Their unhappiness. Guilt a burden. Means of Relief. transgressions, their hearts are filled with uneasiness and foreboding care. They walk slow and silently. As they enter the house they shrink from their father's eye. He looks pleased and happy at their safe return. But they turn away from him as soon as they can, and prefer going to another room, or in some other way avoiding his presence. Their sister perhaps, in the gaiety and kindness of her heart, tries to talk with them about their evening's enjoyment,-but they wish to turn the conversation. In a word, their peace of mind is gone,and they shrink from every eye, and wish to go as soon as possible to bed, that they may be unseen and forgotten. If they have been taught to fear God, they are not happy here. They dare not-strange infatuation,—repeat their evening prayer;—as if they supposed they could escape God's notice by neglecting to call upon him. At last however they sink to sleep. The next morning they awake with the customary cheerfulness of childhood—until, as they look forth from their window, they see the clear ice-bound stream, which tempted them to sin, winding its way among the trees. They say nothing, but each feels guilty and sad. They meet their father and mother with clouded hearts, and every object at all connected with their transgression awakens the remorse which destroys their happiness. They carry thus about with them a weary and a heavy burden. I suppose that in such cases most boys would continue to bear this burden; until at last they should become insensible to it, i. e. until conscience is seared. But though by habit in sin the stings of remorse may be blunted, yet peace never would return. By repeating transgression a great many times, we all come at last to feel a general and settled uneasiness of heart, which is a constant burden. Ask such an individual if he is unhappy. He tells you no. He means however that he The Boy's confession. His conversation with his father. is not particularly unhappy just at that time. His bur den is so uniform and constant that he comes to consider it at last as a necessary part of his existence He has lost all recollection of what pure peace and happiness is. A man who has lived long by a waterfall, at last becomes so habituated to the noise, that silence seems a strange luxury to him. So multitudes, who have had an unquiet conscience for many years, without a single interval of repose, when they at last come and confess their sins, and find peace and happiness, are surprised and delighted with the new and strange sensation. This peace cannot come by habit in sin. A seared conscience is not a relieved one. But, what is the way by which peace of mind is to be restored in such a case as the above? It is a very simple way. I wish it was more generally understood and practised. Suppose one of these boys should say to himself, some day as he is walking alone, "I am not happy, and I have not been happy since I disobeyed my father on the ice. I was very foolish to do that, for I have suffered more in consequence than ten times as much pleasure would be worth. I am resolved to go and confess the whole to my father, and ask him to forgive me, and then I shall be happy again." Having resolved upon this, he seeks the very first opportunity to relieve his mind. He is walking, we will imagine, by the side of his father, and for several minutes he hesitates not knowing how to begin. He makes however at last the effort, and says in a sorrowful tone, "Father, I have done something very wrong." "What is it, my son?" He hesitates and trembles, and after a moment's pause, says, "I am very sorry that I did it.” "My son," says the father, "I have observed, for a day or two, that you have not been happy, and you are evidently unhappy now. I know that you must have Confession of little faults. But you Happiness. may do just as you If you freely confess whatever it may be, you will continue to done something wrong. "Well, father, I will tell you all. Do you remember that you gave us leave to go upon the river and skate the other evening?" "Yes." "Well, I disobeyed you, and went upon the ice, where you told us not to go. I have been unhappy ever since, and I resolved to-day that I would come and tell you, and ask you to forgive me." I need not detail the conversation that would follow But there is not a child among the hundreds and perhaps thousands who will read this chapter, who does not fully understand, that by such a confession the boy will relieve himself of his burden, restore peace to his mind, and go away from his father with a light and happy heart. He will no more dread to meet him, and to hear the sound of his voice. He can now be happy with his sister again, and look upon the beautiful stream winding in the valley, without feeling his heart sink within him under a sense of guilt,—while all the time, perhaps, his brother, who would not come and acknowledge his sin, has his heart still darkened, and his countenance made sad by the gloomy recollection of unforgiven sin. Yes, confession of sin has an almost magic power in restoring peace of mind. Providence seems to have implanted this principle in the human heart, for the express purpose of having us act upon it. He has so formed us, that when we have done wrong we cannot feel at peace again until we have acknowledged our wrong to the person against whom it was done. And this acknowledgment of it removes the uneasiness as effectually as fire removes The torn letter. It Peace of mind. cold, or as water extinguishes fire. operates in all cases, small as well as great, and is infallible in its power. And yet how slowly do young persons and even old persons learn to use it. The remedies for almost every external evil are soon discovered, and are at once applied; but the remedy for that uneasiness of mind which results from having neglected some duty or committed some sin, and which consists in simple confession of it to the person injured, how slowly is it learned, and how reluctantly practised. I once knew a boy who was intrusted with a letter to be carried to a distant place. On his way, or just after his arrival, in attempting to take the letter out of his pocket suddenly, he tore it completely in two. He was in consternation. What to do he did not know. He did not dare to carry the letter in its mangled condition, and he did not dare to destroy it. He did accordingly the most foolish thing he could do; he kept it for many days, doubting and waiting, and feeling anxious and unhappy, whenever it came in his sight. At last he thought that this was folly, and he took his letter, carried it to the person to whom it was addressed, saying, "Here is a letter which I was intrusted with for you, and in taking it out of my pocket, I very carelessly tore it in two. I am sorry for it, but I have no excuse." The receiver of the letter said it was no matter, and the boy went home, suddenly, and entirely relieved. My reader will say, Why, this was a very simple way of getting over the difficulty. Why did not he think of it before?" 66 I know it was a simple way. The whole story is so simple, that it is hardly dignified enough to introduce here; but it is true, and it exactly illustrates the idea I am endeavoring to enforce, viz., that in little things, as well as in great things, the confession of sin restores peace of mind. The anonymous letter. Reparation compared with confession. I will now mention one other case which illustrates the same general truth, but which is in one respect very different from all the preceding. A merchant was one morning sitting in his counting room, preparing for the business of the day, when his boy entered with several letters from the Post Office. Among them was one in a strange hand-writing and with the words, "Money inclosed," written upon the outside. As the merchant was not at that time expecting any mo. ney, his attention was first attracted to this letter. He opened it and read somewhat as follows: "SIR, January 4, 1831. "Some time ago I defrauded you of some money. You did not know it then, and I suppose you never would have known it, unless I had informed you. But I have had no peace of mind since it was done, and send you back the money in this letter. Hoping that God will forgive this and all my other sins, "I am, yours, 66 I remarked that this case was totally different from all the others in one respect. Reader, do you notice the difference? It consists in this, viz. that here not only was the sin confessed, but reparation was made. The man not only acknowledged the fraud, but he paid back the money. And if any of my readers are but little acquainted with human nature, they may perhaps imagine that it was the reparation, and not the confession, which restored peace of mind. But I think I can show very clearly, that making reparation is not effectual. Suppose this man, instead of writing the above letter, had just come into the store and asked to buy some article or other, and in paying for it, had managed dexterously to put into the hands of the clerk a laiger sum |