Historical Crushes

Frederick II of Prussia or "Old Fritz"

Mon, 11 Aug 2008 08:05:42 GMT

I am in love with this man:

He didn't age so well, but he had a really interesting and tragic youth, and I totally feel for him. Google him, historical lovers! <3

Drawings

Mon, 07 Jul 2008 16:58:31 GMT

A tribute to some of my historical loves...

Johannes Brahms!! (A younger version of him that you all seem so fond of)

Niccolo Paganini xD

Oh Franz...

Sat, 03 May 2008 23:34:36 GMT

My long standing crush on the brilliant and gorgeous composer Franz Liszt recently flared anew with the arrival of two books in my mailbox, Liszt's Kiss: A Novel by Suzanne Dunlap, and Marie d`Agoult: The Rebel Countess by Richard Bolster (a biography of Lizt's infamous mistress).

This got me wondering -- does anyone else have a crush on a Classical composer? Please share!

Oh my Goodness.

Tue, 29 Apr 2008 02:26:29 GMT

I feel ...so accepted here. Oh man.

So. I'm your typical teenage girl living in Texas, k?

yeah k well... I ... it's been 2 years now, man. I still love this guy.

Get ready.

William Barret Travis, Lt. Col commander of the regular forces at the Alamo.

South Carolina-born on August 1st, 1809... he managed to do a lot in his young years. In Alabama (his family moved there when he was 9), he edited and managed a paper at 19, as well as simultaneously teaching at a school and learning to be a lawyer at the same age.

Unfortunately, due to debts and other failures he abandoned his pregnant wife and child in Alabama, and went to Texas. He was going to try and establish himself there and eventually send for his family but ....he never really did.

He was always seen as very vain, wearing perfumes of lavender and wearing bright colors like a white hat with red pants...he was also very impulsive. He was once imprisoned for starting up trouble with war parties, and the man imprisoning him threatened too shoot him if the people who supported Travis didn't stop shooting on him. Travis told the people to blaze away upon the fort, and let him die for the right cause. Yeeeah. Impulsive.

He was an extremely flawed man. He visited whores, gambled, had left debt and his family in Alabama... but he never drank, ever.

When I tell people about him, they go "Why do you even like him?" ...I can't say for sure. I think I just ...feel for him. He wasn't a horrible man, in fact he was very kind and generous. He loved children. He let people stay in his office to sleep for a night if they needed to. He even tried to find bibles for the town of San Felipe.

In San Antonio, at the Alamo on March 6th, 1836, he was shot in the head and killed instantly in battle. For thirteen days he upheld a besieged garrison. He sent for help repeatedly but got nothing... and in the end, it seemed that he had died for nothing - but of course, we all know that's not true.

He was only 26 years old. Just a mere boy.

Historical Fiction

Wed, 23 Apr 2008 01:46:47 GMT

Since this is allowed and I have no where else to post it - here we go.

Title: Sleep of the Innocent
Rating: PG at most
Characters: Archbishop Thomas Cranmer, Anne Boleyn, Jane Seymour, Gardiner, Margaret Cranmer, Thomas Cromwell, William Seymour, Sir Francis, and Henry VIII (of course) I may be missing a few minor ppl.
Summary: the trial of Anne Boleyn from Cranmer's POV.
Notes: This is oddly written, not in your usual prose. Sorry about that. And long spaces between dialogue is intentional.

Enjoy?

    "Of course you don't know what it means, you're not him are you?"
    "No, but I thought, perhaps…a bit of mercy-"
    "No! No mercy, we show it to one and soon they'll all be clamoring for it. Look, what they want is stabi-"
    "I know! You've told me before, I know."
    "And I'll tell you again."
    "Don't Cromwell. I know. I don't need to hear it again."
    "Bitter, isn't it?"
    "Must it be?"
    "Well…yes. Of course it must. That's life. You're a philosopher, a – one of those men who cares about others."
    "A humanist?"
    "In the truest sense of the word. Of course history will ruin it all."
    "Oh, well…I suppose it must."
    "There, that wasn't so hard was it? She'll go quick."
    "But surely there's another way!"
    "Sir! Only two things signify anything now – loyalty and trea-"
    "Ssh."
    "Sorry?"
    "Ssh, I hate that word."
    "Why?"
    "It's a synonym for death."
    "So is life."
    "But –"
    "Don't argue Tom, it is. And so is this, this peace of paper. It's both you see. Life and death, treason and loyalty. It is. And so is the world and everything in it."
    "What about compassion? Mercy? Christ's word?"
    "God's blood man, this is politics not your church! Christ's word is against everything we do. But, I suppose that's the reason I exist, and you. To make sure those involved in the dirty game aren't aware of their own damnation."
    "So we damn ourselves for the preservation of their ignorance?"
    "You're catching on."
    "I think I'm going to be sick."
    "It'll pass."
    "No it won't."
    "The guilt of the world is yours then, heaven knows I don't want it."

    It won't happen again. It will not happen again. It shouldn't happen again. But then, it shouldn't have happened in the first place. None of this should have happened. Gardener should be here, not I. He would have said no. Surely he would have. Stood up. Made a passionate cry to justice.
    Not this.
    Not me.
    I tried, I hope she knows that. I hope God knows that. I tried but I'm not strong enough. Not brave enough. But it won't happen again, the next one will be different. I swear it. On, on my life. My soul. May I die by flame and live by flame if the next one ends the same.
    God I'm going to be sick. Not here, not at the altar. It hurts too much.
    God save the King.
    And I'm sick, on my knees retching. I'm sick.
    God have mercy on me.
    So sick. Can't stop and my eyes hurt, sting, and it's started to rain. There must be a leak.
    God save the queen – both of them.
    It'll end. I'm sure it will.

