Tyler: 6 feet, 1 inch (185 cm)
Images via Getty Images, illustration courtesy of Madison Hunt
Over 5 Feet, 10 Inches Tall
The average height of all 46 U.S. presidents is 5 feet, 11 inches, and it has been decades since the United States elected a president below that height (in part, notably, because all U.S. presidents have been male). Jimmy Carter was the last one, at 5 feet, 9.5 inches — still roughly an inch taller than the average American male at the time. According to the data, the United States almost never elects a president who is shorter than the average U.S. citizen of the time. The last time Americans voted in a shorter-than-average president was when Benjamin Harrison emerged victorious in the election of 1888, though at only 1.5 centimeters below the average of the time, he wouldn’t have been noticeably shorter. Based on this fact, it does seem that Americans prefer their presidents to be somewhat tall — though, considering the lack of mention in exit polls over the years, that may be a subconscious preference rather than an actual requirement. Here are the presidents who fell right around average height for a commander in chief, between 5 feet, 10 inches and 5 feet, 11 inches tall.
Images via Getty Images, illustration courtesy of Madison Hunt
Under 5 Feet, 10 Inches Tall
On the other end of the height spectrum, the shortest U.S. president was James Madison, who at 5 feet, 4 inches holds that record by 2 inches — the next-shortest presidents were Martin Van Buren and Benjamin Harrison, both at 5 feet, 6 inches. The average height in Madison’s time was actually slightly taller than in Lincoln’s time; 172 centimeters to 170 centimeters, or just a bit shy of 5 feet, 8 inches. Despite Madison being the only president on record who was shorter than his First Lady (Dolley Madison was around 5 feet, 7 inches tall), his relatively diminutive physical stature didn’t cause nearly the same level of commentary as Lincoln’s lanky height (or if it did, that commentary is lost to history). To conclude our list, here are the 14 presidents who stood under 5 feet, 10 inches tall.
- Jimmy Carter: 5 feet, 9.5 inches (177 cm) - Millard Fillmore: 5 feet, 9 inches (175 cm) - Harry S. Truman: 5 feet, 9 inches (175 cm) - Rutherford B. Hayes: 5 feet, 8.5 inches (174 cm) - Ulysses S. Grant: 5 feet, 8 inches (173 cm) - William Henry Harrison: 5 feet, 8 inches (173 cm) - James K. Polk: 5 feet, 8 inches (173 cm) - Zachary Taylor: 5 feet, 8 inches (173 cm) - John Quincy Adams: 5 feet, 7.5 inches (171 cm) - John Adams: 5 feet, 7 inches (170 cm) - William McKinley: 5 feet, 7 inches (170 cm) - Benjamin Harrison: 5 feet, 6 inches (168 cm) - Martin Van Buren: 5 feet, 6 inches (168 cm) - James Madison: 5 feet, 4 inches (163 cm)
Secret societies have long shaped history from the shadows. Some groups have guarded spiritual truths, others operated underground to challenge political authority, and still others have connected powerful individuals across borders. While their aims vary, they share a structure: restricted membership, formal initiation, and closely guarded knowledge often revealed through a series of hierarchical ranks.
What these groups also share is a reliance on secrecy itself — not just as a tool, but as the foundation of their influence. Here’s a look at 10 secret societies that held remarkable power in their time.
For nearly 2,000 years, the Eleusinian Mysteries — a secretive religious tradition centered on the goddesses Demeter and Persephone — stood as the best-known and most enduring mystery cult in ancient Greece. Held at Eleusis, a town northwest of Athens, likely starting around 1600 BCE, the rites were open only to those who underwent a formal initiation that involved a strict vow of silence.
What initiates experienced during the Eleusinian rites remains one of history’s most tantalizing unknowns. Ancient sources agree that the ceremonies culminated in a dramatic nighttime ritual inside a grand hall known as the Telesterion, where participants went through a profound spiritual revelation — one so powerful, some claimed it erased their fear of death.
The Eleusinian Mysteries expanded across the Greek and later Roman worlds, attracting figures such as Plato, Socrates, and Cicero. Like later secret societies, it became an exclusive network whose initiates were bound by secrecy and promised personal transformation through hidden knowledge.
