Chapter XX: Part 20

However, a sudden thought relieved me in this strait, and it was this: I told him I could not say that I was willing to part with Friday on any account whatever; though a work that to him was of more value than his life, ought to me to be of much more value than the keeping or parting with a servant. But on the other hand, I was persuaded, that Friday would by no means consent to part with me; and then to force him to it without his consent would be manifest injustice, because I had promised I would never put him away, and he had promised and engaged to me that he would never leave me unless I put him away.

He seemed very much concerned at it; for he had no rational access to these poor people, seeing he did not understand one word of their language, nor they one word of his. To remove this difficulty, I told him Friday’s father had learnt Spanish, which I found he also understood, and he should serve him for an interpreter; so he was much better satisfied, and nothing could persuade him but he would stay to endeavour to convert them; but Providence gave another and very happy turn to all this.

I come back now to the first part of his objections. When we came to the Englishmen I sent for them all together; and after some accounts given them of what I had done for them, viz. what necessary things I had provided for them, and how they were distributed, which they were sensible of, and very thankful for; I began to talk to them of the scandalous life they led, and gave them a full account of the notice the clergyman had already taken of it; and arguing how unchristian and irreligious a life it was, I first asked them if they were married men or bachelors? They soon explained their condition to me, and shewed me that two of them were widowers, and the other three were single men or bachelors. I asked them with what conscience they could take these women, and lie with them as they had done, call them their wives, and have so many children by them, and not be married lawfully to them?

They all gave me the answer that I expected, viz. that there was nobody to marry them; that they agreed before the governor to keep them as their wives; and to keep them and own them as their wives; and they thought, as things stood with them, they were as legally married as if they had been married by a parson, and with all the formalities in the world.

I told them that no doubt they were married in the sight of God, and were bound in conscience to keep them as their wives; but that the laws of men being otherwise, they might pretend they were not married, and so desert the poor women and children hereafter; and that their wives, being poor, desolate women, friendless and moneyless, would have no way to help themselves: I therefore told them, that unless I was assured of their honest intent, I could do nothing for them; but would take care that what I did should be for the women and children without them; and that unless they would give some assurances that they would marry the women, I could not think it was convenient they should continue together as man and wife; for that it was both scandalous to men and offensive to God, who they could not think would bless them if they went on thus.

All this passed as I expected; and they told me, especially Will Atkins, who seemed now to speak for the rest, that they loved their wives as well as if they had been born in their own native country, and would not leave them upon any account whatever; and they did verily believe their wives were as virtuous and as modest, and did to the utmost of their skill as much for them and for their children as any women could possibly do, and they would not part with them on any account: and Will Atkins for his own particular added, if any man would take him away, and offer to carry him home to England, and to make him captain of the best man of war in the navy, he would not go with him if he might not carry his wife and children with him; and if there was a clergyman in the ship, he would be married to her now with all his heart.

This was just as I would have it. The priest was not with me at that moment, but was not far off. So to try him farther, I told him I had a clergyman with me, and if he was sincere I would have him married the next morning, and bade him consider of it, and talk with the rest. He said, as for himself, he need not consider of it at all, for he was very ready to do it, and was glad I had a minister with me; and he believed they would be all willing also. I then told him that my friend the minister was a Frenchman, and could not speak English, but that I would act the clerk between them. He never so much as asked me whether he was a Papist or Protestant, which was indeed what I was afraid of. But I say they never inquired about it. So we parted; I went back to my clergyman, and Will Atkins went in to talk with his companions. I desired the French gentleman not to say any thing to them till the business was thorough ripe, and I told him what answer the men had given me.

Before I went from their quarter they all came to me, and told me, they had been considering what I had said; that they were very glad to hear I had a clergyman in my company; and they were very willing to give me the satisfaction I desired, and to be formally married as soon as I pleased; for they were far from desiring to part from their wives; and that they meant nothing but what was very honest when they chose them. So I appointed them to meet me the next morning, and that in the mean time they should let their wives know the meaning of the marriage law; and that it was not only to prevent any scandal, but also to oblige them that they should not forsake them, whatever might happen.

The women were easily made sensible of the meaning of the thing, and were very well satisfied with it, as indeed they had reason to be; so they failed not to attend all together at my apartment next morning, where I brought out my clergyman: and though he had not on a minister’s gown, after the manner of England, or the habit of a priest, after the manner of France; yet having a black vest, something like a cassock, with a sash round it, he did not look very unlike a minister; and as for his language I was interpreter.

But the seriousness of his behaviour to them, and the scruple he made of marrying the women because they were not baptized, and professed Christians, gave them an exceeding reverence for his person; and there was no need after that to inquire whether he was a clergyman or no.

