Animals could be put on trial in medieval Europe.

Author Sarah Anne Lloyd
January 18, 2024

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In Europe during the Middle Ages, crime and punishment were often theatrical, with crowds gathering to witness executions and public humiliations. But what they witnessed wasn’t always a human trial — often, medieval courts meted out justice on animals. France kept the most extensive records of these trials, but they were also held in Switzerland, Germany, and occasionally Italy and Spain. There were two main types of medieval animal trials: secular trials, usually against one animal or a small group of animals, and religious proceedings on a group of pests, such as mice or locusts. The idea of animals on trial may seem whimsical now, but these were deadly serious affairs, with the same judges, executioners, and expenses of a human trial.

A surprisingly large number of the single-animal trials were pigs that had committed violence against human children. In one 1457 case in Savigny, France, a sow was accused of killing a 5-year-old child with her own six piglets tagging along. Her owner was accused only of negligence, but the pig was sentenced to death. Because the court could not prove their involvement, the piglets were spared. As for the mass trials in ecclesiastical courts, the local bishop (or someone from his staff) would typically appoint a human proxy for the accused pests. This person would have the impossible task of telling the accused to show up for their court date. In one case, a group of flies failed to appear and the court took pity on them for their small size and young age and assigned them different counsel. As part of the proceedings, a judge would hold one member of the species and tell it to leave. If it left, the community would give thankful prayers. If it stayed, the judge would excommunicate the pests from the church, and start organizing people to help rid them from the area.

John Adams was the first president to go to college.

Author Michael Nordine
May 8, 2025

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While George Washington was famously eulogized as “first in war, first in peace, and first in the hearts of his countrymen,” his trendsetting record did not extend to the halls of academia. The founding father was finished with formal schooling by age 14, and although he later earned a surveying license from the College of William & Mary, it was not an accreditation that counted him among the student body.

As such, it’s Washington’s successor, John Adams, who holds the distinction of being the first U.S. president to go to college, although there were various points in his early life where that outcome was in doubt. According to Richard B. Bernstein’s The Education of John Adams, the statesman struggled to remain focused in the classroom as a child despite his sharp mind; he even tried to convince his father that he wanted to leave school and become a farmer, to no avail. Adams soon realized that the root of the problem lay with his teacher, whom he later described as “the most indolent man I ever knew,” and his learning flourished after he switched schools.

Despite earning an invitation to take the admissions test for nearby Harvard College, Adams almost backed out of the opportunity due to the petrifying idea of meeting the institution’s distinguished faculty members by himself. Then he nearly had a panic attack upon glancing at the raft of words he had to translate into Latin on the entrance exam, until realizing he’d have a dictionary to help. Adams ultimately gained entry and excelled amid a curriculum centered on math, philosophy, and natural sciences. He even delivered a formal disputation in Latin at the graduation ceremonies of 1755, his impressive presentation leading to a job offer as a schoolmaster and the first steps toward becoming a seminal figure in the nation’s history.

The Italian cities of Modena and Bologna fought a “War of the Bucket.”

Author Rachel Gresh
January 18, 2024

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Locked away in the Torre della Ghirlandina — a bell tower in Modena, Italy — sits a wooden bucket that is the namesake of a war. The conflict began in 1325, fought between Modena and Bologna, neighboring city-states with a history of political differences. (The Bolognese supported the pope, while the Modenese supported the Holy Roman Emperor.) It should have been a forgotten political skirmish, but the War of the Bucket went down in history — thanks to the humble oaken pail for which it was named. 

According to popular legend, the war began when the wooden bucket kept in the Bologna town well was allegedly stolen by Modenese soldiers who snuck into town, leading the Bolognese to retaliate in an all-out war. More likely, it started after an invasion of Bologna by the Modenese, and the bucket was a trophy gathered at the end of the war by the victorious Modenese, who were elated at their triumph despite being woefully outnumbered. The role of the bucket was exaggerated as the story was passed down through generations, and the myth was cemented by the poet Alessandro Tassoni’s 1622 satirical poem “La secchia rapita,” in which he joked that the Bolognese offered hostages, towns, and more in exchange for their stolen bucket. One aspect of Tassoni’s poem still rings true, however: He wrote, “the Bucket was soon to be locked away, in the tallest tower it remains to this day, up on high the trophy hangs bound, by a great chain nailed far off the ground.” 

Pope John Paul II was the first non-Italian pope in 455 years.

Author Michael Nordine
May 1, 2025

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There have been 267 popes in history, the vast majority of whom have hailed from Italy. Indeed, when Karol Józef Wojtyła became Pope John Paul II in 1978, he was the first non-Italian pope since Adrian VI died in 1523 — a span of 455 years. As the Vatican is a microstate surrounded by Rome, Italy’s capital city, it’s unsurprising that the vast majority of popes have been Italian. That includes John Paul II’s predecessor John Paul I, who served for just 33 days before his death on September 28, 1978, making that year the first since 1605 to have three popes in one year.

