History That Doesn't Suck - 27: The Last of the Founding Fathers

Episode Date: October 29, 2018

“Thomas Jefferson survives.” This is the story of reconciliation--and death. With peace abroad and the collapse of the Federalist Party, the United States seems to be out of crisis mode. Reconciled even. President James Madison’s got so much consensus, one newspaper’s calling this the “era of good feelings.” But there are still important developments and conflicts. The Supreme Court’s setting new precedents. 1819 marks the start of a serious “panic” (recession). And when James finishes his second term, Andrew Jackson feels screwed over by the House of Representatives, which is putting John Quincy Adams in the White House instead of him! Then, sadly, the last of the Revolutionary generation passes away. But thankfully, the two old partisan rivals--John Adams and Thomas Jefferson--will reconcile their friendship before doing so. They’ll die within hours of each other on the 4th of July! Coincidence? Or act of God? Either way, rest your souls, gents. Today we bid farewell to the last of the Founding Fathers. ____ Connect with us on HTDSpodcast.com and go deep into episode bibliographies and book recommendations join discussions in our Facebook community get news and discounts from The HTDS Gazette  come see a live show get HTDS merch or become an HTDS premium member for bonus episodes and other perks. Learn more about your ad choices. Visit megaphone.fm/adchoices

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Find us at ancienthistoryfangirl.com or wherever you get your podcasts. Welcome to History That Doesn't Suck. I'm your professor, Greg Jackson, and as in the classroom, my goal here is to make rigorously researched history come to life as your storyteller. Each episode is the result of laborious research with no agenda other than making the past come to life as you learn. If you'd like to help support this work, receive ad-free episodes, bonus content, and other exclusive perks, I invite you to join the HTDS membership program. Sign up for a seven-day free trial today at htdspodcast.com slash membership, or click the link in the episode notes. Welcome to History That Doesn't Suck. I'm your professor, Greg Jackson, and I'd like to tell you a story.

It's a beautiful, mild morning as dignitaries gather at the Brick Capitol in Washington, D.C. This is a simple building. Measuring approximately 80 by 50 feet, its red brick exterior walls are punctuated by three rows of windows. The top rows are small and square, while the lower two have windows of the same width, but longer, rectangular. The rows are interrupted on the building's 80 foot long front by a large arched window that perfectly cuts the top rows in two and lets light pour into the building's second floor. Oh, and just beneath it, the first floor's row of windows also have a break for the building's front door. If you're scratching your head and saying, I've been to D.C. and I've never seen this building, you're right. The brick capital

won't exist in the 21st century. But today is March 4th, 1817, and since the real Capitol is still undergoing much needed repairs due to the British burning it to a crisp during the War of 1812, Congress is meeting in this quickly built, temporary, red brick Capitol building. It's located just across First Street from the regular Capitol, on the same spot where the modern U.S. Supreme Court building will be built in the early 20th century. So now that you get where we are on this fine March morning, let's head to the brick Capitol's backside. It's time to inaugurate James Monroe as our fifth U.S. president.

James looks like a time traveler. I mean, breaches are so 18th century, and only the nearly 60-year-old revolutionary war hero can still pull them off. Though, come to think of it, maybe he looks less like a time traveler and more like a ghost. Between his antiquated pants situation and his blue coat, James is clearly channeling his long-gone continental commander, George Washington. Standing out here behind the brick Capitol, the graying, wrinkling, but still handsome president elect gives his inaugural address. He speaks of the need for proper national defense. He also

calls for the creation of roads and canals. That shouldn't surprise us, seeing as we're just coming out of the War of 1812. The fact is that, even with peace restored, the recent war has freshly reminded or convinced many Americans, even some Democratic-Republicans, of the need for these federal-level projects. As you might recall from the last episode, the war also saw the effective end of the Federalist Party. James' own election as president confirmed its demise. As the Democratic-Republican nominee, he beat his Federalist opponent, New York Senator Rufus King, by 183 electoral votes to 34.

So James also notes his relief in seeing the sharp, destructive political polarization of previous years finally come to an end. To quote him, equally gratifying is it to witness the increased harmony of opinion which pervades our union. Discord does not belong to our system. Close quote. James now takes the sacred presidential oath administered by the U.S. Supreme Court Justice, whom he's known since childhood, John Marshall, to fulfill his office and defend the U.S. Constitution. Congratulations, President Monroe. The country's again at peace, and American political discord is at such an all-time low, one of the few Federalist newspapers still kicking, the Columbian Sentinel,

is crediting you with ushering in the quote, era of good feelings. Close quote. Nice. Well, surely this just means smooth sailing from here, right? Yeah, you know better than that, don't you? Today, we're spending most of our time on President James Monroe's administration or this so-called era of good feelings, which, it turns out, still has friction. The Supreme Court's setting some serious precedents, 1819's got a full-on economic recession, and the nation's conflict over slavery is flaring up as we grant Missouri statehood. And although James will easily win re-election for a second term, the election of 1824 is gonna get a bit nasty. I mean, really nasty. You think you've seen some rough presidential elections in your

lifetime? Ha! Wait until we get through this one. Now, as we usher James out of the White House, we'll still have one thing left to do today. Bid farewell to Thomas Jefferson and John Adams. I'll tell you the touching tale of these bitterly rivaled founding fathers' late-in-life reconciliation. Then we'll lay them to rest. In fact, we'll lay James Monroe and James Madison to rest too. Yeah, today we bury the last of the founding fathers. Man, this will be a tear jerker. Damn it, Greg, keep it together. But not until the end. So, so let's push through the conflicts of James Monroe's good feelings administration so we can go pay our respects to John, Tom, and all the Jameses. Ready? Here we go. Ah, the U.S. Supreme Court, where America's

most important cases and highest legal precedents are set. Now, to set the stage a bit, remember how we just established that the Democratic Republicans have won over almost the entire United States? Well, let's emphasize that almost. Our current Supreme Court Chief Justice, John Marshall, who was appointed by John Adams long, long ago, is one of a few powerful Federalist holdouts. His party is breathing its last breaths, but John's pro-Federal government and private business favoring sensibilities continue to inform his court rulings. And early on in James Monroe's administration, John definitely gets his way on a few things. So buckle up. Well, if you're driving, you should already be buckled up.