Indeed I was afraid his scruple would have been carried so far as that he would not have married them at all: nay, notwithstanding all I was able to say to him, he resisted me, though modestly, yet very steadily; and at last refused absolutely to marry them, unless he had first talked with the men and the women too; and though at first I was a little backward to it, yet at last I agreed to it with a good will, perceiving the sincerity of his design.

When he came to them, he let them know that I had acquainted him with their circumstances, and with the present design; that he was very willing to perform that part of his function, and marry them as I had desired; but that before he could do it, he must take the liberty to talk with them. He told them that in the sight of all different men, and in the sense of the laws of society, they had lived all this while in an open adultery; and that it was true that nothing but the consenting to marry, or effectually separating them from one another now, could put an end to it; but there was a difficulty in it too, with respect to the laws of Christian matrimony, which he was not fully satisfied about, viz. that of marrying one that is a professed Christian to a savage, an idolater, and a heathen, one that is not baptized; and yet that he did not see that there was time left for it to endeavour to persuade the women to be baptized, or to profess the name of Christ, whom they had, he doubted, heard nothing of, and without which they could not be baptized.

He told me he doubted they were but indifferent Christians themselves; that they had but little knowledge of God or his ways, and therefore he could not expect that they had said much to their wives on that head yet; but that unless they would promise him to use their endeavours with their wives to persuade them to become Christians, and would as well as they could instruct them in the knowledge and belief of God that made them, and to worship Jesus Christ that redeemed them, he could not marry them; for he would have no hand in joining Christians with savages; nor was it consistent with the principles of the Christian religion, and was indeed expressly forbidden in God’s law.

They heard all this very attentively, and I delivered it very faithfully to them from his mouth, as near his own words as I could, only sometimes adding something of my own, to convince them how just it was, and how I was of his mind: and I always very faithfully distinguished between what I said from myself and what were the clergyman’s words. They told me it was very true what the gentleman had said, that they were but very indifferent Christians themselves, and that they had never talked to their wives about religion.—“Lord, Sir,” says Will Atkins, “how should we teach them religion? Why, we know nothing ourselves; and besides, Sir,” said he, “should we go to talk to them of God, and Jesus Christ, and heaven and hell, it would be to make them laugh at us, and ask us what we believe ourselves? and if we should tell them we believe all the things that we speak of to them, such as of good people going to heaven, and wicked people to the devil, they would ask us, where we intended to go ourselves who believe all this, and yet are such wicked fellows, as we indeed are: why, Sir,” said Will, “’tis enough to give them a surfeit of religion, at that hearing: folks must have some religion themselves before they pretend to teach other people.”—“Will Atkins,” said I to him, “though I am afraid what you say has too much truth in it, yet can you not tell your wife that she is in the wrong; that there is a God, and a religion better than her own; that her gods are idols; that they can neither hear nor speak; that there is a great Being that made all things, and that can destroy all that he has made; that he rewards the good, and punishes the bad; that we are to be judged by him, at last, for all we do here? You are not so ignorant but even nature itself will teach you that all this is true; and I am satisfied you know it all to be true, and believe it yourself.”

“That’s true, Sir,” said Atkins; “but with what face can I say any thing to my wife of all this, when she will tell me immediately it cannot be true?”

“Not true!” said I; “what do you mean by that?”—“Why, Sir,” said he, “she will tell me it cannot be true: that this God (I shall tell her of) can be just, or can punish or reward, since I am not punished and sent to the devil, that have been such a wicked creature as she knows I have been, even to her, and to every body else; and that I should be suffered to live, that have been always acting so contrary to what I must tell her is good, and to what I ought to have done.”

“Why truly, Atkins,” said I, “I am afraid thou speakest too much truth;” and with that I let the clergyman know what Atkins had said, for he was impatient to know. “O!” said the priest, “tell him there is one thing will make him the best minister in the world to his wife, and that is repentance; for none teach repentance like true penitents. He wants nothing but to repent, and then he will be so much the better qualified to instruct his wife; he will then be able to tell her, that there is not only a God, and that he is the just rewarder of good and evil; but that he is a merciful Being, and, with infinite goodness and long-suffering, forbears to punish those that offend; waiting to be gracious, and willing not the death of a sinner, but rather that he should return and live; that he often suffers wicked men to go on a long time, and even reserves damnation to the general day of retribution: that it is a clear evidence of God, and of a future state, that righteous men receive not their reward, or wicked men their punishment, till they come into another world; and this will lend him to teach his wife the doctrine of the resurrection, and of the last judgment: let him but repent for himself, he will be an excellent preacher of repentance to his wife.”

