"Will Atkins,” said I," prithee what education had you? What was your father?

IV. A. A better man than ever I shall be; sir, my father was a clergyman.

R. C. What education did he give you?

IV. 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, for I murdered my father: for God's sake, sir, talk no more about that; sir, 1 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 At kins, explain yourself; you did not kill your father, did you, with your own hands?

IV. 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, 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 sensibly for me, Atkins; I cannot bear it.

IV. 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 pasɛions; 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?

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.

IV. 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, 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 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 further 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?

IV. A. Yes, my dear, God is in every country.

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

IV. 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, you say you God makee all?

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

Wife. Why you no tell me long ago?

IV. 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?

IV. 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 makce

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 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 a 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?

IV. 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.