The Life and Most Surprising Adventures of Robinson Crusoe, of York, Mariner (1801)

Nothing now remained, but that the women should be made sensible of the meaning of the thing; with which being well satisfied, they with their husbands attended at my apartment the next morning; there was my priest, habited in a black vest, something like a cassock, with a sash round it; much resembling a minister, and I was his interpreter. But the seriousness of his behaviour, and the scruples he made of marrying the women, who were not baptized, gave them, an exceeding reverence for his person: nor indeed would he marry them at all, till he obtained my liberty to discourse both with the men and women, and then he told them, 'That in the sight of all indifferent men, and in the sense of the laws of society, they had lived in open adultery, which nothing new, but their consent to marry, or final separation, could put an end to; and even here was a difficulty with respect to the laws of Christian matrimony, in marrying a professed Christian to a heathen idolater, unbaptized; but yet there was time enough to make them profess the name of Christ, without which nothing could be done; that, besides, he believed themselves very indifferent Christians; and consequently had not discoursed with their wives upon that subject; and that unless they promised him to do so, he could not marry them, as being expressly forbidden by the laws of God.'

All this they heard attentively, and owned readily.

But, Lord, Sir, said Will Atkins to me how could we teach them religion, who know nothing of it ourselves? How can we talk to our wives of God, Jesus Christ, heaven, and hell? Why they would only laugh at us, who never yet have practiced religion, but on the contrary all manner of wickedness. Will Atkins, said I, cannot you tell your wife she is in the wrong, and that her gods are idols, which can neither speak nor understand; but that our God, who has made, can destroy all things; that he rewards the good and punishes the wicked; and at last will bring us to judgment; cannot you tell her these things? That's true, said Atkins, but then she'll tell me it is utterly false, since I am not punished and sent to the devil, who hath been such a wicked creature. These words I interpreted to the priest. "Oh!" said he, "tell him, his repentance will make him a very good minister to his spouse, and qualify him to preach on the mercy and long suffering of a merciful Being, who desires not the death of a sinner, and even defers damnation to the last judgment; this will lead him to the doctrine of the resurrection and will make him an excellent preacher to his wife." I repeated this to Atkins, who being more than ordinary affected with it, replied, I know all this, Sir, and a great deal more; but how can I have the impudence to talk thus to my wife, given my conscience witnesses against me? Alas! said he (with tears in his eye, and giving a great sigh) as for repenting, that is for ever past me. Past you! Atkins, said I, what do you mean? You know well enough, said he, what I mean, I mean it is too late.

When I told the priest what he said, the poor affectionate man could not refrain from weeping; but recovering himself "Pray, Sir," said he, "ask him if he is contented that it is too late; or is he concerned, and wishes it were not so?" This question I put fairly to Atkins, who replied in a passion, How can I be easy in a state which I know must terminate in my ruin? for I really believe, some time or other, I shall cut my threat, to put a period both to my life, and to the terrors of my conscience.

At this, the clergyman shook his head, "Sir," said he, "pray tell him it is not too late; Christ will give him repentance, if he has recourse to the merit of his passion. Does he think he is beyond the power of Divine mercy? There may indeed be a time when provoked mercy will no longer strive, but never too late for men to repent in this world." I told Atkins every word the priest had said, who then parted from us to walk with his wife, while we discoursed with the rest. But these were very stupid in religious matters; yet all of them promised to do their endeavours to make their wives turn Christians; and upon which promises the priest married the three couple. But as Atkins was the only sincere convert and of more sense than the rest, my clergyman was earnestly inquiring after him: "Sir," said he, "let us walk out of this labyrinth, & I dare say we shall find this poor man preaching to his wife already." And indeed we found it true; for coming to the edge of the wood, we perceived Atkins and his savage wife sitting under the shade of a bush, in very earnest discourse; he pointed to the sun, to the quarters of the earth, to himself, to her, the woods, and the trees. Immediately we could perceive him start upon his feet, fall down upon his knees, and lift up both his hands; at which the tears ran down my clergyman's cheeks; but our great misfortune was, we could not hear one word that passed between them. Another time he would embrace her, wiping the tears from her eyes, kissing her with the greatest transports, and then both kneel down for some minutes together. Such raptures of joy did this confirm in my young priest, that he could scarcely contain himself: And a little after this, we observed by her motion, as frequently lifting up her hands, and laying them on her breast, that she was mightily affected with his discourse, and so they withdrew from our sight.

