The Life of P.T. Barnum. P.T. Barnum
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body was soon organized, and after disposing of several minor questions, it was proposed to take up the charges of heresy against the Rev. Mr. Dey. The accused, with a most demure countenance, was conversing with his quondam travelling companion of the day previous, who upon hearing this proposition instantly sprang to his feet, and informed the Reverend Chairman that providentially he had been put in possession of facts which must necessarily result in the immediate expulsion of the culprit from the Church, and save the necessity of examining testimony on the question of heresy. “In fact,” continued he, “I am prepared to prove that the Rev. Richard V. Dey has frequently kissed the wife of one of our brethren, and has also been caught in a situation which affords strong evidence of his being guilty of the crime of adultery!”
A thrill of horror and surprise ran through the assembly. Every eye was turned to Mr. Dey, who was seated so closely to the last speaker that he touched him as he resumed his seat. Mr. Dey’s countenance was as placid as a May morning, and it required keen vision to detect the lurking smile of satisfaction that peeped from a corner of his eye. A few minutes of dead silence elapsed.
“Produce your witnesses,” finally said the Chairman, in an almost sepulchral voice.
“I call on the Rev. Mr. Richard, of Fairfield, to corroborate under oath the charges which I have made,” responded the hard-visaged Puritan.
Not a person moved. Mr. Dey looked as unconcerned as if he was an utter stranger to all present, and understood not the language which they were speaking.
“Where is the Rev. Mr. Richard?” inquired the venerable Chairman.
“Here he is,” responded the accuser, familiarly tapping Mr. Dey on the shoulder.
The whole audience burst into such a roar of laughter as probably never was heard in a like Consociation before.
The accuser was almost petrified with astonishment at such inconceivable conduct on the part of that sedate religious assembly.
Mr. Dey alone maintained the utmost gravity.
“That, sir, is the Rev. Richard V. Dey,” replied the Chairman when order was restored.
The look of utter dismay which instantly marked the countenance of the accuser threw the assembly into another convulsion of laughter, during which Mr. Dey’s victim withdrew and was not seen again in Middletown. The charges of heresy were then brought forward. After a brief investigation they were dismissed for want of proof, and Mr. Dey returned to Greenfield triumphant.
I have often heard Mr. Dey relate the following anecdote. A young couple called on him one day at his house in Greenfield. They informed him that they were from the southern portion of the State, and desired to be married. They were well dressed, made considerable display of jewelry, and altogether wore an air of respectability. Mr. Dey felt confident that all was right, and calling in several witnesses, he proceeded to unite them in the holy bonds of wedlock.
After the ceremonies were concluded, Mr. Dey invited the happy pair (as was usual in those days) to partake of some cake and wine. They thus spent a social half-hour together, and on rising to depart the bridegroom handed Mr. Dey a twenty-dollar bank note, remarking that this was the smallest bill he had, but if he would be so good as to pay their hotel bill (they had merely dined and fed their horse at the hotel) he could retain the balance of the money for his services. Mr. Dey thanked him for his liberality, and proceeded at once to the hotel with the lady and gentleman and informed the landlord that he would settle their bill. They proceeded on their journey, and the next day it was discovered that the bank note was a counterfeit, and that Mr. Dey had to pay nearly three dollars for the privilege of marrying this loving couple!
The newspapers in various parts of the State subsequently published facts which showed that the affectionate pair got married in every town they passed through – thus paying their expenses and fleecing the clergymen by means of counterfeits.
One of the deacons of Mr. Dey’s church asked him if he usually kissed the bride at weddings. “Always,” was the reply.
“How do you manage when the happy pair are negroes?” was the deacon’s next question. “In all such cases,” replied Mr. Dey, “the duty of kissing is appointed to the deacons.”
My grandfather was a Universalist, and for various reasons, fancied or real, he was bitterly opposed to the Presbyterians in doctrinal views, though personally some of them were his warmest and most intimate friends. Being much attached to Mr. Dey, he induced that gentleman to deliver a series of Sunday evening sermons in Bethel, and my grandfather was not only on all these occasions one of the most prominent and attentive hearers, but Mr. Dey was always his guest. He would generally stop over Monday and Tuesday with my grandfather, and as several of the most social neighbors were called in, they usually had a jolly time of it. Occasionally “mine host” would attack Mr. Dey good-naturedly on theological points, and would generally come off second best, but he delighted, although vanquished, to repeat the sharp answers with which Mr. Dey met his objections to the “confession of faith.”
One day, when a dozen or more of the neighbors were present, and enjoying themselves in passing around the bottle, relating anecdotes, and cracking jokes, my grandfather called out in a loud tone of voice, which at once arrested the attention of all present:
“Friend Dey, I believe you pretend to believe in foreordination?”
“To be sure I do,” replied Mr. Dey.
“Well now, suppose I should spit in your face, what would you do?” inquired my grandfather.
“I hope that is not a supposable case,” responded Mr. Dey, “for I should probably knock you down.”
“That would be very inconsistent,” replied my grandfather exultingly; “for if I spat in your face it would be because it was foreordained I should do so; why then would you be so unreasonable as to knock me down?”
“Because it would be foreordained that I should knock you down,” replied Mr. Dey with a smile.
The company burst into a laugh, in which my grandfather heartily joined, and he frequently related this incident with much gusto.
I have before said that our old meeting-house, without either steeple or bell, was a comfortable place in summer. But my teeth chatter even now, as I think of the dreary, cold, and freezing times we had there in winter. Such a thing as a stove in a meeting-house had never been heard of in those days, and an innovation of that description would have been considered little less than sacrilege. The old-fashioned sermons were an hour and a half to two hours long, and there the congregation would sit and shiver, and their faces would look so blue, that it is no wonder “the world’s people” sometimes called them “blue skins.” They were literally so.
Our mothers and grandmothers were the only persons who were permitted to approach comfort. Such as could afford it had a “muff and tippet,” and carried a “foot-stove,” which consisted of a small square tin box, perforated, and inclosed in a wood frame, with a wire handle. There was a door in one side, in which was thrust a small square iron dish of live coals, sprinkled over with a few ashes. Those who lived some distance from the meeting-house took their foot-stove in the wagon or “cutter” – for there was generally good sleighing in winter – and, on arriving “to meeting,” they would replenish the foot-stove with fresh coals at the nearest neighbor’s before entering the sanctuary.
At last, and after many years, the spirit of reform reached the shivering congregation of the old Bethel meeting-house. A brother, who was evidently quite ahead of the age, and not, as some of the older brethren thought, “out of his head,” had the temerity to propose that a stove should be introduced into the church for the purpose of heating it. Many brethren and sisters raised their hands and rolled their eyes in surprise and horror. “A pretty pass, indeed, when professing Christians needed a fire to warm their zeal.” The proposition was impious, and it was voted down by an overwhelming majority.
The “reformer,” however, persevered, and, by persuasion and argument, he gradually gained a few converts. He argued that one large stove for heating the whole house was as harmless