Anyhow, buckle up because John's about to shake things up. Let's start with Dartmouth College v. Woodward, which the Supreme Court hears in 1819. New Hampshire's legislature pulls a power grab and seizes the privately chartered Dartmouth College, converting it into a state-run school. The governor even appoints a new secretary to the board of trustees, a dude named William H. Woodward. You get the case's name now, right? Dartmouth v. Woodward. Anyhow, this pisses off the original trustees so much,

they hire Dartmouth alumnus and lawyer Daniel Webster to go get their college back. Daniel eloquently argues before Chief Justice John Marshall, quote, This, sir, is the case not merely of that humble institution. It is the case of every man among us who has property of which he may be stripped. Sir, you may destroy this little institution. It is weak. It is, sir, as I have said, a small college. And yet there are those who love it.

Close quote. John Marshall is moved. Legend says he's moved to tears by Daniel's words. Basically, you should picture Jimmy Stewart and Mr. Smith goes to Washington. He rules in favor of Dartmouth. The chief justice explains that the school's charter is a contract and the Constitution prohibits states from passing, quote, any charters to the level of contracts. It's a huge win for all American private businesses, and John feels great about that. And John keeps rocking legal interpretations. A mere two weeks later, he decides on the McCulloch v. Maryland case. See, the state of Maryland wants to tax the Baltimore branch of the newly

rechartered Bank of the United States. The bank manager, James McCulloch, refuses to pay the bill on the grounds that the state can't tax a federal institution. Arguing he's not just a tax evader, bank manager Mr. McCulloch sues. In a bitter justification, Maryland's lawyers side with Thomas Jefferson, explaining that the bank is illegal and corrupt. They go so far as to use Tommy's words, asserting the Constitution is, quote, a compact between the states and all the powers which are not expressly relinquished to it are reserved to the states. Close quote. But even with Tommy Jay in their corner, the Supreme Court slams the door in Maryland's face.

John Marshall controversially declares that not only is the bank constitutional, using the implied powers justification of our old friend Alexander Hamilton, but the federal government is the highest power in the land. John says, to quote him, the power to tax is the power to destroy, which would defeat the operations of a supreme government. Close quote. Hashtag mic drop. By carving into state power and sovereignty, John enrages southern states, and his decision is unpopular with strict constructionists. That is, those who read the Constitution very literally. But nonetheless, John has just set the norm you and I still live with today. Basically,

federal anything trumps the state. And John's not done setting big precedents. Toward the end of Monroe's presidency, John faces the perplexing Gibbons v. Ogden case in 1824. New York State has given Aaron Ogden a monopoly to operate his steamboat ferries on the Hudson River between NYC and New Jersey. So when Thomas Gibbons starts sailing his own steamboats in the same waters, Ogden gets New York to ban the competition from his turf. Well, his water. Well, what he sees is his water. Whatever, you get the point. And so the enterprising Gibbons sues. When this mess lands in his chambers in 1824, the brilliant John untangles the complicated web into a straightforward decision that benefits private businesses. John Marshall rules in Gibbons' favor.

Because this case involves commercial interests in two states, New York and New Jersey, John's decision in favor of Gibbons cements the federal government's power to control interstate commerce. So there you have it, Chief Justice John Marshall's top hits from the Monroe presidency. Despite his party being long since dead, these decisions, all of which strengthen business and the federal government, are blatantly federalist. But that doesn't bother James Monroe and other Republicans as much as you might think. Frankly, they have bigger fish to fry. The nation's facade of good feelings is cracking as the U.S. economy experiences its first panic, that is, recession, in 1819. The panic has several causes, but I'll group them into two categories, domestic and foreign. As I mentioned with the

McCulloch v. Maryland case, Congress rechartered the Bank of the United States in 1816. It's supposed to get control of U.S. currency. Now, I know, you might be thinking, of course the U.S. controls its own currency. Yeah, not at this point. Banks print their own money. So it would be like if you had a $10 Chase Bank or Wells Fargo bill. Now, because bank printed cash, often called notes, could be backed by different things, like land or specie, which is a fancy way to say gold or silver, or could have no backing at all, these banknotes can have crazy exchange rates. In other words, you might take your $10 Wells Fargo bill to Chase Bank and the teller only gives you a $5 Chase in return. Crazy, right? So the president of the rechartered Bank of the

United States wants to rein this in. In early 1819, he acts like a helicopter parent, cutting his kids' allowance. The purse-strings-controlling bank president puts his foot down and requires all banks to redeem their notes for specie, remember, that means gold or silver, in an attempt to move toward a standard U.S. currency. But these dramatic measures lead private banks to reduce the number of bank notes they give out in order to meet the demand for specie. Uh-oh. And even with that belt tightening, banks still don't have enough gold for people cashing in their notes. And meanwhile, conditions in Europe only compound the problem. Europe is still trying to recover from the, oh you know by now, Napoleonic Wars.

