Theodore Roosevelt’s life almost ended on the campaign trail. In 1912, while running for a third presidential term, Roosevelt was the victim of an assassination attempt at the hands of a violent and deluded saloonkeeper, John Flammang Schrank.
It happened at a Milwaukee campaign stop while TR was running for another presidential term with the Bull Moose Party. The former president was leaving his hotel to attend a campaign event when the vengeful Schrank stepped from the crowd and fired. The bullet passed through his overcoat, the folded 50-page manuscript of his speech, and his metal eyeglass case before lodging in Roosevelt’s chest, stopping just short of any vital organs. Its force, the surgeons reported that night, had been “much diminished.”
An angry mob quickly formed around Schrank as enraged Roosevelt supporters realized what had just happened. Roosevelt was able to calm the crowd, stopping them from hurting the would-be assassin until the police arrived. Declining to go to the hospital, TR went on to give the life-saving speech while bleeding copiously through his shirt. He famously told the crowd, “I don’t know whether you fully understand that I have just been shot, but it takes more than that to kill a bull moose.”
After finishing the speech, TR was finally taken to the hospital by aides. Doctors concluded it was safer to leave the bullet in his chest rather than risk removing it. TR’s bloodstained shirt remains a symbol for the lengths Roosevelt would go to achieve his convictions—and the mercy he would show to the man who tried to kill him. Schrank was never tried. Five doctors found him insane, and he was committed — first at Oshkosh, then, from 1914, at Wisconsin’s Central State Hospital, where he died in 1943.
They say one man can’t change the tide of battle. One man can’t hold a line or turn the course of slaughter. Alvin York proved that wrong with a rifle, guts, and a heart unshaken by the roar of war.
From the Hills of Tennessee: The Making of a Soldier
Alvin Cullum York was born on December 13, 1887, deep in the Appalachian foothills of Fentress County, Tennessee. Life there was simple, but hard. York grew up steeped in rural values—hard work, church pew, family duty. A devout Christian, he wrestled with the morality of war for years. He was a man of faith who didn’t take killing lightly; he prayed for deliverance before picking up a rifle. That inner conflict weighed on him when war was called. Drafted into the 82nd Infantry Division, 328th Infantry Regiment in 1917, York was a reluctant soldier. But training in camps like Camp Gordon honed his marksmanship—a skill born in the hills, sharpened by years of hunting and silence. His story is not just one of war, but of grace under fire, the kind of faith that doesn’t break when hell descends.
The Meuse-Argonne Offensive: A Firestorm
Late October 1918. The Meuse-Argonne offensive—the deadliest campaign in American military history—is carving through the German front lines. York’s battalion was pinned down near the village of Chatel-Chéhéry, France, under relentless gunfire. Whole companies were wiped out. Amidst machine-gun nests spitting death, York’s patrol was tasked with silencing a German stronghold. What happened next shattered the assumptions of what any single soldier could accomplish. His commanding officer later recounted: “In that hellish barrage, York demonstrated a coolness and all-around marksmanship seldom seen in combat. While under heavy enemy fire, he picked off the gunners one by one.” York’s own Medal of Honor citation describes how, armed with a rifle and pistol, he attacked the enemy alone. Crawling through mud, gas, and barbed wire, he eliminated multiple machine-gun positions and turned the tide for his unit. By the end, the man who had once prayed for peace had captured 132 German soldiers—nearly an entire company—single-handedly. That day, he earned not just medals, but the reverence of an entire war-weary army.
The Medal of Honor and Words of Witness
April 2, 1919—on the steps of the White House, York received the Medal of Honor from President Woodrow Wilson. A rare moment where humility met historic valor.
York resisted boasting, humbling himself before a nation that needed heroes badly. He later said:
“If I should ever forget my duty to God and country, I hope I might be set on fire by the man that I killed in battle.”
