of velocity, &c., in such a way that they become insults to yourself. It is obvious that in _their_ way of insisting on our earth's speed in her annual orbit, they do not seek to exalt _her_, but to mortify _you_. And, besides, these fellows are answerable for provoking people into fibs:--for I remember one day, that reading a statement of this nature, about how many things the Earth had done that we could never hope to do, and about the number of cannon balls, harnessed as a _tandem_, which the Earth would fly past, without leaving time to say, _How are you off for soap?_ in vexation of heart I could not help exclaiming--'That's nothing: I've done a great deal more myself;' though, when one turns it in one's mind, you know there must be some inaccuracy _there_. How different is Dr. Nichol's enthusiasm from this hypocritical and vulgar wonderment! It shows itself not merely in reflecting the grandeurs of his theme, and by the sure test of detecting and allying itself with all the indirect grandeurs that arrange themselves from any distance, upon or about that centre, but by the manifest promptness with which Dr. Nichol's enthusiasm awakens itself upon _every_ road that leads to things elevating for man; or to things promising for knowledge; or to things which, like dubious theories or imperfect attempts at systematizing, though neutral as regards knowledge, minister to what is greater than knowledge, viz., to intellectual _power_, to the augmented power of handling your materials, though with no more materials than before. In his geological and cosmological inquiries, in his casual speculations, the same quality of intellect betrays itself; the intellect that labors in sympathy with the laboring _nisus_ of these gladiatorial times; that works (and sees the necessity of working) the apparatus of many sciences towards a composite result; the intellect that retires in one direction only to make head in another; and that already is prefiguring the route beyond the barriers, whilst yet the gates are locked. There was a man in the last century, and an eminent man too, who used to say, that whereas people in general pretended to admire astronomy as being essentially sublime, he for _his_ part looked upon all that sort of thing as a swindle; and, on the contrary, he regarded the solar system as decidedly vulgar; because the planets were all of them so infernally punctual, they kept time with such horrible precision, that they forced him, whether he would or no, to think of nothing but post- office clocks, mail-coaches, and book-keepers. Regularity may be beautiful, but it excludes the sublime. What he wished for was something like Lloyd's list. _Comets_--due 3; arrived 1. _Mercury_, when last seen, appeared to be distressed; but made no signals. _Pallas_ and _Vesta_, not heard of for some time; supposed to have foundered. _Moon_, spoken last night through a heavy bank of clouds; out sixteen days: all right.