Читать книгу The Life of P.T. Barnum - P.T. Barnum, P.T. Barnum - Страница 9

The Sunday-School – Eccentric Clergyman – A zealous Brother – Pumping a Witness – Awful Disclosures – Suspicious Circumstances – The Trial – The Climax – The Wedding Fee – Doctrinal Discussions – The Old Meeting-House – The Stove Reform – Power of Imagination – The Deacon’s Appeal – The Bible-Class – The One Thing Needful – An Explosion.

LIKE most persons in the New England States, I was brought up to attend church regularly on the Sabbath. Indeed, before I was able to read, I was one of the first scholars in Sunday-school. We had but one church or “meeting-house” in Bethel, (Presbyterian,) and here all attended. A difference in creeds and sects was scarcely known in our little country village at that time. The old meeting-house had neither steeple nor bell, but in summer time it was a comfortable place for the inhabitants to congregate. My good mother would teach me my lessons in the New Testament and the Catechism, and my highest aspiration was to get every word so perfectly as to obtain the reward of merit. This valuable pecuniary consideration consisted of a ticket which stated that the bearer was entitled to one mill “reward,” so that ten tickets were worth one cent; and as this reward was not payable in cash, but in Sunday-school books at ten cents each, it follows that one hundred tickets would be required to purchase one book, so that a scholar must be successful every consecutive Sabbath (which was simply impossible) for the space of two years before he could come in possession of a tangible prize! Infinitesimal as was this recompense, it was sufficient to spur me to intense diligence.

The first clergyman whom I remember preaching in Bethel was the Rev. Samuel Sturges. At the time I was a clerk, the Rev. Mr. Lowe was the preacher. He traded at our store, and although he was fond of his pipe, and most clergymen in those days who visited my father and grandfather loved their “glass,” I was impressed with the belief that the clergy, individually and collectively, were considerably more than human. I still entertain sincere respect for that calling, and am certain that many of its members (as all ought to be) are devoted disciples of their blessed Master; yet it is sadly true, that as the “best fruit is most pecked by the birds,” so also is the best cause most liable to be embraced by hypocrites; and we all have learned, with pain and sorrow, that the title “REV.” does not necessarily imply a saint, for nothing can prevent our sometimes being deceived by a “wolf in sheep’s clothing.”

The Rev. Richard Varick Dey, who resided at Greenfield, Ct, was in the habit of coming to Bethel to preach on Sabbath evenings. He was a very eloquent preacher, and an eccentric man. He possessed fine talents – his sermons were rich in pathos and wit, and he was exceedingly popular with the world’s people. The more straight-laced, however, were afraid of him. His remarks both in and out of the pulpit would frequently rub hard against some popular dogma, or knock in the head some favorite religious tenet Mr. Dey was therefore frequently in hot water with the church – and was either “suspended,” or about to be brought to trial for some alleged breach of ministerial duty, or some suspected heresy. While thus debarred from preaching, he felt that he must do something to support his family. With this view he visited Bethel, Danbury, and other towns, and delivered “Lectures,” at the termination of which, contributions for his benefit were taken up. I remember his lecturing in Bethel on “Charity.” This discourse overflowed with eloquence and pathos, and terminated in a contribution of more than fifty dollars.

It was said that on one occasion Mr. Dey was about to be tried before an ecclesiastical body at Middletown. There being no railroads in those days, many persons travelled on horseback. Two days before the trial was to take place, Mr. Dey started for Middletown alone, and on horseback. His valise was fastened behind the saddle, and putting on his large great-coat surmounted with half a dozen broad “capes,” as was the fashion of that period, and donning a broad-brimmed hat, he mounted his horse and started for the scene of trial.

On the second day of his journey, and some ten miles before reaching Middletown, he overtook a brother clergyman, also on horseback, who was wending his way to the Consociation.

He was a man perhaps sixty years of age, and his silvered locks stood out like porcupine quills. His iron visage, which seemed never to have worn a smile, his sinister expression, small keen selfish looking eyes, and compressed lips, convinced Mr. Dey that he had no hope of mercy from that man as one of his judges. The reverend gentlemen soon fell into conversation. The sanctimonious clergyman gave his name and residence, and inquired those of Mr. Dey.

“My name is Mr. Richard,” replied Rev. Richard V. Dey, “and my residence is Fairfield.” [Greenfield is a parish in the town of Fairfield.]

“Ah,” exclaimed the other clergyman; “then you live near Mr. Dey: do you know him?”

“Perfectly well,” responded the eccentric Richard.

“Well, what do you think of him?” inquired the anxious brother.

