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.