Born in Wadowice, Poland, on May 18, 1920, John Paul II was among the youngest popes in history. Elected at the age of 58, he was also one of the longest-reigning popes. His 27-year tenure was bested only by Pius IX (31 years) and St. Peter (who is believed to have reigned for 34 years though there are no verifiable records of the dates of his papacy). John Paul II was also something of a trendsetter, as both of his successors, Benedict XVI and Francis, weren’t from Italy either. Benedict XVI, born Joseph Alois Ratzinger, was German and took the rare step of resigning in 2013, while Pope Francis (born Jorge Mario Bergoglio) was from Argentina. Pope Francis was also the first pope from the Americas and the first from outside Europe since the eighth century, when Syria’s Gregory III held the papacy.

Napoleon owned a watch from a company that still exists.

Author Sarah Anne Lloyd
May 1, 2025

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In 1798, Napoleon Bonaparte, then a general in the French army, embarked on a military campaign to Egypt with 35,000 soldiers and three luxury timepieces. Before setting off, he paid a visit to horologist Abraham-Louis Breguet’s shop on Quai de l’Horloge in Paris and purchased a travel clock and two repeater watches, mechanical watches that chime the hour at the press of a button. Some 250 years later, you can still purchase a brand-new Breguet timepiece — that is, if you have at least $20,000 to spend on a watch.

Swiss-born Abraham-Louis Breguet founded his namesake company in 1775, and it rose to elite status in France after gaining Queen Marie Antoinette and King Louis XVI as clients, along with many courtiers. He fled back to Switzerland during the French Revolution, but returned in 1795, just in time for Napoleon’s rise to prominence. His fine timepieces not only were practical for the military leader’s travels, but also helped signal his status among the French elite of the time.

Breguet is one of just a handful of 18th-century luxury watch companies that still operate today. Others include Blancpain, founded in 1735, and Vacheron Constantin, established in 1755. As for Napoleon’s Breguet watches, only his travel clock survives. It’s now part of the collection at the Swiss National Museum.

The longest papal election took almost three years.

Author Michael Nordine
May 1, 2025

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A papal conclave typically names the pope’s successor within just a few days after it begins. Pope Francis’ successor, for example, was chosen on the second day of the conclave. If the College of the Cardinals wanted to set a record, however, they’d have to deliberate for three years. The longest papal election lasted from 1268 to 1271 — more than two centuries before the Sistine Chapel was built — in Viterbo, Italy, following the death of Clement IV. By the time the next pope, Gregory X, was chosen after two years and nine months, the fine people of Viterbo had grown so angry with their guests, they had torn the roof off the building where the cardinals were staying. 

Among the more important acts of Gregory X’s tenure was establishing a precursor to the papal conclave as we now know it, in large part to ensure that no such delay took place again. He was a little too successful. Because the rules he instituted were so strict — such as sequestering the cardinals for the duration of the conclave — it took only a day for the cardinals to name Gregory X’s successor following his death in January 1276. The new rules were suspended as a result, which naturally led to the opposite problem: a conclave that lasted from April 1292 to July 1294. Old habits die hard, but at least recent conclaves have gone comparatively smoothly now that the rules have landed in a sweet spot: It hasn’t taken more than five days to elect a new pope since 1903.

Where Does the Name ‘Uncle Sam’ Come From?

Author Michael Nordine
January 10, 2024

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Every country needs a national symbol to represent its noble struggle, and the United States has one of the most recognizable: Uncle Sam, who is said to be named after a New York meat merchant. Samuel Wilson of Troy, New York, was himself known as Uncle Sam, an affectionate nickname that became familiar to millions of Americans after he supplied thousands of barrels of beef and pork to hungry troops during the War of 1812. The barrels had “U.S.” stamped on them to indicate that they were government property, but the initials came to be associated with Uncle Sam among grateful soldiers.

The name took off, and before long, illustrations of Uncle Sam began appearing in print. Cartoonists such as Thomas Nast and Joseph Keppler depicted the patriotic figure as a thin and bearded older man with a top hat and coattails, popularizing the image we recognize today. The origin of the name “Uncle Sam” remains disputed, however, and some historians have noted that references to the name appeared in newspapers before Wilson ever stamped “U.S.” on his meat barrels. Still, the legend is widely accepted, and Congress even passed a resolution in 1961 recognizing Wilson as Uncle Sam’s namesake. Today, the figure is inextricably linked with America, but he wasn’t the first personification of the country. He was preceded by Brother Jonathan, a rustic but good-natured character who originated in New England during the American Revolution.