I repeated all this to Atkins, who looked very serious all the while, and who, we could easily perceive, was more than ordinarily affected with it: when being eager, and hardly suffering me to make an end—“I know all this, master,” says he, “and a great deal more; but I han’t the impudence to talk thus to my wife, when God and my own conscience knows, and my wife will be an undeniable evidence against me, that I have lived as if I never heard of God, or a future state, or any thing about it; and to talk of my repenting, alas! (and with that he fetched a deep sigh; and I could see that tears stood in his eyes,) ’tis past all that with me.”—“Past it, Atkins!” said I; “what dost thou mean by that?”—“I know well enough what I mean, Sir,” says he; “I mean ’tis too late; and that is too true.”

I told my clergyman word for word what he said. The poor zealous priest (I must call him so; for, be his opinion what it will, he had certainly a most singular affection for the good of other men’s souls; and it would be hard to think he had not the like for his own)—I say, this zealous, affectionate man could not refrain tears also: but recovering himself, he said to me, “Ask him but one question: Is he easy that it is too late, or is he troubled, and wishes it were not so?” I put the question fairly to Atkins; and he answered with a great deal of passion, “How could any man be easy in a condition that certainly must end in eternal destruction?” That he was far from being easy; but that, on the contrary, he believed it would one time or the other ruin him.

“What do you mean by that?” said I.—“Why,” he said, “he believed he should, one time or another, cut his own throat to put an end to the terror of it.”

The clergyman shook his head, with a great concern in his face, when I told him all this; but turning quick to me upon it, said, “If that be his case, you may assure him it is not too late; Christ will give him repentance. But pray,” says he, “explain this to him, that as no man is saved but by Christ, and the merit of his passion, procuring divine mercy for him, how can it be too late for any man to receive mercy? Does he think he is able to sin beyond the power or reach of divine mercy? Pray tell him, there may be a time when provoked mercy will no longer strive, and when God may refuse to hear; but that ’tis never too late for men to ask mercy; and we that are Christ’s servants are commanded to preach mercy at all times, in the name of Jesus Christ, to all those that sincerely repent: so that ’tis never too late to repent.”

I told Atkins all this, and he heard me with great earnestness; but it seemed as if he turned off the discourse to the rest; for he said to me he would go and have some talk with his wife: so he went out awhile, and we talked to the rest. I perceived they were all stupidly ignorant as to matters of religion; much as I was when I went rambling away from my father; and yet that there were none of them backward to hear what had been said; and all of them seriously promised that they would talk with their wives about it, and do their endeavour to persuade them to turn Christians.

The clergyman smiled upon me when I reported what answer they gave, but said nothing a good while; but at last shaking his head, “We that are Christ’s servants,” says he, “can go no farther than to exhort and instruct; and when men comply, submit to the reproof, and promise what we ask, ’tis all we can do; we are bound to accept their good words; but believe me, Sir,” said he, “whatever you may have known of the life of that man you call William Atkins, I believe he is the only sincere convert among them; I take that man to be a true penitent; I won’t despair of the rest; but that man is perfectly struck with the sense of his past life; and I doubt not but when he comes to talk of religion to his wife, he will talk himself effectually into it; for attempting to teach others is sometimes the best way of teaching ourselves. I knew a man,” added he, “who having nothing but a summary notion of religion himself, and being wicked and profligate to the last degree in his life, made a thorough reformation in himself by labouring to convert a Jew: and if that poor Atkins begins but once to talk seriously of Jesus Christ to his wife, my life for it he talks himself into a thorough convert, makes himself a penitent; and who knows what may follow?”

Upon this discourse, however, and their promising as above to endeavour to persuade their wives to embrace Christianity, he married the other three couple; but Will Atkins and his wife were not yet come in. After this, my clergyman waiting awhile, was curious to know where Atkins was gone; and turning to me, says he, “I entreat you, Sir, let us walk out of your labyrinth here and look; I dare say we shall find this poor man somewhere or other, talking seriously with his wife, and teaching her already something of religion.” I began to be of the same mind; so we went out together, and I carried him a way which none knew but myself, and where the trees were so thick set, as that it was not easy to see through the thicket of leaves, and far harder to see in than to see out; when coming to the edge of the wood I saw Atkins, and his tawny savage wife, sitting under the shade of a bush, very eager in discourse. I stopped short till my clergyman came up to me, and then having shewed him where they were, we stood and looked very steadily at them a good while.