    Spring came and the sun warmed everything. Even the rain stopped. It had stopped when he knelt to pray, stopped when the whispered words escaped his mouth asking God to forgive them world of it's sins. To forgive him, and her, and More, and Fisher – everyone. Cromwell too. The rain stopped but he didn't notice, just closed his eyes; incense tangling it's sent in his hair and clothes forever imprinting the smell of a thousand herbs on his soul.

    Greenwich is beautiful. That was all that ran through Sir Francis' head as he rode behind the king. Beautiful. So much so he forwarded his thoughts on to the king who readily agreed.
    "Aye Sir Francis, simply stunning. But the clouds on the horizon do dampen the spirit."
    "Clouds your majesty?" Sir Francis looked about, the sky just as clear blue as it ever was.
    "Yes, the clouds." There was no following comment so it was left to Sir Francis to agree and quickly change the subject.

    "There's fruit to be gathered Tom."
    "Is there?"
    "Don't sound so morose."
    "It's not that, or you."
    "Wine?"
    "No thank you."
    "Been thinking again? You're always in a mood when you do that."
    "Aye."
    "And? Come to any conclusions."
    "Does it mean anything?"
    "Does what mean anything?"
    "Well this, all of it."
    "What?'
    "This, our lives I suppose."
    "Probably not."
    "So it doesn't signify."
    "No. You're just going to die Tom. The only thing you have to hope for is a quick death, preferably painless."
    "Death then, is what it all amounts to."
    "Yes. We're all going to die, I, you, Anne, even the King."
    "Treason."
    "Life."
    "Tell me how the Queen is."
    "Her health is well."
    "The child?"
    "We shall, for the sake of optimism, assume that it is a boy and healthy."
    "I hope to God it is so."
    "You would."

    Cranmer paused outside the Bishop of Winchester's study. In hand were various documents, enough to make it seem as if he had a point in being there.
    "Your Grace." Cranmer said, his voice quiet.
    "Ah, Archbishop, please come in." Gardiner gave a smile, one that didn't seem to meet his eyes. The older man shuffled in, suddenly very aware of himself. "To what do I owe the pleasure?"
    "I've come to apologize."
    "Apologize? For what?"
    "For what I have no control over."
    "Your appointment to the See of Canterbury?"
    "Aye."
    "Oh, no need to apologize for that. It's God's will."
    "You were better qualified." A brief silence that seemed to agree. "I've also come to apologize for what I will do."
    "Archbishop?"
    "I'm sorry Gardiner."
    "My dear man!" Cranmer shook his head and waved for the younger man to be still.
    "No, I will apologize. I'm doing this because I know it will hurt you more than it will hurt me which means it will hurt you a great deal. I'm confused right now, I would say lost but I don't think it's fitting," his voice began to pick up pace. "I will do what is right, what I think is right and for your pain I am sorry. I'm sorry. Things are going to happen – are happening – that shouldn't."
    "Archbishop!" But the older man was gone, leaving the study suddenly quieter than it had been before.

    "Can't I go to town?"
    "No, not yet."
    "You've been saying that since we arrived!"
    "It's too dangerous."
    "I want to see England."
    "You will."
    "When?"
    "Margaret-"
    "Thomas."
    "Fine, we'll work something out." Cranmer sighed and rolled over, pulling his wife closer. "You knew what you were getting into when you married me."
    "I know, but we got me here, surely I can see a bit of the country."
    "Being a Polish pageboy may not cover it."
    "You said we would work something out."
    "I did, and we will." They went quiet as clouds drifted across the sun covering the world in a soft grey. "Shall we ride later today?"
    "Of course," Margaret propped herself up on her elbows and looked down at Cranmer with an amused smile. "But I worry for your health."
    "Mine?"
    "Are you sure you'll be able to keep up with me?"
    "Oh! I see how it is," he smirked and leaned up for a quick kiss. "I'm not worried."
    "We'll make a day of it. You're not to go to Town are you?"
    "Not that I know of."
    "Good. Now, tell me again about what life is supposed to be like."

    "How's your Venus?"
    "I know not of what you speak."
    "Quite well, judging by your glow. Don't look at me like that."
    "The Queen."
    "Always business. Yes, the King wishes you to speak with her. If she admits – well."
    "Will she be spared?"
    "You're amusing. I never knew you for a comic."
    "A fool."
    "There we are with the bitter feelings again."
    "Will she be spared?"
    "Does it matter? It's over for her regardless."
    "Must I?"
    "Yes. Offer her what you will but she must confess."
    "Does it matter?"
    "Yes."
    "Why?"
    "For the dirty game my man. This is the part where you sell your soul for their peace of mind."
    "You don't sleep much do you."

    "No. No I don't."

    "There was a time, Archbishop, when I thought the world was everything."
    "Madam –"
    "No, don't interrupt. I used to think the world was everything. That the sun rose then set and that was it. There was nothing beyond that. But…but now I know there is more, so much more and I wish to God I had known it before."

