Consequences.

Their unhappiness.

take off their skates, step upon the firm ground, and walk toward their home.

The enjoyment is now over, and the punishment is to come. What punishment? I do not mean that their father will punish them. He knows nothing of their sin. He trusts his boys, and, confiding in their promise, he will not ask them whether they have kept it. They have returned safely, and the forbidden ice over which they have passed never can speak to tell of their disobedience. Nor do I mean the punishment which God will inflict in another world upon undutiful children. I mean another quicker punishment, and which almost always comes after transgression. And I wish my young readers would think of this more than they do. I mean the loss of peace of mind.

As the boys approach their father's dwelling, unless their consciences have become seared by oft repeated transgressions, their hearts are filled with uneasiness and foreboding care. They walk slowly 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 gayety and kindness of her heart, begins 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 cheer

Guilt a burden.

Means of relief.

fulness 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 as this, most boys would continue to bear this burden, until at last they should become insensible to it, that is, until conscience is seared. But though by habit in sin the stings of remorse may be blunted, yet real peace never returns. 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 that he is not. He means, however, that he is not particularly unhappy just at that time. His burden 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 water-fall, 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 can not 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. Happy would it be for mankind if it were more generally understood and practiced.

Suppose one of these boys should say to himself, some day as he is walking alone, "I am not happy, and I have not

The boy's confession.

His conversation with his father.

been happy since I disobeyed my father on the ice. I was very foolish to do that, for I have suffered more in consequence of it 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 the effort however

at last, 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 done something wrong. But you may do just as you please about telling me what it is. If you freely confess it, and submit to the punishment, whatever it may be, you will be happy again; if not, you will continue to suffer. Now you may do just as you please."

"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 forbade us 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 under

Confession of little faults.

Happiness.

The torn letter.

stand, 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 can not 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 cold, or as water extinguishes fire. It 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 practiced.

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 consterWhat to do he did not know. He did not dare to

nation.

carry the letter in its mangled condition, and deliver it to

Peace of mind.

The torn letter.

The anonymous letter.

the person to whom it was addressed, 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 perceived that this was folly; so he took the 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 of no consequence, 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 he not think of it before ?"

It was indeed a simple way. The whole story is so simple, that it is hardly dignified enough to be introduced; but it is true, and it exactly illustrates the idea that I am endeavoring to enforce, namely, that in little things, as well as in great things, the confession of sin restores peace of mind.

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 handwriting and with the words, "Money inclosed," written upon the outside. As the merchant was not at that time expecting any money, his attention was first attracted to this letter. He opened it and read somewhat as follows:

'SIR,-Some time ago I defrauded you of a certain sum of money. You did not know it then, and I suppose you