We observed him very earnest with her, pointing up to the sun, and to every quarter of the heavens; then down to the earth, then out to the sea, then to himself, then to her, to the woods, to the trees. “Now,” says my clergyman, “you see my words are made good; the man preaches to her; mark him; now he is telling her that our God has made him, and her, and the heavens, the earth, the sea, the woods, the trees, &c.”—“I believe he is,” said I. Immediately we perceived Will Atkins start up upon his feet, fall down upon his knees, and lift up both his hands; we supposed he said something, but we could not hear him; it was too far off for that: he did not continue kneeling half a minute, but comes and sits down again by his wife, and talks to her again. We perceived then the woman very attentive, but whether she said any thing or no we could not tell. While the poor fellow was upon his knees, I could see the tears run plentifully down my clergyman’s cheeks; and I could hardly forbear myself; but it was a great affliction to us both, that we were not near enough to hear any thing that passed between them.

Well, however, we could come no nearer for fear of disturbing them; so we resolved to see an end of this piece of still conversation, and it spoke loud enough to us without the help of voice. He sat down again, as I have said, close by her, and talked again earnestly to her, and two or three times we could see him embrace her passionately; another time we saw him take out his handkerchief and wipe her eyes, and then kiss her again, with a kind of transport very unusual; and after several of these things, we saw him on a sudden jump up again and lend her his hand to help her up, when immediately leading her by the hand a step or two, they both kneeled down together, and continued so about two minutes.

My friend could bear it no longer, but cries out aloud, “St. Paul, St. Paul, behold he prayeth!”—I was afraid Atkins would hear him; therefore I entreated him to withhold himself awhile, that we might see an end of the scene, which to me, I must confess, was the most affecting, and yet the most agreeable, that ever I saw in my life. Well, he strove with himself, and contained himself for awhile, but was in such raptures of joy to think that the poor heathen woman was become a Christian, that he was not able to contain himself; he wept several times: then throwing up his hands, and crossing his breast, said over several things ejaculatory, and by way of giving God thanks for so miraculous a testimony of the success of our endeavours: some he spoke softly, and I could not well hear; others audibly; some in Latin, some in French; then two or three times the tears of joy would interrupt him, that he could not speak at all. But I begged that he would compose himself, and let us more narrowly and fully observe what was before us, which he did for a time, and the scene was not ended there yet; for after the poor man and his wife were risen again from their knees, we observed he stood talking still eagerly to her; and we observed by her motion that she was greatly affected with what he said, by her frequent lifting up her hands, laying her hand to her breast, and such other postures as usually express the greatest seriousness and attention. This continued about half a quarter of an hour, and then they walked away too; so that we could see no more of them in that situation.

I took this interval to talk with my clergyman: and first I told him, I was glad to see the particulars we had both been witnesses to; that though I was hard enough of belief in such cases, yet that I began to think it was all very sincere here, both in the man and his wife, however ignorant they both might be; and I hoped such a beginning would have yet a more happy end: “And who knows,” said I, “but these two may in time, by instruction and example, work upon some of the others?”—“Some of them!” said he, turning quick upon me, “ay, upon all of them: depend upon it, if those two savages (for _he_ has been but little better as you relate it) should embrace Jesus Christ, they will never leave till they work upon all the rest; for true religion is naturally communicative, and he that is once made a Christian will never leave a Pagan behind him if he can help it,” I owned it was a most Christian principle to think so, and a testimony of a true zeal, as well as a generous heart in him. “But, my friend,” said I, “will you give me liberty to start one difficulty here? I cannot tell how to object the least thing against that affectionate concern which you shew for the turning the poor people from their Paganism to the Christian religion; but how does this comfort you, while these people are, in your account, out of the pale of the Catholic church, without which, you believe, there is no salvation; so that you esteem these but heretics still; and, for other reasons, as effectually lost as the Pagans themselves?”