    William smiled an effusive smile as he strolled out to the gardens. The air was filled with the hum of insects as they flew from flower to flower.
    Standing by the hives was his niece, heavy cloaks on and white netting about her pale face.
    "Jane," he said, resting his hand on her shoulder. "How are you?" They turned away from the house and headed deeper into the gardens. Blossoms lined the path, covering them with the thick sent of spring. In the distance hymns rose as the chants of the monks were sing from the mouths of commoners.
    "I've been fine Uncle."
    "Keeping busy I see."
    "Yes," her hands were suddenly whiter than snow.
    "What is the matter Jane?"
    "Nothing."
    "You're worried."
    "I'm fine." William stopped and turned to face the young woman.
    "Tell me," he said, holding her hands in his.
    "I can't."
    "Yes you can. What are you worried about?"
    "Everything."
    "Everything?"
    "Yes, everything." The chanted prayers stopped and her eyes closed tight, blinding out of the sun and the look from her uncle. There was the sound of branches breaking and from the bushes emerged the King.
    "There you are Seymour!"
    "Your majesty."

    "Margaret," Cranmer walked up to the younger woman, pulling her close to him. With a smile she set down the herbs.
    "Yes?"
    "May I ask you something?"
    "Of course."
    "Walk with me," taking her arm they turned from the bay window and wandered down a long hall. Not a sound could be heard except for the soft tread of their feet. Every so often the sharp sent of mint caught Cranmer's attention and he glanced down to Margaret's hands to see her twirling a small piece of red mint. "Tell me about God," he said at last, squinting as they entered the gardens. Margaret started to laugh but caught sight of Cranmer's face and stopped.
    "God Thomas?"
    "Yes, tell me about him."
    "I can't."
    "Why?"
    "You're the Archbishop."
    "And you're a woman, I –" he paused, threading his fingers through hers. "I often thought that women have a better grasp of the divine than men." The statement earned a laugh from Margaret accompanied by a coy look.
    "What do you really want Thomas?"
    "To know who God is."
    "Why?"
    "I fear that I've lost him. Or that he's lost me." Margaret stopped, pulling Cranmer to a halt next to her. She turned and looked up at him, her eyes squinting under the glare of the sun.
    "You've not lost God. You will never loose God."
    "But I'm lost," he found himself trembling, a loud noise thrumming in his ears. So loud he wondered that Margaret did not mention it. "So lost, I don't know who I am, what I'm to do. Margaret please," he sank to the ground and she followed, holding him close. "Please help me, save me. I can't do this; I can't sell my soul for this. Save me Maggie, save me."

    "I wish to make a confession."
    "Very well."
    "Forgive me father for I have sinned."
    "What are your sins my son?"
    "I'm going to send an innocent woman to the for my own gain."

    "My son that is a grave sin."
    "I'm making the only friend I have give up his honor – his goodness – for me."
    "Crom-"
    "Ssh. I'm confessing my sins father, please let me finish."
    "I can't."
    "You will."
    "Don't let me know these things."
    "My friend is the only good person at court and I am bloodying his hands."
    "Cromwell!"
    "Ssh, listen father. I don't regret what I've done, I've never regretted it and I never will, but he's part of the carnage, he's the remains of the ship that has struck on the rocks and for that I am sorry."
    "Cromwell, please. Don't – just let it lie."
    "You're as lost as I am Cranmer. Despite that I've always felt some form of comfort around you."
    "Cromwell –"
    "Please father."
    "I can't absolve you of your sins."

    "That is for you to do."
    "If anyone can absolve me, it's you."
    "Learn to sleep."
    "Sleep?"
    "Learn to sleep and then you will be absolved."

    "Thank you father."

    His fingers lingered on the door, unwilling to knock. Unwilling to enter the room that held everything. Sobs seeped through the door and as he opened it slowly he could see a shaking form on the bed.
    One candle was lit; lighting up a desk and the face of a young man whose expression carried wisdom of more than a thousand years.
    "My lord Rochford." He said with an incline of his head, still lingering by the door.
    "Your Grace." It was rasped.
    "How is she?"
    "Ill."
    "But I thought – I was told that the pregnancy had gone well."
    "It…"
    "I know."
    "She's ill at heart Archbishop. Help her."
    "I can't."
    "Comfort her."
    "I have none to give!" The young man stopped staring at Cranmer and turned his gaze to the candle.
    "If you're lost then we're all lost." He whispered, his voice barely heard as Cranmer closed the door, returning the room to darkness.

