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Why Do We Throw Rice at Weddings?
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AuthorKristina Wright
August 20, 2026
Love it?56
If you’ve been to a few weddings, you probably know the flow by now: the vows, the kiss, and then the party, with a few time-honored traditions woven in. One of the most iconic rituals? Guests showering the newlyweds with rice as they make their grand exit. It’s a festive moment and makes for a great photo — but have you ever stopped to wonder where this tradition comes from?
What may seem like a simple gesture is actually rooted in centuries of symbolism. That tiny grain of rice carries big meaning, representing fertility, abundance, and good fortune — and the practice shows up in different forms across cultures and eras. Let’s take a look at how rice-throwing became a wedding classic, and why grain-tossing rituals have endured through the centuries.
In ancient agricultural societies, fertility wasn’t just desirable — it was vital to both survival and spiritual life. Ensuring crops grew, families expanded, and communities thrived depended on a close relationship with the natural world. People believed that calling on the natural crop cycles — planting, harvest, and renewal — during a marriage could help ensure the couple’s future would be equally productive. Showering newlyweds with grains was a symbolic way of welcoming the life-giving forces of nature into the new union.
Among early cultures such as the Celts and Mesopotamians, native grains including wheat and barley were considered sacred symbols of abundance and growth. These grains played a role in wedding ceremonies as offerings to spirits or deities associated with fertility and harvest. In some traditions, they were thrown at the bride and groom to bless them with children and prosperity. The act of tossing grain physically reinforced the hope that their marriage would be as fruitful as a well-tended field.
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Greeks and Romans Tossed Grains To Call on the Gods
As civilizations became more organized, these agricultural customs became woven into more formal religious traditions. In ancient Rome, guests often tossed wheat or barley at weddings in honor of Ceres, the goddess of agriculture, fertility, and family. Roman brides sometimes wore crowns or garlands of wheat in their hair, highlighting their expected role in continuing the family line.
Greek ceremonies included similar practices, invoking Demeter, the goddess of the harvest, through offerings of grain. These were not simply quaint traditions — they reflected larger beliefs about the social order, divine favor, and the sacredness of the household. In both cultures, grains were offered not only for luck but also as part of a broader worldview that linked successful marriages with divine blessing and societal stability. A good harvest and a good marriage were seen as intertwined — and both needed the favor of the gods.
Rice Played a Sacred Role in Ancient Asian Ceremonies
While wheat and barley featured prominently in the West, rice took on sacred importance in many Asian cultures. In China, rice has symbolized life, wealth, and harmony with nature for thousands of years. Historically, rice featured prominently in ancestral offerings and seasonal rites, and its association with fertility and family continuity made it a natural part of wedding customs. In some regions, for instance, rice was scattered around newlyweds to bless the union or offered to ancestors to gain their favor for the marriage.
In India, rice has been integral to Hindu wedding rituals for thousands of years. One of the most meaningful customs is Akshata, in which whole grains of rice — often dyed with turmeric or vermilion — are showered on the bride and groom as a symbol of abundance, fertility, and divine favor.
Across Southeast Asia, similar rituals appear, many tied to local fertility goddesses, such as Dewi Sri in Indonesia. Wedding ceremonies often include offerings of rice to spirits or deities to ensure harmony, fertility, and a blessed union. In these cultures, rice is not just food but also spiritual currency, deeply connected to the cycles of life and marriage.
Despite its importance elsewhere, rice was largely unfamiliar in Europe until it began arriving via trade routes from Asia and the Middle East. By the Middle Ages, it had made its way into European markets, thanks to expanding contact with the Islamic world in places such as Spain and Sicily, and increased trade spurred by the Crusades.
At first, rice was considered a luxury item — rare, expensive, and used mostly by the wealthy. But over time, it became more accessible and began appearing in ceremonial contexts, including weddings. Its symbolism — fertility, longevity, and abundance — dovetailed neatly with older European traditions. Long before rice arrived, rural communities used native grains such as wheat, oats, and barley in wedding rites to bless the couple with prosperity and children.
By the 19th century, throwing rice at weddings had become a widespread and beloved tradition in Western cultures. It was a way of honoring ancient fertility symbols with a modern twist, combining imported ingredients with long-held wishes for joy, health, and a flourishing family life.
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How the Rice-Throwing Ritual Has Changed
In recent decades, the tradition of throwing rice has shifted as couples opt for alternatives that are either more environmentally friendly or better suited to specific venues. Today, it’s not uncommon to see guests showering newlyweds with dried flower petals, birdseed, bubbles, or biodegradable confetti. These variations serve the same symbolic purpose — celebrating the beginning of a new life together with joy and good wishes — while also accommodating modern sensibilities.
Some venues discourage the use of rice because of cleanup concerns or the widespread (but incorrect) belief that it harms birds. That myth, which gained traction in the 1980s, claimed that birds would eat the rice, which would swell in their stomachs and cause injury or death. However, wildlife experts and ornithologists have since debunked that idea. Birds can digest uncooked rice just fine — after all, it’s a staple food for many wild species around the world.
While fewer couples may use rice today, the impulse behind the tradition endures. Whether it’s a cloud of bubbles or a scatter of petals, these celebratory send-offs are a continuation of an ancient wish: that the couple’s new life will be fruitful, joyful, and blessed with abundance.
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We Tried To Write an Entire Article in Middle English
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AuthorNicole Villeneuve
August 20, 2026
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When William of Normandy invaded England in 1066, it began a transformation of the Old English language. The Norman conquerors replaced the Anglo-Saxon ruling class, bringing with them their Anglo-Norman language, which was based on Old French. Over time, the two languages blended. Old English grammar became simpler, and the English vocabulary expanded with the addition of French words. The result was a new stage of the English language: Middle English, spoken around 1100 to 1500.
During this time, Geoffrey Chaucer wrote The Canterbury Tales, one of the most famous examples of Middle English literature. Chaucer’s writing — and the English language in general — was not uniform at this time. Spellings varied and were often phonetic, and pronunciation differed by region; Chaucer often used whichever version of a word fit his rhyme.