Founded around the sixth century BCE by the mathematician Pythagoras (of the famous theorem), the Pythagorean Brotherhood was both a philosophical school and a tightly controlled secret society. Based in southern Italy, its members lived communally, shared property, and adhered to strict rules — including long periods of silence for new initiates — while guarding their teachings from outsiders.
At the core of the Brotherhood was a radical idea: that numbers underpinned all reality. Mathematics wasn’t just a tool but a sacred key to understanding the universe. This idea was intertwined with beliefs in the immortality of the soul and reincarnation. Members pursued purification through study, discipline, and an almost monastic lifestyle that involved strict vegetarianism.
But the Brotherhood’s influence extended beyond philosophy. Ancient sources suggest it also pursued political power, embedding itself within elite circles and shaping civic life. Ultimately, that strategy provoked backlash. By the fifth century BCE, persecution and internal strife led to the Brotherhood’s collapse. Still, its ideas endured, profoundly shaping later thinkers including Plato and leaving a lasting imprint on Western thought.
Active in the 12th and 13th centuries, the Assassins were a secretive Shiite Islamic sect known for their targeted political killings and unwavering loyalty to their leader, Ḥasan-e Ṣabbāḥ (also known as the “Old Man of the Mountains”). Operating from mountain strongholds in Lebanon, they built influence not through armies but through fear, eliminating powerful enemies with precision.
Their name is the origin of the modern word “assassin,” though its exact roots are debated. It may derive from the Arabic term asāsīyūn (“the faithful”), later conflated with hashshāshīn — or “hashish users” — a label likely spread by enemies to discredit the group. Over time, the order’s real activities became entangled with dramatic stories, from drug-induced devotion to elaborate initiation rites — many of them recorded by outsiders and difficult to verify. Even so, the Assassins stand as an early example of a secret society wielding outsized political power through secrecy, discipline, and targeted violence.
Founded around 1118 during the Crusades, the Knights Templar were a Christian military order tasked with protecting pilgrims in the Holy Land. Unlike classic secret societies, they were a highly visible institution — sanctioned by the church and deeply embedded in medieval politics — but their internal rituals, hierarchy, and initiation practices were closely guarded.
As their power grew, so did their wealth. The Templars established one of Europe’s first international banking systems, allowing travelers to deposit funds in one location and withdraw them in another. Soon they controlled vast landholdings, lent money to monarchs, and answered only to the pope, giving them extraordinary autonomy.
That combination of secrecy, wealth, and independence made them both influential and suspect. In 1307, King Philip IV of France ordered their mass arrest, and under pressure, the papacy dissolved the order in 1312 — although their legend still lingers.
Formally established in 1717 with the creation of the first Grand Lodge in London (though their roots stretch much farther back), the Freemasons grew into one of the most expansive and influential secret societies in history. Evolving from medieval stonemasons’ guilds, the organization retained a structure of lodges, initiation rites, and closely guarded rituals that bound members together across borders.
In the American colonies and early United States, Freemasonry attracted an unusually high concentration of political leaders. Thirteen of the 39 signers of the Constitution were Masons, including George Washington, Benjamin Franklin, John Hancock, and Paul Revere. Lodges functioned as spaces where educated, well-connected figures exchanged ideas shaped by Enlightenment values — including constitutional government and republicanism.
Freemasons have long been linked, sometimes speculatively, to major political upheavals, including the American, Russian, and French revolutions. Whether or not they acted in concert, their real power lay in their network: a far-reaching, oath-bound fraternity that connected influential figures and helped circulate ideas that reshaped the modern world.
Formed in 1765 in response to British taxation, the Sons of Liberty were a secretive political organization that helped drive the American colonies toward revolution. Originating in Boston and quickly spreading across the colonies, the group operated through local cells, organizing protests, intimidation campaigns, and acts of resistance against royal authority.
Their most famous action came in 1773, when members carried out the Boston Tea Party, dumping 342 chests of British tea into the harbor in defiance of imperial control. But their influence extended far beyond a single protest. The Sons of Liberty coordinated opposition to the Stamp Act and other policies, mobilizing public sentiment and, at times, using violence to enforce boycotts and punish loyalists.