Okay, stay with me here people. We're about to get real on global finances. You can do this. While trying to recover economically from the war, many European countries go back to specie, just like the US. But you can see the problem, right? They're doing this at the same damn time puts a strain on the worldwide supply of gold and silver. And without easy access to cash, Europeans can't buy as many American widgets. Oh, sorry, trying to avoid textbook talk. Toys. And another layer. European farmers are starting to produce strong harvests again, so the demand for imported American foodstuffs goes down. Basically, Europeans are buying local, like their Portlanders, discovering new hummus at a weekend farmer's market.

So point being, domestic problems, like restricted cash flow, combine with foreign factors, like low demand for American exports, to create the perfect storm in 1819. Out of specie and without easy access to more, private banks are forced to close their doors left and right, and those that stay open refuse to loan out money. With so little cash in circulation, businesses shut down and bank deposits plummet. In Philadelphia, unemployment soars to 75%. Tent cities, where the un- and underemployed go after losing their homes, pop up almost overnight outside Baltimore. Our buddy, Chief Justice John Marshall, who lives in Richmond, Virginia, sums it up perfectly.

Quote, We are in great distress here for money. Many of our merchants stop, a thing which was long unknown and was totally unexpected in Richmond. Close quote. President Monroe has almost no policies in place to ease the burdens of the unemployed or help businesses get back on their feet. And all Congress can do is extend loan repayment dates in an effort to keep farmers from losing their land. Seriously, nothing's really done. It takes years for the U.S. economy to recover,

more or less, on its own. And unfortunately for the heir of good feelings president, a tanking economy isn't the only crisis of 1819. The Missouri Territory applies for statehood in February of the same year. The debate in Congress over this slave state's application will spell disaster for whatever good feelings might be left. Speaker of the House Henry Clay officially presents their request. You don't need all the details, but you do need to know that Missouri leaders want to continue to practice slavery. 16% of the state's

residents are slaves, and they don't want to allow free blacks to cross their borders. Now, this isn't really different from how slave states usually work. After all, the powers that be in slave states don't want free blacks stirring up slave rebellions. But this is an unspoken rule no one wants to cop to, making it highly uncomfortable when Missouri Constitution writers want to put it on paper. So while Speaker Henry Clay has other pressing political issues he'd like to discuss, the Missouri debate soon eclipses every agenda item in Congress. The discussion takes a turn for the worse when newbie New York Representative James Talmadge proposes two amendments to the statehood bill.

On February 13, 1819, he suggests that, quote, James just opened a big can of worms. His proposal is basically the same gradual emancipation process currently playing out in northern states. Congress debates his amendment for days, and amid these brutal arguments, another New York rep, John Taylor, raises two powerful questions. To quote him, first, has Congress power to require of Missouri a constitutional prohibition against the further introduction of slavery as a condition of her admission into statehood? Second, if the power exists, is it wise to exercise it? Close quote.

Philip P. Barber, a Southern congressman, answers the first question with a firm hell no. He argues against the encroachment of the, quote, general government, close quote, into a state's right to self-determine and concludes that, to quote again, we have no constitutional right to enact the proposed provision, close quote. The war of words over the slave state's admission becomes a stalemate. So Congress, ever so uncharacteristically, decides to kick this can down the road.

They adjourn on March 4th, 1819 without deciding on Missouri's statehood. But as any great procrastinator would know, the Missouri issue has to be dealt with eventually. So in December 1819, as Congress meets for a new session, the wheeling and dealing starts. First, on December 8th, Massachusetts offers up its northern district as the new state of Maine to keep the slave and free states balanced. Great idea! Where was that one back in February, Massachusetts? Anyway, Congress is ready to welcome the state of Maine to the Union with almost no debate. But they can't come to a consensus on whether or not Congress can tell Missouri what to do within its own borders. Thankfully, Senator Jesse Thomas from the young state of Illinois has an idea that might just save Congress from this endless debate.

On February 16, 1820, a year after Missouri's statehood application was first introduced, he suggests that if northern congressmen would let Missouri in as a slave state, southern congressmen might agree to ban slavery above latitude 3630. The next day, his proposal, called the Thomas Proviso, passes the Senate by 34 to 10. And the Maine and Missouri statehood bill, which allows each state to form a constitution on their own terms, squeaks through the Senate with a 24-20 vote on February 18, 1820. Now it's up to the compromise-minded and anxious-to on, Speaker Henry Clay, to get these bills through the House. With a lot of you-scratch-my-back-I'll-scratch-yours favor trading by both Henry and,

more privately, the President, the House manages to find votes for both pieces of the compromise. On March 2, 1820, only two days before Maine's bid for statehood expires, the House narrowly passes the Self-Determination Missouri Statehood Bill by 90 votes to 87. On the other hand, the Thomas Proviso, which bans slavery anywhere north of 3630, makes it through by a landslide. 134 to 42. Now compromise is generally all well and good, but these northerner congressmen just allowed the expansion of slavery, and their constituents demand an explanation. Connecticut rep James Stevens answers by saying that, quote, the constitution is a creature of compromise. It originated in a compromise, But even with their eyes on the prize of preserving the Union, Virginian slave-owning Senator John Randolph deems these northern compromisers, quote, dough faces whose conscience and morality and religion extend to 36 degrees and 30 minutes

north latitude, close quote. By the way, I understand if you're scratching your head, wondering why a slave-owning southerner would be so upset at slavery's expansion. This is more common than you might think. It's not worth our time to get into a deep analysis of the senator's curious philosophy. But suffice it to say, he is only one example of the seemingly contradictory, complex, and confusing positions both Northerners and Southerners hold on slavery that often break our modern binary assumption that 19th century Americans simply do or don't support it. Well, in contrast to Senator John Randolph's harsh words, President James Monroe has kinder things to say for the compromising congressman. He better grasps the rock and hard place these

