“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.]