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 shadow before it, nor had it any labor-pains, though labor had produced it.

In ancient times, when capital abounded, the fine arts sprang into vigorous existence. The statuary made the marble all but breathe. The painter with his exquisite art, touched the canvass into life. The philosopher taught his spiritual and humanizing doctrines. The poet, fresh from nature and glowing with divine conceptions, awoke impassioned eloquence in the listening crowd. Capital produced these effects! Capital was encouragement, and owned an allegiance to every thing that was grand, refined, or elevated in nature.

In more modern times, when capital flowed abundantly into the lap of the Italian States, the poet, the sculptor, the painter, again felt its invigorating spirit, and threw life, beauty, and imagination over the gross realities of existence. Religion, the instinct of our nature, arose, adorned in all the captivating luxury of genius. But where is now this instinctive feeling—this love of the Deity, that prompts to noble deeds? We ask not for the form which shows where it is not. Why does the admiration of man live upon the achievements of the past? Is human nature stunted in its growth? Is it dwindling into insignificance for want of encouragement? What! remove the capital—leave the most glorious of all fields uncultivated—the boundless faculties of the human soul! Is there no duty involved in this capital? You acknowledge none. Capital, when its creation has been a blessing to its producers, has no tendency to escape. It feels the attractive influence of the soil, and remains with it. It is as loath to quit it, as fragrance the flower around which it lingers.

I have now brought to a close my remarks upon the English factory system; a system which is utterly at variance with the perfect law of God, and which contains