Too many persons suppose, they can be happy in sin; yes, even in criminal indulgence. But that transgressor was never yet found, who could point to a single wicked act in his life, the remembrance of which ever imparted one solitary gleam of joy to his heart. They may fancy there is happiness in sin; but here is the deception. It is immaterial what some may preach about _the pleasures of sin_, and _the satisfaction the transgressor often takes in a wicked course_, yet all this amounts to nothing so long as the voice of heaven declares, "THERE IS NO PEACE, SAITH MY GOD, TO THE WICKED." Infinite wisdom _must know_, and infinite wisdom, _has given_ the decision, and that decision is stamped with immortality, and from it there is no appeal. If we impress the sinner with the idea that he is not punished and rewarded _here_, but that the whole is to be settled in the future world, then we, in the same proportion, weaken the force of virtue and _strengthen_ the cause of vice. And this is one obvious reason, why men continue in sin, as long as they dare, expecting at some future day to repent and escape _all punishment_. They go on from day to day, and from year to year, with all the thunders of endless and immortal pain sounded in their ears, and even believing it true, yet continue to indulge in sin. Would they run such an awful risk, unless, by a certain course of education, they had been made to believe that there was happiness in transgression? No. If they believed that sin had nought to impart but misery, they would abandon it for its _own sake_; because happiness is the object of all men. They have, therefore, by some means or other, been led to the strange infatuation, that sin possesses some secret charm to communicate that happiness to the soul, for which every bosom throbs. This fancied happiness, they vainly imagine, they can obtain by wallowing in the dark waters of iniquity, be happy _here_, then repent at last, and be happy _hereafter_. As they pass along in their wretched career, expecting every moment to grasp the fancied pleasure, yet the fond, anticipated phantom flies from their embrace and leaves them in the ruin of their joy. Though disappointed again and again, yet firmly believing that there is happiness in sin, they again push on, and thus far attribute their want of success to some miscalculation. Insensible of the nature of sin, blinded and self-deceived, they go on in pursuit of pleasure, while golden dreams of false felicity fire their imaginations, till at last, age places them on the verge of the grave; their object no nearer attained than it was the day they set out, while habit has fixed them in a course, that has yielded them nothing but sorrow and pain, and vanity and vexation of spirit. Stung with remorse, and pierced through with many sorrows, they breathe a repentance, which, the nature of their condition, forces upon them, are perhaps pronounced _converted_, and they sink into the darkness of death!