own grave, yet of listening for ever to his far-off trumpet of _palingenesis_. If this account of the matter be just, and were it not treasonable to insinuate the possibility of an error against so great a swell as Immanuel Kant, one would be inclined to fancy that Mr. Kant had really been dozing a little on this occasion; or, agreeably to his own illustration elsewhere, that he had realized the pleasant picture of one learned doctor trying to milk a he-goat, whilst another doctor, equally learned, holds the milk-pail below. [Footnote: Kant applied this illustration to the case where one worshipful scholar proposes some impossible problem, (as the squaring of the circle, or the perpetual motion,) which another worshipful scholar sits down to solve. The reference was of course to Virgil's line,--'Atque idem jungat vulpes, et _mulgeat hircos_.'] And there is apparently this two-edged embarrassment pressing upon the case--that, if our dear excellent mother the Earth could be persuaded to tell us her exact age in Julian years, still _that_ would leave us all as much in the dark as ever: since, if the answer were, 'Why, children, at my next birth-day I shall count a matter of some million centuries,' we should still be at a loss to _value_ her age: would it mean that she was a mere chicken, or that she was 'getting up in years?' On the other hand, if (declining to state any odious circumstantialities,) she were to reply,--'No matter, children, for my precise years, which are disagreeable remembrances; I confess generally to being a lady of a certain age,'--here, in the inverse order, given the _valuation_ of the age, we should yet be at a loss for the _absolute_ years numerically: would a 'certain age,' mean that 'mamma' was a million, be the same more or less, or perhaps not much above seventy thousand?