Generals called him “the greatest soldier in American history.” But York carried weight far beyond glory. His Medal of Honor was also awarded with the Distinguished Service Cross and several foreign decorations. His citation captures the cold fury and precise courage of that fight: “Sergeant York’s indomitable courage and leadership under fire inspired his men and saved the battalion from destruction.” Sacrifice at the point of a rifle barrel.
Redemption Written in Blood and Service
York came home a legend, but the war scarred him invisibly. He believed that surviving meant a responsibility beyond medals. Never one to rest on laurels, he used his fame to improve education and welfare in his Tennessee community, founding the Alvin C. York Institute.
His story is carved in the bedrock of American warrior culture—faith battling fear, desperation meeting discipline. He showed us that courage isn’t the absence of doubt but the relentless act of moving forward despite it. That even in war’s darkest hours, a man who knows his duty to God and man carries light.
“For I am persuaded, that neither death, nor life…nor powers, nor things present, nor things to come, nor height, nor depth, nor any other creature, shall be able to separate us from the love of God…” — Romans 8:38-39
York’s legacy remains a testament—a warrior’s prayer answered in the crucible of combat. Veterans know the truth in his grit: the battle never ends, it only changes form. To honor Sgt. Alvin C. York is to stand witness to the fierce grace that saves not only lives but souls.
In the early years of the United States, Congress didn’t have a permanent home. Lawmakers met in borrowed chambers across cities like New York and Philadelphia while leaders debated where to plant the capital. The Residence Act of 1790 gave President George Washington the authority to choose a permanent site. He selected land carved from Maryland and Virginia—what became Washington, D.C.—to serve as the federal district.
French engineer Pierre Charles L’Enfant drew up a bold plan for the new city, but clashes with officials ended his role. A design contest followed, and Dr. William Thornton’s neoclassical vision won for the Capitol building.
On September 18, 1793, Washington donned ceremonial regalia and, with Masonic rites, laid the Capitol’s first cornerstone. It was both a literal foundation stone and a symbolic statement: America’s democracy was here to stay.
Construction was slow. The north wing opened in 1800, finally giving Congress a permanent meeting place. The south wing followed a decade later, allowing the House and Senate to move into their chambers.
Disaster struck in 1814 during the War of 1812, when British troops set fire to the Capitol. Only a rainstorm kept the building from being completely destroyed. Congress temporarily met in makeshift quarters until repairs were finished.
By the mid-1800s, the growing country needed a bigger Capitol. Expansions added wings and a new dome—the iconic cast-iron structure we recognize today. During the Civil War, work paused as Union troops used the building as a hospital and barracks.
The Capitol became more than just a workspace. Its art, architecture, and grand design—borrowed from classical Greece and Rome—were chosen to reflect the ideals of democracy, law, and civic duty.
Today the Capitol has over 540 rooms, 850 doors, and even 108 windows in the dome alone. It anchors a complex of congressional offices and libraries, visited by millions each year as both a seat of government and a living museum.
From Washington’s cornerstone to today, the Capitol has been scarred, rebuilt, and reimagined, yet it continues to stand as a reminder that democracy isn’t static—it’s built, tested, and restored by every generation.
Why It Matters
The laying of the Capitol’s cornerstone wasn’t just a construction milestone—it was a declaration that America would center its government in a permanent home. The Capitol remains a symbol of resilience, representing both the fragility and endurance of democracy itself.
On September 17, 1787, a group of men gathered in a closed meeting room to sign the greatest vision of human freedom in history, the U.S. Constitution. And it was Benjamin Franklin who made the motion to sign the document in his last great speech.
The Constitutional Convention started in May 1787 in Pennsylvania’s State House (which is now called Independence Hall). During four months of deliberations, the delegates drew up a plan for a new form of republican government that replaced a weak central government established by the Articles of Confederation.
George Washington presided over the Convention, which featured many of the great minds of the day (James Madison, James Wilson, Gouverneur Morris, and, for a while, Alexander Hamilton), a legend (Franklin) and the most important regional leaders in the United States. Absent were Thomas Jefferson, John Adams, and John Hancock, among others.
