CHAPTER VII—­CONVERSATION BETWIXT WILL ATKINS AND HIS WIFE

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 a 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 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 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 by asking him some particulars about his parentage and education.  He told me frankly enough that his father was a clergyman who would have taught him well, but that he, Will Atkins, despised all instruction and correction; and by his brutish conduct cut the thread of all his father’s comforts and shortened his days, for that he broke his heart by the most ungrateful, unnatural return for the most affectionate treatment a father ever gave.

In what he said there seemed so much sincerity of repentance, that it painfully affected me.  I could not but reflect that I, too, had shortened the life of a good, tender father by my bad conduct and obstinate self-will.  I was, indeed, so surprised with what he had told me, that I thought, instead of my going about to teach and instruct him, the man was made a teacher and instructor to me in a most 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, there 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?”