Though less formal than other secret societies, they shared key traits: selective membership, covert operations, and a shared ideological mission. In effect, they functioned as an underground political network — one that helped transform colonial unrest into organized revolution.Paul Revere, John Adams, Samuel Adams, and other important figures of the American Revolution were all members.
Founded in 1776 by the German law professor Adam Weishaupt, the Bavarian Illuminati was a short-lived but highly influential secret society rooted in Enlightenment ideals. Created in opposition to what Weishaupt saw as the oppressive influence of church and state, the order sought to promote reason, moral reform, and political change through a tightly controlled, hierarchical network.
Members were recruited from educated and elite circles — including academics, officials, and intellectuals — and organized into 13 graded levels of initiation, each revealing more of the group’s aims. Like the Freemasons (from which they took some of their members), the Illuminati relied on secrecy, coded identities, and internal discipline to bind its members and extend its reach across Europe.
Despite its rapid growth, the order lasted less than a decade. At its height around 1784, the Illuminati had around 2,000 to 3,000 members, including notable figures such as Johann Wolfgang von Goethe. But within a few years the Bavarian government had outlawed the secret society, and its leaders were arrested or dispersed.
Almost immediately after being outlawed, the Illuminati became the subject of conspiracy theories linking it to revolutions and global power — a reputation that has endured ever since.
Active in early-19th-century Italy, the Carbonari were a network of clandestine groups advocating liberal reform and national independence. Their name — meaning “charcoal burners” — hints at their use of coded language and ritual symbolism.
Emerging around the Napoleonic era, the Carbonari became the primary source of opposition to conservative regimes imposed after 1815. They organized revolts, most notably the 1820 uprising in Naples, and helped lay the groundwork for the Risorgimento, the movement that led to the unification of Italy.
Despite their influence, the Carbonari were never ideologically unified. Some members favored republicanism, others constitutional monarchy. Their origin remains murky — they were possibly linked to Freemasonry or earlier mutual-aid societies. What united them was structure: secret initiations, hierarchical ranks, and a decentralized network capable of mobilizing dissent across the peninsula.
Founded at Yale University in 1832, Skull and Bones is one of the most famous collegiate secret societies in the United States, and one of the most exclusive. Each year, a small group of seniors is selected for initiation, joining a tightly knit network whose rituals and inner workings remain largely hidden from outsiders.
What sets Skull and Bones apart is not its size but its influence. Its membership has included Presidents William Howard Taft, George H.W. Bush, and George W. Bush, along with senators, judges, financiers, and intelligence officials. The society has long been seen as a pipeline into positions of power, with connections formed at Yale extending into the highest levels of American political and economic life.
While many details about its activities are speculative, its structure — selective membership, lifelong loyalty, and secrecy — places it firmly in the tradition of elite secret societies whose power lies in who they connect.
The Bohemian Club, founded in San Francisco in 1872, began as a gathering of writers, artists, and journalists but quickly evolved into an exclusive enclave for the wealthy and powerful. Its members — including presidents, business leaders, and cultural figures — meet privately throughout the year, most notably at the annual summer retreat at Bohemian Grove in California’s redwood forest.
There, members don robes, stage theatrical ceremonies, and socialize far from public scrutiny. The most famous ritual is the “Cremation of Care” ceremony, a musical drama held in front of a concrete owl. While the club insists these traditions are merely playful, the secrecy surrounding the gatherings — and the prominence of those who attend — has fueled decades of speculation.
More than a conventional secret society, the Bohemian Club is a rarefied social network where influence and access converge. Its power lies less in ideology than in proximity: a private space where some of the world’s most powerful figures can meet off the record.
In the medieval era, people took their dreams very seriously — and their nightmares perhaps most seriously of all. A regular dream could be pleasant and potentially interpreted as a message or a vision. But a nightmare, depending on its interpretation, could be seen as a symptom of illness or even an attack. In many cases, the perturbed dreamer would consult with a priest or physician to decipher the frightening omen. Let’s travel into the world of dreams in the Middle Ages to find out where people thought their nightmares came from, and what these visions might mean.
The word “nightmare” first appeared in the early 14th century. The first half of the word — “night” — is self-explanatory; it’s the second half that gives us more insight into the way nightmares were experienced and interpreted by medieval people. In this case, “mare” does not refer to a female horse, but is instead an Old English word for a goblin or evil spirit. In the 1300s, “nightmare” referred specifically to a spirit or monster that was believed to settle on a sleeping person, producing a feeling of suffocation.
