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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 it 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 true zeal, as well as a generous heart, in him. “But, my friend,” said 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, for other reasons 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 to 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 your being all restored to Christ's church, by what soever method hé, who is all-wise, is pleased to direct. In the mean time, sure 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 that 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 farther 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 may 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 to 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 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 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 husiness 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 with him thus :

"Will Atkins," said I, "prithee 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 despises reproof is brutish." W. A. Ay, Sir, I was brutish indeed, for I murdered my father: for God's sake, Sir, talk no more about that; Sir, I murdered my poor father. Pr. Ha! a murderer!

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

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 sensibly 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 bad 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 I 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 had 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?"

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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 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. Si, 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, 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 con

fusedly 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 any how, 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 farther relations, they may not be so exact as we are; but she tells me they never touch one another 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, 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 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 I took down in writing, just after he had told it me, which 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 nothing 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, vou say you God makee all?

W. A. Yes, child, our God make 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 any thing 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 thing 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 you do 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 for 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 sad truth is it, that the horrid lives of Christians hinder the conversion of heathens!

Wife. How me think you have great much God up there (she points up to heaven), and yet no do well, no do good thing? 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 that!

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, may be, that he no makee you kill; so you makee de bargain with him, you do bad thing, he no he 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.