but when the industrial period began, he had more than his hands full,
and he laid his books on the shelf. They were his tools--they were the
ladders on which he had mounted to his high estate. Why should he
worship them? They had taught him, as had the Hebrew writers, faith in
the Creator; faith in His best creation, man; faith in reason, faith in
right, faith, in a magnificent human destiny. Why should he spend his
life in singing praises of them? To work! To begin to shape society to
higher ends! That was indeed the worthiest end in life, and his
worthiest homage to the writers and their books.




CHAPTER III.

PERSONAL EXPERIENCES AND DESCRIPTIONS.


It was a pleasant afternoon in March, 1843, when I left Boston, in a
small omnibus, that started from Brattle Street for West Roxbury
Village and Brook Farm. My father's family of three had preceded me, he
remaining behind to close his business; it was a question of but a few
days when we should be all embarked in the new and untried life to
which we were looking forward with pleasurable emotions.

The nine miles of interval was passed, riding through an undulating
country, by pleasant farms surrounded with the stone walls so common in
Massachusetts and the eastern states, and by pretty white houses, with
green window blinds and little front flower gardens, with fruit and
shade trees standing sentinels on their borders. Here and there a ledge