There were some differences between the Middle English alphabet and our modern alphabet. Middle English included letters such as “þ” (known as thorn) for the “th” sound, and some other letters — such as “u” and “v” or “i” and “j” — were interchangeable. There were also some common words we no longer use. Middle English used “thou” for informal speech and “ye” as a formal or plural form, both of which were replaced by “you.” And third-person verbs ended in “eth” or “th” (such as “goeth”), which was later simplified to “s.” During the Great Vowel Shift, which occurred between 1350 and 1600, the pronunciation of many words also changed. For example, in Middle English, “sheep” sounded more like “shape,” and “bite” sounded like “beet.”
Another major shift occurred when the printing press was introduced to England in 1476, marking the start of a new stage of the language, known as Modern English. As printed books became more widespread, spelling and grammar became more consistent, and English began to take its current form.
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Below is the same article written in Middle English. For this translation, we referenced the University of Michigan’s Middle English Dictionary, Harvard’s translation of “The Canterbury Tales,” the 14th-century Wycliffe Bible, and various AI tools including Claude Sonnet, ChatGPT, and OpenL. We omitted special characters such as ī, ǒ, ā, ē̆, and obsolete letters such as þ (thorn) and ƿ (wynn), using the modern English alphabet instead. It’s also worth noting that many words in Middle English had multiple spellings, so there is more than one possible translation.
Whanne William of Normandi iyede Engelond in the yeer of oure Lord a thousand and six and sixti, it bigan a gret chaunge of the Olde Englissh langage. The Norman conquerours becomen the Anglo-Saxon lordes, and bringen with hem here Anglo-Norman langage, which camen of Olde Frenssh. Over tyme, the two langages blenden. Olde Englissh gramere was moore simple, and the Englissh wordes expanden with the addicioun of Frenssh wordes. Thereof cam a newe tyme of the Englissh langage: Middel Englissh, spoken betwixe the yeer of oure Lord a thousand an hundred and the yeer a thousand an five hundred.
During this tyme, Geffrey Chaucer wroot The Tales of Caunterbury, oon of the moost famous ensamples of Middel Englissh litterature. Chaucer's writyng — and the Englissh langage in generale — was nat uniforme at this tyme. Spellinges varied and were often writen after the soun, and pronunciacioun varied by regioun; Chaucer often used which-ever versioun of a word fitte his rime.
Ther were som differences betwixe the Middel Englissh alphabete and oure Modern Englissh alphabete. Middel Englissh includid lettres swich “þ”(icleped thorn) for the “th” soun, and som lettres — swich “u” and “v” or “i” and “j” — were bothe used. Ther werealsosomcommunwordes we speketh nomore. Middel Englissh used “thou” for informal speche and “ye” as a formal or plurel forme, bothe of which were chaunged to “you.” And thrid-persoun verbes endden in “eth” or “th” (swich “goeth”), which bicometh “s.” During the Gret Vouel Shiften, that fel bitwixe the yeer of oure Lord a thousand thre hundred and fifti and a thousand six hundred, the pronunciacioun of mani wordes also chaunged. For ensample, in Middel Englissh, “sheep” wolde soun moore lyk “shape,” and “bite” wolde soun lyk “beet.”
Another gret shiften fallen whanne the prentyng presse camen to Engelond in the yeer of oure Lord a thousand foure hundred six and seventi, bringing the biginning of a newe tyme of the langage, icleped Modern Englissh. As prented bookes bicom moore brod-spred, spelling and gramere bicometh moore stedefast, and Englissh bigan to take his present forme.
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Why Do We Call It ‘History’?
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AuthorBess Lovejoy
August 13, 2026
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The modern English word “history” comes partly from the Latin historia and partly from the French storie (or estoire), but those terms both trace their roots back to the same place. Not coincidentally, that place is one of the bedrocks of Western civilization: ancient Greece.
Going back about as far as we can, the word “history” can be traced to the ancient Greek verb οἶδα (heda), meaning “to know.” From there, the Greek ἵστωρ (histōr) arose, which had a variety of meanings depending on the context. As a noun, it could mean “wise man,” “judge,” “witness,” or simply “one who knows.” As an adjective, it meant “knowing” or “learned.”
The Greek word historia evolved from that histōr root. It originally meant “a learning or knowing by inquiry,” “an account of one’s inquiries,” or simply “inquiry” or “narrative.” That word was borrowed into Latin (also as historia), where it meant “narrative of past events, account, tale, story.” Interestingly, although historia was borrowed from Latin into Old English as stær (or ster or steor) to mean “history, narrative, story,” our modern English word “story” comes from the French storie or estoire.
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As so often happens in English, the modern word is a blend of various influences and threads that can be hard to extricate. But etymologists (those who study the origin of words) note that in post-classical Latin, historia sometimes became istoria, which in Old French became estoire or estorie, meaning “story, chronicle, history.” Of course, it makes sense that “history” and “story” would be linked, given that history is itself a kind of story — perhaps the ultimate story.
According toMerriam-Webster, the term “history” first showed up in English sometime before the 12th century, with the meaning “a chronicle of significant events.” At that point, according to the Oxford English Dictionary, the word was borrowing from both Latin and French.
The term “historian” came later — around the middle of the 15th century, likely from the medieval Latin word historianus. (Sadly, the Old English wyrd-writere, to mean“one who writes an account of events, a historian or historiographer,” never caught on.)
Of course, the world had historians long before the modern term was in use. The Greek scholar Herodotus, who lived in the fifth century BCE, is often called the first historian. He’s thought to have been the first to collect historical materials in a systematic and investigative way, to vet their accuracy, and to construct them into a narrative (or a historia).
The Histories (or Historíai in Greek), Herodotus’ lengthy account of the rise of the Persian Empire and the Greco-Persian Wars, is the work that made his reputation. Yet his legacy is controversial: Herodotus is called the “father of history” as well as the “father of lies,” a duality that points to the difficulties of reconstructing the past and the more problematic ways that history can be a story. But it’s worth remembering that whatever the challenges, the root of the term goes back to one of the most fundamental human impulses: the desire to know.