    Gardiner was sitting in the courtyard of his house. The sun was warm and cast a soft glow about his face.
    "M'lord." He opened his eyes to see one of his servants standing by one of the entrances to the courtyard.
    "Yes?"
    "There is a young…man here to see you."
    "For what?"
    "He says he is here on a private matter. It concerns the Archbishop, he says." Gardiner sat up and brushed the grass and leaves from his robes. Picking up the book he had been reading he quickly tucked it away.
    "Your Grace," the young man bowed in an awkward fashion, clearly not used to it.
    "You may stand."
    "Thank you."
    "What is the matter my son?" The boy licked his lips and glances at the servant who remained in the yard. Gardiner dismissed him with a wave of his hand.
    "May I speak plainly m'lord?"
    "Of course."
    "Walk with me? I think better when I am walking."
    "We may make rounds if you wish."
    "What I have to speak of concerns the Archbishop. I am, well, I am concerned about him."
    "Why come to me? I am no friend of his."
    "But he respects you." The boy's expression turned earnest and Gardiner noticed that the lips were too full and the wrists seemed to be too delicate.
    "Does he?"
    "Yes, while he does not agree with you he respects you. Much like he respected Fisher and More."
    "What troubles him?" The younger man suddenly looked away, seemingly unsure of his mission. "You can speak plainly my son, I'll not say a word to anyone."
    "He doesn't like court, doesn't like the intrigue and power play."
    "It's required –"
    "He knows that but it's killing him." In seconds the uncertainty was gone and in its place was adoration, love perhaps.
    "Killing him? He seems strong enough."
    "No, killing him inside."
    "Then he suffers from the same disease as the queen."
    "He does?"
    "Fear."
    "For what? Surely they won't –"
    "No, not him, not yet. But he cares for others and so he fears for them."
    "What is he to do?"
    "Nothing…loose his heart? His soul? I don't know," Gardiner paused and gave a bitter laugh. "Not all of us are as lucky as he."
    "Or as unfortunate."

    She was beyond me, beyond this world. She cried and cursed – begged you for salvation, to deliver her soul from the world she no longer wanted to live it and I could do nothing. I tried to speak to her of your love, of your compassion, how you would not curse her. But she would not listen, would not listen. My Lord Heavenly Father, one of love, forgive her, forgive her, and me, and the King. Forgive us all. Please. Bring us peace, bring us sleep. The sleep of innocent so we may once again live and pray with passion.

    "My Lord of Canterbury, you've come to hear my confession?"
    "Yes."
    "Where has the King gone?"
    "He's gone to the chapel to pray."
    "And you are not with him?"
    "Madame, he says he does not need me."
    "Very well. My confession then…"
    "If you need time to think I understand."
    "Of course you do."
    "Madame –"
    "I know God not."
    "Madame!"
    "I know God not Archbishop, do not condemn me for it."
    "Of course not, but think of what you're –"
    "Shush. I know Him not yet I love Him."
    "Madame?"
    "Like the King – I know him not yet I love him."
    "It is not the same."
    "Yes it is, perhaps, if you were ever to love you would understand."

    "Of course Madame."

    "They were all taken, one confessed." Cranmer said as he strode into the inner courtyard. Margaret looked up, quickly closing the book that had been lying on her lap.
    "Who?"
    "Norris, Smeaton, Wyatt, and Rochford. Smeaton confessed."
    "Her brother was taken?"
    "Aye," he grimaced as he joined his wife under the chestnut tree. "Charges of incest and planning the King's death."
    "And the Queen?"
    "Adultery and treason."
    "Thomas you were her Chaplain." Cranmer said nothing, just squeezed her hand in silence. "They're not coming for you are they?"
    "No, of course not. I've done nothing."
    "Neither did the Queen."
    "She gave birth to a boy and he was stillborn."
    "That makes her treasonous?"
    "According to the King, Maggie we shouldn't speak of this."
    "Why?"
    "The walls have ears." Margaret pulled away, her eyes going wide. She took a step back then another, slowly shaking her head.
    "No, Thomas," she whispered," no, don't turn into them."
    "I won't –"
    "You have."
    "Maggie! Wait –"

    She asked for one last confession and when he arrived he could hear the steady pounding as the scaffold was built.
    Opening the door he found her by the window, hands clasp so tight her knuckles were turning white.
    "Madame," he said with a bow before stepping fully into the room. It was still early in the morning and the sun was peaking through the window like a shy soul.
    "Good morning Archbishop." It was said with her usual cheer and Cranmer could feel her fear.
    "Good morning Madame."
    "You're here to hear my confession."
    "Yes, if you're so inclined."
    "I am," she smiled a quick smile and knelt, carefully bowing her head. "Forgive me, I have sinned. I've wished ill on others."
    "Who Madame?"
    "Lady Rochford for her ill treatment and the Princess Mary for who she is."
    "Anyone else?"
    "No. I have felt jealousy and envy towards the Lady Jane Seymour and anger towards the King for the attention he paid her. Forgive me my pride and ambition – for these I will pay dearly."
    "Anything else Madame?"
    "Nothing."
    "Nothing?"
    "Nothing." Cranmer watched her kneeling, slight body trembling on the stone floor.
    "Madame-"
    "Nunc lento sonitu dicut, morieris." The queen whispered as she stood slowly, head still bowed. "Now this bell, tolling softly for another, says to me, thou must –"
    "No!"
    "Yes."
    "Surely not now."
    "Then when? If it's all the same in the end. I'll be gone, you'll be gone, and the world will move on."
    "Life will find a way?"
    "As it has always done."

    Lady Jane walked down the halls, eyes closed and fists clenched. She walked back and forth, her heels clicking over and over again. A monotonous sound of comfort. Her eyes were shut yet she could see, her heart beating fast with fear yet her mind still and calm.
    "Madame?" He stood at the far end of the hall, by the opened window. Outside the fresh sun rose on yet another impartial day.
    "Good day your Grace."
    "How are you? You seemed frightened." She stopped, body still and standing in the center of the hall. Eyes closed again,
    "oh Archbishop." And she fell.