legislators are stuck between if they want to ensure the preservation of the union, which is a goal he shares. James acknowledges that they are saving their country and, quote, preferred the sacrifice of themselves at home, close quote. He's not wrong. Only five of these 18 dough faces get reelected. But the handsome James Monroe, and I know I've said he's handsome already, but seriously, this guy has a cleft in his chin that rivals Ben Affleck's. Anyhow, James doesn't suffer much political backlash from the momentous compromise. He runs for reelection unopposed in 1820. For president, unopposed. One electorate supposedly votes for someone else just to keep George Washington's status

as the only president ever elected unanimously, but James wins without lifting a finger. Which is a good thing, because there is one more hurdle to clear to get Missouri admitted to the Union, a state constitution. It's not until February 26, 1821, that Congress ratifies the show-me-states constitution. And even that takes a compromise. By this point, Congress is more sick of compromise than an old married couple. On August 10, President Monroe finally welcomes Missouri into the Union. The United States learns a lasting lesson from these rancorous debates and career-killing compromises.

To discuss slavery is to expose the deep fissures in the Union, and so cautious Americans conclude silence is the only option. They'll just avoid discussing slavery altogether. The editor of the Philadelphia National Gazette puts it best. Quote, Ah, more Latin. That means rest in peace. No one is more thrilled to see the Missouri debates end than Henry Clay. He has serious presidential ambitions and needs to polish up his resume

with more than babysitting Congress through a bruising statehood debate before the 1824 election. But since it's understood that James Monroe will step down after his second term, and there's no party system to narrow the field a couple other people are also planning to run. Henry's biggest rivals, John Quincy Adams and Andrew Jackson, are gearing up too. Yeah, their Wikipedia pages are in great order.

Or would be, if the internet existed. So this is it, people. It's time for the painful election of 1824. But since we know what Henry's been up to, let's catch up with his rivals before we get into this. And to do that, we need to go back a few years. So here we go. Rewind. From the creators of the popular science show with millions of YouTube subscribers comes the MinuteEarth podcast. Every episode of the show dives deep into a science question you might not even know you had, but once you hear the answer,

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products, and plan for major life events. And you'll walk away with the confidence you need to ensure that your money is always working as hard as you are. So turn to the nerds to answer your real-world money questions and get insights that can help you make the smartest financial decisions for your life. Listen to NerdWallet's Smart Money Podcast wherever you get your podcasts. In 1818, General Andrew Jackson receives command of an American defense force in Spanish-held Florida. Seminole Indians, helped by the Spanish, have been raiding southern Georgia and Andrew is charged with defending Americans and putting down any threat. He tells a friend the raids, quote, will not be tolerated by our government and if not put down by Spanish authority,

will compel us in self-defense to destroy them, close quote. Now, Andrew's version of self-defense includes capturing the Spanish fort of St. Mark, taking Seminole prisoners, executing two British men for aiding the Indians, and occupying Pensacola. Damn! The war hero doesn't do anything by halves, does he? The usually calm and collected James Monroe thinks the rash general has gone a bit too far, but not enough Americans share the president's concerns to hurt Andrew's political ambitions. After the dust settles from these Florida raids, Andrew does indeed hang up his general's uniform to re-enter politics. He serves as the first governor of the newly formed Florida territory. Yeah, yeah, I know I just said Spain controls

Florida. It's just changed hands though, and I'll explain in a minute. He then represents Tennessee in the Senate. While there, he even patches things up with Tom Benton from the brawl in the last episode, who is now a senator himself. Yes, Andrew is getting himself and his resume all gussied up for the election. Now, the somewhat stiff Secretary of State John Quincy probably won't use the phrase gussied up, but he too has been polishing his resume. The graying man has already hammered out the Rush-Bagot Treaty, which solidifies New England's all-important fishing rights and creates a peaceful border with Canada

from the Atlantic to the Rockies. Now the Secretary is working on a treaty with Spanish minister Don Luis de Onís to purchase Florida from Spain. See? Told you I'd explain the Florida territory deal. Using General Jackson's decisive action in the territory, the shrewd John Quincy muscles Onís into a deal that gives Florida to the U.S. In early 1819, the Spanish minister agrees to sell the White Sand Beach territory for $5 million. He also signs off on a U.S. western border at the Pacific Ocean, but makes sure that Spain keeps its claims to Texas and California? John Quincy gets the deal ratified by Congress in February 1819, but since the Spanish crown drags its feet, it doesn't go into effect until 1821.

Once the ink dries on that treaty, the hardworking secretary helps his boss, the president, write an international policy statement known as the Monroe Doctrine. It tells European powers to keep their land-grabbing hands off of North and South America without denying the U.S. the right to claim new territory. Yeah, John Quincy is just as ready as Andrew to give Henry Clay a run for his money in the presidential election. As these three candidates, Henry Clay, Andrew Jackson, and John Quincy Adams, announce their 1824 runs, Secretary of War William Crawford throws his hat in the ring. And no disrespect to William, but he's not going to make it far in this election or be as big of a player in U.S. politics as the other three, so we're not going to go into much detail on him. Well, other than saying the poor guy