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What Did U.S. Money Look Like in the 1800s?
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AuthorTimothy Ott
August 13, 2026
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While the Coinage Act of 1792 established the United States Mint and the dollar as the unit of currency for the fledgling nation, it was quite some time before a fully standardized monetary system took root. In the meantime, people in possession of valuable metals continued to use them for transactions, local banks offered their own currency, and foreign money continued to flow until being banned as legal tender in 1857.
Despite this relative instability, Americans today would largely recognize the various forms of currency that exchanged hands in the 19th century, even if the designs and denominations of the coins and paper bills often differed from those in circulation today. Here’s a glimpse at what money looked like as the United States came of age.
The 1792 Coinage Act stipulated that all U.S. coins were to feature a depiction of the goddess Liberty on the front, while gold and silver coinage also required the display of an eagle on the back. As a result, the gold eagle ($10), half-eagle ($5), and quarter-eagle ($2.50) coins that went into circulation in the 1790s were all engraved in this fashion through the 1800s.
By the mid-19th century, the discovery of gold in California ushered a new wave of the precious metal into the economy, resulting in the creation of the new $1 piece, the $20 “double eagle,” and the octagonal $50 unit, aka the “slug.” Unusual denominations from this era include the $3 coin, which featured Liberty in a Native American headdress, and the $4 “Stella,” which displayed a five-pointed star instead of an eagle.
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Although the silver half-dime, dime, quarter, half-dollar, and dollar pieces all surfaced by the mid-1790s, the U.S. Mint rarely churned out the first three in the early years of the 19th century, and the dollar was temporarily discontinued in 1804. Nevertheless, silver endured as an important component of the economy, with the full figure of the "Seated Liberty," accompanied by a shield and pole with a cap, adorning most coinage in the 19th century.
A clear outlier of the bunch was the 3-cent "trime" that was minted between 1851 and 1873, the smallest of all coins at just 14 millimeters in diameter and the first silver piece to not display an eagle on the reverse. Although the federal government attempted to make gold the sole monetary standard in 1873, the Bland-Allison Act of 1878 reintroduced silver into circulation, with the "Morgan Dollar," and its large profile of Liberty's face, emerging as a popular coin.
Although gold and silver dominated U.S. currency in the antebellum period, the first coins to enter circulation following the Coinage Act were the large cent and half-cent in 1793. The large cent, which was roughly the size of a modern half-dollar, displayed either the "Matron Head" or "Braided Hair" profile of Liberty for most of its 19th-century run, while the half-cent featured similar designs across its quarter-sized dimension.
Both denominations underwent major changes in 1857; the cent was shrunk to its current size, while the half-cent was discontinued altogether. Another notable copper coin from the era was the short-lived 2-cent piece, which displayed a shield instead of Liberty, and became the first coin to feature the motto "In God We Trust" when it appeared in 1864.
As part of efforts to fund the Civil War, the Union issued a temporary series of Demand Notes in 1861, before switching over to United States Notes in 1862. Both became known as "greenbacks" for the distinct green ink used as an anti-counterfeiting measure. As the earliest widespread form of U.S. paper currency, these notes resembled current legal tender in some ways, including the green color, but with some noticeable design differences.
The initial versions of the $1 and $10 notes respectively featured Treasury Secretary Salmon P. Chase and President Abraham Lincoln on the front, while the reverse sides of various bills included extensive wording or patterns such as the crisscross sawhorse design. Additionally, greenbacks and other early paper currency were printed in the larger dimensions of 7 3/8 inches by 3 1/8 inches, until shrinking to 6 1/8 inches by 2 5/8 inches in 1929.
Of course, the Confederacy also needed to fund its own economy and war efforts, resulting in paper currency that predated the Union version by a few months. Printed in denominations ranging from 10 cents to $1,000, these notes featured Southern figures such as Confederate President Jefferson Davis and South Carolina First Lady Lucy Holcombe Pickens, as well as allegorical symbols of industry, commerce, and the South defeating the North.
However, there was a lack of uniform size and design across the printings, and many of these "greybacks," as they were known, went into circulation with nothing printed on the reverse side. What's more, these low-quality notes faced the double whammy of being easily counterfeited and lacking the backing of government reserves, rendering them virtually worthless by the end of the Civil War.
Along with reintroducing silver into circulation, the Bland-Allison Act of 1878 led to a form of paper currency that was redeemable in silver dollars on demand. These silver certificates resembled the greenbacks that were already in widespread distribution, although certain sets are highly coveted by collectors for their ornate designs.
Chief among these are the 1896 "educational series," which notably featured the allegorical image of "History Instructing Youth" on the $1 certificate, and "Electricity as the Dominant Force in the World" on the $5 denomination. The $1 silver certificate, which debuted in 1886, is also celebrated for being the first and only U.S. paper currency to date to feature a woman on the front: Martha Washington.
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How the Postal Service Created the ZIP Code
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AuthorTimothy Ott
August 13, 2026
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Even with the decline of letter writing in the digital age, the ZIP code remains an American institution, a neat five-digit number that caps an address and, like an area code, can serve as a point of pride and prestige.
Given the ZIP code’s place as an oft-used and universally recognized symbol, it may come as a surprise that the ZIP, short for “Zone Improvement Plan,” isn’t all that old. The system was enacted on July 1, 1963, within many of our lifetimes and just a few months before another famous entity, the Beatles, also arrived in the United States.
But unlike the mop-topped quartet, the five-digit zoning plan wasn’t immediately welcomed by Americans. Here’s a look at how the ZIP code came to be, and ultimately overcame a bumpy start to emerge as a signature accomplishment of the United States Postal Service.
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An Early Zoning System Came Out of World War II
Like many innovations, the ZIP code’s origins can be traced back to World War II. At the time, the Post Office Department, as the U.S. Postal Service was then called, was dealing with the loss of personnel to military duty, specifically the departure of experienced sorters who could properly funnel letters and parcels marked with incomplete addresses.