The worst kind of nightmares had a specific culprit: the incubus (from the Latin word incubāre, meaning “to lie upon”). These crushing demons sat upon the chests of unwitting sleepers, causing breathing problems and, in some cases, what is now known as sleep paralysis. For many people in the Middle Ages, this was no myth or metaphor — they believed that a malignant spirit was actually pressing down on them while they slept. The existence of incubi was even recognized by medieval ecclesiastical and civil law.
In one notable case, a 12th-century knight named Stephen of Hoyland complained of attacks by a demon while he slept. During the assaults, which occurred regularly over a 30-year period, the incubus would try to crush or suffocate him. For years, he had his servants sleep nearby so they could wake him during such an attack. Eventually, a visit to the cathedral city of Canterbury cured him of his nightly terrors.
Not everyone in the medieval period blamed their nightmares on demons. While the general public — and, notably, theologians — often saw nightmarish symptoms as the result of visitations from incubi or other demonic entities, medieval physicians took a more measured, logical approach based on the medical beliefs of the age.
Medieval medicine was still largely based around the ancient Greek framework of the four humors, or four bodily fluids: blood, phlegm, yellow bile, and black bile. Medieval physicians linked dreams to these four humors, with disturbing dreams — along with insomnia, stress, and sadness — associated with an excess of black bile, or melancholy (which comes from the Greek melankholia, literally meaning “black bile”).
Medical experts in the Middle Ages, including the German Benedictine abbess and polymath Hildegard of Bingen, advised that an imbalance of humors could affect temperament, mood, and behavior. It was thought that an excess of the wrong substance flowing through the body could also corrupt the sleeping mind, leading to dark, frightening visions. In a letter to a priest who was suffering from nightmares, Hildegard of Bingen wrote, “Your terrifying dreams … are caused by bloody humors in conjunction with melancholia.” She also noted that while they may cause sleep to be troubled, “your dreams very often are not true.”
It's important to note, however, that these two frameworks — demonic and medical, spiritual and physiological — were not necessarily mutually exclusive in the Middle Ages. Most medieval thinkers were comfortable holding both explanations at once. Hildegard of Bingen, for example, didn’t solely blame her priest’s nightmares on bloody humors, telling him that it was ultimately “by the dispensation of God that you are chastened by such an affliction.”
In the medieval period, it was believed that bad humors could make a person vulnerable to demons, and demons could worsen the humors. Prayer would often be the first remedy recommended by both theologians and physicians. Fundamentally, the physical body and the spiritual world were deeply intertwined — particularly so when it came to nightmares.
If your mental picture of the American frontier comes from the movies of John Wayne and Clint Eastwood, you’re in very good company. Pop culture has spent more than a century giving us films about the American West, featuring gunslinging outlaws riding through the streets of hardscrabble towns in desolate landscapes, with danger waiting behind every swinging saloon door.
In that Hollywood version, the frontier was a place of rugged individualism, free-roaming adventure, and nonstop danger. But the real frontier was often something else entirely. To really understand why this chapter of American history still looms so large in the collective imagination, we have to separate the legend from the lived experience.
Myth: The American Frontier and “Wild West” Are the Same Thing
Though they’re often used interchangeably, the terms “American frontier” and “Wild West” don’t actually mean the same thing. “American frontier” refers broadly to the shifting boundary of U.S. settlement and expansion, stretching across different regions and centuries — from the Appalachian backcountry in the 18th century to the Great Plains and Pacific Coast in the 19th century. It describes a long-term historical process that varied widely by place, involving migration, settlement, conflict, and economic change. “Wild West,” by contrast, refers more specifically to the western United States between roughly the end of the Civil War through the end of the 19th century, and is tied to a narrower group of settings and themes such as frontier towns, cattle drives, mining camps, and the cultural mythology that later developed around that period.
The difference matters because the Wild West that’s typically been the focus of Hollywood films was only one colorful chapter in the much larger story of the American frontier. Cow towns, cattle drives, and infamous outlaw stories make up a vivid period in history, but they represent only a brief phase of a much longer and more complex period of national expansion.