    The doctor said it was nothing, just over exertion. But the fear is still here, perhaps maybe, just maybe – will it?
    End the same that is.
    And I don't mean death; Cromwell has confirmed my belief in that. But the how and the why are what matters. How will she die? Why will she die?
    My Lord I don't mean to question you, you have your ways but I can't help it. Is this how Christ felt?
    My life depends on it – my soul.
    I must know!
    God, I must know. Please God, please, tell me – will it? Will it end the same? Dear God in heaven or hell – wherever you are how does it end?
    I'm sorry, sorry. Sorry my Lord. God I'm so sorry. Jane I'm so sorry, Anne, Katharine –

    "She's fine, up and about as she should be."
    "I'm glad to hear that."
    "Are you?"
    "Yes Cromwell, I am."

    "You seem tired."
    "I am."
    "The guilt?"
    "Uncertainty."
    "The same, usually."
    "Usually."
    "Don't sound so forlorn."
    "But it's over."
    "What is?"
    "Everything. Over."
    "My dear men, it's only just begun."
    "No, it's over."
    "The beginning of the end."

    "For who?"
    "Everyone. As always."
    "Will you walk with me in the dark Cromwell?"
    "No."
    "Good. I wouldn't want you to."
    "Archbishop we are all on our own."
    "But we're not."
    "But we are – on our own together…and sometimes I pray, pray that it will all end quietly."
    "It won't. Never does I suspect."
    "Do you know Cranmer? For certain."
    "No, but neither do you. No one knows what it means, do we? We're not Him after all. We don't understand till the end and by then it's too –"
    "Ssh."
    "Late."


end

as I said, not the usual prose. Sorry if it's confusing. Um ya.

Hello.

Sat, 05 Apr 2008 23:55:05 GMT

Hi, there. I'm Kate: total nerd, bookworm, and lover of many an old dead man.
As this is my first post, I thought I'd treat you to my top few:

Woodrow Wilson:
I'd do any of the presidents, but Wilson is my favorite.

Vladimir Nabokov:
Lolita is my favorite book. How could I not want him as my Humbert Humbert?

Edwin Booth:
Definitely the sexier of the Booths, thought JW isn't bad. Besides, he played Hamlet.

Aldous Huxley:
Chances are, if you're broody looking and a writer, I will want to sleep with you.

Portrait of the Premier as a Hot Young Thing

Fri, 15 Feb 2008 05:15:05 GMT

I can't believe I found you guys! I didn't know there were others...

I love a dandy. Like young Ben Disraeli here:

Vincenzo Bellini

Wed, 13 Feb 2008 05:27:14 GMT

Composer of such operatic masterpieces as La Sonnambula, Norma and I Puritani, he wrote some of the most gorgeous melodies to be found anywhere and inspired other greats such as Chopin and Verdi. Tragically, he died not even two months shy of his 34th birthday; probably just as he was truly reaching his artistic maturity. Bellini has always intrigued me and his portraits show him to have been quite a striking man! *sigh*

Brahms

Wed, 13 Feb 2008 02:49:39 GMT

So I was doing some research on the composer Johannes Brahms, and I found this picture of him when he was younger.

Why do guys have to grow beards? :/

King George I.

Fri, 08 Feb 2008 15:47:19 GMT

King George looks so huggable to me. XD I just want to pinch his cheeks!

Another picture:

Sat, 02 Feb 2008 03:15:43 GMT

While doing some research for a project for school, I stumbled across Monsieur Andre Chenier. Does anyone know anything about him, or where more information might be found? Or, even better, English translations of his works?

Thanks!

Ode to the West Wind...

Thu, 24 Jan 2008 21:05:39 GMT

Has anyone else fallen in love with Percy Bysshe Shelley? I'm studying his beautiful poetry for my A Level course, and woah he was pretty amazing. He worshipped imagination, believed in the sublimity of nature, and was inspired by the French Revolution! He wanted nature to convey his thoughts "across the universe" and wrote a number of political pamphlets. He also got expelled from Oxford University for writing an essay called 'The Necessity of Atheism' - and his dad disowned him.

He life he was a bit strange - he got bullied for looking feminine, eloped with several women while his wife was pregnant, and got shot at twice in the last few days before his death. There is a large amount of conspiracy surrounding his death - some believed he was murdered because of politics, others that he committed suicide, others that he was simply a bad navigator and drowned naturally.

His wife, Mary Shelley, author of Frankenstein, actually kept Shelley's heart for the rest of her life!

Anyone interested in nature or revolutions, read some of his poetry. It's stirring stuff.

Hey Guys

Thu, 24 Jan 2008 01:53:26 GMT

Wow, I never would have guessed that a community like this would exist, but what really gets me is that there are so many people with an appreciation for dead historical figures.

My main historical crush would have to be John Keats (after doing an English project and essay on him, his love poems set my heart aflutter), and Oscar Wilde seems like he would be a pretty fun person to hang around with. Along with a few others that I have picked up on after looking at some posts here (Robespierre, Napoleon, Pushkin - zomg sideburns <3).
In general, guys from the regency period seem to appeal to me, the style of dress makes them all look good.

To think that just yesterday I held apparent misconceptions about Robespierre, but by last night, after reading through a few posts, I ~~was converted~~ am much more informed :D I guess our history textbook in Grade 12 was kind of slanted against him, and since I was doing a project on Marie Antoinette at the time (and the movie had just come out), I became sympathetic towards her…but interestingly, it would seem that they are both misrepresented.

Not to mention that all the talk of Hamilton seriously has me wondering if I am missing out on something (I’m Canadian so I am not familiar with him), so I guess I should go brush up on American history!