As a result, in 1943, the department assigned one- to two-digit zone numbers to more than 100 high-density urban areas across the country to help make sorting for these areas more efficient. The numbers were to be written on the address of the recipient after the city name, such as “Indianapolis 24, Indiana.”
Although the zone numbers provided some organizational relief, they only papered over the problem of keeping up with the ever-growing volume of mail. Fueled by the country’s postwar population and economic boom, the number of individual pieces of mail jumped from 33 billion in 1943 to 66.5 billion in 1962. By the latter date, a letter was handled by an average of eight to 10 postal employees, increasing the possibility of human error.
The issue wasn’t going unnoticed by the department’s employees. In 1944, a prescient postal instructor named Robert Moon sought to get ahead of the volume problem with his proposal of splitting the country into a network of regional processing centers, each marked by a three-digit code. Nine years later, another inspector, H. Bentley Hahn, completed a six-year study of the department’s outdated operations with a report titled “Proposed Reorganization of the Field Postal Service.”
But despite the modernization efforts of Postmaster General Arthur Summerfield, who introduced the country’s first automated post office in Providence, Rhode Island, in 1960, the department was still struggling to meaningfully address its problems as it faced down a new decade.
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The Zone Improvement Plan Is Born
The tide turned in the early 1960s with the appointment of Postmaster General J. Edward Day, who saw in Moon's long-overlooked proposal and the newly implemented West German postal code system a solution for improving delivery speed and eliminating backlog.
Under the new regime, the department devised a five-digit code that built on Moon's idea of regional processing centers to create a national network of delivery zones. The first digit of the new code denoted one of 10 large geographical regions of the country, in most cases encompassing several states. The second digit signified a smaller division within each region, which included either multiple states, one state, or a portion of a heavily populated state.
The third digit represented either a large city post office or a designated regional center within reach of urban centers and more remote outposts. The final two digits, which incorporated the 20-year-old zone numbers already in place, marked either a division of a big city post office or a smaller one directly served from a regional center.
Hahn, who helped devise the numerical system, was also tasked with helping to explain the finer details of the process in late 1962, before the plan’s official launch. Meanwhile, it was another executive, D. Jamison Cain, who conceived the acronym-friendly name of Zone Improvement Plan, as well as the ideal mascot to deliver the message to the public.
In the 1950s, the Cunningham and Walsh advertising agency designed a smiling cartoon mailman for a Chase Manhattan Bank mail campaign. The logo was acquired by AT&T and then the Post Office Department, where it was rechristened as "Mr. ZIP" and designated as the face of the department's new promotional push.
With the arrival of the ZIP code on July 1, 1963, the image of Mr. ZIP was plastered across post offices, mail trucks, brochures, and buttons worn by mail carriers as part of efforts to urge the public to include the five digits on all outgoing mail. He also appeared in a commercial that featured the voice of Broadway star Ethel Merman singing about the joys of the ZIP code to the tune of "Zip-a-Dee-Doo-Dah."
Despite the ubiquitous presence of the friendly mascot, there was some built-in resistance to adopting the new code. This was in part due to other recent widespread changes foisted on the public, including Social Security numbers being required for individual tax returns and phone numbers changing from the old alphanumeric system to all numerals. Bulk mailers also objected to ZIP code implementation, which required the investment of time and money to update their Automatic Data Processing equipment.
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The ZIP Code Was Widely Accepted by the End of the 1960s
The bulk mailers were forced to go with the flow via congressional enforcement, and the rest of the public soon got used to writing out the five-digit code thanks to persistent reminders from Mr. ZIP. According to a 1969 survey, some 83% of Americans were using ZIP codes by that time, while 90% believed the system to be a good idea.
Additionally, the ZIP code’s reach was already extending beyond the Post Office Department. The five digits became a focus of marketing companies, insurance firms, and the U.S. Census Bureau, all of which found the system beneficial to supplying more targeted data.
The Beatles had broken up by the time the Post Office Department reconfigured itself as the USPS in 1971, but the ZIP code was still going strong, the formidable five-digit system outlasting even the Fab Four as an enduring and thriving symbol of 1960s ingenuity.
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What Did Ancient People Dream About?
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AuthorBess Lovejoy
August 6, 2026
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For the ancient Greeks, Romans, and folks in other cultures, dreams were far more than idle nighttime fancies. They were powerful, often sacred experiences that shaped lives, politics, religious practices, and art.
While ancient people likely dreamed about many of the same themes we do today — love, fear, death, power, the divine — their dreams were widely seen as significant messages, often believed to come directly from gods or supernatural forces. Ancient dreamers sought meaning in their visions, often finding answers to illness, moral dilemmas, or matters of state, and they acted on their dreams with great seriousness. Here’s a look at what people in ancient times likely dreamed about, and what they believed those visions meant.
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Divine Messengers and Prophecy
One of the most common types of dreams in antiquity featured divine or semidivine figures delivering a message — what later Roman thinkers such as the scholar Macrobius classified as “oracles,” and later scholars have called “epiphany dreams.” These dreams usually involved a god, ancestor, or venerable figure announcing future events or prescribing actions to take.
A prominent example is Penelope’s dream in Homer’s Odyssey, where she sees an eagle slay her flock of geese. The eagle speaks, revealing himself as Odysseus and foretelling his return and vengeance. In another example, from ancient Sumer, King Eanatum I dreamed that Ning̃irsu — the Sumerian god of thunderstorms and floods — told him he would triumph in a war. And in Egypt during the 15th century BCE, a deity told Prince Thutmose IV that he would become pharaoh if only he freed the Sphinx from the sand engulfing its body.
In some early Christian writing, dreams offered opportunities for moral instruction, although it can be hard to distinguish between sleeping dreams and what we’d now be more likely to call visions. But it wasn’t unusual for dreams to influence early religion: Ptolemy I Soter, one of Alexander the Great’s generals, had a dream of a giant statue that led him to found the cult of Serapis.