On September 17, the group met one last time to conclude its business in Philadelphia, and to agree on how the Constitution would be sent to the Confederation Congress to start the ratification process with the states.
According to James Madison’s notes, the Constitution was first read to the group.
Franklin, in poor health at the age of 81, was at the meeting and wrote a speech to introduce the motion for the convention’s delegates to sign the Constitution. Too weak to read the speech, he asked James Wilson to read the speech for him to the other delegates.
“I confess that there are several parts of this Constitution which I do not at present approve, but I am not sure I shall never approve them,” the speech said in its opening sentence. Franklin then made a powerful argument for the new Constitution.
“I doubt too whether any other Convention we can obtain, may be able to make a better Constitution. For when you assemble a number of men to have the advantage of their joint wisdom, you inevitably assemble with those men, all their prejudices, their passions, their errors of opinion, their local interests, and their selfish views. From such an assembly can a perfect production be expected?” he asked.
Franklin’s speech concluded with a plea for all of the delegates to sign the Constitution. In the ensuing debate, Hugh Williamson from North Carolina rejected this idea. He proposed a letter should accompany the document when it was sent to the Congress in New York because the letter “would be found satisfactory to some members who disliked the Constitution.” Williamson was referring to three delegates, Elbridge Gerry, George Mason, and Edmund Randolph, who objected to the final version of the Constitution.
The three dissenters all spoke during the debate and explained why they wouldn’t sign the final document. Gouverneur Morris and Hamilton argued that the delegates needed to sign the Constitution. Franklin then made the final motion to sign the document, which was approved by 10 of the state delegations.
Then, a motion was made to destroy all of the journals that documented the convention, or to put them in George Washington’s possession. The delegates agreed that Washington should keep the journals until a new Congress was formed under the Constitution.
Madison simply wrote one of the most important sentences in American history: “The members then proceeded to sign the instrument.”
Of the 41 men in the room, 38 signed the document, with George Read also signing for an absent John Dickinson. William Jackson, the group’s secretary, signed to attest to the Constitution’s authenticity.
“The Constitution being signed by all the members except Mr. Randolph, Mr. Mason, and Mr. Gerry who declined giving it the sanction of their names, the Convention dissolved itself by an Adjournment sine die,” Madison concluded.
James McHenry, a Maryland delegate, also kept brief notes of what happened on September 17, 1787.
“Dr. Franklin put a paper into Mr. Wilson’s hand to read containing his reasons for assenting to the constitution. It was plain, insinuating, persuasive-and in any event of the system guarded the Doctors fame,” he wrote.
After the meeting concluded, McHenry noted, “A lady asked Dr. Franklin, ‘Well Doctor what have we got a republic or a monarchy?’ A republic, replied the Doctor, if you can keep it.”
Today is Jesse James birthday. He was born September 5, 1847 and was murdered April 3, 1882. He didn’t die in a glorious shoot out or a famous duel. He was shot in the back of the head by a friend and a coward.
From THISDAYOFHISTORY.COM:
n April 3, 1882, in the quiet Missouri town of St. Joseph, one of the most famous outlaws of the American West met an unceremonious end. Jesse James—bank robber, Confederate guerrilla, and folk hero to some—was shot in the back of the head by a man he trusted: Robert Ford. The killing did not occur in a dusty street amid a hail of gunfire, but inside a rented home, while James stood on a chair adjusting a picture on the wall.
By 1882, Jesse James had already become a legend. Born in 1847 in Missouri, he came of age amid the violence of the Civil War along the Kansas-Missouri border—a region riven by guerrilla warfare and personal vendettas. As a member of pro-Confederate partisan bands led by figures like William Quantrill and “Bloody Bill” Anderson, James participated in brutal raids that blurred any distinction between combatant and outlaw. When the war ended, the habits—and networks—of irregular violence remained. James, along with his brother Frank, turned to robbery, forming the James-Younger Gang with the Younger brothers and other associates.
