When I first employed him in the beginning of summer 1744, he was well fitted for his work in regard of his acquaintance with the Indian and English language; and in regard of his desire that the Indians should conform to the customs and manners of the English. But he seemed to have no impression of religion, and in that respect was very _unfit_ for his work, being uncapable of understanding and communicating to others many things of importance; so that I laboured under great disadvantages in addressing the Indians, for want of his having an experimental acquaintance with divine truths; and, at times I was much discouraged, when I observed that divine truths made little or no impression upon him for many _weeks_ together.
He indeed behaved soberly, (although before he had been a hard drinker) and seemed honestly engaged as far he was capable in the performance of his work, and especially he was very desirous that the Indians should conform to the customs of the Christian world. But still seemed to have no concern about his own soul.
Near the latter end of July 1744, I preached to an assembly of white people, with freedom and fervency: at which time he was present, and was somewhat awakened; so that the next day he discoursed freely with me and gave me an opportunity to fasten the impressions upon his mind: and I could plainly perceive after this, that he addressed the Indians with more concern and fervency.
But these impressions seemed to decline, till in the fall of the year following he fell into a weak state of body. At this season divine truth took hold of him and made deep impressions upon his mind. He was under great concern for his soul, and was burdened from day to day. At length his sleep departed from him, and he had little rest day or night; but walked about under great pressure of mind, and appeared like another man to his neighbours who could not but observe his behaviour with wonder.
After he had been sometime striving for mercy, he says, there seemed to be an impassable mountain before him. He was pressing towards heaven, but “his way was hedged up with thorns, that he could not stir an inch farther.” He looked this way and that way, but could find no way at all. He felt it signified just nothing at all to strive and struggle any more. And here he says, he gave over striving, and felt that it was a gone case with him, and that all his attempts were, and for ever would be vain and fruitless.
He knew, he said, he was not guilty of such actions as others were guilty of. He had not been used to steal, quarrel, and murder; which is common among the Indians. He likewise knew that he had done many things that were right. But still his cry was, “that he had never done one good thing,” (meaning that he had never done any thing from a right _principle_, though he had done many things that were _materially_ good.) And now I thought, said he, that I must sink down to hell, that there was no hope for me, “because I never could do any thing that was good;” and if God let me alone never so long, still I should do nothing but what is bad.
There was one thing more in his view of things that was very remarkable. He not only saw, what a miserable state he himself was in, but he saw the world around him were in the same perishing circumstances. And this he saw clearly, “as if he was now awaked out of sleep, or had a cloud taken from before his eyes.” He saw that the life he had lived was the way to eternal death, that he was now on the brink of endless misery: and when he looked round he saw multitudes of others who had lived the same life with himself, had no more goodness than he, and yet dreamed that they were safe enough, as he had formerly done.
*After he had been some time in this condition, sensible of the impossibility of helping himself; he says, it was borne in upon his mind as if it had been audibly spoken, “There is hope, there is hope.” Whereupon his soul seemed to be in some measure satisfied, though he had no considerable joy; neither can he remember distinctly any views he had of Christ, or give any clear account of his acceptance through him.
But this was followed by a great change, so that it might justly be said, he was become _another man_. Even the world could not but admire what had befallen him, to make so great a change in his temper, discourse, and behaviour.―――
And especially there was a surprising alteration in his public performances. He now addressed the Indians with admirable fervency, and scarce knew when to leave off: and sometimes when I had concluded my discourse, and was returning homeward, he would tarry behind to repeat and inculcate what had been spoken.
His change is _abiding_, and his life _unblemished_ to this day, though it is now more than six months since he experienced it; in which space he has been as much exposed to _strong drink_, as possible, in divers places; and yet has never discovered any desire after it.