So anyways gosh am i excited ^^

that darn black prince

Thu, 17 Jan 2008 11:28:56 GMT

Recently I was watching A Knights Tale

... when the guy who plays the Black Prince caught my eye. So I looked him (the actor) up, and just for the fun of it, I googled Edward the Black Prince as well. Now I dont know whether its those cheekbones or the fact that he was a great medieval military hero, he did things to me. Tee hee! Oh, those eyes. Picture for you:

And whilst I'm on the subject of Edwards, Edward I - COOL.

He was responsible for all these legal and administrative reforms in England - codifying the legal system, 'promoting the uniform administration of justice' etc. For the most part of his reign he was away suppressing the rebels in Scotland and Wales and he was the one that executed William Wallace. Or at least I think so. Okay so maybe he isnt that cool, but he's pretty interesting and not bad to look at. Therefore he has joined my little group of historical crushes. :D

Erwin Rommel

Sat, 15 Dec 2007 06:25:21 GMT

I've recently become engrossed in WWII history, not that I wasn't before, but I've only just begun to get interested in the African war. And naturally (or unnaturally, I don't know) I've developed a crush on the brilliant German Field Marshal, The Desert Fox and commander of the Afrika Korps, Erwin Rommel. Maybe it's the coat.

And while Nazis aren't exactly lovable sorts, I think he redeemed himself in the end, taking his own life for conspiring to kill Hitler himself.

"He also deserves our respect, because, although a loyal German soldier, he came to hate Hitler and all his works, and took part in the conspiracy to rescue Germany by displacing the maniac and tyrant. For this, he paid the forfeit of his life. In the sombre wars of modern democracy, there is little place for chivalry." - Winston Churchill
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Erwin_rommel

Bringing a love for Louis XIV!

Tue, 11 Dec 2007 18:47:10 GMT

I found this community, and just had to join! Everyone's always picking on me for my crushes on dead guys, so, clearly, this place was calling my name. ;) A little about me: I am a history major turned French major (now history minor). My greatest historical love is Louis XIV - not necessarily for his looks (although I simply adore his talons rouges), but because he's just such a bastard.

sexy poet man!

Fri, 07 Sep 2007 01:25:41 GMT

hi! long-time lurker, first time poster. i'd like to tell you all about my new obsession...

William Carlos Williams

i'm reading his Pictures from Brughel right now, and loving it.

Bio (edited via wikipedia): Dr. William Carlos Williams (sometimes known as WCW) (September 17, 1883 – March 4, 1963), was an American poet closely associated with modernism and Imagism. Williams was born in Rutherford, New Jersey, a community near the city of Paterson. His father was an English immigrant, and his mother was born in Puerto Rico.

Although his primary occupation was as a doctor, Williams had a full literary career. His work consists of short stories, poems, plays, novels, critical essays, an autobiography, translations and correspondence. He wrote at night and spent weekends in New York City with friends - writers and artists like the avant-garde painters Marcel Duchamp and Francis Picabia and the poets Wallace Stevens and Marianne Moore. He became involved in the Imagist movement but soon he began to develop opinions that differed from those of his poetic peers, Ezra Pound and T.S. Eliot. Williams disliked Ezra Pound's and especially T.S. Eliot's frequent use of allusions to foreign languages and Classical sources, as in Eliot's The Waste Land. Williams preferred to draw his themes from what he called "the local." Later in his life, Williams toured the United States giving poetry readings and lectures.

Williams' most anthologized poem is "The Red Wheelbarrow," considered an example of the Imagist movement's style and principles (see also "This Is Just To Say").

Full Wikipedia article

Rupert Brooke, now in digital color

Sat, 01 Sep 2007 00:05:12 GMT

Best known for his war sonnets and the lines "If I should die Think only this of me: There's some corner of a foreign field that is forever England" in The Soldier Rupert Chawner Brooke was a soldierpoet of WWI who never saw combat and the "handsomest man in England" according to W.B. Yeats. Born in Rugby, he lived, wrote and cavorted (rather literally) with everyone of note in early 20th cent. in England from Churchill to Shaw. After dying of septicemia on his way to battle at 27, thanks to some thorough image-management Rupert became a Romantic ideal, a namesake of optimistic young soldiers and the object of affection for the type people who flip through their English textbooks in high-school and fall in love with dead poets for aesthetics reasons. (I've hear stories all over the Internet...)

Incidentally, in This Side of Paradise by F. Scott Fitzgerald the main character consciously modeled himself after Rupert Brooke's romantic image.

Because sometimes a black and white photograph like this picture only tantalizes curiosity for a man supposedly "exactly what Adonis must have looked like in the eyes of Aphrodite. [...] It was the sexual dream face not only for every goddess, but for every sea-girl wreathed with seaweed red and brown" according to Leonard Woolf, and Photoshop is right there...

Well, I tried, eight years after I first saw this picture online.

Coloring vaguely based on this painting of him and other ecstatic descriptions.

I might've gone a little overboard with the "A young Apollo, golden haired" bit from a Frances Cornford poem who mourned that Brooke's "Magnificently unprepared For the the long littleness of life."

