Thomas Jefferson, Author of the Declaration of Independence, third president of the United States, Founder of the University of Virginia, and, unfortunately, the father of a heretofore unknown son named Bradley who’d forever embarrass his dad.
[Note: As a nationally respected historian, I am proud to share never-before-seen correspondence between Thomas Jefferson and his rarely mentioned youngest son, Bradley.
These riveting letters were written between 1786 and 1787, when Jefferson was living in Paris, serving as America’s Ambassador to France. They reveal a side of our third president which few people ever knew. – Tim Jones]
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September 4, 1786
My Dearest Bradley, I miss you, my youngest offspring, more than words can convey. Paris is resplendent. Notwithstanding, I sorely pine for the September leaves of our fair Charlottesville home, Monticello. Know that would that it were up to me, I would be staring upon your youthful countenance at morrow’s dawning. I trust you are faring well as a robust lad of 19 and making the soundest of decisions. Pray tell, how goes thee on this autumnal day?
Your Proud Father, Thomas Jefferson
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October 27, 1786
Dearest Father,
Hello.
Bradley
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November 18, 1786
My Fine Issue, I confess to being modestly disconcerted by the brevity of your rejoinder. Hoping was I that there might be some news of your goings on and the state of affairs at our plantation. I miss you painfully, as I miss our dear bloodhound, Bailey. Do reply anon with an account of your affairs.
Your Humble Father, Thomas Jefferson
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December 4, 1786
Dear Father, I miss Bailey, too.
Bradley
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December 28, 1786
Dearest Bradley, Your most recent missive – if you can call a four-word tiding a “missive” – left me startled and bereft of joy. Is our faithful Bailey indeed no more? Pray assure me, he is merely on the prowl. Details, my lad. I implore you.
Your Concerned Father, Thomas Jefferson
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January 19, 1787
Dear Father, I am as mystified as you. When I returned from prison, Bailey was gone.
Bradley
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One of many drawings and paintings of Jefferson’s beloved home, Monticello. That’s Jefferson on the left, tending to his crops, and Bradley at right, asking his dad if he could lend him $5 until Tuesday.
February 10, 1787
Dear Boy, Prison? As in penitentiary? Have my enemies besieged you? What outrageous conspiracy have they spun to detain you thusly? Please delineate, as my fretful state elevates with each passing day.
Your Deeply Troubled Father, Thomas Jefferson
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March 2, 1787,
Dear Father, Do not grieve, pondering a wrongful charge or that some affront to justice prevailed to deprive me of my liberty. I could not have been more guilty. In retrospect, I discern I should not have taken leave of my senses, imbibing insatiable quantities of spirits. Such dereliction diminished my ability to reflect upon the wisdom of my ways before robbing that bank. Lesson learned, papa.
Bradley
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March 18, 1787
Bradley, In God’s name, what hath thou embarked upon? I comprehend it not. A Jefferson plundering the reserves of a bank? More importantly, when did my young son start taking to the drink? I beseech thee, for the love of our Lord, explain to your father what possessed you to ransack a depository institution?
Your Distraught Progenitor, Thomas Jefferson
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April 8, 1787
Dear Father, I blame myself. I felt my pecuniary options were limited after I sold Monticello to those Egyptian fraudsters, who promised in return we would take ownership of one of the great pyramids. Imagine my chagrin upon learning they had no such title of ownership to grant us said pyramids. I shall never again endeavor to engage in commerce with grifting Egyptians.
Bradley
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April 22, 1787
Son, Surely ye jest! It cannot be that my cherished Monticello, of which I was the architect and builder, is no longer my place of refuge? How could you permit this? Are you daft?
Your Father – for the moment at least, TJ
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May 6, 1787
Father, I guess I just was not thinking straight, ever since Mother passed.
Bradley
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May 19, 1787
Frivolous Boy, What in a French Harlot’s name (forgive my foul discourse) are you declaring now? That your mother, the love of my life, is with God? How came this to be? Answers! Now! Answers!
TJ
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Jefferson loved his dogs, especially his pride bloodhound, Bailey, shown here. Jefferson, while a genius in many ways, made several mistakes in life – most notably entrusting Bailey to his son, Bradley.
June 3, 1787
Father, I did not want to bother you with trivialities. I know you’ve a full plate, feasting with French Kings and Viscounts. Be assured, Mother suffered no pain, as she was sound asleep when her rowboat careened over Niagara Falls. I am comforted knowing she no doubt met her Maker in an instant.
Bradley
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June 22, 1787
Muttonheaded Moron, I almost pause in dread, pondering the sagacity of imploring you for an elucidation of your mother’s passage on a rowboat destined for such treacherous waters. Withal, I can hold back no longer. What possible circumstance emboldened her to embark on such an ill-fated terminal voyage?
Jefferson
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July 4, 1787
Father, I can merely speculate as to her motive for taking that ill-omened journey. But were I to hazard a divination, I might posit that she was ill-suited to a life of homelessness and prostitution.
Bradley
PS: Happy 4th of July, father!
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July 20, 1787,
F*ck 4th of July!, Homelessness? Prostitution?! We have countless properties suitable for dwelling, though not of the magnitude of Monticello. I am befuddled with consternation.
Jefferson
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August 3, 1787
Dad, I was low on funds. Gambling is a surprisingly tricky business.
Bradley
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August 22, 1787
Son, Bradley, Gambling? You dimwitted toad! Just how much of my assets did you squander?