Throughout the late 1860s and 1870s, the gang carried out a series of high-profile bank and train robberies across Missouri, Iowa, Minnesota, and beyond. Their exploits were amplified by sympathetic newspapers, which cast James as a kind of Southern Robin Hood, striking at powerful financial institutions and railroads. This image bore little resemblance to reality—many of the gang’s robberies involved civilian casualties—but it proved durable. In a region still resentful over the outcome of the Civil War and the disruptions of Reconstruction, Jesse James became a folk hero as much as a criminal.
That myth began to unravel after the gang’s disastrous attempt to rob the First National Bank of Northfield, Minnesota, in 1876. The raid ended in failure, with several gang members killed or captured by armed townspeople. The Younger brothers were imprisoned, and the James brothers fled back to Missouri. Though Frank and Jesse continued to commit robberies, the scale and cohesion of their operations diminished. Increasingly isolated, Jesse relied on a smaller circle of accomplices—and that narrowing circle would prove fatal.
Among those drawn into James’s orbit were brothers Robert and Charley Ford, young men eager to make a name for themselves. Robert Ford, in particular, idolized Jesse James, reportedly memorizing stories of his exploits. Yet admiration soon gave way to calculation. Missouri authorities, along with railroad interests, had placed a substantial reward on James’s head, and Governor Thomas T. Crittenden was under pressure to bring the outlaw to justice. Through intermediaries, the Fords entered into a secret arrangement: in exchange for killing Jesse James, they would receive the reward and likely a pardon for their own crimes.
On the morning of April 3, Jesse James was at home with his wife and children. The atmosphere was deceptively calm. At one point, noticing that a picture on the wall was crooked, James removed his gun belt and climbed onto a chair to straighten it. In that moment—unarmed, his back turned—Robert Ford drew his revolver and fired a single shot into the back of James’s head. The most wanted man in the West died instantly.
The killing shocked the nation, not for its violence but for its perceived treachery. Ford had not faced James in a duel or even a confrontation; he had shot him from behind. Rather than being celebrated as a lawman or hero, Ford was widely condemned as a coward. Newspapers derided him as “the dirty little coward” who betrayed his friend for money. The romantic image of Jesse James only grew in death, while Ford found himself cast as a villain in the story.
In a twist that underscored the ambiguities of frontier justice, Robert and Charley Ford were quickly arrested, tried, and convicted for the murder—but almost immediately pardoned by Governor Crittenden, as had been quietly promised. The reward money proved elusive, however, and Ford struggled to capitalize on his notoriety. He even attempted to stage reenactments of the killing on tour, but public hostility followed him.
Robert Ford’s life after April 3 was marked by instability and resentment. He drifted through various ventures, never escaping the shadow of his act. In 1892, a decade after killing Jesse James, Ford himself was shot and killed in Colorado by a man named Edward O’Kelley, who reportedly sought revenge or notoriety of his own.
Frederick Douglas, actual birthdate unknown, was born in 1818 into slavery. Suffering numerous beatings and maltreatment by slave breakers, Frederick devised a daring plan to find freedom.
From CHRISTINELEADS.COM:
On September 3, 1838, at the age of 20, Frederick Douglass put a daring escape plan into action. Disguising himself as a free Black sailor, he dressed in a red shirt, a borrowed sailor’s uniform, and a wide-brimmed hat—a strategic choice, as Black sailors were sometimes allowed to travel freely. He also carried forged identity papers provided by a free Black seaman, which he used as proof of his freedom.
With these in hand, Douglass boarded a northbound train from Baltimore to Philadelphia—a journey that, if unsuccessful, could have meant severe punishment, re-enslavement, or even death. The fear of being caught was overwhelming. He later recalled the sheer terror of each passing moment:
“I had the additional dread of being overtaken. Beyond Philadelphia, I felt comparatively safe, but the interval between me and the city was full of doubt and anxiety.”