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For many ancient people, especially those in the Greco-Roman world, dreams were not only forecasts but also instructions for therapy. The prominent Greek physician Galen reported that he had performed surgery based on instructions received in a dream. (In fact, Galen owed his entire career to a dream his father had.)
In Roman times, the orator Aelius Aristides kept extensive dream journals detailing his interactions with the god Asclepius, the god of healing. In his first such dream, the deity directed him to walk barefoot in cold weather. Aristides also wrote of being instructed to plunge into a freezing river in winter. Despite the bitter cold, he followed the divine command and emerged feeling renewed, with a “certain inexplicable contentment” that lasted through the day and night.
The temple of Asclepius in Pergamum, where Aristides spent years undergoing dream-based treatments, was a center of “incubation” — a practice in which patients slept in the temple in hopes of receiving a healing dream, or simply being healed by the god while they slept. Aristides believed his ailments were not only healed through these dreams, but that the dreams themselves revealed a deeper layer of his identity.
Not all dreams in the ancient world were seen as straightforward. Some were symbolic puzzles requiring interpretation. The second-century dream theorist Artemidorus, in his book Oneirocritica (or The Interpretation of Dreams), distinguished between direct (“theorematic”) and allegorical dreams. The former might show you exactly what was coming (for instance, dreaming of a shipwreck and waking up to discover it coming true), but the latter cloaked meaning in metaphor.
In symbolic dreams, one thing signified another — an eagle could mean a king; a journey, an impending change; a flood, internal unrest. Interestingly, interpretation relied not on fixed meanings but on context, such as who the dreamer was as well as their emotional state, social status, health, and personal concerns.
Dreams also fed ancient literature and drama. The playwright Aristarchus of Tegea reportedly wrote a tragedy at the command of the god Asclepius, who appeared in a dream after the playwright’s recovery from illness.
Homer’s famous epics are also infused with dream logic and imagery. In the Iliad Book 2, Zeus sends a deceitful dream to Agamemnon in the form of a person urging him to attack Troy. It’s an example of dreams as political tools used by gods to shape human affairs.
Of course, not everyone in the ancient world took dreams so seriously. In the fourth century CE, the philosopher Diogenes the Cynic had this to say about people who got worked up about dreams: “They did not regard what they do while they are awake, but make a great fuss about what they fancy they see while they are asleep.”
Yet as with most things, Diogenes was an outlier. For many in the ancient world, dreams were seen as legitimate and often essential tools for navigating illness, ethics, and divine will. Ancient people dreamed of gods and ghosts, rivers and birds, death and healing, fear and redemption. And whether interpreted as prophecy, therapy, or metaphor, those dreams were treated with reverence and awe.
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Why Babies in Medieval Paintings Look So Weird
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AuthorBess Lovejoy
August 6, 2026
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Spend any time gazing at medieval European paintings, and one question tends to emerge: What is going on with those babies? Far from the sweet, chubby cherubs we might expect to see, these infants often resemble balding middle-aged men, complete with wrinkled foreheads and dour expressions. What could possibly explain this bizarre artistic choice? To understand, we have to dive into how European art — and the perception of children — evolved from the Middle Ages to the Renaissance.
The unsettling “man-baby” of medieval art wasn’t a mistake or the result of a lack of skill. These depictions were intentional, shaped by artistic and religious ideas of the Middle Ages (roughly defined as between the fifth century and 13th century). Chief among these ideas was the concept of the homunculus, Latin for “little man,” which influenced how artists portrayed Jesus Christ as an infant. In many medieval works, baby Jesus appears with a full adult face, sometimes even showing signs of male-pattern baldness. The idea was that Jesus, being divine, was fully formed and unchanged from birth (a notion referred to as “the homuncular Jesus”). This theological concept seeped into broader portrayals of children, especially since the majority of child depictions in medieval art were religious commissions — portraits of Jesus or the occasional saintly infant.
As a result, artistic conventions leaned heavily toward depicting children as miniature adults. There was little interest in anatomical accuracy or realism. Instead, medieval artists followed established norms that prioritized symbolic meaning and spiritual messaging over lifelike representation. These conventions flattened individuality; adults and children often looked similarly stylized.
It also didn’t help that painters in this period lacked full artistic freedom. Many were working within strict church guidelines or copying earlier models, so even if they had wanted to create more accurate depictions, they weren’t supposed to do so. This lack of realism means that children in medieval paintings are often difficult to recognize as such. Some appeared disproportionately large or small, while others simply looked like shrunken grown-ups.
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Around the 14th century, things began to shift. The Renaissance — an intellectual and cultural movement that most scholars agree began in Florence, Italy — brought a renewed focus on nature, humanism, and realism in art. Artists became more interested in depicting the world as it actually appeared, rather than as a symbolic landscape.
This shift wasn’t instantaneous or universal. You could still stumble across a man-baby in a Renaissance-era painting if the artist was particularly committed to older styles. And the Renaissance itself was not a monolith; it didn’t blanket Europe uniformly or overnight. But the changes it ushered in had profound effects on artistic representation, including how babies were depicted.
One key factor was the rise of secular art. As Florence’s middle class grew in wealth and influence, more people could afford to commission portraits of their families, including their children. And understandably, they didn’t want their toddlers immortalized as frowning and balding. This demand for more personalized, relatable portraiture helped shift artistic norms. Over time, even depictions of baby Jesus became softer, rounder, and more recognizably infantile.
Renaissance idealism also played a major role in how children were depicted. Artists began studying anatomy, observing real babies, and drawing inspiration from classical sculpture. The result was a new visual vocabulary: plump cheeks, curling tufts of hair, playful expressions. These weren’t just more realistic babies — they were idealized versions, blending the best features into adorable cherubic forms.