When we came back, we found them both waiting to be called in; upon which he agreed to examine him alone, and so I began thus to discourse him. "Prithee, Will Atkins," said I, "what education have you? What was your father?"

W.A. A better man than ever I shall be; he was, Sir, a clergyman, who gave me good instruction, or correction, which I despised like a brute as I was, and murdered my poor father.

Pr. Ha! a murderer!

[Here the priest started and looked pale, as thinking he had really killed his father.]

R.C. What, did you kill him with your hands?

W.A. No, Sir, I cut not his throat, but broke his heart by the most unnatural turn of disobedience to the tenderest and best of fathers.

R.C. Well, I pray God grant you repentance: I did not ask you to exhort a confession; but I asked you because I see you have more knowledge of what is good than your companions.

W.A. O Sir, whenever I look back upon my past life, conscience upbraids me with my father: the sins against our parents make the deepest wounds, and their weight lies the heaviest upon the mind.

R.C. You talk, Will, too feelingly and sensibly for me; I am not able to bear it.

W.A. You bear it, Sir! you know nothing of it.

R.C. But yes, Atkins, I do; and every shore, valley, and tree in this island, witness the anguish of my soul for my undutifulness to my kind father, whom I have murdered likewise; yet my repentance falls infinitely short of yours. But, Will, how comes the sense of this matter to touch you just now?

W.A. Sir, the work you have set me about, has occasioned it; for talking to my wife about God and religion, she has preached me such a sermon, that I shall retain it in lasting remembrance.

R.C. No, no, it is your own moving pious arguments to her, has made conscience fling them back upon you. But pray, Atkins, inform us what passed between you and your wife, and in what manner you did begin.

W.A. I talked to her of the laws of marriage, the reason of such compacts, whereby order and justice is maintained; without which men would run from their wives and children, to the dissolution of families or inheritances.

R.C. Well, and what did she say to all this?

W.A. Sir, we began our discourse in the following manner, which I shall exactly repeat according to my mean capacity, if you think it worth you while to honour it with your attention.

The DIALOGUE between WILL ATKINS and his Wife in the wood.

Wife. You tell me marriage God appoint, have you God in your country?

W.A. Yes, child, God is in every nation.

Wife. No; great old Benamuckee God is in my country, not yours.

A. My dear, God is in heaven, which he made; he also made the earth, the sea and all that is therein.

Wife. Why you no tell me much long ago?

A. My dear I have been a wicked wretch, having a long time lived without the knowledge of God in the world.

Wife. What, not know great God in own nation? No do good ting? No say O to him? that's strange!

A. But, my dear, many live as if there was no God in heaven for all that.

Wife. Why God suffer them? why makee not live well?

A. It is our own faults, child.

Wife. But if he is much great, can makee kill, why no makee kill when no serve him? No be good mans, no cry O to him?

A. That's true, my dear, he may strike us dead, but his abundant mercy spareth us.

Wife. Did not you tell God thanked for that?

A. No, I have neither thanked him for his mercy, nor feared him for his power.

Wife. Then me not believe your God be good, nor makee kill, when you makee him angry.

A. Alas! must my wicked life hinder you from believing in him?

Wife. How can me tink your God lives there? (pointing to heaven.) Sure he no ken what you do here.

A. Yes, my dear, he hears us speak, sees what we do, and knows what we even think.

Wife. Where then makee power strong, when he hears you curse, swear de great damn?

A. My dear, this shows indeed he is a God and not a man who has such tender mercy.

Wife. Mercy I what you call mercy?

A. He pities and spares us: as he is our great Creator, so he is also our tender Father.

Wife. So God never angry, never kill wicked, then he no good, no great mighty.

A. O my dear, don't say so, he is both; and many times he shows terrible examples of his judgment and vengeance.

Wife. Then you makee de bargain with him; you do bad ting, he no hurt you, he hurt other mans.

A. No, indeed, my lips are all presumptions upon his goodness.

Wife. Well, and yet no makee you dead; and you give him no tankee neither?

A. It is true, I an ungrateful, unthankful dog, that I am.