In 1744, a grand dinner was given by Governor Gooch to visiting statesmen at Annapolis. William Black, who was present, records in his journal that "Punch was served before dinner, which was sumptuous, with wines in great abundance, followed by strawberries and ice-cream, a great rarity." These public banquets were momentous affairs, demanding a sound digestion and a steady head in those guests who wished to live to dine another day. Chastellux gives a vivid account of their customs. "The dinner," he writes, "is served in the American or, if you will, in the English fashion, consisting of two courses, one comprehending the entrées, the roast meat and the warm side-dishes; the other, the sweet pastry and confectionery. When this is removed, the cloth is taken off, and apples, nuts, and chestnuts are served. It is then that healths are drunk." This custom of drinking healths, he finds pleasant enough, inasmuch as it serves to stimulate and prolong conversation. But he says, "I find it an absurd and truly barbarous practice, the first time you drink, and at the beginning of the dinner, to call out successively to each individual, to let him know you drink his health. The actor in this ridiculous comedy is sometimes ready to die with thirst, whilst he is obliged to inquire the names, or catch the eyes, of twenty-five or thirty persons." The woes of the diner and winer do not, it seems, end with this general call, for he is constantly called, and having his sleeve pulled, to attract his attention, now this way, now that. "These general and partial attacks end in downright duels. They call to you from one end of the table to the other: 'Sir, will you permit me to drink a glass of wine with you?'" Allowing for some exaggeration on the part of the lively Frenchman, it is easy to see what quantities of Madeira and "Phyall" must have been drunk in those tournaments of courtesy, and I do not wonder to read in the journal of a young woman of the eighteenth century: "The gentlemen are returned from dinner. Both tipsy!" "The Tuesday Club," of Maryland, had many a jovial supper together. Their toasts always began with "The Ladies," followed by "The King's Majesty," and after that "The Deluge." I find a suggestive regulation made by this club, that each member should bring his own sand-box, "to save the carpet." Parson Bacon sanctified these convivial meetings by his presence and was, by all accounts, the ringleader of the boisterous revels. Jonathan Boucher, another clergyman, but of a very different type, was a great clubman too. He was one of the leading spirits of "The Hommony Club," whose avowed object was "to promote innocent mirth and ingenious humor."