suffers a stroke. We'll note that. The four men now duke it out for the coveted presidential seat. By now, most states are using a popular vote to determine how their electoral college reps cast their ballots, but let's not get bogged down by the tallies. We'll just use the electoral votes. Henry does the worst, receiving only 37. The sickly William barely does better with 41. John Quincy receives a respectable 84, but it's the immensely popular Andrew Jackson who takes the lion's share. 99 electoral votes. The backwoods general thinks he's won, But alas, while he has the most votes, he's failed to get a majority of the electoral votes. And as you constitutional scholars know, the combination of Article 2, Section 1, Clause 3 with the 12th Amendment dictates that the

presidential election will now be decided by the House of Representatives. And this is where things get interesting. So the House only votes on the top three finishers, which puts Henry Clay, with only 37 electoral votes, out of the running. In case you've blocked the painful memories of the election of 1800 from your mind, let me remind you that in a House of Representatives election for president, state reps vote as a block and each state gets one vote. Any of the 24 states can vote for either Andrew, John Quincy, or William, and whoever wins a simple majority, at this point 13 states, will ascend to the presidency. But with William still in bad shape from his stroke, congressmen really only have two choices,

the popular general, Andrew, or the savvy secretary of state, John Quincy. Henry Clay, back in his Speaker of the House position, can throw his support behind either one. Let's get down to brass tacks. Henry really wants to be president eventually, so the ambitious speaker throws in with John Quincy. The reason is that Henry sees serving in John Quincy's administration as his best chance of becoming commander-in-chief himself

one day. Furthermore, he despises Andrew. Henry cannot see how, quote, killing 2,500 Englishmen at New Orleans qualifies for the difficult and complicated business of the chief magistrate, close quote. So on January 17th, 1825, Henry tells John Quincy, through a friend of a friend, of course, that as Speaker of the House he can deliver three states' votes to John Quincy. This anonymous friend says with a wink that Henry simply hopes he, quote, would be a member of the next administration, close quote. John Quincy reads between the lines and understands full well that Henry wants the Secretary of State position. About a week later, the two men meet face to face, without any friends to witness the meeting, and according to John Quincy speak, quote, with the utmost freedom of men and things, close quote. And in an era where

people aren't getting recorded secretly and uploaded to YouTube, we have no way of knowing if men and things translates to a formal deal. But it sure looks that way. And on February 9th, 1825, Kentucky, Ohio, and Missouri, the states over which Henry holds the most sway, all vote for John Quincy. After the votes are tallied, William gets four states, Andrew gets seven, and John Quincy Adams becomes the sixth president of the United States with 13. Andrew is disgusted. After all, he blew John Quincy out of the water in the popular vote. Andrew got 42%. John Quincy got a mere 32%. And Andrew's pretty damn sure that a deal, which he calls the corrupt bargain, went down between Henry and John Quincy. The Tennessean leaves Washington livid. I'm sure you can see where this feels wrong from a purely

the most votes should win perspective, but let's remember this election, dirty or not, followed the Constitution. The House has the right to choose from the top three and no obligation to pick the one who got the most popular votes. Meanwhile, John Quincy, who will deny any allegations of a deal, is surprised at the outcome. His aging father, former president John Adams, knows all too well what John Quincy will face and writes to his newly elected son. Quote, Never did I feel so much solemnity as upon this occasion.

The multitude of my thoughts and the intensity of my feelings are too much for a mind like mine in its 90th year. Close quote. Now sadly, John Adams will only get to see the first 15 months of his son's presidency. Yeah, it's time to say goodbye to our remaining founding fathers. And this includes our favorite curmudgeonly New Englander Federalist founding father, as well as the charming Southern Democratic Republican, Thomas Jefferson. Coincidentally, or perhaps divinely, the two antagonistic, politically rivaled founders and former U.S. presidents will pass within hours of each other,

but not without doing something extraordinary first. They're going to bury the hatchet. To do their deaths justice, I have to tell you the full story of their renewed friendship in their final years, which requires going all the way back to the start of 1811. And as always, you know how we do that. Rewind. It's January 2nd, 1811. A very balding, white-haired Dr. Benjamin Rush is composing a letter to his old friend, Thomas Jefferson. The Philadelphian doctor talks about his oldest son, publishing a volume of lectures on medicine, but towards the end, turns his attention to their fellow Declaration of Independence signer, John Adams.

It seems Ben's had enough of the two decades-long feud between these two and is ready to do something about it. After all, they're all old men now. Time is short, he writes, quote, Your and my old friend Mr. Adams now and then drops me a line from his seat at Quincy. Close quote. Nice, Ben. Conjuring up nostalgia for the pre-bickering good old days of revolution is a smooth move. Now the other foot drops. Ben nudges Tom towards reconciliation. When I consider your early attachments to Mr. Adams, and his to you, when I consider how much the liberties and independence of the United States

owe to the concert of your principles and labors. I have ardently wished a friendly and epistolary intercourse might be revived between you. Posterity will revere the friendship of two ex-presidents that were once opposed to each other. Human nature will be a gainer by it. Ah, if only it could be as easy as one letter. Tom replies to the doc's concerns over the lapse in his and John's friendship on January 16th. This discontinuance has not proceeded from me, nor from the want of sincere desire, and of effort on my part to renew our intercourse. Okay, so Tom won't be taking responsibility for their fallout.

In a paragraph almost as long as a ranting social media post, the Sage of Monticello places the lion's share of the blame for their friendship's demise on those dirty Federalists. Naturally, our dear and departed friend Alexander Hamilton gets more than one mention here, and asserts that John, quote, was seduced by them, close quote. Tom also throws some shade at Abigail Adams, with whom he exchanged some less than pleasant letters back in 1804. Nonetheless, Tom clarifies that, I have the same good opinion of Mr. Adams which I ever had.