To this he answered with abundance of candour and Christian charity, thus: “Sir, I am a Catholic of the Roman church, and a priest of the order of St. Benedict, and I embrace all the principles of the Roman faith. But yet, if you will believe me, and this I do not speak in compliment to you, or in respect to my circumstances and your civilities; I say, nevertheless, I do not look upon you, who call yourselves reformed, without some charity: I dare not say, though I know it is our opinion in general, yet I dare not say, that you cannot be saved; I will by no means limit the mercy of Christ, so far as to think that he cannot receive you into the bosom of his church, in a manner to us imperceivable, and which it is impossible for us to know; and I hope you have the same charity for us. I pray daily for your being all restored to Christ’s church, by whatsoever methods he, who is all-wise, is pleased to direct. In the mean time, sure you will allow it to consist with me, as a Roman, to distinguish far between a Protestant and a Pagan; between him that calls on Jesus Christ, though in a way which I do not think is according to the true faith; and a savage, a barbarian, that knows no God, no Christ, no Redeemer at all; and if you are not within the pale of the Catholic church, we hope you are nearer being restored to it than those that know nothing at all of God or his church. I rejoice, therefore, when I see this poor man, who, you say, has been a profligate, and almost a murderer, kneel down and pray to Jesus Christ, as we suppose he did, though not fully enlightened; believing that God, from whom every such work proceeds, will sensibly touch his heart, and bring him to the further knowledge of the truth in his own time; and if God shall influence this poor man to convert and instruct the ignorant savage his wife, I can never believe that he shall be cast away himself; and have I not reason then to rejoice, the nearer any are brought to the knowledge of Christ, though they may not be brought quite home into the bosom of the Catholic church, just at the time when I may desire it; leaving it to the goodness of Christ to perfect his work in his own time, and his own way? Certainly I would rejoice if all the savages in America were brought, like this poor woman, to pray to God, though they were to be all Protestants at first, rather than they should continue pagans and heathens; firmly believing, that He who had bestowed that first light upon them, would farther illuminate them with a beam of his heavenly grace, and bring them into the pale of his church, when he should see good.”

I was astonished at the sincerity and temper of this truly pious Papist, as much as I was oppressed by the power of his reasoning; and it presently occurred to my thoughts, that if such a temper was universal, we might be all Catholic Christians, whatever church or particular profession we were joined to, or joined in; that a spirit of charity would soon work us all up into right principles; and, in a word, as he thought that the like charity would make us all Catholics, as I told him, I believed had all the members of his church the like moderation they would soon be all Protestants; and there we left that part, for we never disputed at all.

However, I talked to him another way; and taking him by the hand, “My friend,” said I, “I wish all the clergy of the Roman church were blessed with such moderation, and an equal share of your charity. I am entirely of your opinion; but I must tell you, that if you should preach such doctrine in Spain or Italy, they would put you into the Inquisition.”

“It may be so,” said he; “I know not what they might do in Spain and Italy; but I will not say they would be the better Christians for that severity; for I am sure there is no heresy in too much charity.”

Well, as Will Atkins and his wife were gone, our business there was over; so we went back our own way; and when we came back we found them waiting to be called in. Observing this, I asked my clergyman if we should discover to him that we had seen him under the bush, or no; and it was his opinion we should not; but that we should talk to him first, and hear what he would say to us: so we called him in alone, nobody being in the place but ourselves; and I began with him thus:

“Will Atkins,” said I, “pr’ythee what education had you? What was your father?”

_W.A._ A better man than ever I shall be. Sir, my father was a clergyman.

_R.C._ What education did he give you?

_W.A._ He would have taught me well, Sir; but I despised all education, instruction, or correction, like a beast as I was.

_R.C._ It is true, Solomon says, “He that despiseth reproof is brutish.”

_W.A._ Ay, Sir, I was brutish indeed; I murdered my father; for God’s sake, Sir, talk no more about that, Sir; I murdered my poor father.

_Priest_. Ha! a murderer?

[Here the priest started (for I interpreted every word as he
spoke it), and looked pale: it seems he believed that Will
had really killed his own father.]

_R.C._ No, no, Sir, I do not understand him so. Will Atkins, explain yourself: you did not kill your father, did you, with your own hands?

_W.A._ No, Sir; I did not cut his throat; but I cut the thread of all his comforts, and shortened his days; I broke his heart by the most ungrateful, unnatural return for the most tender, affectionate treatment that ever father gave, or child could receive.

_R.C._ Well, I did not ask you about your father to extort this confession; I pray God give you repentance for it, and forgive you that and all your other sins; but I asked you, because I see that, though you have not much learning, yet you are not so ignorant as some are in things that are good; that you have known more of religion a great deal than you have practised.

_W.A._ Though you, Sir, did not extort the confession that I make about my father, conscience does; and whenever we come to look back upon our lives, the sins against our indulgent parents are certainly the first that touch us; the wounds they make lie deepest; and the weight they leave will lie heaviest upon the mind of all the sins we can commit.

_R.C._ You talk too feelingly and sensible for me, Atkins; I cannot bear it.

_W.A. You_ bear it, master! I dare say you know nothing of it.

_R.C._ Yes, Atkins, every shore, every hill, nay, I may say every tree in this island, is witness to the anguish of my soul for my ingratitude and base usage of a good tender father; a father much like yours by your description; and I murdered my father as well as you, Will Atkins; but think for all that, my repentance is short of yours too, by a great deal.

