Adam. Yes, indeed, son. Should I give you a detail of the injuries and calamities I have suffered, of the horrid wickedness which prevails, it would be too sad a story for me to relate, or you to hear, without

tears.

Pilgrim. I would not willingly give you any affliction; yet could I wish to have an account of your misfortunes, as I may draw some instruction from it.

Adum. Being so desirous of instruction, I will gratify you. Not long after our being turned out of Paradise, my wife was delivered of two sons at different times; the name of the first was Cain, and the second was called Abel. The former being a well-made, comely child, of him we had great hopes; the younger was of a more tender frame, with something soft in his countenance; but we made no great account of him. The elder, as he grew up, betook himself to tillage, in which he showed great industry and laborious application. The younger, being of a quiet disposition, answerable to his look, chose a shepherd's life. He was virtuously inclined; not an unbecoming word ever came from his lips: withal, he was so courteous, mild, and good natured, as if, by tending lambs, he had imbibed their nature. The former unhappily began to envy his brother's endearing qualities, and to bear him a dislike, perceiving that his innocent deportment gained our affections, but chiefly when he saw that God had more pleasure in his brother than in him, his offering being rejected. His indignation betrayed itself on all occasions. From his childhood he had showed himself of a hot, abrupt temper; but now his animosity appeared plainly in all his carriage and behaviour; no dutiful salutations to us; and his brother could not get a friendly word from him. His sullenness filled us with terror, as concluding that he certainly was brooding some black design.

Pilgrim. But, father, after such experience as yours, should not you have taken him to talk, and seriously admonished him? for such a choleric temper is inconsistent with brotherly affection.

Adam. Alas! my son, we were far from being de

ficient in that; and his afflicted. mother frequently told him with tears, what had befallen us, and entreated him to lay aside a behaviour which was offensive to God,. who never left obstinate sinners unpunished. But no advice will take effect, where a man does not watch over himself. And, what is more, God himself, in his tender mercy, dissuaded him from his malignant animosity. But, oh! had it gone no farther than angry looks and a discourteous carriage--Pilgrim. How, father! Your grief returns on you as strong as before.

Adam. Oh! Let me entreat your silence. The thought of what followed crushes my grey hairs. Pilgrim. I will leave you a while to your passion até grief.

Adam. That I should live to see such a deed among my children.

Pilgrim. What, then, did you live to see, father? Adam. Oh! the first-born in the world.

Pilgrim. What happened then?

Adam. Well, my son, in regard to you, I shall relate the deplorable event. All our admonitions and entreaties could not give the least turn to Cain's ani mosity, but, coming up to his poor quiet brother, as he was tending his flock, he began to storm and rage most dreadfully, in order to raise a quarrel; but that weak lamb answering him submissively, it so inflamed his brutal rage, that, laying hold of the jaw-bone of some dead animal, he felled his brother to the ground, who breathed his last on the spot, and there was left a bleeding corpse.

Pilgrim. A dismal event, indeed! but what does our sinful nature stick at?

Adam. Now he had gratified his malice. But had you seen the agitations of Cain, after he had struck the fatal blow--He cried vehemently, wrung his hands, stamped; but all in vain. His conscience afforded him no comfort: He was full of fea and horror! If he did but hear a rustling leaf, he imagined it was somebody pursuing him to revenge innocent

Adam. Yes, indeed, son. Should I give you a detail of the injuries and calamities I have suffered, of the horrid wickedness which prevails, it would be too sad a story for me to relate, or you to hear, without

tears.

Pilgrim. I would not willingly give you any affliction; yet could I wish to have an account of your misfortunes, as I may draw some instruction from it.

