And now we have reached a point at which the intellect is forced, again, to struggle against its propensity for analogical inference—against its monomaniac grasping at the infinite. Moons have been seen _revolving_ about planets; planets about stars; and the poetical instinct of humanity—its instinct of the symmetrical, if the symmetry be but a symmetry of surface:—this _instinct_, which the Soul, not only of Man but of all created beings, took up, in the beginning, from the _geometrical_ basis of the Universal irradiation—impels us to the fancy of an endless extension of this system of _cycles_. Closing our eyes equally to _de_duction and _in_duction, we insist upon imagining a _revolution_ of all the orbs of the Galaxy about some gigantic globe which we take to be the central pivot of the whole. Each cluster in the great cluster of clusters is imagined, of course, to be similarly supplied and constructed; while, that the “analogy” may be wanting at no point, we go on to conceive these clusters themselves, again, as _revolving_ about some still more august sphere;—this latter, still again, _with_ its encircling clusters, as but one of a yet more magnificent series of agglomerations, _gyrating_ about yet another orb central _to them_—some orb still more unspeakably sublime—some orb, let us rather say, of infinite sublimity endlessly multiplied by the infinitely sublime. Such are the conditions, continued in perpetuity, which the voice of what some people term “analogy” calls upon the Fancy to depict and the Reason to contemplate, if possible, without becoming dissatisfied with the picture. Such, _in general_, are the interminable gyrations beyond gyration which we have been instructed by Philosophy to comprehend and to account for, at least in the best manner we can. Now and then, however, a philosopher proper—one whose phrenzy takes a very determinate turn—whose genius, to speak more reverentially, has a strongly-pronounced washerwomanish bias, doing every thing up by the dozen—enables us to see _precisely_ that point out of sight, at which the revolutionary processes in question do, and of right ought to, come to an end. It is hardly worth while, perhaps, even to sneer at the reveries of Fourrier:—but much has been said, latterly, of the hypothesis of Mädler—that there exists, in the centre of the Galaxy, a stupendous globe about which all the systems of the cluster revolve. The _period_ of our own, indeed, has been stated—117 millions of years.