Ancestry Magazine

These days people may look at what’s happening around the world, especially when it comes to politics and politicians, and shake their heads in dismay, if not outright despair. Well, the news may be bad, but the scandals are first-rate. Pope Gregory put sins—and the scandals they create—into seven categories 1,500 years ago: lust, gluttony, greed, sloth, wrath, envy, and pride. American politicians have been putting their own twists on the big seven for a mere 400 years, but that’s been long enough to create some really great scandals—some highly publicized and some not—like these:

Lust
Grover? Isn’t he that character on Sesame Street?

American politicians have had more than their share of illicit love affairs. From presidents in the Oval Office to congressmen in airport bathrooms, the stories are, well, lusty and compelling. But politicos’ peccadilloes—alleged and otherwise—are nothing new. James Buchanan, our “bachelor president,” and his live-in companion, the never-married William Rufus King, had every 19th-century romantic epithet and innuendo thrown at them during their political careers. The bigger scandal here, though, is that King, a senator from Alabama, influenced Buchanan, a Northerner, to make so many decisions in favor of the South and slavery.

A nicely ironic scandal of the lustful variety flits through the biography of Grover Cleveland. These days most people remember him as the only president to serve two nonconsecutive terms. Or perhaps they also know that he was the only president to get married while in office—to Frances Folsom, the daughter of a former law partner, his ward, and a girl less than half his age. But that’s not the best part of the story. Mr. Cleveland, known as “Grover the Good” because of his incorruptibility, paid child support for a “goodly” portion of his life to Maria Halpin, who accused him of being the father of her illegitimate child. He never admitted nor denied the accusation. But he did pay.

Gluttony
Hit me again, John.

Unfortunately, Americans have a bit of a reputation for gluttony. And the best consumption stories come from our thirst for liquor, especially when faced with a horrendous natural disaster. In 1871, Joseph Schlitz sent hundreds of barrels of beer to aid Chicago during its famous fire. In the aftermath of the San Francisco earthquake in 1906, the commandant of the Presidio sent troops into the city to help. His first orders? Don’t drink and don’t allow looting. One of the first things the soldiers did? They looted the liquor stores.

The relationship between liquor and nonpayment, however, predates our days as a republic. Consider the patriot and founding father John Hancock, who routinely smuggled rum. In 1768 his ship Liberty was seized by British customs agents because Hancock hadn’t paid import duties on the liquor it carried. The citizens of Boston, always ready to take umbrage, were so incensed they burned British ships and nearly killed the customs agents. Not too coincidentally, the Sons of Liberty were formed at just about the same time. Their main complaint? Taxation without representation. One of the most prominent members of this revolutionary group was Hancock, who obviously had the same complaint.

Greed
Kickback, greedy cat.

Kickbacks and corrupt politicians. Was there ever a more fluid movement between two entities? Kickbacks have multiplied the problems of natural disasters (like the ones that compromised building codes in San Francisco pre-earthquake) and compounded the pains of war, as when more than 1,000 returning POWs drowned when the Sultana, a riverboat carrying them north after the Civil War, capsized on the Mississippi River. Steamboats got $5 for each enlisted man and $10 for each officer (and some claim $1.15 of that went back to officers arranging passage). When the Sultana went down, more than 1,700 people—among over 2,000 passengers on a boat that should have been carrying 376—died.

Sometimes with greed, what goes around comes around. In 1639, Boston hired Edward Palmer to build new stocks. When he presented his bill to the town council, they considered his charges exorbitant, put him in his newly built stocks, and fined him five pounds. Then there were the Whiskey Frauds. In the 1870s, revenuers in the Midwest with good political connections bilked the U.S. Treasury out of millions in taxes on liquor. They initially used the money to finance political campaigns, including Ulysses S. Grant’s reelection bid.

Sloth
That’s not my job. Or my state.

