but the Hand-made spirit of the men who made them which the men put into the things.  And perhaps what is full of death and fear in the Machine-made World is not the machines themselves, but the Machine-made spirit in which the men who run the machines have made the machines work.  Perhaps the Hand-made spirit is pervasive, eternal.  Perhaps it can escape like a spirit, and can live where it will live, and do what it will do, like a spirit, and possess the body that it wills to possess.  Perhaps the Hand-made spirit is still living around me to-day, and is not only living, but is living in a more unspeakable, unbounded body than any spirit has ever lived in before, and is to-day before our eyes, laying its huge iron fingers around our little earth, and holding the oceans in its hand, and brushing away mountains with a breath, until we have Man at last playing all night through the sky, with visions and airships and telescopes.  His very words walk on the air with soft and unseen feet.

It is the Hand-made spirit that creates machines.  The machines themselves are still the mighty children of the men who move and work in the Hand-made spirit; and the men who glory in them, the men who bring them forth, who think them out, and who create them, and who do the great and mighty things with them, are still the Hand-made men.

* * * * *

This leads us up to the question we are all asking ourselves every day.  “How can a machine-made world be run in the spirit of a hand-made world?” The particular form in which the question has been put, which is taken from “Inspired Millionaires” is as follows: 

“The idea that there is something in a machine simply as a machine which makes it inherently unspiritual is based upon the experience of the world; but it is, after all, a rather amateur and juvenile world with machines as yet.  Its ideas are in their first stages, and are based for the most part upon the world’s experience with second-rate men, working in second-rate factories—­men who have been bullied, and could be bullied, by the machines they worked with into being machines themselves.  No one would think of denying that men who let machines get the better of them, either in their minds or their bodies, in any walk of life, grow unspiritual and mechanical.  But it does not take a machine to make a machine out of a man.  Anything will do it if the man will let it.  Even the farmer who is out under the great free dome of heaven, and working in wonder every day of his life, grows like a clod if he buries his soul alive in the soil.  But farming has been tried many thousands of years, and the other kind of farmer is known by everybody—­the farmer who is master over the soil; who, instead of becoming an expression of the soil himself, makes the soil express him.  The next thing that is going to happen is that every one is going to know the other kind of mechanic.  It is cheerfully admitted that the kind of mechanic we largely have now, who allows himself to be a watcher of a machine, a turner-of-something for forty years, can hardly be classed as vegetable life.  He is not even organic matter except in a very small part of himself.