Myth: The Frontier Was Mostly Populated by White Men
Popular portrayals of the American frontier often focus on white male figures — cowboys, ranchers, sheriffs, and outlaws — but the real frontier was far more diverse. Women played crucial roles in building and sustaining communities, running businesses, managing farms, raising children, teaching school, and holding families together through tremendous hardship.
Frontier towns and settlements also included Indigenous peoples, Black Americans, Mexican Americans, and immigrants from Europe and Asia. Historians estimate that roughly one in four cowboys was Black, while many others were Spanish or Mexican vaqueros whose horsemanship traditions profoundly shaped cowboy culture. Chinese immigrants, for their part, were essential to railroad construction and established businesses throughout Western towns. And Indigenous populations, of course, lived on and shaped these lands for centuries before U.S. expansion.
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Credit: Photochrom Prints/Library of Congress Prints and Photographs Division Washington, D.C.
Myth: Cowboys Were Lone Heroes
The lone cowboy riding the open range is one of the most enduring myths of frontier life. In reality, most cowhands were wage laborers doing physically punishing work for low pay. They worked for ranchers, spent long days herding cattle, endured harsh weather, and often had little control over where they went or how long they stayed on the trail.
Many cowboys were teenagers or men in their early 20s taking seasonal work, and the profession itself drew heavily from the traditions of Mexican vaqueros. Far from being solitary drifters, cowboys usually worked in organized teams. A single herd of 2,000 cattle often required about 12 workers, each with their own responsibilities. Their year followed a repetitive cycle of roundups, branding, winter herd watch, and spring cattle drives to railroad towns sometimes hundreds of miles away.
Credit: Library of Congress Prints and Photographs Division Washington, D.C.
Myth: Everyone Carried a Gun
One of the most persistent beliefs about the frontier is that nearly everyone was armed and shootouts were a routine part of daily life. In reality, most frontier communities moved quickly to establish civic order. The majority of frontier residents were farmers, merchants, laborers, and families focused on work and survival. As settlements grew, they created local governments, hired marshals or sheriffs, and passed ordinances designed to reduce public violence. Firearms were common tools for hunting, ranching, and protection, but that didn’t mean towns welcomed people carrying them freely in public.
In fact, some frontier towns enforced strict rules around guns. Places such as Dodge City, Kansas, and Tombstone, Arizona, often required visitors to surrender their weapons upon entering town or prohibited carrying firearms in populated areas. Just as surprising, the famous gunfights that became legendary did so precisely because they were so unusual. If shootouts had truly been everyday events, they would never have stood out enough to become famous.
The iconic wide-brimmed Stetson is now inseparable from the image of the cowboy, but it wasn’t always the standard hat of the frontier. John B. Stetson introduced the famed “Boss of the Plains” hat in 1865, and it gradually became associated with Western life. In reality, frontier headwear was far more varied than the popular image suggests.
For much of the 19th century, many actual cowboys, lawmen, and frontier figures wore derby (or bowler) hats. Derby hats had real advantages: They stayed on better in strong wind, handled rough weather well, and were practical on horseback. Many period photographs show working cowboys and lawmen in derby hats rather than the high-crowned cowboy hat silhouette that later became iconic.
Alongside derby hats, men on the American frontier wore flat wool caps, beaver fur-felt hats, Mexican sombreros influenced by vaquero traditions, or even leftover Civil War hats such as kepis. The hats people wore on the frontier often depended on occupation, climate, region, and what they already owned.
Picture a pirate and you may think of the costumes you’ve seen in films and on Halloween: a tricorn hat, a parrot on the shoulder, a peg leg or a hook hand, and of course, that iconic black eye patch. The one-eyed pirate is such a familiar image that it’s easy to assume it must be rooted in fact — but is it?
Pop culture has played a powerful role in shaping our idea of pirates, but there’s little evidence that these seafarers commonly wore eye patches. So where does this image come from? And were eye patches really a defining part of pirate life?
Life at sea was undeniably dangerous, so the most straightforward explanation for how pirates became associated with eye patches is also the most historically plausible: the possibility they had lost an eye. Naval battles, splintered wood, and the routine hazards of shipboard life could all lead to facial injuries. And it would be expected for a sailor to cover the damaged eye to protect it from further injury and infection.
