On this date, according to the way-back machine of my memory for history, William Henry Harrison, ol' Tippecanoe, became president of the United States. He was a war hero and a territorial administrator and knew what it meant to be president, right when the country was starting to fall apart by halfsies due to differences of opinion north and south.
But he also knew how to have a good time, apparently.
After giving a two hour inaugural speech in the freezing cold, coatless and hatless so that the people could get a good look at the man he was, he went on to attend three inaugural balls and dance the night away.
A month later, he was dead from pneumonia and we got our first Vice President President, John Tyler.
Originally, inaugurations were held in the spring, early March when the weather was supposed to be better. Warmer. Less likely to rain. (It wasn't April, after all.)
But it didn't work out that way. Ol' Tippecanoe crapped out on us.
He probably would have been an apt president, back when things were a tad easier than they are now.
But he died.
Ignominiously...because he was vain about his appearance and liked to party.