Jake Lundberg

Late on August 24, 1814, a troop of about 150 British sailors and marines arrived at the White House. They did not come as honored guests, though they would treat themselves as such. James and Dolley Madison, the official residents, had fled earlier amid preparations for an event in the formal dining room. The table was already set, the food prepared, and the British helped themselves to a sumptuous feast, toasting the future King George IV and commenting on the fine Madeira.

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Imagine this: A tech guy has revolutionized the world with an innovation that unleashes unimaginable productivity, and brought himself unimaginable wealth. An imperial president, empowered by the Supreme Court to wield unchecked authority, seeks a third term in office, or else to pass the reins on to his son.

This is an edition of Time-Travel Thursdays, a journey through The Atlantic’s archives to contextualize the present. Sign up here.
In 1934, Edwin Embree made an informal list of “the dozen greatest universities in America.” As he related in The Atlantic the following year, “A storm at once broke over my temerarious head.” An unnamed politician responded with curses and threats over the exclusion of his state’s university on the list.

This is an edition of Time-Travel Thursdays, a journey through The Atlantic’s archives to contextualize the present. Sign up here.
Early in the Civil War, Oliver Wendell Holmes Sr. announced in The Atlantic that the necessities of life had been reduced to two things: bread and the newspaper. Trying to keep up with what Holmes called the “excitements of the time,” civilians lived their days newspaper to newspaper, hanging on the latest reports. Reading anything else felt beside the point.