A mysterious “sweating sickness” struck Europe in 1485.

Author Sarah Anne Lloyd
January 18, 2024

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In the late 15th century, England got hit with an epidemic straight out of a horror movie: a so-called “sweating sickness,” which appeared suddenly in August 1485, after Henry VII returned to England and claimed the throne following the decisive battle of the Wars of the Roses. Some historians suspect the sickness was brought by mercenaries hired to win the war for the Tudors. Illness came on abruptly and aggressively, usually killing its victims in less than a day and sometimes in as little as two hours. The disease, characterized by aches and fever, worked so quickly that people who survived more than 24 hours typically made a full recovery.

The first wave of sweating sickness, also called the “English sweat” (sudor anglicus in Latin), caused 15,000 deaths in just six weeks. The disease struck England a total of five times over the course of 70 years, always appearing in the late summer or early fall and, puzzlingly, always hitting wealthy people harder. After the fifth outbreak, it disappeared — possibly after mutating into a milder, less-lethal version — leaving one of the world’s greatest medical mysteries behind.

The Black Death, a devastating plague that swept through Europe in the 14th century, was far more deadly than the sweating sickness, but we know conclusively what caused it. Scientists are still searching for an explanation for the sweating sickness more than half a millennium later. One of the prevailing theories was that it was a particularly nasty strain of hantavirus, a respiratory disease spread by rodents; one hantavirus outbreak in 1993 very closely resembled sweating sickness. It could also have been insect-borne like dengue fever, especially given the time of year it typically appeared. Some have even suggested anthrax. But we may never know for sure.

Abraham Lincoln approved a balloon corps during the Civil War.

Author Bennett Kleinman
January 10, 2024

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In 1861, shortly after the start of the Civil War, President Abraham Lincoln authorized the creation of an aerial surveillance organization known as the Union Army Balloon Corps. Before the war, balloonists were usually carnival performers, but that all changed thanks to aeronaut Thaddeus S.C. Lowe. On July 11, 1861, Lowe was invited to demonstrate his ballooning skills for the president, who hoped to use hot-air balloons for aerial reconnaissance missions in the war.

During his demonstration, Lowe ascended 500 feet into the air and relayed a telegraph about what he saw to Lincoln’s staff. After the successful showcase, Lincoln offered Lowe the role of chief aeronaut in the Balloon Corps, which formally began operations that October. The purpose was to gather intel about the Confederate Army’s location and relay it to Union troops on the ground, who could then fire on the army from a great distance without even seeing the enemy. The fleet grew to include seven balloons, some of which were tethered to barges in the Potomac River that effectively served as early precursors to the modern aircraft carrier. Though the surveillance proved strategically beneficial, many Union officers, including General George B. McClellan, were concerned about the safety of the balloons. Lowe ultimately resigned his post on May 7, 1863, and the Balloon Corps were dissolved shortly thereafter.

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In 1908, there was a car race from New York to Paris.

Author Nicole Villeneuve
April 24, 2025

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In the early 20th century, when automobiles were in their infancy, the idea of driving long distances was still ambitious. But that was precisely the challenge of the 1908 New York to Paris race, a bold, 22,000-mile competition that spanned three continents during the dead of winter. On the morning of February 12, six teams representing four countries — France, Germany, Italy, and the United States — gathered in front of 250,000 spectators in Times Square in New York City. The cars and their teams, made up of drivers, mechanics, and journalists, departed at 11:15 a.m. The American Thomas Flyer car quickly pulled into the lead. Behind it came Italy’s Zust, Germany’s Protos, and three entries from France — a Motobloc, a De Dion, and a Sizaire-Naudin (the latter broke down and dropped out of the race after just 96 miles). 

The ambitious plan was for the teams to reach San Francisco within 22 days; from there, a ship would take them to Alaska, where they would drive across a presumably frozen Bering Strait into Siberia, continue across Russia and Europe, and finally reach Paris. But the race didn’t exactly take place as planned. The cars took twice that time to reach the West Coast, and the spring thaw made the Alaskan route too difficult. Competitors were instead rerouted to Seattle, shipped across the Pacific to Japan, and then shipped again across the Sea of Japan to Vladivostok, Russia.

Along the way, drivers endured blizzards, sandstorms, and nearly impassable roads — if there were roads at all. Mechanical problems, personnel changes, and visa delays also caused setbacks. In the end, just three of the original six cars completed the journey. On July 30, the Thomas Flyer finally reached Paris. A police officer initially refused to let the car proceed with its broken headlight, but a passerby offered up a bicycle light. Though the Protos had technically arrived three days earlier, organizers issued a penalty for shortcuts taken along the way. So at 6 p.m., after a 169-day journey, the American car officially won the great race.