“That’s your ‘sick friend!’ ” exclaimed the wife, while a general roar around the table woke the host to the fact that he was passing bread, and not a pack of cards.
This story-telling carries me back to my boyhood days at Bethel, and brings to mind an old clerical acquaintance whom I knew long before I met Dr. Chapin. The Rev. Richard Varick Dey, who resided at Greenfield, Connecticut, 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 a 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, cunning 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.”