I know him to be an honest man. Okay, so Tom won't admit any fault, but he still admires John. Maybe there is hope. Ben writes back to Tom on February 1st. Being the loyal friend he is, the good doctor takes Tom's side in the split between the Virginian and the Adamses, or at least presents it that way to Tom. But he's not ready to give up on rekindling this long-dead friendship. With another reminder that their deaths aren't too far off, Ben writes, quote, Many are the evils of a political life,

but none so great as the disillusion of friendships and the implacable hatreds which too often take their place. Mr. Adams' letters to me contain many affecting proofs of his sufferings from this quarter. Too true, Ben. Too true. But while winter gives way to spring, Tom and John's relationship remains on ice. It might have stayed that way too, if not for Tom's neighbors taking a little summer vacation. Two brothers from the Coles family, men Tom describes as my neighbors and friends, pass by the Adams home in Quincy, Massachusetts. As they chat, the ever moody John airs his

frustrations from his days as president. Eventually, he makes some complaints about his former Virginian friend, the Coles. And here's where things turn a corner. One of the brothers, Edward, interrupts the aged New Englander to let him know Tom actually holds him in high regard and speaks well of him. Upon hearing this, John strikes a new tone. I always loved Jefferson and still love him,

he tells the Coles brothers. Word of John's love melts the sage of Monticello's heart. This is enough for me, he writes to Dr. Benjamin Rush on December 5th, 1811. I only needed this knowledge to revive toward him all the affections of the most cordial moments of our lives. Not losing a beat, the good doctor writes to John only a week and a half later on December 16th. He shares the same quote from Tom's letter that I just shared with you while encouraging the old

curmudgeon to take the plunge and renew their long lost friendship Now, my dear friend, permit me again to suggest to you, to receive the olive branch which has thus been offered to you by the hand of a man who still loves you, fellow laborers in creating the great fabric of American independence, fellow sufferers in the calumnies and falsehoods of party rage, fellow heirs of the gratitude and affection of posterity, and fellow passengers in a stage that must shortly convey you both into the presence of a judge with whom the forgiveness and love of enemies is the condition of acceptance. Embrace, embrace each other. This last nudge does it. On January 1st, 1812, one day shy of a full year since Ben first undertook repairing this relationship,

John writes a short letter to Tom. Showing he's still as witty now as in years past, John lovingly teases the old Democratic-Republican by calling him a, quote, friend to American manufacturers under proper restrictions a, quote, friend to American manufacturers under proper restrictions, close quote. Before informing the Virginian, he's sending him a, quote, packet containing two pieces of homespun, lately produced in this quarter by one who was honored in his

youth with some of your attention and much of your kindness. Close quote. Now you might think that's some sort of textile, like a scarf or a shirt, homemade by one of the Adams kids. Not quite. The packet soon arrives. It's a two-volume collection of John Quincy's lectures on rhetoric delivered at Harvard. Yeah, that's right.

Tom was kind to John Quincy when he was a kid. That's how close John and Tom used to be. They not only knew and cared about each other, but they knew and cared about each other's families. So yeah, these homespun lectures are by one whom Tom once doted on, the now grown John Quincy. With the ice and decade of silence between them broken, Tom responds on July 21st. Since the packet with John Quincy's lectures haven't arrived yet, it's understandable, though amusing, to see Tom open his letter with advanced things for what he assumes is a packet of homespun goods made of actual cloth. But far more importantly, Tom reciprocates John's overture.

A letter from you calls up recollections very dear to my mind, writes Tom, as he goes on to reminisce about their work together during the Revolution. He tells John about his growing family, how he's now a great-grandfather, and closes out the letter. I now salute you with unchanged affections and respect. Huh. Un, unchanged. It's Tom's subtle way of saying he's always respected and cared for John, even at their most bitter moments.

And just like that, these two January 1812 letters close the chasm that separated the two revolutionary ex-presidents. Their past grievances are now water under the bridge. They're regularly in touch, as Tom acknowledges in a letter to the miracle worker, Dr. Benjamin Rush, on March 6, 1813. Mr. Adams and myself are in habitual correspondence. As for politics, they'll speculate on America's future, wax philosophical, even gently nudge one another towards more moderate positions.

But you know, they often just avoid it. To quote Tom's letter to Ben one more time, with the commonplace topic of politics, we do not meddle. When there are so many others on which we agree, why should we induce the only one on which we differ? By the way, this is Tom's last letter to the elderly physician. Only a month later, Ben becomes the next Declaration of Independence signatory to go to the grave. As the years move forward, both of the accomplished A. Lister founding fathers contemplate the legacy of the Revolution. We can see this in some of their letters from 1815. Writing on July 30th of that year, John asks Tom, who shall write the history of the American Revolution? Who can write it? Who will ever be able to write it? And I have to say, as a historian, I appreciate his question. He goes on to point out many of the speeches and deliberations in the Second Continental Congress weren't written down. And those that were, like John Dickinson's speech on the Congress floor against the Declaration

of Independence in the days before it passed, are, quote, very different from that which you and I heard, close quote. To put that in historian talk, he's saying we're missing key primary sources, and many of those sources that we do have aren't even accurate. Okay, legit concerns. And Tom seems to share John's feelings on the revolution's history. He responds on August 10th, 1815. On the subject of the history of the American Revolution, you ask who shall write it, who can write it? And who ever will be able to write it? Nobody, except merely its external facts, all its counsels, designs, and discussions, having been conducted by Congress with closed doors, and no member, as far as I know, having ever made notes of them. Now, before you start thinking, well,

