The Life and Adventures of Robinson Crusoe (1808)

"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."

The clergyman shook his head, with a great concern in his face, when I 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 seen 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.

[Here he was at a great loss to make her understand that God had revealed himself to us by his word; and what his word was; but at last he told it her thus:]

W.A. God has spoken to some good men in former days, even from heaven, by plain words; and God has inspired good men by his Spirit; and they have written all his laws down in a book.

Wife. Me no understand that: where is book?

W.A.. Alas! my poor creature, I have not this book; but I hope I shall, one time or other, get it for you to read it.

[Here he embraced her with great affection; but with inexpressible grief, that he had not a Bible.]

Wife. But how you makee me know that God teachee them to write that book?

W.A. By the same rule that we know him to be God.

Wife. What rule? what way you know?

W.A. Because he teaches and commands nothing but what is good, righteous, and holy, and tends to make us perfectly good, as well as perfectly happy; and because he forbids, and commands us to avoid, all that is wicked, that is evil in itself, or evil in its consequences.

Wife. That me would understand, that me fain see; if he reward all good thing, punish all wicked thing, he teachee all good thing, forbid all wicked thing, he makee all thing, he give all thing; he hear me when I say O to him, as you go to do just now; he makee me good if I wish be good; he spare me, no makee kill me when I no be good; all this you say he do: yes, he be great God; me take, think, believe him be great God; me say O to him too with you, my dear.