In 1688, in the midst of the rejoicings, the news came that the Queen, the second wife of James, had been blessed with a son, who became heir to the throne. The event was celebrated the same evening by bonfires in the streets and a feast at the city hall. At the latter, Mayor Van Courtlandt became so hilarious, that he made a burnt sacrifice to his loyalty of his hat and periwig, waving the burning victims over the banquet table on the point of his straight sword. And when, in March, 1691, Governor Sloughter arrived, and Leisler sent him a letter loyally tendering to him the fort and province, that functionary, under the influence of the aristocratic leaders, answered it by sending an officer to arrest the "usurper" and Milborne and six of the "inferior insurgents" on a charge of high treason. They were taken to prison, and when they were arraigned, the two principal offenders, denying the authority of the court, refused to plead, and appealed to the King. They were condemned and sentenced to death, but Sloughter, who in his sober moments was just and honest, refused to sign the death warrant until he should hear from the King. The implacable enemies of the "usurper," determined on causing his destruction, invited the governor to a dinner party on Staten Island on a bright day in May. One of them carried to the banquet a legally drawn death warrant, and when the governor had been made stupid with liquor, he was induced to sign the fatal paper. It was sent to the city that evening, and on the following morning Leisler and Milborne were summoned to prepare for execution. Leisler sent for his wife, Alice, and their older children, and after a sorrowful parting with them, he and his son-in-law were led to the gallows in a drenching rain. They confessed their errors of judgment but denied all intentional wrongdoing. The blamelessness of their lives confirmed their declarations of innocence. Before Sloughter was permitted to recover from his debauch, they were hanged. It was foul murder. The governor was tortured with remorse for his act, and died of delirium tremens three months afterward.
When William Penn, in 1682, drew up his code of laws for Pennsylvania he made the drinking of healths and the selling of liquor to Indians crimes. His opinion as to drinking healths must have changed between 1682 and 1710 when Dean Swift met Penn and passed a lively evening. He writes Stella, "We sat two hours drinking as good wine as you do," and it is the strongest proof of Penn's lovableness that after drinking good wine with him for two hours that night, Swift the next morning has no word of dispraise for his companion.
One of the oddest characters in early Virginia history was Dr. John Pott, who was at one time governor of Virginia, and is described as a Master of Arts, well practiced in chirurgery and physic and expert also in distilling waters, besides many other ingenious devices. It seems he was also very fond of tasting distilled waters, and at times was more of a boon companion than quite comported with his dignity, especially after he had come to be governor. A letter of George Sandys says of Dr. Pott: "At first he kept too much company with his inferiors who hung upon him while his good liquor lasted." After Harvey's arrival Ex-Governor Pott was held to answer two charges. One was for having abused the power entrusted to him by pardoning a culprit who had been convicted of wilful murder, the other was for stealing cattle. The first charge was a common notoriety; on the second Doctor Pott was tried by a jury and found guilty. The ex-governor was not a pardoner of felony but was a felon himself. The affair reads like a scene in comic opera. Some reluctance was felt about inflicting vulgar punishment upon an educated man of good social position, so he was not sent to jail but confined in his own house, while Sir John Harvey wrote to the King for instructions in the matter. He informed the King that Doctor Pott was by far the best physician in the colony and indeed the only one skilled in epidemics and recommended that he should be pardoned. Accordingly the doctor was set free and forthwith resumed his practice.
No one was better disposed toward a moderate conviviality than Franklin himself. In that old house on High street where he lived and died there remains now in the possession of the Pennsylvania Historical Society that delightful punch-keg which rolled so easily from guest to guest, and which carried the generous liquor generously around Franklin's board. A curious little keg this, pretty, portly, and altogether unlike other punch-bowls left us from colonial days. Among the china was a fine large jug for beer, to stand in the cooler. Franklin's wife was frugal, and it pleased him to set aside her customary frugality on the blithesome occasions when the punch-keg went rolling round.
In 1768, when the advent of the new governor made necessary the election of a new House of Burgesses, Jefferson already craved the opportunity to take an active part in affairs, and at once offered himself as a candidate for Albemarle county. He kept open house, distributed limitless punch, stood by the polls politely bowing to every voter who named him according to the Virginia fashion of the day, and had the good fortune, by these meritorious efforts, to win success. In 1794 Jefferson very nearly sympathized with the Whiskey Rebellion. He called the excise law an infernal one. In his gloomy views of the War of 1812 he asks what Virginia can raise, and answers his question thus: "Tobacco? It is not worth the pipe it is smoked in. Some say whiskey, but all mankind must become drunkards to consume it." While Chastellux, in his travels, tells of discussing a bowl of punch with Jefferson at Monticello, Jefferson never seems to have drunk ardent spirits or strong wine, and in his last illness his physician could not induce him to take brandy strong enough to benefit him.
While Hamilton favored the whiskey tax and caused the Whiskey Rebellion thereby, he nevertheless was in favor of temperance, as is shown by the circulars he issued to the army.
In his early youth Andrew Jackson was gay, careless, rollicking, fond of drinking, horse-racing, cock-fighting, and all kinds of mischief; his habits moderated in later years and in his old age Jackson became religious.
The son of Dolly Madison by her first marriage, Payne Todd, was a continual financial burden to her even after the death of President Madison, and by his dissipation broke his mother's heart, embittered her old age, and ruined her financially as if to show that even the wife of the President was not exempt from the burdens of any mother of a drunkard. When Tyler became President he lived precisely as he had done on his Virginia plantation. He invariably invited visitors to visit the family dining-room, and "take something," from a sideboard well garnished with decanters of ardent spirits and wine, with a bowl of juleps in the summer, and of eggnog in the winter.
One of the most picturesque figures of this period was General Sam Houston, who was a prominent figure at Washington during the Taylor administration. Because of trouble with his wife he resigned the governorship of Tennessee, went into the Cherokee country, adopted the Indian costume and became an Indian trader and so dissipated that his Indian name was "Big-drunk." He wore a waistcoat made from the skin of a panther dressed with the hair on, and was conspicuous in the Senate for whittling soft pine sticks, which were provided him by the seargeant-at-arms. He was the best customer supplied from his own whiskey barrel, until one day after a prolonged debauch he heard that the Mexicans had taken up arms against their revolted province. He cast off his Indian attire, dressed like a white man, and never touched a drop of any intoxicating beverage afterwards.