F it all, listening to this podcast or otherwise studying is clearly a waste, we might want to take the aging revolutionaries' perspective with a grain of salt, because they have no idea how comprehensive our access to those documents that do exist will become. For instance, as this conversation continues in yet another letter, John writes to Tom, quote, Mr. Madison's notes of the convention of 1787 or 1788 are consistent with his indefatigable character. I shall never see them, but I hope posterity will. Close quote. Hope posterity will? Oh, John, if only you knew that in the 21st century, we'll be able to grab a device from our pockets, do an internet search for James Madison constitutional convention notes, and have

instantaneous access to little Jimmy's every jot and tittle from that summer. Hell, here I am reading your personal correspondence, John. And you know, I doubt that he and Tom would appreciate that. When a printer learns the two ex-presidents are pen pals and suggests publishing their correspondence to Tom, the elderly Virginian isn't pleased. He writes to John, I presume that our correspondence has been observed at the post offices and thus has attracted notice. Would you believe that a printer has had the effrontery to propose to me the letting him publish it? Those people think they have a right to everything, however secret or sacred. Sorry, Tom. I guess historians aren't any better. But hey, back to John's original

question and about who will or can write the revolution's history. My point is that while John's generation certainly took some great details and nuance to the grave, and we should always remember that, we also have far better access to sources than he or Tom could have ever realized possible. So rest a little better, John and Tom. I'm sure we're missing a few details, but I also think the revolution's history isn't as dire as your worst fears. Now, not all of their topics are so philosophical. As the old friends continue writing in the years to come, John sees painful deaths. The New Englander loses his 48-year-old daughter, Nabby, to breast cancer in 1813. His wife, or rather, his dearest friend, as John so often called her in their

letters, is taken by typhoid fever a few years later in 1818. Though deprived of his true love, his better half, his best friend, John won't let others forget her. In the years to come, all those who make the grave error of complimenting John for raising his son, John Quincy, without mentioning Abigail, will elicit a quick and sharp reply from the old New Englander. My son had a mother. But to focus on the more immediate aftermath of Abigail's death, Tom sends his condolences to the grieving John. I know well and feel what you have lost. What you have and what you have suffered are suffering and have yet to endure, writes the longtime southern widower on November 13th, 1818. And he continues, God bless you and support you under your heavy affliction.

John appreciates his friend in this dark hour. He writes back a few weeks later, quote, Your letter gave me great delight. While you live, I seem to have a bank at Monticello on which I can draw for a letter of friendship and entertainment when I please. Close quote. And as John suffers loss in these final years, Tom's advancing human knowledge.

Since the Congressional Library burned, along with the Capitol during the War of 1812, Tom sells his personal library of 6,487 volumes to Congress. Some of these books will still be a part of the Library of Congress's collections in the 21st century. The Sage of Monticello next turns his attention to founding a new institution of learning, the University of Virginia, or UVA. It has Tom's architectural touch all over it and is located in Charlottesville, just down the hill from the founder's home. When the Marquis de Lafayette stops in at Monticello during his visit to America in 1824, Tom makes sure his friend and favorite fighting

Frenchman, whom he hasn't seen in 35 years, dines at the not yet officially open UVA. Go Wahoos, right Tom? The next year, 1826, Tom and John send the last of the 158 letters they've exchanged since becoming friends again 14 years ago. Tom writes his last on March 26th to report that his grandson, Thomas Jefferson Randolph, will soon visit Boston. I must ask for his permission to pay to you his personal respects, Tom insists. Of course John welcomes him. Following the visit, the old New Englander informs the Virginian grandfather on April 17th that, quote, I was very much gratified with Mr. Randolph and his conversation. Close quote. Clearly, it was a good visit. John closes by expressing, my love to all your family and best wishes for your health. The letter certainly doesn't sound like a final goodbye.

I'm sure John doesn't think that's what he's writing. But he is. Neither man will live past the summer. Excitement mounts as the 50th anniversary of the Declaration of Independence approaches that summer. Both John and Tom are asked either to speak or provide a few words on this historic anniversary. I mean, come on, they number among the last three living signers of the Declaration of Independence. Furthermore, these ex-presidents were the document's greatest champions in Philly during 1776. Tom's its primary author.

John's the one who pushed, fought, and dragged the Continental Congress to an affirmative vote for it. So who better to speak on such a momentous occasion? But of course, neither has the health for it. Tom writes the mayor of Washington, D.C. to decline his invitation to the festivities in the nation's capital. It's a beautiful, expressive work of prose and gets published across the U.S. As for John, well, on June 30th, when leaders from his hometown of Quincy visit him at home asking for a toast they could repeat on the quickly coming 4th of July, John replies, and I'm quoting him in his entirety here, independence forever. I can only imagine the shock of these men. They want something eloquent, something

profound from the loquacious lawyer. And what do they get? Two words. Both men are fading fast. By July 1st, John's so weak that he hardly utters a word all day. On July 2nd, Tom composes a short poem to his favorite daughter, Martha. Speaking as a man who knows death is imminent, its lines include, Then farewell, my dear, my loved daughter, adieu. The last pang of life is imparting from you. As the day passes, Tom lays in his precious alcove bed at Monticello. Everything seems to conjure memories of the past. Everything he says harkens back to the revolution.

He drinks some laudanum mixed in grog just before 6 p.m. and drifts off. It's now July 3rd. In Massachusetts, John's visited by his friend, Mr. Marston. The aged founding father remains mostly incomprehensible. Meanwhile, down in Virginia, Tom slept through the day as Martha and his doctor watch over him. He wakes at 7 p.m. Ah, doctor, are you still there? Is it the 4th?