“He is a wide-awake eunning fellow, one whom I should be sorry to offend, for I would not like to fall into his clutches; but if compelled to do so, I could divulge some things which would astonish our Consociation.”

“Is it possible? Well, of course your duty to the Church and the Redeemer’s cause will prompt you to make a clean breast of it, and divulge every thing you know against the accused,” responded the excited clergyman.

“It is hard to destroy a brother’s reputation and break up the peace of his family,” answered the meek Mr. Richard.

“It is the duty of the elect to expose and punish the reprobates,” replied the sturdy Puritan.

“But had I not better first tell our brother his fault, and give him an opportunity to confess and be forgiven?”

“Our brother, as you call him, is undoubtedly a heretic, and the true faith is wounded by his presence amongst us. The Church must be purged from unbelief. We must beware of those who would introduce damnable heresies.”

“Are you sure that Mr. Dey is an unbeliever?” inquired the modest Mr. Richard.

“I have heard that he throws doubt upon the Trinity – shrugs his shoulders at some portions of the Saybrook Platform, and has said that even reprobates may sincerely repent, pray for forgiveness, and be saved. Ay, that he even doubts the damnation of unregenerate infants!”

“Horrible!” ejaculated Mr. Richard.

“Yes! Horrible indeed, but I trust that our Consociation will excommunicate him at once and for ever. But what do you know concerning his belief?”

“I know nothing specially against his belief,” responded Mr. Richard, “but I have witnessed some of his acts which I should be almost sorry to expose.”

“A mistaken charity! It is your duty to tell the Consociation all you know regarding the culprit, and I shall insist upon your doing so.”

“I certainly desire to do that which is right and just, and as I am but young in the ministry I shall defer to your judgment founded on age and experience. But I would prefer at first to state to you what I know, and then will be guided by your advice in regard to giving my testimony before the Consociation.”

“A very proper course. You can state the facts to me, and I will give you my counsel. Now what do you know?”

“I know that on more than one occasion I have caught him in the act of kissing my wife,” replied the injured Mr. Richard.

“I am not at all astonished,” responded the clergyman; “such conduct coincides exactly with the opinion I had formed of the man. I commiserate you, sir, but I honor your sense of duty in divulging such important facts, even at the expense of exposing serious troubles in your domestic relations. But, sir, justice must have its course. These facts must be testified to before the Consociation. Do you know any thing else against the delinquent?”

“I know something more, but it is of a nature so delicate, and concerns me personally so seriously, that I must decline divulging it.”

“Sir, you cannot do that. I will not permit it, but will insist on your telling the whole truth before our Consociation, though your heart-strings were to break in consequence. I repeat, sir, that I sympathize with you personally, but personal feelings must be swallowed up in the promotion of public good. No sympathy for an individual can be permitted to clash with the interests of the true Church. You had better tell me, sir, all you know.”

“Since you say that duty requires it, I will do so. I have caught him, under very suspicious circumstances, in my wife’s bedroom,” said the unfortunate Mr. Richard.

“Was your wife in bed?” inquired the man with the iron face.

“She was,” faintly lisped the almost swooning Mr. Richard.

“Enough, enough,” was the response. “Our Consociation will soon dispose of the Rev. Richard V. Dey.”

The two clergymen had now arrived at Middletown. The Rev. Mr. Vinegarface rode to the parsonage, while Mr. Dey, alias “Mr. Richard,” went to a small and obscure inn.

The Consociation commenced the next day. This ecclesiastical 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 as fifty small stoves to warm the fifty pairs of feet belonging to the owners of said portable stoves; and while some saw no analogy between the two cases, others declared that if he was mad there was “method in his madness.”

Another year rolled by; cold November arrived, and the stove question was again mooted. Excitement ran high; night meetings and church caucuses were held to discuss the question; arguments were made pro and con in the village stores; the subject was introduced into conference meetings and prayed over; even the youngsters had the question brought up in the debating club, and early in December a general “society’s meeting” was called to decide by ballot whether there should or should not be a stove in the meeting-house.

The ayes carried it by a majority of one, and, to the consternation of the minority, the stove was introduced. On the first Sabbath afterwards two venerable maiden ladies fainted on account of the dry atmosphere and sickly sensation caused by the dreaded innovation. They were carried out into the cold air, and soon returned to consciousness, after being informed that in consequence of there not being pipe enough within two lengths, no fire had yet been placed in the stove!

The following Sunday was a bitter cold day, and the stove was crammed with well-seasoned hickory wood and brought nearly to a red heat. This made most parts of the house comfortable, pleased many, and horrified a few.

Immediately after the benediction had been pronounced, at the close of the afternoon service, one of the deacons, whose “pew” was near the door, arose and exclaimed, in a loud voice, “The congregation are requested to tarry.”

