by Daniel Defoe
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 a while, that we might see an end of the scene, which to me, I must confess, was the most affecting that ever I saw in my life. Well, he strove with himself for a while, but was in such raptures 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 the 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; some things he said in Latin, some in French; then two or three times the tears would interrupt him, that he could not speak at all; but I begged that he would contain himself, and let us more narrowly and fully observe what was before us, which he did for a time, the scene not being near ended 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 her motion, that she was greatly affected with what he said, by her frequently lifting up her hands, laying her hand to her breast, and such other postures as express the greatest seriousness and attention; this continued about half a quarter of an hour, and then they walked away, so we could see no more of them in that situation.
I took this interval to say to the clergyman, first, that 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 might both be, and I hoped such a beginning would yet have a more happy end. «But, my friend,» added I, «will you give me leave to start one difficulty here? I cannot tell how to object the least thing against that affectionate concern which you show for the turning of 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, as effectually lost as the pagans themselves.»
To this he answered, with abundance of candour, 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 that 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) that you cannot be saved; I will by no means limit the mercy of Christ so far as think that He cannot receive you into the bosom of His Church, in a manner to us unperceivable; and I hope you have the same charity for us: I pray daily for you being all restored to Christ's Church, by whatsoever method He, who is all–wise, is pleased to direct. In the meantime, surely you will allow it consists with me as a Roman to distinguish far between a Protestant and a pagan; between one that calls on Jesus Christ, though in a way which I do not think is according to the true faith, and a savage or a barbarian, that knows no God, no Christ, no Redeemer; and if you are not within the pale of the Catholic Church, we hope you are nearer being restored to it than those who know nothing of God or of His Church: and 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 that 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 desire it, leaving it to the goodness of Christ to perfect His work in His own time, and in 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 all to be Protestants at first, rather than they should continue pagans or heathens; firmly believing, that He that had bestowed the first light on 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.»
Chapter 7
Conversation betwixt Will Atkins and His Wife
I was astonished at the sincerity and temper of this 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 joined in; that a spirit of charity would soon work us all up into right principles; and as he thought that the like charity would make us all Catholics, so I told him I believed, had all the members of his Church the like moderation, they would soon all be 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,» says I, «I wish all the clergy of the Romish Church were blessed with such moderation, and had 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 would do in Spain or Italy; but I will not say they would be the better Christians for that severity; for I am sure there is no heresy in abounding with 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 not; 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 by asking him some particulars about his parentage and education. He told me frankly enough that his father was a clergyman who would have taught him well, but that he, Will Atkins, despised all instruction and correction; and by his brutish conduct cut the thread of all his father's comforts and shortened his days, for that he broke his heart by the most ungrateful, unnatural return for the most affectionate treatment a father ever gave.
In what he said there seemed so much sincerity of repentance, that it painfully affected me. I could not but reflect that I, too, had shortened the life of a good, tender father by my bad conduct and obstinate self–will. I was, indeed, so surprised with what he had told me, that I thought, instead of my going about to teach and instruct him, the man was made a teacher and instructor to me in a most 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, there 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 though 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 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, th
ough I cannot give you an account of it, this I can tell you, that I have resolved 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 nor 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, nor inheritances be settled by 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 things among the savages, but marry anyhow, without regard to relation, consanguinity, or family; brother and sister, nay, as I have been told, even the father and the daughter, and the son and the mother.
W.A. — I believe, sir, you are misinformed, and 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 never in the near relationship you speak of.
R.C. — Well, what did she say to what you told her?
W.A. — She said she liked it very well, as it was much better than in her country.
R.C. — But did you tell her what marriage was?
W.A. — Ay, ay, there began 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 by God; and here we had a strange talk together, indeed, as ever man and wife had, I believe.
N.B. — This dialogue between Will Atkins and his wife, which I took 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 show 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 all earth; no makee my country.
[Will Atkins 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 makee 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, and there is no God but Him. 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 anything before, but have lived without God in the world myself.
Wife. — What, have you a great God in your country, you no know Him? No say O to Him? No do good ting for Him? That no possible.
W.A. — It is 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 makee kill when He will: why He no makee 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 you not tell God thankee for that too?
W.A. — No, indeed, I have not thanked God for His mercy, any more than I have feared God from His power.
Wife. — Then you God no God; me no think, believe He be such one, great much power, strong: no makee kill you, though you make 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. — How 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 curse, swear, speak de great damn?
W.A. — Yes, yes, He hears it all.
Wife. — Where be then the much 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 sometimes, to show 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, maybe, that He no makee you kill: so you makee the bargain with Him, you do bad thing, 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 thankee 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: it is I have deformed myself and abused His goodness, and made myself an abominable wretch.
Wife. — I wish you makee God know me. I no makee Him angry—I no do bad wicked thing.
[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 had told him that 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 will pray to Him to teach thee to know Him, and forgive me, that 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. This was the time when we saw him kneel down and hold 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 all that?
W.A. — My dear, I bow my knees in token of my submission to Hi
m that made me: I said O to Him, as you call it, and as your old men do to their idol Benamuckee; that is, I prayed to Him.
Wife. — What say you 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 now He 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 has revealed Himself to us by His word, and what His word was; but at last he told it to her thus.]