Actually, people who fully indulge in the sin of sloth don’t say, “That’s not my job,” as much as they say, “I know it’s my job, but I don’t want to do it.” When it comes to an ironic outcome for taking and not taking responsibility, the prize has to go to Franklin—the state, not the person. Now the eastern part of Tennessee, the state of Franklin existed from 1784 to 1788. In 1784 North Carolina, not wanting to be in charge of three of their counties anymore, offered to cede them to the federal government. The federal government said no. So the unwanted counties seceded from North Carolina—against the advice of John Sevier, who recommended reconciliation. The area declared itself the state of Franklin, petitioned the government for admittance into the Union, and elected, among other officials, John Sevier to a three-year term as the state’s first governor. Unfortunately, when his term ended in 1788, no one bothered to elect a successor. Congress had never admitted Franklin, so it simply went back to being part of North Carolina, which promptly blamed Sevier for everything and charged him with treason. He was never tried and within a year was elected to the state senate.

Wrath
You make me so mad . . .

For centuries (and counting) humans have committed horrific acts in the name of revenge. U.S. history is no different. People get angry, and then they get even. The ironic thing is that when really powerful people get mad, they get rewarded for their wrath.

Vengeful acts can range from petulant, as when John Adams left Washington in a huff for seven months during his presidency; to peevish, as when Andrew Jackson, furious at John C. Calhoun for trying to censure him in Congress, fired all of Calhoun’s friends from appointed office; to downright ill-humored, as when the Sedition Act of 1918 allowed the federal government to refuse mail delivery to anyone who spoke abusively about the flag, the government, or U.S. troops.

But the worst of the wrath-revenge mindset may have come in December 1890, when conflicts between the United States and the Lakota Indians culminated with the massacre at Wounded Knee. A large portion of the dead were ambushed women and children. Congress, however, still awarded 25 Medals of Honor to the soldiers involved in the battle.

Envy
Why is it always Florida?

Envy is typically thought of as wanting something someone else has—sometimes badly enough to take it. Is there a better description of running against another candidate for political office? Politics is not a gentleman’s game, and slander and throwing mud are by no means 20th-century inventions. The only vitriol-free presidential campaigns were George Washington’s uncontested victories in 1788 and 1792.

And then there was that election fiasco in Florida. No, not the one just eight years ago: the 1876 presidential election between Samuel Tilden and Rutherford B. Hayes. Actually, in 1876, Florida didn’t cause the debacle all by itself, but the rest of the circumstances seem oddly current.
The first vote count showed that the Republican presidential candidate Hayes had taken the state, but after a correction, Democrat Tilden ended up ahead by 94 votes. That’s when Florida’s certifying board started throwing out ballots. That left Hayes ahead by 1,000 votes and conveniently also gave Florida a Republican governor. Florida’s Supreme Court rejected the recount and named the Democratic gubernatorial candidate governor, who promptly declared Tilden the winner in Florida.
Congress needed to come up with a solution fast, so they created the Electoral Commission, consisting of five senators, five representatives, and five members of the Supreme Court. The commission heard arguments in the Supreme Court chambers and then voted (straight down party lines: eight Republicans versus seven Democrats) in favor of the Hayes electors. Hayes won 185 to 184 and managed to take office peacefully in March 1877. Perhaps the ultimate outcome of all the wrangling was the Electoral Count Act of 1887, which explains how to count electoral votes—when, where, and which ones. But there is room for interpretation. The Electoral Count Act of 1877 was one of the issues the Bush and Gore camps vigorously disputed before the Supreme Court in 2000.

Pride
Anything you can do . . .

In political circles that refrain ought to be “Anything you can wreck, I can wreck further.” Human arrogance creates havoc every time you turn around, though it’s not just presidents who think advisers don’t know anything. In September 1900 thousands of people died in a hurricane that struck Galveston, Texas. A local weather watcher knew the citizens were in danger, but his superiors, knowing they knew better, didn’t listen.

Sometimes pride is just one small leap away from megalomania, and America has had its share of characters who thought they knew better. Take George Pullman, the inventor and manufacturer of the railroad sleeper car. His company town—Pullman, Illinois—started off well enough. Built in 1880, it had schools, a library, decent housing, and inhabitants who made better than average wages. Unfortunately, Pullman, wanting to be completely in charge, prohibited independent newspapers, public speeches, town meetings, or the operation of private charitable institutions. Then came the Panic of 1893. Pullman cut wages but not rents, which ultimately led to a strike that had to be quelled by federal troops. George Pullman died three years later, long after Pullman, Illinois, had been annexed by Chicago. Nevertheless, he was buried at night in a lead-lined coffin under tons of cement.