At any moment, a conductor, a fellow passenger, or a slave catcher could have recognized him and sent him back into bondage. Enslaved people were often required to carry papers proving their owner’s permission to travel, and Douglass knew that his fate rested entirely on the scrutiny of the white men around him.
But fortune was on his side. The train’s conductor glanced at his borrowed papers but did not inspect them closely. His disguise, his confidence, and the sheer luck of avoiding detection allowed him to cross into free territory. When he arrived in Philadelphia, a free city, he breathed easier—but he was not yet safe.
From there, he continued to New York City, where he was taken in by abolitionist David Ruggles, a leader in the New York Vigilance Committee, which helped fugitive enslaved people find shelter, legal aid, and protection from slave catchers.
For the first time in his life, Frederick Douglass was free. But his freedom was fragile—even in the North, fugitive enslaved people were constantly at risk of being captured and returned to the South.
Recognizing the dangers he still faced even in the North, Douglass sought to establish a stable life as quickly as possible. With the help of abolitionist David Ruggles, he sent for Anna Murray, a free Black woman from Baltimore whom he had fallen in love with before his escape. Anna had believed in his potential from the start, and when Douglass planned his flight to freedom, she played a crucial role—using her savings to help fund his journey. Just 11 days after his arrival in New York, they were married by a Black minister. Shortly after, the newlyweds moved to New Bedford, Massachusetts, where Douglass began a new life—and a new fight.
In New Bedford, Douglass took a job as a manual laborer in the shipyards. Though he was now free, racial discrimination in the North still limited his opportunities—white dockworkers refused to work alongside him, and he was paid far less than white laborers. But he refused to let racism silence him.
It was in New Bedford that Douglass first encountered the abolitionist movement, attending anti-slavery meetings and reading newspapers like The Liberator, published by radical abolitionist, William Lloyd Garrison. Garrison’s powerful editorials against slavery resonated deeply with Douglass, and before long, Douglass himself would step into the spotlight as one of America’s most influential abolitionist voices.
“I saw nothing without seeing it, I heard nothing without hearing it, and felt nothing without feeling it. Slavery had become hateful to me, and I had waged war against it.”
His war against slavery would soon take him to national and international stages, where he would use the power of words—the very skill his enslavers had tried to deny him—to fight for justice.
In the early hours of the morning on Sunday, August 31, 1997, Princess Diana died in a car crash in the Pont de l’Alma tunnel in Paris, France. In the car with her was her current boyfriend, Dodi Al Fayed; Henri Paul, the driver of the car; and Trevor Rees-Jones, her bodyguard. Rees-Jones was the only survivor.
Here’s the true story of Princess Diana’s death:
Princess Diana and Dodi planned to be in Paris for less than 24 hours
Diana and Dodi had spent 10 days together on board Mohamed Al Fayed’s yacht, the Jonikal, and then flew from Sardinia to Paris on August 30, 1997. She was due back in London on August 31, 1997, where her sons, Prince William and Prince Harry, were returning from Balmoral Castle.
The two arrived in Paris around 3 p.m., and went from the airport to Villa Windsor, the Duke and Duchess of Windsor’s former home that Mohammed Al Fayed purchased. From there, they went to the Ritz Paris, owned by the Fayed family. During this time, Princess Diana spoke to her sons on the phone. While at the Ritz, Dodi visited the Repossi jewelry shop in Place Vendôme.
Early in the evening, they left the Ritz for Dodi’s apartment on Rue Arsène Houssaye.
The couple planned to eat dinner at Chez Benoit around 9:30 p.m., but due to paparazzi attention, ended up back at the Ritz. They first tried to eat at the L’Espadon restaurant, but 10 minutes later, went to dine in private in the Imperial Suite. According to the Associated Press, “Diana is reported to have ordered an appetizer of mushrooms and asparagus, and then sole; for Dodi, turbot.”
