So last night I read a few of the letters Aaron Burr wrote to his adult daughter Theodosia in the summer of 1804, just after he had murdered Alexander Hamilton. He is still bitter, and of course is also in hiding/exile. He seems to believe that history will eventually vindicate him, and that the tales of widespread mourning are overstated. Oh and he also describes the woman he is trying to get into bed. These letters are to his daughter, btw. I’m sorry but Burr was a perv, and everyone knew it.

His memoirs are available for free on the Kindle, by the way. I downloaded it in the hopes of finding more of his hilarious diary entries, but no such luck so far. Here, he recounted the time he set himself on fire trying to light a candle with a gun:

I did go to bed at 10, promising myself a rich sleep. Lay two hours vigil; that cursed one single dish of tea! Note: My bed had undergone a thorough ablution and there were no bugs or insects. Got up and attempted to light candle, but in vain; had flint and matches but only some shreds of punk which would not catch. Recollected a gun which I had on my late journey; filled the pan with powder and was just going to flash it when it occurred that though I had not loaded it someone else might; tried and found in it a very heavy charge! What a fine alarm it would have made if I had fired! Then poured out some powder on a piece of paper, put the shreds of punk with it and after fifty essays succeeded in firing the powder ; but it being dark, had put more powder than intended; my shirt caught fire, the papers on my table caught fire, burnt my fingers to a blister (the left hand, fortunately); it seemed like a general conflagration. Succeeded, however, in lighting my candle and passed the night till 5 this morning in smoking, reading, and writing this.

That time he bought a coconut:

london, february 1, 1812. have spent 14 shillings and 6 pence magnificently, i.e., like an ass.

And of course, the time he passed by a bust of Hamilton, many years after the duel, and stopped to stroke the statue’s cheek, remarking, “There was the poetry.”

I mean, he was the worst.