Adam. Being so desirous of instruction, I will gratify you. Not long after our being turned out of Paradise, my wife was delivered of two sons at different times; the name of the first was Cain, and the second was called Abel. The former being a well-made, comely child, of him we had great hopes; the younger was of a more tender frame, with something soft in his countenance; but we made no great account of him. The elder, as he grew up, betook himself to tillage, in which he showed great industry and laborious application. The younger, being of a quiet disposition, answerable to his look, chose a shepherd's life. He was virtuously inclined; not an unbecoming word ever came from his lips: withal, he was so courteous, mild, and good natured, as if, by tending lambs, he had imbibed their nature. The former unhappily began to envy his brother's endearing qualities, and to bear him a dislike, perceiving that his innocent deportment gained our affections, but chiefly when he saw that God had more pleasure in his brother than in him, his offering being rejected. His indignation betrayed itself on all occasions. From his childhood he had showed himself of a hot, abrupt temper; but now his animosity appeared plainly in all his carriage and behaviour; no dutiful salutations to us; and his brother could not get a friendly word from him. His sullenness filled us with terror, as concluding that he certainly was brooding some black design.

Pilgrim. But, father, after such experience as yours, should not you have taken him to talk, and seriously admonished him? for such a choleric temper is inconsistent with brotherly affection.

Adam. Alas! my son, we were far from being de

ficient in that; and his afflicted. mother frequently told him with tears, what had befallen us, and entreated him to lay aside a behaviour which was offensive to God,. who never left obstinate sinners unpunished. But no advice will take effect, where a man does not watch over himself. And, what is more, God himself, in his tender mercy, dissuaded him from his malignant animosity. But, oh! had it gone no farther than angry looks and a discourteous carriage--Pilgrim. How, father! Your grief returns on you as strong as before.

Adam. Oh! Let me entreat your silence. The thought of what followed crushes my grey hairs. Pilgrim. I will leave you a while to your passion. ate grief.

Adam. That I should live to see such a deed among my children.

Pilgrim. What, then, did

you live to see, father? Adam. Oh! the first-born in the world. Pilgrim. What happened then?

Adam. Well, my son, in regard to you, I shall relate the deplorable event. All our admonitions and entreaties could not give the least turn to Cain's ani mosity, but, coming up to his poor quiet brother, as he was tending his flock, he began to storm and rage most dreadfully, in order to raise a quarrel; but that weak lamb answering him submissively, it so inflamed his brutal rage, that, laying hold of the jaw-bone of some dead animal, he felled his brother to the ground, who breathed his last on the spot, and there was left a bleeding corpse.

Pilgrim. A dismal event, indeed! but what does our sinful nature stick at?

Adam. Now he had gratified his malice. But had you seen the agitations of Cain, after he had struck the fatal blow--He cried vehemently, wrung his hands, stamped; but all in vain. His conscience afforded him no comfort: He was full of fear and horror! If he did but hear a rustling leaf, he imagined it was somebody pursuing him to revenge innocent

blood. He fled from the sight of the Lord, if such a thing could be, like one utterly disconsolate and discouraged by remorse. At length, unable to bear the

sight of us, he removed into another country. Pilgrim, This, sure, must have pierced your hearts with grief,

Adam. It was indeed a heavy stroke to us, to lose in one day, the comforts of our lives, two sons; one dead as to the body, and the other, which was still worse, lost to the soul. But when the mother saw her favourite son lying in his blood, there is no expressing her agonies; and, for my part, I was too much troubled myself to offer any comfort to her.--Neither of us got the better of this affliction for many years, nor ever should, had not God comforted us. with another son instead of Abel; him we called Seth; and this happened in the hundred and thirtieth year of my age. Besides his extraordinary beauty, this child was of a most promising temper. We had, indeed, many more children, but none equal to him for sense and virtue; from which we conceived hopes, that God designed in him to found a peculiar race.

Pilgrim. Pray tell me, what became of Cain in his voluntary exile; did he reform afterwards?

Adam. As God gave me more children, and those children, in process of time, had others, which spread into several countries, Cain took to wife one of my first daughters, and increased his generation. Among other children he had a son named Enoch. As to the poor man's reformation, of which you were asking, since the murder of Abel, he was under a perpetual terror, and never thought himself safe any where; but at last, seeking safety in human means, he built a town in the East, which, after his son, he called Enoch.

Pilgrim. Did he never pray to God for forgiveness? Adam. He conceived that his sin was too great ever to be forgiven, and thus never sought it. Indeed he often prayed to God to preserve him from violence, for he apprehended that the first man that saw him would kill him, to rid the earth of such a monster.