The fatal drive began just after midnight
Shortly after midnight, they decided to leave the hotel to go to Dodi’s apartment. Henri Paul, the head of the Ritz security, drove them in a Mercedes S280 car. (Autopsy results later revealed that Paul was drunk.) They left around 12:20 a.m. through the back entrance of the hotel.
Though they had attempted to use a decoy car at the Ritz, paparazzi quickly picked up their tail. In the car, neither Princess Diana nor Dodi were wearing seat belts; Rees-Jones, sitting in the passenger seat, was reportedly wearing one.
Around 12:25 a.m., the car entered the Pont de l’Alma tunnel at dangerously high speeds. As the AP reports, “Seconds after the car enters the tunnel in the left westbound lane, it goes out of control, striking the 13th concrete pillar dividing the tunnel, rolls over and rebounds into the right wall. It then spins around. When the car stops, it is facing east — the direction it came from.”
An account from a doctor at the scene:
At the same time as the crash, a French doctor, Dr. Frederic Mailliez, was driving through the tunnel. Witnessing the crash, he quickly rushed to the scene.
“I walked toward the wreckage. I opened the door, and I looked inside,” he recalled years later. He saw “four people, two of them were apparently dead, no reaction, no breathing, and the two others, on the right side, were living but in severe condition. The front passenger was screaming, he was breathing. He could wait a few minutes. And the female passenger, the young lady, was on her knees on the floor of the Mercedes, she had her head down. She had difficulty to breathe. She needed quick assistance.”
He ran to his car, called emergency services, and grabbed a respiratory bag. “She was unconscious. Thanks to my respiratory bag… she regained a little bit more energy, but she couldn’t say anything.”
Princess Diana was taken to the Pitié-Salpêtrière Hospital
At 12:27 a.m., firefighters received a call for help, and police and firefighters arrived at 12:40 a.m. When they arrived, both the driver, Henri Paul, and Dodi were pronounced dead at the scene. Witnesses later testified that paparazzi continued taking photos, and seven photographers were taken into police custody at the scene.
Sergeant Xavier Gourmelon, a firefighter, who was on the scene, said Princess Diana’s last words were “My God, what’s happened?”
When Princess Diana was extracted from the wreckage of the car, she went into cardiac arrest. First responders performed CPR, and got her into a hospital. Around 2 a.m., the Princess and Rees-Jones arrived at the hospital.
Per CNN’s report at the time, “Ambulance workers managed to revive her at the crash scene, but her heart stopped beating on arrival at the hospital, said Dr. Bruno Riou, head of the hospital’s intensive care unit. Surgeons opened Diana’s injured chest, closed a wound in her heart and massaged the heart for two hours in a vain battle to save her life, he said.”
Why didn’t Diana have more protection with her?
Years later, in Operation Paget—the investigation into Princess Diana’s death spurred by numerous conspiracy theories that surrounded it—the report stated, ” In 1994, at her request, official personal protection had been removed from the Princess of Wales. She wanted less intrusion into her private life. Until then, the MPS ‘Specialist Operations’ Command had routinely provided protection to her as a senior member of the Royal Family. From 1994 onwards she received such protection only if she was on an official visit that warranted such security or if members of the Royal Family who warranted protection in their own right, most obviously her sons, accompanied her.”
Diana’s death is announced to the world
Princess Diana was declared dead at around 4 a.m. in Paris on August 31, 1997; she was 36 years old. At 6 a.m., Dr. Alain Pavie, head of the cardiology department at the Pitié-Salpêtrière Hospital, held a news conference, announcing the death of the Princess of Wales. The British ambassador to France, Michael Jay, was there. He said, “The death of the Princess of Wales fills us all with shock and deep grief.”
Later that day, then-Prince Charles flew to Paris with Diana’s sisters, Lady Sarah McCorquodale and Lady Jane Fellowes, to bring her body home. Princess Diana’s funeral was held on September 6, 1997.
