to make, acknowledging I was very much his debtor for the first, and
thanked him heartily for it. He told me he would use the same freedom
and plainness in the second, and hoped I would take it as well; and this
was, that notwithstanding these English subjects of mine, as he called
them, had lived with these women for almost seven years, and had taught
them to speak English, and even to read it, and that they were, as he
perceived, women of tolerable understanding and capable of instruction;
yet they had not, to this hour taught them any thing of the Christian
religion; no not so much as to know that there was a God, or a worship,
or in what manner God was to be served; or that their own idolatry, and
worshipping they knew not who, was false and absurd.
This, he said, was an unaccountable neglect, and what God would
certainly call them to an account for; and perhaps at last take the work
out of their hands. He spoke this very affectionately and warmly. “I am
persuaded,” says he, “had those men lived in the savage country whence
their wives came, the savages would have taken more pains to have
brought them to be idolaters, and to worship the devil, than any of
these men, so far as I can see, has taken with them to teach them the
knowledge of the true God. Now, Sir,” said he, “though I do not
acknowledge your religion, or you mine, yet we should be all glad to see
the devil’s servants, and the subjects of his kingdom, taught to know
the general principles of the Christian religion; that they might at
least hear of God, and of a Redeemer, and of the resurrection, and of a
future state, things which we all believe; they had at least been so
much nearer coming into the bosom of the true church, than they are now
in the public profession of idolatry and devil-worship.”
I could hold no longer; I took him in my arms, and embraced him with an
excess of passion. “How far,” said I to him, “have I been from
understanding the most essential part of a Christian, viz. to love the
interest of the Christian church, and the good of other men’s souls! I
scarce have known what belongs to being a Christian.”—“O, Sir, do not
say so,” replied he; “this thing is not your fault.”—“No,” said I; “but
why did I never lay it to heart as well as you?”—“It is not too late
yet,” said he; “be not too forward to condemn yourself.”—“But what can
be done now?” said I; “you see I am going away.”—“Will you give me
leave,” said he, “to talk with these poor men about it?”—“Yes, with all
my heart,” said I, “and I will oblige them to give heed to what you say
too.”—“As to that,” said he, “we must leave them to the mercy of
Christ; but it is our business to assist them, encourage them, and
instruct them; and if you will give me leave, and God his blessing, I do
not doubt but the poor ignorant souls shall be brought home into the
great circle of Christianity, if not into the particular faith that we
all embrace; and that even while you stay here.” Upon this I said, “I
shall not only give you leave, but give you a thousand thanks for it.”
What followed on this account I shall mention also again in its place.
I now pressed him for the third article in which we were to blame. “Why
really,” says he, “it is of the same nature, and I will proceed (asking
your leave) with the same plainness as before; it is about your poor
savages yonder, who are, as I may say, your conquered subjects. It is a
maxim, Sir, that is, or ought to be received among all Christians, of
what church, or pretended church soever, viz. that Christian knowledge
ought to be propagated by all possible means, and on all possible
occasions. It is on this principle that our church sends missionaries
into Persia, India, and China; and that our clergy, even of the
superior sort, willingly engage in the most hazardous voyages, and the
most dangerous residence among murderers and barbarians, to teach them
the knowledge of the true God, and to bring them over to embrace the
Christian faith. Now, Sir, you have an opportunity here to have six or
seven-and-thirty poor savages brought over from idolatry to the
knowledge of God, their Maker and Redeemer, that I wonder how you can
pass by such an occasion of doing good, which is really worth the
expense of a man’s whole life.”