Every person promptly sat down on hearing this common announcement. The old deacon approached the altar, and turning to the people, addressed them in a whining tone of voice as follows:

“Brethren and sisters, you will bear me witness that from the first I have raised my voice against introducing a stove into the house of the Lord. But a majority has pronounced against me. I trust they voted in the fear of God, and I submit, for I would not wittingly introduce schisms into our church; but if we must have a stove I do insist on having a larger one, for the one you have is not large enough to heat the whole house, and the consequence is, it drives all the cold back as far as the outside pews, making them three times as cold as they were before, and we who occupy those pews are obliged to sit in the entire cold of this whole house.”

The countenance and manner of the speaker indicated, beyond all doubt, that he was sincere, and nothing would appease him until the “business committee” agreed to take the subject into consideration. In the course of the week they satisfied him that the stove was large enough, except on unusually severe days, but they found great difficulty in making him comprehend that if the stove did not heat the entire building, it did not intensify the cold by driving it all into a corner.

While Rev. Mr. Lowe preached in Bethel he formed quite a large Bible-class, which was composed mostly of boys and girls from twelve to fourteen years of age. I was one of the class. A portion of our duty was to take a verse selected by the minister, write out our explanation of it, and drop the composition into a hat passed round for the purpose. All the articles were then read aloud by the clergyman. As the verses selected and distributed to the scholars were also promiscuously drawn from a hat, no person, not even Mr. Lowe himself, knew what subject fell to any particular scholar.

The Bible-class was held immediately after the conclusion of the afternoon services, and it was customary for the entire congregation to remain and hear the compositions read. Sometimes the explanations given by the scholars were wretched, sometimes ludicrous, but generally very good. I think that my own usually fell under the second head. Mr. Lowe always made a few remarks at the reading of each composition, either by way of approval or dissent, and in the latter case he always gave his reasons.

I remember that on one occasion I drew from the hat, Luke x. 42: “But one thing is needful; and Mary hath chosen that good part which shall not be taken away from her.” Question. “What is the one thing needful?”

I took home my verse and question, and at the first opportunity wrote out the explanation about as follows:

“This question, ‘What is the one thing needful?’ is capable of receiving various answers, depending much upon the persons to whom it is addressed.

“The merchant might answer that ‘the one thing needful is plenty of customers, who buy liberally without “beating down,” and pay cash for all their purchases.’

“The farmer might reply that ‘the one thing needful is large harvests and high prices.’

“The physician might answer that ‘it is plenty of patients.’

“The lawyer might be of opinion that ‘it is an unruly community, always engaged in bickerings and litigations.’

“The clergyman might reply, ‘It is a fat salary, with multitudes of sinners seeking salvation and paying large pew rents.’

“The bachelor might exclaim, ‘It is a pretty wife who loves her husband, and who knows how to sew on buttons.’

“The maiden might answer, ‘It is a good husband, who will love, cherish, and protect me while life shall last.’

“But the most proper answer, and doubtless that which applied to the case of Mary, would be, ‘The one thing needful is to believe on the Lord Jesus Christ, follow in his footsteps, love God and obey his commandments, love our fellow-man, and embrace every opportunity of administering to his necessities. In short, the one thing needful is to live a life that we can always look back upon with satisfaction, and be enabled ever to contemplate its termination with trust in Him who has so kindly vouchsafed it to us, surrounding us with innumerable blessings, if we have but the heart and wisdom to receive them in a proper manner.’”

Although the reading of most of the above caused a tittering among the audience, in which the clergyman himself could scarcely refrain from joining, and although the name of “Taylor Barnum” was frequently whispered among the congregation, I had the satisfaction of hearing the Rev. Mr. Lowe say, at the conclusion, that it was a well-written and correct answer to the question, “What is the one thing needful?”

Mr. Lowe was an Englishman. He purchased a small farm near Bethel and undertook to carry on farming, but having had little or no experience in that way, he made many awkward mistakes. One day he and his man were engaged in blasting rocks near his barn. They had drilled a large deep hole, charged the blast, and adjusted the slow match. Mr. Lowe requested his man to retire while he completed the process. His man went to the other side of the barn. Mr. Lowe then applied the fire to the match, and stepping to the barn, which was within two rods of the rock, he stuck his head into the stable window, leaving his entire body exposed. The explosion filled the air with large fragments of rock. One piece, supposed to weigh three hundred pounds, fell at the side of the parson, grazing his clothing as it passed, and was imbedded twenty inches in the ground, close to his feet. Mr. Lowe could but acknowledge his frightfully narrow escape, and took no more lessons from the ostrich when engaged in blasting rocks.