That's it. Tom just wants to hang on until the 4th of July. It soon will be, Dr. Dungleson responds. Tom drinks more pain-numbing laudanum. Oh God, he mumbles. The doctor wakes Tom at 9pm for more medication,

but he refuses it, saying, No, doctor, nothing more, then drifts back to sleep. Tom wakes again before midnight. This is the fourth, he asks, no response. This is the fourth, the dying yet stubborn Virginian demands. Unwilling to let Tom down, his grandson-in-law, Nicholas Trist, nods that, yeah, sure, it's the fourth. Ah, just as I wished, a relieved Tom responds. As midnight passes and gives way to the fourth,

Tom falls in and out of consciousness, talking in his sleep as though he's back in the thick of the revolution. Warn the committee to be on the alert, he mutters at one point. Around 4 a.m., he speaks to some of his slaves at his bedside, then, once more, returns to an agitated sleep. Fire rings through the Massachusetts morning air to note the semi-centennial anniversary of America has arrived. It's the 4th of July, and Dr. Holbrook has little hope for John. The ex-president's son, Thomas, writes his current president brother, John Quincy, to inform him of their father's certain demise. As they adjust his pillow, John wakes. Hearing it's the 4th of July. He answers, it is a great day. It is a good day. Back south in Virginia,

Tom wakes again at 10 in the morning. His loved ones try to make him comfortable through the late morning by lifting his head and giving him water. But just before 1 p.m., the fight ends. The sage of Monticello takes his last breath in his alcove bed. Thomas Jefferson Randolph closes his 83-year-old grandfather's eyes. Back in Quincy, Massachusetts, more celebratory Fourth of July canon fire as the afternoon soft rain falls. In an unusually clear voice, John speaks, Thomas Jefferson survives. He's wrong, but of course, in a world without phones or even telegrams, he can't know that his friend some 500 miles to the south has just died that very afternoon. Still, the thought brings John comfort. Some time passes.

John starts struggling to breathe. Turning to his granddaughter, Susanna, he mutters, help me, child, help me, before going silent. At 6.20 that evening, only five and a half hours after Tom, John too gives up the ghost. And miraculously to all present, as the 90-year-old revolutionary passes, thunder rings out one last time when the rain suddenly stops. It's as though the heavens are acknowledging receipt of John's soul. Of course, Massachusetts weather isn't the only thing surrounding these deaths many take as miraculous.

Tom and John, the author and main advocate of the Declaration of Independence, both dying on the 4th of July, and not just any 4th, but the 50th anniversary? For many, it's a sign from God. As John Quincy puts it in his journal on July 9th, the timing of their deaths, quote, are visible and palpable marks of divine favor for which I would humble myself in grateful and silent adoration before the ruler of the universe, close quote. As a man who endeavored to control every aspect of his life, it's not surprising that Tom left a detailed description of how he should be interred. Per his wishes, it's a small

affair, attended only by close family, slaves, and associates from UVA. He's buried in the graveyard right there at his beloved Monticello, with an obelisk for his tombstone, bearing an epitaph written by his own hand. It reads, Here was buried Thomas Jefferson, author of the Declaration of Fascinating, isn't it? While we might think President of the United States worth a mention, he doesn't. The most important things to him were his roles in securing American liberty, religious liberty, and education. Speaking of liberty, I wish I could say Tom's will frees his slaves. I can't. He dies with $100,000 of debt, which is the equivalent of over a million dollars today, meaning it's not even a possibility. By early next year, 130 of Tom's slaves are

auctioned, right along with the furniture, to satisfy his creditors. Eventually, even Monticello itself will have to be sold. But I can, I'm happy to report, tell you Tom kept his word to Sally Hemings. Remember that promise he made to her in Paris back in episode 21? Yes, all of her children, their four living children, go free. Beverly and Harriet already left a few years ago. Tom frees their sons, Madison and Easton, in his will. Beverly, Harriet, and Easton will lean upon their mostly European ancestry and identify as white, thus sparing themselves and their children the racism they'd otherwise face. As for John, his family's efforts to keep it simple don't work as well. Some 4,000

show up at his funeral service at the First Congregational Church in Quincy, Massachusetts, on July 7th. The devout Christian is interred here with his dearest friend Abigail by his side to this day. Oh, and five years later, another ex-president, the founding father and Revolutionary War veteran we talked about today, James Monroe, dies in 1831. And on what day? Yeah, you guessed it. Just like John and Tom, he passes on the 4th of July. Is it all just incredible coincidence? Or is it, to use this generation's often deist way of speaking, the hand of the great architect? I guess you'll just have to decide that one for yourself. The last remaining leaders of the revolution die soon

thereafter too. The last surviving signer of the Declaration of Independence, Maryland's Charles Carroll, passes in 1832. Fourth U.S. President and Father of the Constitution, James Little Jemmy Madison, poetically becomes that document's last surviving signer before taking his last breath in 1836. No, neither of them do so on the 4th of July. But with the death of these men, all of the revolution's main leaders, the founding fathers, are now gone, even if they survive, in a way, through their writings, ideas, and legacies. So God rest your souls, John, Tom, both Jameses, and all those too numerous to mention. The United States now rests in the hands of a new generation and passes into a new age. The age of Jackson.

History That Doesn't Suck is created and hosted by me, Greg Jackson. Research and writing, Greg Jackson and C.L. Salazar. Production and sound design, Josh Beatty of JB Audio Design. Musical score, composed and performed by Greg Jackson and Diana Averill. For a bibliography of all primary and secondary sources consulted in writing this episode, visit historythatdoesntsuck.com. Join me in two weeks where I'd like to tell you a story. puts them at producer status. Thank you.