Father TJ
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September 3, 1787
Dearest Dad, If you count your landholdings, farmsteads, and stock, along with the gold coins and other financial instruments, plus the horses and cattle, not to mention the slaves, well … all of it. However, nothing could part me from the quill pen with which you signed the Declaration of Independence. That will be worth thousands someday.
Bradley
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September 30, 1787
You Treacherous, Capricious, Malevolent Cad, I will be on the first ship bound for Baltimore. When next I gaze upon you, my reckless, foolhardy former heir, I assure you, I will seize that quill pen from your wretched hand and deposit it where no light shineth. You are no son of mine.
Thomas Jefferson
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That was the final correspondence between father and son. Interestingly, little is known about Bradley Jefferson’s life after that last communique. Some historians point to a report of a dead body found at the base of Niagara Falls, with a quill pen and a copy of the Declaration of Independence stuck up his posterior. Could that have been Bradley? We may never know.
On a positive note, they eventually found Jefferson’s dog, Bailey. So the story has a happy ending.
That’s the view from the bleachers. Perhaps I’m off base.
[Postscript: Because once in a while there is a reader who can’t tell fact from fiction, let me set the record straight. Jefferson never had a bloodhound named Bailey, nor a son named Bradley. I also made up the character named Thomas Jefferson. No such person ever existed.]
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© Tim Jones, View from the Bleachers 2021. Edited by Betsy Jones.
Dear Mr. Jones
We at the National Archives and Records Administration (NARA) were alerted to your most recent social media post regarding the alleged ‘lost son’ of one of this nation’s greatest presidents. Since it is our department’s responsibility to preserve all government records including the management of Presidential libraries, records and other documents, we are at once disturbed as well as impressed by the fact that you have obtained one of our most confidential and embarrassing historical documents. Normally we would denounce you as a traitor however, under the new Biden Administration, our guidelines have been reset to provide only honest and transparent communication in all our interactions with our citizens. With that said, we at NARA can confirm the existence of said letters and that there was, until now, a previously unknown and disowned progeny of the Jefferson family. However, for reasons now enshrined in our department’s transparency objectives, we are compelled to impart with your audience, all information regarding Mister Bradley Jefferson, his legacy and supposed disastrous ending.
First, Bradley Jefferson, was not a progeny of either of the president’s two ‘known’ wives but rather a result of series of trysts with a New Jersey woman named Tinabel Rhumph. As our archives reveal, it seems that mademoiselle T. Rhumph was just that…a Mademoiselle with a talent for latching on to people of high position and otherwise staying ‘ in the lamplight’. When cornered, she often claimed affliction by evil spirits and demon conspiracies. Yes, how naïve our early ancestors must have been.
Now back to Bradley Jefferson and the ending of your post. BJ, as he was known by his southern brethren, took flight after reading his father’s last letter from France. The one announcing his immediate return to eviscerate his ‘son’s innards with the quill of the Constitution’. So deeply disturbed by that prospect, BJ with his gambling cohorts and other enablers, ‘disappeared’ to the northwestern corner of New York colony and soon took to wagering and partying with the Wenro Tribe. Our archives of native folklore speak of white ‘Shoshonis’ (native for ‘a loud Group ) taking up stake and that on one occasion, one of them who fell drunk in the river. Regrettably the Shoshonis watched idly as natives valiantly tried to save him, but alas the poor soul was swallowed by Téhé-hoon-né-hé…the great spirit falls (today’s Niagara Falls…you know…those on the beautiful Canadian side). No, the unfortunate victim was not our BJ but his friend Bilford (Bif..to his pals…and actually more of an acquaintance according to BJ).
So to speed up the facts a bit…upon finding his poor team member, Brad doubled-down on his purpose to ‘disappear and start anew’ by faking his own death. He asked a tribe member for an eagle’s feather and a roll of birch bark. Thinking they were witnessing a formal burial rite, the tribe elders were first confused then outraged as BJ scratched something on the bark and then proceeded to insert said items into the poor soul’s derriere . Outraged they took him prisoner, beat him and then floated him down the Susquehanna river, condemning him to his fate with their enemies of the Delaware Tribe further south. Discovered by the Delaware tribe weeks later, he was brought to a trading post just west of the Jersey colonies where, by chance, his mother was..ahem…’operating a service based business’. Brad was traded for a sack of Star and Bucks beans and the latest steam kettle, which is how BJ found himself under the tutelage of his estranged mother.
Travelling in the back- country inspired BJ to the opportunities of his new home, in particular real estate and the potential to be ‘the biggest dealmaker in all the land’. BJ adopted his new life and transformed his identity to a ‘proper New Englander’ by moderating his first name to a more regal ‘ Dilford’ and affixing his mother’s name T. Rhumph. Dilly (or li’l Dildo to his club friends) signed his first ‘Most Genius Deal of the Colonies!’ with the same Delaware tribe for a portion of the Jersey shore where he intended too build a haven of ‘Games and other such Debauchery’. It is said that with a rushed flourish of his pen combined with his lack of spelling skills is how he hereto fore became known as D. Trump. Hence came the beginnings of another lineage and sorrowful legacy of wholly different American President.
Yours truly,
B. Angri , Phd
Political History
Senior Archive Curator
National Archives and Records Administration
You guys should write a novel with all those details. “The Making of a King” or “the Rise and Fall of a Dildo.”
Hilarious imagination you have Ti.