Alongside these artistic developments, a subtler change was happening in how society viewed children. Although we should be cautious not to project too much onto medieval families (there’s no evidence that parents loved their children any less), the Renaissance introduced a new philosophical current. Children began to be seen less as incomplete adults and more as innocent beings, untainted by sin or worldly knowledge. As adults’ attitudes toward childhood evolved, so too did their depictions of children. Cute babies weren’t just aesthetically pleasing — they reflected deeper cultural values around family, morality, and human development.
In short, those weird medieval babies weren’t just artistic oddities. They were visual expressions of a different worldview. So next time you see a medieval baby that looks like it’s about to pay taxes, don’t laugh too hard. That little face is telling a rich story about art, belief, and how we’ve come to see the smallest among us.
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Why Did People Used To Wear Monocles?
Credit: ullstein bild Dtl./ ullstein bild via Getty Images
AuthorTony Dunnell
August 6, 2026
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In the world of eyewear, few accessories have captured the imagination quite like the monocle. Widely regarded today as an eccentric throwback from an earlier age, the monocle began life as a fairly simplistic and imperfect device for correcting eyesight. But something odd happened during the 19th century: The unassuming corrective lens began taking on an entirely new significance as a powerful symbol of class, intellectual prowess, and cultural identity.
But why did this simple optical device evolve into a status symbol? And why did people start wearing monocles in the first place, when spectacles — those of the two-lens variety — had been around since the 13th century? Here’s a close look at why people used to wear monocles, and why the curious eyepiece ultimately went out of fashion.
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The Origins of the Monocle
The origin of the monocle is somewhat blurry. It likely developed from the “quizzing glass,” which was a magnifying lens on a handle that was held up to the user’s eye to aid in reading or inspecting objects. The monocle, of course, did away with the handle altogether, and was instead held in place by the eye socket itself.
Monocles helped with reading small print and other tasks requiring near vision. They also had the benefit of allowing both hands to be used freely (unlike the quizzing glass) while also being easy to carry, slipping comfortably into a top pocket.
Monocles, however, have one obvious issue: They correct vision in only one eye. This might be fine for someone with anisometropia, in which only one eye needs correcting, but virtually all monocle users require optical correction in both eyes.
This issue was being discussed by medical practitioners as far back as the early 1800s — and their comments were often critical. An anonymous German treatise published in 1824 stated, “The monocle with which a single eye is used must be avoided because it disturbs the balance of binocular vision.” The same year, London optician William Kitchener warned, “This pernicious plaything will most assuredly in a very few years bring on an imperfect vision in one or both eyes.”
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By that time, eyeglasses with lenses for both eyes had already been around for several centuries; they were invented in Italy in the 13th century and became increasingly sophisticated over the years. So why were monocles so popular in the 19th and early 20th centuries? In a word: fashion.
One of the first well-known monocole adopters was the Prussian antiquary Philipp von Stosch, a highly influential art and antiquities dealer in the 18th century. (He also happened to be a spy for the British government.) Von Stosch was a notable figure in European high society, and is widely credited with having made the monocle a fashionable accessory.
In Britain, it’s possible that monocles became popular among theatergoers in the early 1800s — a theory presented by Pitt H. Herbert in his 1950 essay “An Eye on the Monocle” — and from there spread to the upper classes, primarily as a matter of style. The Austrian inventor J.F. Voigtlander, who was studying optics in London, introduced the monocle to Vienna in 1814, helping the new fashion spread to Russia and Germany.
By this point, monocles had been wholeheartedly adopted by the rich and powerful, particularly in England and Germany. (According to Herbert, monocles arrived in America in the 1880s, with the fad reaching its height around 1913, but they never became as popular in the U.S. as they were in Europe.) Style quickly overcame any practical purpose, and people began wearing monocles purely as a fashion accessory, with no actual need of a corrective lens — many monocle lenses were made of plain glass with no corrective properties at all.
By the 1830s, the eyewear had completed its strange transformation. Monocles were no longer primarily used as a visual aid, but had taken on a new life as a fashion accessory representing education, refinement, and social standing.
In Britain, the craze began to fade by the end of the 1830s. But monocles didn’t disappear entirely for at least another century; they were still worn in British high society, whether by members of Parliament or well-dressed dandies. By the beginning of the 20th century, the monocle had even become a cultural symbol. Political cartoonists and playwrights used the eyepiece as visual shorthand for the privileged classes — often as a symbol of pomposity and snobbery. But it wasn’t the satirizing of the monocle that led to its fall from grace — it was war.
The monocle was fashionable in Germany, where it was popular among the German aristocracy as well as military leadership. During both World War I and World War II, many notable German generals wore monocles, including World War I General Erich Ludendorff, and the Nazi field marshals Walter von Reichenau and Walter Model, to name but a few. It was this association that ultimately brought about the monocle’s decline, as the eyewear fell out of favor in much of Western Europe and the United States in the wake of these conflicts. Today, the monocle exists primarily as a historical curiosity, a nostalgic and eccentric symbol of pretension and intellect.
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The Most Popular Medieval Names
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AuthorKristina Wright
July 30, 2026
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The Middle Ages weren’t just shaped by monarchs and wars — they were lived by everyday people whose names appear in the records they left behind. Parish registers, royal charters, tax rolls, and literature give us a glimpse into the history of common names in medieval England and other parts of Europe and what they meant to the people who carried them.
Some of the most valuable insights about what people were called, and why, come from medieval books created specifically to record names. One example is the local Liber Vitae (Latin for “Book of Life”), which listed individuals — often clergy or benefactors — remembered in the prayers of religious communities. These books were relatively rare and typically associated with major monastic centers in England, such as Durham and Winchester, where they served both spiritual and administrative purposes. TheDurham Liber Vitae, which was updated over a span of 700 years, documents a wide variety of Anglo-Saxon and Norman names.
Other sources of medieval names, such as the 14th-centuryYork Registers, document naming trends among the clergy and nobility. Together with legal records and monastic rolls, these texts reveal how names reflected faith, status, region, and tradition. The names below give us a look at how people in the Middle Ages expressed their religious beliefs, honored their ancestors, and signaled their social standing — all through the names they gave their children.
