For everywhere in creation is the breath of the Creator, and in every spot where the breath breathes is life! And alone, in the distance, the lonely man beheld his Magian brother.

There, at work with his numbers and his Cabala, amidst the wrecks of Rome, passionless and calm, sat in his cell the mystic Mejnour,--living on, living ever while the world lasts, indifferent whether his knowledge produces weal or woe; a mechanical agent of a more tender and a wiser will, that guides every spring to its inscrutable designs.

Living on,--living ever,--as science that cares alone for knowledge, and halts not to consider how knowledge advances happiness; how Human Improvement, rushing through civilisation, crushes in its march all who cannot grapple to its wheels ("You colonise the lands of the savage with the Anglo-Saxon,--you civilise that portion of THE EARTH; but is the SAVAGE civilised?
He is exterminated! You accumulate machinery,--you increase the total of wealth; but what becomes of the labour you displace?
One generation is sacrificed to the next.

You diffuse knowledge,--and the world seems to grow brighter; but Discontent at Poverty replaces Ignorance, happy with its crust.

Every improvement, every advancement in civilisation, injures some, to benefit others, and either cherishes the want of to-day, or prepares the revolution of to-morrow."-- Stephen Montague.); ever, with its Cabala and its number, lives on to change, in its bloodless movements, the face of the habitable world! And, "Oh, farewell to life!" murmured the glorious dreamer.