[I would have said more, if I could have restrained my
passions; but I thought this poor man’s repentance was so
much sincerer than mine, that I was going to leave off the
discourse and retire, for I was surprised with what he said,
and thought, that, instead of my going about to teach and
instruct him, the man was made a teacher and instructor to
me, in a most surprising and unexpected manner.]

I laid all this before the young clergyman, who was greatly affected with it, and said to me, “Did I not say, Sir, that when this man was converted he would preach to us all? I tell you, Sir, if this one man be made a true penitent, here will be no need of me, he will make Christians of all in the island.” But having a little composed myself I renewed my discourse with Will Atkins.

“But, Will,” said I, “how comes the sense of this matter to touch you just now?”

_W.A._ Sir, you have set me about a work that has struck a dart through my very soul; I have been talking about God and religion to my wife, in order, as you directed me, to make a Christian of her; and she has preached such a sermon to me as I shall never forget while I live.

_R.C._ No, no; it is not your wife has preached to you; but when you were moving religious arguments to her, conscience has flung them back upon you.

_W.A._ Ay, Sir, with such a force as is not to be resisted.

_R.C._ Pray, Will, let us know what passed between you and your wife; for I know something of it already.

_W.A._ Sir, it is impossible to give you a full account of it: I am too full to hold it, and yet have no tongue to express it: but let her have said what she will, and though I cannot give you an account of it, this I can tell you of it, that I resolve to amend and reform my life.

_R.C._ But tell us some of it. How did you begin Will? for this has been an extraordinary case, that is certain; she has preached a sermon indeed, if she has wrought this upon you.

_W.A._ Why, I first told her the nature of our laws about marriage, and what the reasons were that men and women were obliged to enter into such compacts as it was neither in the power of one or other to break; that otherwise, order and justice could not be maintained, and men would run from their wives and abandon their children, mix confusedly with one another, and neither families be kept entire, or inheritances be settled by a legal descent.

_R.C._ You talk like a civilian, Will. Could you make her understand what you meant by inheritance and families? They know no such thing among the savages, but marry any how, without any regard to relation, consanguinity, or family; brother and sister, nay, as I have been told, even the father and daughter, and the son and the mother.

_W.A._ I believe, Sir, you are misinformed;—my wife assures me of the contrary, and that they abhor it. Perhaps for any further relations they may not be so exact as we are; but she tells me they never touch one another in the near relations you speak of.

_R.C._ Well, what did she say to what you told her?

_W.A._ She said she liked it very well; and it was much better than in her country.

_R.C._ But did you tell her what marriage was?

_W.A._ Ay, ay, there began all our dialogue. I asked her, if she would be married to me our way? She asked me, what way that was? I told her marriage was appointed of God; and here we had a strange talk together indeed, as ever man and wife had, I believe.

[N.B. This dialogue between W. Atkins and his wife, as I took
it down in writing just after he told it me, was as follows:]

_Wife_. Appointed by your God! Why, have you a God in your country?

_W.A._ Yes, my dear; God is in every country.

_Wife._ No your God in my country; my country have the great old Benamuckee God.

_W.A._ Child, I am very unfit to shew you who God is; God is in heaven, and made the heaven and the earth, the sea, and all that in them is.

_Wife._ No makee de earth; no you God makee de earth; no make my country.

[W.A. laughed a little at her expression of God not making
her country.]

_Wife._ No laugh: why laugh me? This no ting to laugh.

[He was justly reproved by his wife, for she was more serious
than he at first.]

_W.A._ That’s true, indeed; I will not laugh any more, my dear.

_Wife._ Why you say, you God make all?

_W.A._ Yes, child, our God made the whole world, and you, and me, and all things; for he is the only true God; there is no God but he; he lives for ever in heaven.

_Wife._ Why you no tell me long ago?

_W.A._ That’s true, indeed; but I have been a wicked wretch, and have not only forgotten to acquaint thee with any thing before, but have lived without God in the world myself.

_Wife._ What have you de great God in your country, you no know him? No say O to him? No do good ting for him? That no impossible!

_W.A._ It is too true though, for all that: we live as if there was no God in heaven, or that he had no power on earth.

_Wife._ But why God let you do so? Why he no makee you good live!

_W.A._ It is all our own fault.

_Wife._ But you say me he is great, much great, have much great power; can make kill when he will: why he no make kill when you no serve him? no say O to him? no be good mans?

_W.A._ That is true; he might strike me dead, and I ought to expect it; for I have been a wicked wretch, that is true: but God is merciful, and does not deal with us as we deserve.

_Wife._ But then do not you tell God tankee for that too?