Tue, 28 Aug 2007 21:47:59 GMT

I'm new here, so if this was already mentioned, I'm sorry ;( .
My historical crush is Oscar Fingal O'Flahertie Wills Wilde : more commonly known as Oscar Wilde. The great Irish Playwright, Poet, Novelist, & Wit.
He was born on 16 October 1854 in Dublin, Ireland and died on 30 November 1900 in Paris.
His talent flourished in the 1890s with plays such as Lady Windermere's Fan (1892), A Woman of No Importance (1893), An Ideal Husband (1895), and the Importance of Being Earnest (also in 1895).
I think as a man he is physically good looking, but I always find a sense of humour makes a man more attractive and Oscar Wilde had bags of humour. :D

Here are my favourite quotes of his.
“I have nothing to declare except my genius”
“The only thing worse than being talked about is not being talked about”
“We are all in the gutter, but some of us are looking at the stars”
“My wallpaper and I are fighting a duel to the death. One or the other of us has to go”
"To lose one parent may be regarded as a misfortune… to lose both seems like carelessness"

Happy birthday, Goethe.

Tue, 28 Aug 2007 20:15:22 GMT

Just dropping by to wish Johann Wolfgang von Goethe a happy 258th birthday^^.

Trajan

Tue, 21 Aug 2007 22:45:36 GMT

hi, there!! this is my first post here, so i'm little bit nervous!! well, anyway i'm a "fan" of Marcus Ulpius Nerva Traianus, roman emperor from 98 to 117 aD. the Hoptimus (the best)
why? well in my opinion he is the best emperor.
He was the second of the Five Good Emperors of the Roman Empire. Under his rule, the Empire reached its greatest territorial extent. He was born on September18, 53 aD, in the city of Italica (province of Baetica, now Andalusia). It was as a military commander that Trajan is best known to history. In 101, he launched a punitive expedition into the kingdom of Dacia, on the northern bank of the Danube River, defeating the Dacian army near Tapae. During the following winter Decebalus launched a counter-attack across the Danube further downstream, but this was repulsed. Trajan's army advanced further into Dacian territory and forced King Decebalus to submit to him a year later, after Trajan took the Dacian capital of Sarmizegethusa. Domitian had campaigned against Dacia from 85 to 89 without securing a decisive outcome, and Decebalus had brazenly flouted the terms of the peace which had been agreed on conclusion of this campaign. Trajan now returned to Rome in triumph and was granted the title Dacicus Maximus. The victory was celebrated by the Tropaeum Traiani. Decebalus though, after being left to his own devices, in 105 undertook an invasion against Roman territory by attempting to stir up some of the tribes north of the river against her. Trajan took to the field again and after building with the design of Apollodorus of Damascus his massive bridge over the Danube, he conquered Dacia completely in 106. Sarmizegethusa was destroyed, Decebalus committed suicide, and his severed head was exhibited in Rome on the steps leading up to the Capitol. Trajan built a new city, "Colonia Ulpia Traiana Augusta Dacica Sarmizegethusa", on another site than the previous Dacian Capital, although bearing the same full name, Sarmizegethusa. He resettled Dacia with Romans and annexed it as a province of the Roman Empire. Trajan's Dacian campaigns benefited the Empire's finances through the acquisition of Dacia's gold mines. At about the same time, one of Rome's client kings, the last king of Nabatea, Rabbel II Soter, died. This might have prompted Trajan's annexation of Nabatea, although the reasons for annexation are not known, nor is the exact manner of annexation. Some epigraphic evidence suggests a military operation, with forces from Syria and Egypt. What is clear, however, is that by 107, Roman legions were stationed in the area around Petra and Bostra, as is shown by a papyrus found in Egypt. The Empire gained what became the province of Arabia Petraea (modern southern Jordan and north west Saugi Arabia). He built several new buildings, monuments and roads in Italia and his native Hispania. His magnificent complex in Rome raised to commemorate his victories in Dacia (and largely financed from that campaign's loot)—consisting of a forum, Trajan's Column, and a shopping centre (Mercati di Traiano). He was also a prolific builder of triumfal arches, many of which survive, and rebuilder of roads (Via Traiana and Via Traiana Nova). In 113, he embarked on his last campaign, provoked by Parthia's decision to put an unacceptable king on the throne of Armenia, a kingdom over which the two great empires had shared hegemony since the time of Nero some fifty years earlier. Trajan marched first on Armenia, deposed the king and annexed it to the Roman Empire. Then he turned south into Parthia itself, taking the cities of Babylon, Seleucia and finally the capital of Ctesiphon in 116. He continued southward to the Persian Gulf, whence he declared Mesopotamia a new province of the Empire and lamented that he was too old to follow in the steps of Alexander the Great. But he did not stop there. Later in 116, he captured the great city of Susa. He deposed the Parthian king Osroes I and put his own puppet ruler Parthamaspates on the throne. Late in 116, Trajan grew ill and set out to sail back to Italy. His health declined throughout the spring and summer of 117, and by the time he had reached Selinus in Cilicia which was afterwards called Trajanopolis, he suddenly died from edema on August 9. Some say that he had adopted Hadrian as his successor, but others that it was his wife Pompeia Plotina who hired someone to impersonate him after he had died. Hadrian, upon becoming ruler, returned Mesopotamia to Parthian rule. However, all the other territories conquered by Trajan were retained. Trajan's ashes were laid to rest underneath Trajan's column, the monument commemorating his success.

sorry but all my pics uploads failed!!

