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RATITUDE emanates from the sense of guileless enjoyment, as perfume rises from the flower. The sombre shadow of premature decay rests upon the youngest being, the instant that he ceases to enjoy. The child enjoys involuntarily, unreasoningly; its spontaneous gladness gushes forth like the matin song of the lark, and, like the lark's carol, it is an unconscious hymn of thanks for the capacity it has received. But as childhood merges into youth, youth into manhood, how often the blessed faculty of enjoyment decreases until it is wholly lost!

Pity the man from whom it has departed, for its absence speaks of mental and physical abuse; of unholy indulgence that vitiates the taste, of satiety that palls the appetite, of sin that destroys the powers. All the bloom of his existence has been rudely brushed away. The finest chords of his spirit have become voiceless. Touch them with the finger of Nature, of Art, of Feeling, they give forth no sound. The dust of life's prosaic cares collects upon his heart, until no wind of heaven,