_W.A._ No, Indeed; I have not thanked God for his mercy, any more than I have feared God for his power.

_Wife._ Then you God no God; me no tink, believe he be such one, great much power, strong; no makee kill you, though you makee him much angry!

_W.A._ What! will my wicked life hinder you from believing in God! What a dreadful creature am I! And what a sad truth is it, that the horrid lives of Christians hinder the conversion of heathens!

_Wife._ Now me tink you have great much God up there, (_she points up to heaven_) and yet no do well, no do good ting? Can he tell? Sure he no tell what you do.

_W.A._ Yes, yes, he knows and sees all things; he hears us speak, sees what we do, knows what we think, though we do not speak.

_Wife_ What! he no hear you swear, curse, speak the great damn?

_W.A._ Yes, yes, he hears it all.

_Wife._ Where be then the muchee great power strong?

_W.A._ He is merciful; that is all we can say for it; and this proves him to be the true God: he is God, and not man; and therefore we are not consumed.

[Here Will Atkins told us he was struck with horror to think
how he could tell his wife so clearly that God sees, and
hears, and knows the secret thoughts of the heart, and all
that we do; and yet that he had dared to do all the vile
things he had done.]

_Wife._ Merciful! what you call dat?

_W.A._ He is our father and maker; and he pities and spares us.

_Wife._ So then he never makee kill, never angry when you do wicked; then he no good himself, or no great able.

_W.A._ Yes, yes, my dear; he is infinitely good, and infinitely great, and able to punish too; and some times, to shew his justice and vengeance, he lets fly his anger to destroy sinners and make examples; many are cut off in their sins.

_Wife._ But no makee kill you yet; then he tell you, may be, that he no makee you kill, so you make de bargain with him, you do bad ting, he no be angry at you, when he be angry at other mans?

_W.A._ No, indeed, my sins are all presumptions upon his goodness; and he would be infinitely just if he destroyed me as he has done other men.

_Wife._ Well, and yet no kill, no makee you dead! What you say to him for that? You no tell him tankee for all that too!

_W.A._ I am an unthankful, ungrateful dog, that is true.

_Wife._ Why he no makee you much good better? You say he makee you.

_W.A._. He made me as he made all the world; ’tis I have deformed myself, and abused his goodness, and have made myself an abominable wretch.

_Wife._ I wish you makee God know me; I no makee him angry; I no do bad wicked ting.

[Here Will Atkins said his heart sunk within him, to hear a
poor, untaught creature desire to be taught to know God, and
he such a wicked wretch that he could not say one word to her
about God, but what the reproach of his own carriage would
make most irrational to her to believe; nay, that already she
could not believe in God, because he that was so wicked was
not destroyed.]

_W.A._ My dear, you mean you wish I could teach you to know God, not God to know you, for he knows you already, and every thought in your heart.

_Wife._ Why then he know what I say to you now; he know me wish to know him; how shall me know who makee me?

_W.A._ Poor creature, he must teach thee, I cannot teach thee; I’ll pray to him to teach thee to know him; and to forgive me that I am unworthy to teach thee.

[The poor fellow was in such an agony at her desiring him to
make her know God, and her wishing to know him, that he said
he fell down on his knees before her, and prayed to God to
enlighten her mind with the saving knowledge of Jesus Christ,
and to pardon his sins, and accept of his being the unworthy
instrument of instructing her in the principles of religion;
after which he sat down by her again, and their dialogue
went on.]

N.B. This was the time when we saw him kneel down and lift up
his hands.

_Wife._ What you put down the knee for? What you hold up the hand for? What you say? Who you speak to? What is that?

_W.A._ My dear, I bow my knees in token of my submission to Him that made me: I said O to him, as you call it, and as you say your old men do to their idol Benamuckee; that is, I prayed to him.

_Wife._ What you say O to him for?

_W.A._ I prayed to him to open your eyes and your understanding, that you may know him, and be accepted by him.

_Wife._ Can he do that too?

_W.A._ Yes, he can; he can do all things.

_Wife._ But he no hear what you say?

_W.A._ Yes, he has bid us pray to him; and promised to hear us.

_Wife._ Bid you pray? When he bid you? How he bid you? What you hear him speak?

_W.A._ No, we do not hear him speak; but he has revealed himself many ways to us.

[Here he was at a great loss to make her understand that God
had revealed himself to us by his word; and what his word
was; but at last he told it her thus:]

_W.A._ God has spoken to some good men in former days, even from heaven, by plain words; and God has inspired good men by his Spirit; and they have written all his laws down in a book.

_Wife._ Me no understand that: where is book?