The spread of Christianity throughout medieval Europe had a tremendous influence on naming practices. Biblical names and those honoring saints were popular — and in many regions, they were even required for baptism. Here are some of the most common examples.
John John, the Latin form of the Greek name Joannes, was one of the most widely used male names in medieval Europe. It originates from the Hebrew name Yochanan, meaning “God is gracious,” and gained prominence through early Christian texts and the popularity of biblical figures such as John the Baptist and John the Apostle. The name was embraced by kings, popes, clergy, and commoners, making it a universal choice across social classes. There were many variations of this popular medieval name, including Johan (Germanic and Scandinavian regions), Jean (French), Giovanni (Italian), and Juan (Spanish).
Thomas Thomas, the Greek form of the AramaicTa’oma’, meaning “twin,” became a common name throughout medieval Europe due to its biblical roots — most notably St. Thomas the Apostle. Its popularity grew further after the 12th-century martyrdom of St. Thomas Becket, archbishop of Canterbury. The name was used widely by both clergy and commoners. Medieval variations included Tommaso (Italian), Tomás (Spanish), and Thomasse (French).
Margaret Margaret was a popular name for girls across medieval Europe. It originates from the Greek margaritēs, meaning “pearl,” and entered Latin as Margareta through early Christian usage. The name was associated with purity and virtue, especially due to the widespread veneration of St. Margareta of Antioch and St. Margaret of Scotland. Some of the medieval variations of this beloved name included Marguerite (French), Margherita (Italian), Margarita (Spanish), Margarethe (German), and Margit (Hungarian).
Agnes Agnes comes from the Greek hagnē, meaning “pure” or “chaste.” It was a classic name among Christian families, inspired by St. Agnes of Rome, a young martyr celebrated for her steadfast faith and innocence. Her story made the name especially popular among parents seeking a model of virtue for their daughters. Medieval variations included Ines (Spanish and Portuguese), Agnès (French), and Agnese (Italian).
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Throughout the Middle Ages, warriors and kings provided naming inspiration, reflecting ideals of power, bravery, and nobility. These names were chosen not just for their meanings, but also to honor heroic figures and royal lineage, shaping the way individuals were perceived in society.
William William rose to prominence after the Norman Conquest of 1066, thanks to William the Conqueror. It derives from the Germanic name Willahelm, meaning “resolute protector.” The name became a symbol of power and legitimacy throughout Norman-ruled lands. There were many medieval variations, including Guillaume (French), Wilhelm (German), Guilherme (Portuguese), and Guglielmo (Italian).
Richard Richard, from the Latin Ricardus, was a strong and noble name meaning “brave ruler.” It originates from the Old High German Ricohard, combining ric (meaning “power, ruler”) and hard (“brave, hardy”). Its popularity soared due to figures such as Richard the Lionheart, whose legacy of leadership and valor made the name especially popular. Medieval variations included Richart and Rikard in the French and Germanic regions.
Henry Henry, from the Latin Henricus, was a royal favorite throughout medieval Europe. It comes from the Old High German name Heimirich, meaning “home ruler.” A name popular among future kings and high-ranking nobles, it conveyed authority and stability. Some medieval variations included Heinrich (German), Henri (French), Enrique (Spanish), and Enrico (Italian).
Geoffrey Geoffrey, from the Latin Galfridus, was a distinguished name of Norman origin. Its roots lie in the Germanic Gaufrid or Walfrid, meaning “God’s peace.” Though less common today, the name Geoffrey (and its variations) was widely used in medieval records and literary circles, largely due to the influence of the Welsh cleric Geoffrey of Monmouth, whose writings helped popularize the name and its legendary associations, particularly with the Arthurian tales. Medieval variations included Geoffroi (French), Goffredo (Italian), Gofraid (Old Irish/Scottish), and Jofré (Catalan).
Though women were often excluded from political power, many female names during the Middle Ages reflected strength and elegance. Several prominent women of the era, whose names were closely tied to royal courts and political influence, helped shape naming trends that persist to this day.
Mathilda Mathilda (or Matilda) comes from the Latin Matildis, which traces back to the Germanic elements maht (“might”) and hild (“battle”), meaning “mighty in battle.” The name was widely used among medieval royalty and nobility, notably by Empress Matilda, daughter of Henry I of England and a central figure in the 12th century. It conveyed strength and high status, making it a favorite in aristocratic circles. Medieval variations included Matildis (Latin), Mahaut (Old French), and Mechthild (German).
Eleanor Eleanor, derived from the earlier Alienor, rose to prominence in medieval Europe following the fame of Eleanor of Aquitaine, queen of both France and England in the 12th century. The name came to symbolize noble grace and royal authority. Its origin is likely linked to the Provençal name Aliénor, possibly a form of Helen, though its exact roots remain uncertain. Eleanor became widely used across France, England, and parts of the Iberian Peninsula. Medieval variations included Aliénor (French), Alianor (Old French), and Ellinor (Middle English).
Alice Alice, from the Old French Aalis, traces its roots to the Old High German name Adalheidis, meaning “noble kind.” Brought to England by the Normans, Aelis was favored among the aristocracy and frequently appeared in courtly literature and historical records. Over time, it evolved into the Middle English name Alice, which became common in both noble and common households. Medieval variations included Aelis (Old French) and Alis (Middle English).
Beatrice Beatrice, from the Latin Beatrix, meaning “she who blesses,” rose to prominence in medieval Italy. The name was popular among noble families and gained lasting literary significance through Beatrice Portinari, the muse of Dante Alighieri. Immortalized in La Vita Nuova and The Divine Comedy, she cemented the name’s association with virtue and idealized femininity. Medieval variations included Beatriz (Spanish and Portuguese) and Béatrice (French).
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5 Hidden Treasures That Actually Exist
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AuthorTony Dunnell
July 30, 2026
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It’s hard to surpass the romance and adventure embodied by hidden treasure. The allure of lost riches has lived with us throughout human history, and the interest in such fables has never wavered — hence the enduring popularity of fictional works such as Robert Louis Stevenson’s Treasure Island and, more recently, the Indiana Jones movies.
