P.T. Barnum - The Life of P.T. Barnum

Another night he sat up in the middle of the bed and bolstered himself with pillows, determined to keep awake until I returned. But sleep at last overcame him, and when I arrived and found him in that position, I snugged myself in cosily across the foot of the bed and went to sleep. In the morning he found himself sitting bolt upright in bed, just as he went to sleep the night before. Giving me a kick, he woke me up, and exclaimed:

“You worked it pretty well last night, but I’ll catch you yet.”

“You are welcome to do it if you can,” I replied; “but you will have to get up early in the morning to catch a weasel asleep.”

The next night he fastened a spur upon his naked heel and went to sleep, thinking that when I got into bed I should hit the spur, and perhaps rake my shin, the pain of which would cause me to cry out and thus awake him. I retired with my usual caution that night, and discovering no contrivance, I concluded my brother had abandoned the chase, and turning my back to him I was soon wrapped in the arms of Morpheus.

It chanced that night that a number of tin peddlers and other travellers arrived at a late hour, and every bed being engaged, our Irish Edmund was obliged to sleep with us. Perceiving me stowed away on the farther side of the bed, and my brother lying as usual plump in the middle, he quietly laid himself down on the front and went to sleep. At about two o’clock I was awakened by a fearful noise. The full moon was streaming in at the window, making our bedroom as light as day.

“I’ll tache ye to go to bed wid a spur on, ye little divil ye,” exclaimed Edmund, as he held my brother high in the air, one hand gripping his neck and the other holding the offending leg with the spur on, just over my head.

“What is the matter, Edmund?” I exclaimed in surprise.

“Nothing is the matter, except this brother of yours has run his spur into me groin a matter of three inches,” replied the indignant Irishman, who was suffering under the smart of his wound.

“I did not mean it for you; I meant it for Taylor,” whined out my brother, only half awake.

“Divil a bit do I care who you meant it for, so that I have got it,” replied Edmund, at the same time giving my brother several slaps, which made him yell like a young Indian.

Edmund then unbuckled the spur, and arranging us all in bed again, he turned to go to sleep, simply remarking to my brother: “The nixt time ye try to ride me for a horse, ye’ll find I’m a kicking one, ye spalpeen!”

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.