_W.A._. Alas! my poor creature, I have not this book; but I hope I shall, one time or other, get it for you to read it.

[Here he embraced her with great affection; but with
inexpressible grief, that he had not a Bible.]

_Wife._ But how you makee me know that God teachee them to write that book?

_W.A._ By the same rule that we know him to be God.

_Wife._ What rule? what way you know?

_W.A._ Because he teaches and commands nothing but what is good, righteous, and holy, and tends to make us perfectly good, as well as perfectly happy; and because he forbids, and commands us to avoid, all that is wicked, that is evil in itself, or evil in its consequences.

_Wife._ That me would understand, that me fain see; if he reward all good thing, punish all wicked thing, he teachee all good thing, forbid all wicked thing, he makee all thing, he give all thing; he hear me when I say O to him, as you go to do just now; he makee me good if I wish be good; he spare me, no makee kill me when I no be good; all this you say he do: yes, he be great God; me take, think, believe him be great God; me say O to him too with you, my dear.

Here the poor man said he could forbear no longer; but, raising her up, made her kneel by him; and he prayed to God aloud to instruct her in the knowledge of himself by his Spirit; and that by some good providence, if possible, she might some time or other come to have a Bible, that she might read the word of God, and be taught by him to know him.

[This was the time that we saw him lift her up by the hand,
and saw him kneel down by her, as above.]

They had several other discourses, it seems, after this, too long to set down here; and particularly she made him promise, that, since he confessed his own life had been a wicked, abominable course of provocation against God, he would reform it, and not make God angry any more, lest he should make him dead, as she called it, and then she should be left alone, and never be taught to know this God better; and lest he should be miserable, as he told her wicked men should be after death.

This was a strange account, and very affecting to us both, but particularly the young clergyman; he was indeed wonderfully surprised with it; but under the greatest affliction imaginable that he could not talk to her; that he could not speak English to make her understand him; and as she spoke but very broken English he could not understand her. However, he turned himself to me, and told me, that he believed there must be more to do with this woman than to marry her. I did not understand him at first, but at length he explained himself, viz. that she ought to be baptized.

I agreed with him in that part readily, and was for going about it presently: “No, no; hold, Sir,” said he; “though I would have her baptized by all means, yet I must observe, that Will Atkins, her husband, has indeed brought her, in a wonderful manner, to be willing to embrace a religious life; and has given her just ideas of the being of a God, of his power, justice, and mercy; yet I desire to know of him, if he has said any thing to her of Jesus Christ, and of the salvation of sinners; of the nature of faith in him, and the redemption by him; of the Holy Spirit, the Resurrection, the last judgment, and a future state.”

I called Will Atkins again, and asked him; but the poor fellow fell immediately into tears, and told us he had said something to her of all those things, but that he was himself so wicked a creature, and his own conscience so reproached him with his horrid, ungodly life, that he trembled at the apprehensions, that her knowledge of him should lessen the attention she should give to those things, and make her rather contemn religion than receive it: but he was assured, he said, that her mind was so disposed to receive due impressions of all those things, that, if I would but discourse with her, she would make it appear to my satisfaction that my labour would not be lost upon her.

Accordingly I called her in, and placing myself as interpreter between my religious priest and the woman, I entreated him to begin with her. But sure such a sermon was never preached by a popish priest in these latter ages of the world: and, as I told him, I thought he had all the zeal, all the knowledge, all the sincerity of a Christian, without the errors of a Roman Catholic; and that I took him to be such a clergyman as the Roman bishops were before the church of Rome assumed spiritual sovereignty over the consciences of men.

In a word, he brought the poor woman to embrace the knowledge of Christ, and of redemption by him, not with wonder and astonishment only, as she did the first notions of a God, but with joy and faith, with an affection, and a surprising degree of understanding, scarce to be imagined, much less to be expressed; and at her own request she was baptized.

When he was preparing to baptize her, I entreated him that he would perform that office with some caution, that the man might not perceive he was of the Roman church, if possible; because of other ill consequences which might attend a difference among us in that very religion which we were instructing the other in. He told me, that as he had no consecrated chapel, nor proper things for the office, I should see he would do it in a manner that I should not know by it that he was a Roman Catholic himself if I had not known it before, and so he did; for saying only some words over to himself in Latin, which I could not understand, he poured a whole dishfull of water upon the woman’s head, pronouncing in French very loud _Mary_ (which was the name her husband desired me to give her, for I was her godfather,) _I baptize thee in the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Ghost_; so that none could know any thing by it what religion he was of: he gave the benediction afterwards in Latin; but either Will Atkins did not know but it was in French, or else did not take notice of it at that time.