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, 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 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.]