Martha Washington Called a Visit From Jefferson One of the Worst Experiences of Her Life

Our founding fathers had as many beefs with one another as today's politicians do. George Washington and Thomas Jefferson, for example, would probably be horrified to know that they’re destined to spend eternity stuck side-by-side on a mountain in South Dakota. Though the first and third U.S. presidents were once friends, the relationship soured after the Revolutionary War, especially when some of Jefferson's rather unflattering, thinly veiled comments about Washington were published.

Washington himself was guarded about what he publicly said about Jefferson, but his wife was a little more forthcoming, especially after she became a widow on December 14, 1799. Losing George was the worst thing that had ever happened to her, Martha once said—but hosting Jefferson at Mount Vernon was right up there. According to a friend, Martha called Jefferson's visit the second “most painful occurrence of her life.”

Martha spent time in many of Washington’s camps, including Valley Forge, and saw the horrors of war firsthand. She was also no stranger to personal tragedy: In 1754, her 2-year-old son Daniel died. Three-year-old daughter Frances followed in 1757. Three months after Frances's death, Martha’s first husband died, leaving her widowed with her two remaining young children. Sadly, they also died before Mrs. Washington—Martha “Patsy” Parke Custis was just 17 when she died following a seizure, and 26-year-old Jacky succumbed to “camp fever” while serving at Yorktown in 1781. Despite burying so many of her loved ones, Martha apparently believed that entertaining Jefferson topped them all.

In January 1801, Jefferson, a presidential candidate, decided to visit Mount Vernon to pay his respects to the grieving widow. It probably wasn’t out of the goodness of his heart—Washington had been dead for more than a year, and the trip was highly publicized, likely with the hopes that it would help him win favor with the Federalists.

Though Martha allowed the visit, she remarked to clergyman Manasseh Cutler that she found Jefferson “one of the most detestable of mankind,” and believed that his election was the “greatest misfortune our nation has ever experienced.” It might be a good thing that the former First Lady didn’t have to witness most of the Jefferson presidency: She passed away in 1802, a little over a year into Jefferson’s eight-year reign.

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What Did Burr Do After Shooting Hamilton?
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Aaron Burr's first order of business was to go home and have some breakfast.

Having victoriously emerged from that deadly encounter with Alexander Hamilton on July 11, 1804, Burr returned to his estate in lower Manhattan for a hearty meal. Some accounts claim that the V.P. was also pleasantly surprised by a visiting acquaintance (either Burr’s cousin or his broker, depending upon the source) with whom he dined, politely choosing not to mention the bloody spectacle that had just transpired. The next day, Hamilton passed away. For Burr, his opponent’s death marked the beginning of the end.

On August 2, a New York coroner’s jury found Burr guilty on two counts. In their estimation, he’d committed the misdemeanor of dueling—and the felony of murder. To make matters worse, because his duel had taken place in New Jersey, the Garden State issued its own ruling, which also pronounced him a murderer.

“There is a contention of a singular nature between the two States of New York and New Jersey,” he dryly noted in a letter to his daughter Theodosia. “The subject in dispute is which shall have the honor of hanging the Vice President.” Facing a tempest of public outrage, Burr eventually set sail for Georgia, where plantation owner and former Senator Pierce Butler offered him sanctuary.

But, alas, the call of vice presidential duty soon rang out. As president of the Senate, Burr returned to Washington that November to oversee the impeachment of anti-Jeffersonian Supreme Court Justice Samuel Chase. Shortly thereafter—with some help from a contingent of Republican senators—Burr’s case was dropped in New Jersey, though by then, he’d already stepped down from the vice presidency.

Burr’s saga was far from over, though. After leaving D.C., he began aggressively recruiting allies for a planned seizure of America’s western territories. Among those he managed to enlist were General James Wilkinson, who’d been named Northern Louisiana’s regional governor. Burr even went so far as to begin training his own army before he was arrested in present-day Alabama and put on trial for treason. Ultimately, however, he was acquitted. His scheme foiled and his image scarred, Burr departed for Europe and wouldn’t return to his native country until 1812.

By then, the nation was entrenched in a nasty war with Great Britain and had largely forgotten his attempted conspiracy. Towards the end of his life, Burr went back to New York (where, despite the 1804 ruling, he was never actually tried for murder), revived his law practice, and married his second wife, the notorious socialite Eliza Jumel. He died on September 14, 1836, at the age of 80.

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The Time Ben Franklin and John Adams Shared a Bed
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Ever been on a road trip where the sleeping conditions were less than ideal? Such indignities aren’t just for average citizens like you and me. Even Founding Fathers and future presidents had to bunk with one another on occasion. 

In September 1776, just a few months after the thirteen American colonies announced their independence from Britain, Benjamin Franklin and John Adams got stuck shacking up together for a night. As part of a delegation sent by the Continental Congress, they were on their way from Philadelphia to Staten Island to negotiate with Admiral Richard Howe of the Royal Navy for a possible end to the Revolutionary War. As they passed through New Brunswick, New Jersey, the negotiators—Franklin, Adams and South Carolina politician Edward Rutledgedecided to stop for the night and find a place to sleep. 

The local taverns and inns were nearly full, though, and there were only two rooms for the three men. “One bed could be procured for Dr. Franklin and me,” Adams wrote in his autobiography, “in a chamber a little larger than the bed, without a chimney and with only one small window.”

That window would be a problem for the two men.

A ROOM WITH A VIEW

Adams, who was “an invalid and afraid of the air in the night,” closed the window before they got into bed. 

“Oh!” said Franklin. “Don’t shut the window. We shall be suffocated.”

When Adams explained that he didn’t want to catch an illness from the cold night air, Franklin countered that the air in their room was even worse. 

“Come!” he told Adams. “Open the window and come to bed, and I will convince you: I believe you are not acquainted with my Theory of Colds.”

Contrary to the lay wisdom of the day (and everybody’s grandmother), Franklin was convinced that no one had ever gotten a cold from cold air. Instead, it was the “frowzy corrupt air” from animals, humans, and dirty clothes and beds, he thought, that led people to catch colds when they were “shut up together in small close rooms.” Cool, fresh air at night, he believed, had many benefits. 

Franklin’s ideas were inconsistent with Adams’s own experiences, he wrote, but he was curious to hear what Franklin had to say. So, even at the risk of a cold, he opened the window again and hopped into bed with Franklin.

As they lay side by side, Adams wrote, Franklin “began a harangue upon air and cold and respiration and perspiration.” 

“I was so much amused that I soon fell asleep, and left him and his philosophy together,” Adams wrote. “But I believe they were equally sound and insensible, within a few minutes after me, for the last words I heard were pronounced as if he was more than half asleep.”

The strange bedfellows were out like a light, and continued on their way in the morning. The peace conference they were traveling to lasted just a few hours and produced no results. 

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