In late 1982, Smith, a fifth-grader at Manchester Elementary School in Manchester, Maine, wrote a plaintive letter to Soviet leader Andropov. She said that she was “worrying about Russia and the United States getting into a nuclear war. Are you going to have a war or not?” A few months later, Smith’s letter was reprinted in Russia and it was announced that Andropov was writing a response. Smith received his letter in April 1983. Andropov assured Smith that he did not want a nuclear war with the United States or any other country. Calling Smith a “courageous and honest” little girl, Andropov closed the letter with an invitation for her to visit the Soviet Union. In July, accompanied by her parents, Smith embarked on a two-week trip. She was a hit in the Soviet Union, and although she did not get to meet with Andropov, she traveled widely and spoke to numerous groups and people.
In the United States, some people branded her as a patsy for the communists and claimed that Soviet propagandists were merely using her for their own purposes, but Samantha’s enthusiasm and contagious optimism charmed most Americans and millions of other people around the world. During the next two years, Smith became an unofficial U.S. goodwill ambassador, speaking to groups throughout the United States and in foreign nations such as Japan. On August 25, 1985, while traveling with her father, their small plane crashed and both were killed.
Smith’s legacy lived on, however. Her mother began the Samantha Smith Foundation, which has as its goal bringing people from different nations and cultures together to share their experiences. In particular, the foundation established a student exchange program with the Soviet Union. In the Soviet Union, news of Smith’s death was met with great sadness. The Russian government responded by issuing a stamp in her honor and naming a mountain after the young girl.
Most people aren’t big fans of a national income tax, but it was on this day back in 1861 that the first one was levied by the new President, Abraham Lincoln. It only lasted 10 years, and many people thought it would never return.
But after years of arguing and a few court battles, the federal income tax we all know returned for good in 1913, with the ratification of the 16th Amendment.
Lincoln’s national income tax was a direct reaction to the military needs of the Civil War, and he could only tax the northern states. He was also able to impose the tax without passing a constitutional amendment.
After asking his cabinet if the income tax was constitutional, Lincoln met with Congress in a special joint session on July 4, 1861, to hammer out the details of the tax law.
Lincoln’s cabinet and fellow Republicans had determined that since it did not tax property directly, the income tax was an indirect tax, and it was not subject to Article I of the Constitution, which said that direct taxes must be apportioned according to the population of each state.
Lincoln signed The Revenue Act of 1861 on August 5, 1861, and it taxed imports, provided for a direct land tax, and imposed a tax of 3 percent on individual incomes over $800 (which, in current dollars, is about $18,000). The bill fell far short of its goals. There wasn’t an effective way to collect the taxes, and the 3 percent income tax only applied, ironically, to 3 percent of the population in the north.
The laws were overhauled in the more-extensive Revenue Act of 1862, which created the agency that later became known as the Internal Revenue Service and levied the first progressive income tax on Americans. The new act also had hefty taxes on alcohol and tobacco products. More income taxes brackets and higher tax rates were added in 1864, with the tax law expiring during the Reconstruction period after the Civil War.
The Revenue Act of 1864 did survive a Supreme Court challenge when in Springer v. United States a unanimous Courtsaid that the Civil War income tax was constitutional. But when Congress passed a national income tax in 1894, it was ruled unconstitutional the following year by the Supreme Court in Pollock v. Farmers’ Loan & Trust Company.
A divided court in Pollock said it was a direct tax not apportioned according to the population of each state, in violation of Article I, Section 9, of the Constitution. After the Pollock decision, it took Congress and at least 36 states to make the income tax legal via the 16th Amendment. By 1913, when the amendment was ratified, the average income had risen to $800, which was the taxable rate back in 1861.
And for the record, the Confederacy also had a version of an income tax, which wasn’t as effective as the Union tax system. Its lawmakers approved an income tax measure in 1863 as a graduated income tax. It exempted wages up to $1,000, levied a 1 percent tax on the first $1,500 over the exemption, and 2 percent on all additional income. But the Confederacy didn’t have an established system to collect taxes.
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