There are a few historical examples that support this possibility. Richard Griffin, a member of 17th-century English naval officer Captain Thomas Pound’s crew, survived having an eye shot out during the fight at Tarpaulin Cove in Massachusetts (though there is no evidence he wore an eye patch). Another supporting case is Captain Samuel Burgess, a pirate active around Madagascar in the late 17th and early 18th centuries, who lived for years after losing an eye, though the loss resulted from disease rather than battle. In other words, pirates sometimes lived for years with missing eyes, making the occasional use of an eye patch entirely likely.
One of the most popular modern explanations for pirate eye patches has to do with the practical realities of life aboard ship. Sailors frequently moved between the bright glare of the upper deck and the dim, enclosed spaces below. Because human eyes need time to adjust between light and darkness, that transition could leave someone effectively blind for several moments — a serious disadvantage during battle or an emergency.
This has led to the enduring theory that pirates used eye patches to preserve night vision. By keeping one eye covered in daylight, the covered eye would remain adapted to low light. When going below deck, the sailor could switch the patch to the other eye and immediately see in the dark. Modern demonstrations show that this idea works in principle, which helps explain why the theory remains so popular.
The problem is that there’s no historical evidence tying this clever trick specifically to pirates. The explanation is logical and scientifically plausible, but it appears to be a modern interpretation attached to an already famous image.
The so-called golden age of piracy, which produced many of the famous names we still remember, was relatively brief, stretching from the late 1600s into the early 1700s. If eye patches had truly been common among pirates, we would expect to see them appear regularly in the sources closest to that era. Instead, pirate logs, naval records, court documents, and eyewitness descriptions are almost silent on the subject, even though those same sources are often rich in details about clothing, weapons, habits, and physical appearance.
A General History of the Pyrates (1724), one of the most important early accounts of pirate life, describes famous figures in vivid detail, including how they dressed, their mannerisms, and the theatrical ways some pirates cultivated fear. Blackbeard, for example, is described through his heavy weaponry and terrifying demeanor. The text even specifically notes his eyes, calling them “fierce and wild,” which makes the absence of any mention of an eye patch in descriptions of other pirates all the more striking.
The pirate eye patch seems to owe far more to later storytelling traditions than to reality. In the late 18th and early 19th centuries, British caricaturists such as Thomas Rowlandson and Isaac and George Cruikshank popularized the figure of the battle-scarred sailor, often shown with missing limbs, facial scars, and a covered eye. These figures were not necessarily pirates, but they established a visual pattern of maritime toughness and injury that pirate imagery could easily borrow.
At the same time, popular pirate literature was turning historical criminals into dramatic characters. Charles Ellms’ The Pirates Own Book (1837), one of the century’s most widely read pirate collections, delivered the swashbuckler legend to a mass audience. Its inclusion of Rahmah ibn Jabir, the feared raider who operated in the Persian Gulf in the late 18th and early 19th centuries, is a good example of how history and myth could merge. Known as “the terror of the Gulf,” Rahmah spent decades fighting, raiding, and warring at sea, and received numerous battle injuries, including the loss of an eye in combat.
By the late 19th century, these literary and illustrated traditions were further adapted in works such as Robert Louis Stevenson’s Treasure Island(1883). While its most iconic pirate, Long John Silver, is remembered for his wooden leg rather than an eye patch, Stevenson’s novel helped standardize the broader image of a pirate. In subsequent adaptations and children’s literature, those traits were amplified and eye patches were often added, emphasizing violence and menace.
Much of the pirate image we now take for granted was shaped by the late-19th-century imagination of writer and illustrator Howard Pyle. In his pirate stories and paintings, many collected in Howard Pyle’s Book of Pirates, he invented his own ideas for how pirates should look, because almost no reliable visual record of real pirate clothing existed. He gave them colorful sashes, flowing shirts, gold earrings, and dramatic headscarves. The style drew in part from Romani dress rather than documented seafaring clothing, helping create the familiar flamboyant pirate costume.
Pyle’s vision proved enormously influential. His pirate paintings and stories shaped the look of early adventure films, from the roles played by Douglas Fairbanks and Errol Flynn to much later depictions in Pirates of the Caribbean. His creative vision — which incorporated familiar elements such as the eye patch and peg leg — became the pirate archetype we recognize today.
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