Unlike many legendary troves — such as Montezuma’s treasure, which has fired the imagination of treasure hunters for centuries, despite little evidence as to its actual existence — some hidden riches are known to be very real, but their whereabouts are now tantalizingly lost. Here are five of these lost treasures, all of which continue to inspire treasure hunters and historians alike in their ongoing quests for discovery and long-lost riches.
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Lost Fabergé Imperial Eggs
Few things in life are more jaw-droppingly lavish than Fabergé eggs, ornate decorations commissioned by Russian tsars and created by the jewelry company House of Fabergé between 1885 and 1917. The most well known and extravagant are the Imperial eggs, of which 50 were created but only 44 are known to have survived.
The most recent discovery came to light in 2011, when the long-lost Third Imperial Egg was accidentally discovered in an American flea market. It later sold for an undisclosed amount in 2014 after being valued at $33 million.
After the start of the Russian Revolution in 1917, the Bolsheviks ransacked and looted the imperial family’s palace and nationalized the House of Fabergé, and some of the Imperial eggs were lost. Researchers believe that as many as five Imperial eggs have been destroyed, but there’s still a chance that at least one Imperial egg is out there waiting to be found.
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The Florentine diamond is a clear, pale-yellow diamond with nine sides and 126 facets, weighing 137.27 carats (27.454 grams). Originally from India, it later found its way to Europe. Legend has it that the magnificent jewel was owned by Charles the Bold, Duke of Burgundy, but he lost it when he fell in battle during the Battle of Nancy in 1477.
The jewel’s first documented owner was Ferdinando II, the Grand Duke of Tuscany and a member of the powerful Medici family, in the mid-1600s. It then found its way into the hands of the storied Habsburgs, and by 1743 had become part of the Austrian crown jewels. There it remained until the fall of the Austro-Hungarian Empire after World War I. To keep the diamond safe, Emperor Charles I smuggled the stone to Switzerland, where he was being sent into exile.
This is where the fate of the Florentine diamond becomes unclear. Rumors abound, including one that claims a household servant or other person close to the imperial family took the stone and fled with it to South America. Another claims it was broken into smaller pieces and sold to unwitting jewelers. The hunt continues, with the diamond potentially worth around $12 million in today’s money — if it remains intact.
Before it disappeared during World War II (a fate suffered by many priceless works), the Amber Room was one of the most treasured artifacts in Russia. The room, sometimes referred to as the “Eighth Wonder of the World,” was an ornate chamber decorated with amber panels backed with gold leaf and mirrors. Originally designed in the early 18th century as a showpiece chamber for Frederick I, king of Prussia, it was then gifted to the Russian Tsar Peter the Great in 1716 and installed in Catherine Palace near St. Petersburg.
The room was quite a sight, with its 180-square-foot floor surrounded by walls decorated with 6 tons of glowing amber. But when World War II broke out, the Nazis looted the room and transported it to Königsberg Castle in what is now Kaliningrad, Russia. In early 1944, with the Allies closing in, the room was disassembled and crated for storage in the castle basement — and then the trail went cold.
Despite decades of investigation by both Russian and German authorities, the original Amber Room has never been recovered. Theories abound, with some believing it was destroyed during Allied bombing raids or loaded onto a ship or submarine that was then sunk. Alternatively, it might still be hidden in an abandoned German bunker or mine. With its finishing touches of gold and other semiprecious stones, historians estimate the room would be worth at least $142 million in today’s dollars, with some estimates as high as $500 million.
The Honjō Masamune is arguably the most significant lost sword in Japanese history. Crafted by the legendary swordsmith Gorō Nyūdō Masamune in the early 14th century, it represents the pinnacle of Japanese sword-making. The katana, with Masamune’s unique wavy pattern along the hamon, or blade, was passed down from one shōgun or general to another. It was wielded by the samurai general Honjō Shigenaga, the namesake of the sword, who won it in battle in 1561 by defeating its previous owner. From there, the sword was passed along to ever-more prestigious owners, cementing its legendary status.
Then, when Japan lost World War II and the Allies demanded the Japanese hand over all their weapons — including their swords — the Honjō Masamune was lost. Its owner at the time, Tokugawa Iemasa, turned in the sword to a police station in 1945. According to records, the sword was handed over to a Sgt. Coldy Bimore — but no such person ever seems to have existed. While it’s possible the Honjō Masamune was melted down or tossed into Tokyo Bay, there’s still a chance that one day it will be found, once again allowing Japan and the world to lay eyes on one of the finest swords ever made.
In 1783, George III, king of Great Britain and Ireland, established the Order of Saint Patrick as an equivalent order to England’s Order of the Garter and Scotland’s Order of the Thistle. Half a century later, William IV introduced a new set of regalia for the order, commonly known as the Irish crown jewels, that included a heavily jeweled badge, ceremonial collars, and an eight-pointed star. The items in the collection contained hundreds of gems and precious stones, including emeralds, rubies and, most notably, brilliant Brazilian diamonds.
On July 6, 1907, the Ulster King of Arms, Arthur Vicars, opened the safe in Dublin Castle where the crown jewels were housed, and made a terrible discovery: The jewels had been stolen. No one had checked on the collection in weeks, making it hard to attach a culprit to the crime, and the investigating detectives were stumped — there was no sign of a forced entry, suggesting the thief had their own key.
The king was enraged and the heist became a huge national scandal. Rumors spread and theories were put forward, with suspicion falling on everyone from Arthur Vicars himself to Francis Shackleton (the brother of Antarctic explorer Ernest Shackleton), who also possessed a key to the tower. Such was the mystery surrounding the robbery that even Arthur Conan Doyle, the creator of Sherlock Holmes, offered his assistance.
Despite the outcry and massive public attention, the crime was never solved and the crown jewels never recovered. It’s possible that the pieces were broken down and the precious stones sold off separately, but we may never know. What we do know is that the collection was worth around £50,000 in its day, equivalent to some $5 million today.
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