The father of British pathology

Fri, 03 Aug 2007 10:43:23 GMT

Forensic pathologist Sir Bernard Spilsbury became a household name in early twentieth century Britain, thanks to his riveting expert testimony in a string of notorious murder cases.

Because he only ever testified about facts on which he was absolutely certain, and was very careful to present an image of complete professional seriousness and moral integrity on the witness stand, he soon won the respect of legal counsel, judges, juries and the public alike.

Spilsbury shot to fame in 1910 when he appeared for the prosecution at Dr Crippen's trial for the murder of his wife Belle Elmore. The body found in the cellar of Crippen's London home had been buried in lime in the hopes that this would rapidly obliterate the remains - or at least help to obscure the identity of the victim. By the time the police dug the corpse up, there was indeed very little of it left on which to base a physical appraisal. However, through minute examination of a scarred section of the victim's skin, Spilsbury managed to establish to the jury's satisfaction that the body was in fact that of Belle Elmore.

Crippen was sentenced to hang.

In 1911, Spilsbury followed up this triumph with a bravura demonstration of his expertise with regard to arsenic poisoning. Withstanding extremely stringent cross-examination from Frederick Henry Seddon's barristers, he maintained that the victim Eliza Barrow had died from acute rather than chronic arsenic poisoning, which therefore strongly suggested that the arsenic could not have been self-administered, either by accident, in a misguided attempt at medical treatment of some kind or with intent to commit suicide. Furthermore, his post mortem examination of the body indicated that she could not have died of any natural cause, such as heart disease.

Seddon suffered the death penalty as well.

Four years later, Spilsbury helped to convict the infamous 'Brides in the Bath' murderer George Joseph Smith. This multiple bigamist and smalltime conman stood accused of drowning three women over the space of several months. The defence contended that each had died as a result of accident or illness while taking a bath. Spilsbury considered this complete rubbish, so he coolly repudiated each argument by the defence. He demonstrated to the jury that one victim, who Smith maintained had suffered an epileptic seizure and drowned, could not possibly have been immersed in the water during a faint or seizure, due to both her height and the size of the bath tub.

During the Twenties, his contentions on the witness stand about the effects of acute arsenic poisoning proved crucial in securing the conviction of Major Herbert Rowse Armstrong, the solicitor accused of killing his wife with arsenic, then attempting to murder a rival solicitor. (This is the case dramatised in the famous ITV mini series 'Dandelion Dead'. Look out for the celebrated 'excuse fingers' scone scene.) However, more recent evidence seems to indicate that Spilsbury might have been wrong in his conclusions here. Presumably we'll hear a lot more about this in the forthcoming biography of the great man.

When Norman Thorne was accused of beating his former girlfriend Elsie Cameron to death, then trying to make it look as if she'd committed suicide by hanging, Spilsbury insisted that her death was due to trauma to the skull, consistent with another person hitting her round the head with a blunt instrument. No less than eight other expert medical witnesses disagreed with this conclusion, including Dr Robert Patrick Bronte (no idea if he was any relation to the writers, sorry), the former Crown analyst in Ireland, who often appeared for the defence in cases where Spilsbury testified for the prosecution. Spilsbury's undue influence over the jury in this case was later questioned by no less than Arthur Conan Doyle, legal writers Edgar Lustgarten and Helena Normanton and key legal publication 'Law Journal'.

Spilsbury described the Patrick Mahon case of 1924 as the most gruesome he'd ever had to work on. He spent eight hours locked in the bedroom of the small bungalow where the murder took place, examining four stinking parcels of the dismembered corpse of Emily Kaye before literally having to piece the body back together whilst police held back horrified crowds outside. It was lucky he had begun to lose his sense of smell by then, as it used to be acute.

Like Maximilien Robespierre, Sir Bernard Spilsbury was both a great dandy and something of a workaholic. Over the course of his career, he was estimated to have performed no less than 25,000 post mortems. Somehow, he still managed to find enough time to marry his girlfriend Edith and father four children, when he wasn't updating his little black field notebooks or attending meetings of the Freemasons and the various other clubs and societies he belonged to.

On 17 December 1947, Spilsbury was discovered unconscious in his gas-filled laboratory at University College London.

Sadly, he couldn't be revived.

At the inquest, the coroner brought in a verdict of suicide. It was believed that Spilsbury had been suffering from severe clinical depression, brought on by the deaths of his sister, his son Peter (during the Blitz), his son Alan (as a result of chronic illness) and his own declining health.

His wife, his third son Richard and his daughter Evelyn survived him.

Marcus Junius Brutus

Tue, 31 Jul 2007 08:59:27 GMT

Anyone else have a thing for "The noblest Roman of them all?"

I think he was pretty sexy. I guess assassins always are....

Doctor, doctor

Mon, 30 Jul 2007 10:58:29 GMT

Does anybody on here get off on gorgeous historical doctors?

If so, then have I got a fit dead medic for you ...

As the man in question was involved in the investigation of some of the most notorious murder cases of the twentieth century, I hope you've all got strong stomachs!

First post!

Sat, 28 Jul 2007 20:27:44 GMT

Hello everyone!

I haven't been an LJ member for a long time so everything is still a bit new -- But I am glad that I have found this community. I am a Maximilen de Robespierre and Ludwig van Beethoven admirer.
People around me think I am an absolut loser because I prefer classical music and quotes from Robespierre, but I am pretty happy being an island =) I hope to meet some unique personalities here!

Regards!!