I was now struck dumb indeed, and had not one word to say; I had here a
spirit of true Christian zeal for God and religion before me, let his
particular principles be of what kind soever. As for me, I had not so
much as entertained a thought of this in my heart before, and I believe
should not have thought of it; for I looked upon these savages as
slaves, and people whom, had we any work for them to do, we would have
used as such, or would have been glad to have transported them to any
other part of the world; for our business was to get rid of them, and we
would all have been satisfied if they had been sent to any country, so
they had never seen their own. But to the case: I say I was confounded
at his discourse, and knew not what answer to make him. He looked
earnestly at me, seeing me in some disorder; “Sir,” said he, “I shall be
very sorry, if what I have said gives you any offence.”—“No, no,” said
I, “I am offended with nobody but myself; but I am perfectly confounded,
not only to think that I should never take any notice of this before,
but with reflecting what notice I am able to take of it now. You know,
Sir,” said I, “what circumstances I am in; I am bound to the East
Indies, in a ship freighted by merchants, and to whom it would be an
insufferable piece of injustice to detain their ship here, the men lying
all this while at victuals and wages upon the owners’ account. It is
true, I agreed to be allowed twelve days here, and if I stay more I
must pay 32 sterling per diem demurrage; nor can I stay upon demurrage
above eight days more, and I have been here thirteen days already; so
that I am perfectly unable to engage in this work; unless I would suffer
myself to be left behind here again; in which case, if this single ship
should miscarry in any part of her voyage, I should be just in the same
condition that I was left in here at first, and from which I have been
so wonderfully delivered.”
He owned the case was very hard upon me as to my voyage, but laid it
home upon my conscience, whether the blessing of saving seven-and-thirty
souls was not worth my venturing all I had in the world for. I was not
so sensible of that as he was, and I returned upon him thus: “Why, Sir,
it is a valuable thing indeed to be an instrument in God’s hand to
convert seven-and-thirty heathens to the knowledge of Christ: but as you
are an ecclesiastic, and are given over to that work, so that it seems
naturally to fall into the way of your profession, how is it then that
you do not rather offer yourself to undertake it, than press me to it!”
Upon this he faced about, just before me, as he walked along, and
pulling me to a full stop, made me a very low bow: “I most heartily
thank God, and you, Sir,” says he, “for giving me so evident a call to
so blessed a work; and if you think yourself discharged from it, and
desire me to undertake it, I will most readily do it, and think it a
happy reward for all of the hazards and difficulties of such a broken
disappointed voyage as I have met with, that I have dropped at last into
so glorious a work.”
I discovered a kind of rapture in his face while he spoke this to me;
his eyes sparkled like fire, his face bowed, and his colour came and
went as if he had been falling into fits; in a word, he was tired with
the agony of being embarked in such a work. I paused a considerable
while before I could tell what to say to him, for I was really surprised
to find a man of such sincerity and zeal, and carried out in his zeal
beyond the ordinary rate of men, not of his profession only, but even of
any profession whatsoever. But after I had considered it awhile, I asked
him seriously if he was in earnest, and that he would venture on the
single consideration of an attempt on those poor people, to be locked up
in an unplanted island for perhaps his life, and at last might not know
whether he should be able to do them any good or not?
He turned short upon me, and asked me what I called a venture? “Pray,
Sir,” said he, “what do you think I consented to go in your ship to the
East Indies for?”—“Nay,” said I, “that I know not, unless it was to
preach to the Indians.”—“Doubtless it was,” said he; “and do you think
if I can convert these seven-and-thirty men to the faith of Christ, it
is not worth my time, though I should never be fetched off the island
again? Nay, is it not infinitely of more worth to save so many souls
than my life is, or the life of twenty more of the same profession? Yes,
Sir,” says he, “I would give Christ and the Blessed Virgin thanks all my
days, if I could be made the least happy instrument of saving the souls
of these poor men though I was never to set my foot off this island, or
see my native country any more. But since you will honour me,” says he,
“with putting me into this work, (for which I will pray for you all the
days of my life) I have one humble petition to you,” said he
“besides.”—“What is that?” said I. “Why,” says he, “it is, that you
will leave your man Friday with me, to be my interpreter to them, and to
assist me for without some help I cannot speak to them, or they to me.”
I was sensibly troubled at his requesting Friday, because I could not
think of parting with him, and that for many reasons. He had been the
companion of my travels; he was not only faithful to me, but sincerely
affectionate to the last degree; and I had resolved to do something
considerable for him if he out-lived me, as it was probable he would.
Then I knew that as I had bred Friday up to be a Protestant, it would
quite confound him to bring him to embrace another profession; and he
would never, while his eyes were open, believe that his old master was a
heretic, and would be damned; and this might in the end ruin the poor
fellow’s principles, and so turn him back again to his first idolatry.
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.”