It had an air--well, one must say it, of course, if one is driven to it:
the factory had a soul, and was humming it. Any one could have seen why
by going into his office and talking a little while with the owner, or
by even not talking to him--by seeing him look up from his desk. After
walking through several miles of his personality, and up and down and
down and up the corridors of his mind, one did not really need to meet
him except as a matter of form and as a finishing touch. One had been
visiting with him all along: to look in his face was merely to sum it
up, to see it all, the whole place, over again in one look. One did not
need to be surprised; one might have known what such a man would be
like--that such a factory could only be conceived and wrought by a man
of genius, a kind of lighted-up man. A man who had put not only
skylights in his buildings, but skylights in his men, would have to have
a skylight in himself (a skylight with a motor attachment, of course).

If one were to try to think in nature or in art of something that would
be like him--well, some kind of transcendental engine, I should say,
running softly, smoothly outdoors in a great sunshine, would have given
one a good idea of him. But, however this may be, it certainly would
have been quite impossible to go through his factory and ever say again
that machines do not and could not have souls, or at least over-souls,
and that men who worked with machines did not and could not have souls
as fast as they were allowed to.

A few days later I went through another factory, and I came out weary
and spent at night, feeling as unreasonable and almost as hateful about
machines, and as discouraged about the people who had to work with them
as John Ruskin did in those first early days when the Factory Chimney
first lifted its long black flag upon our earth, and bullied great
cities into cowards and slaves, and all the great, quiet-hearted