“Oh! you have many, many scrapes awaiting you,” said the princess. “You may look forward to at least ten years of blunders—that is, illusions—that is, happiness. Fortunate young man!” Theodora had, without appearing to intend it, relinquished her seat to Lothair, who continued his conversation with the princess, whom he liked, but who, he was sorry to hear, was about to leave England, and immediately—that very night. “Yes,” she said, “it is my last act of devotion. You know, in my country we have saints and shrines. All Italians, they say, are fond, are superstitious; my pilgrimage is to Theodora. I must come and worship her once a year.” A gentleman bowed lowly to the princess, who returned his salute with pleased alacrity. “Do you know who that is?” said the princess to Lothair. “That is Baron Gozelius, one of our great reputations. He must have just arrived. I will present you to him; it is always agreeable to know a great man,” she added—“at least Goethe says so!” The philosopher, at her invitation, took a chair opposite the sofa. Though a profound man, he had all the vivacity and passion which are generally supposed to be peculiar to the superficial. He had remarkable conversational power, which he never spared. Lothair was captivated by his eloquence, his striking observations, his warmth, and the flashing of his southern eye. “Baron Gozelius agrees with your celebrated pastor, Dr. Cumming,” said Theodora, with a tinge of demure sarcasm, “and believes that the end of the world is at hand.” “And for the same reasons?” inquired Lothair. “Not exactly,” said Theodora, “but in this instance science and revelation have arrived at the same result, and that is what all desire.” “All that I said was,” said Gozelius, “that the action of the sun had become so irregular that I thought the chances were in favor of the destruction of our planet. At least, if I were a public office, I would not insure it.” “Yet the risk would not be very great under those circumstances,” said Theodora. “The destruction of this worlds foretold,” said Lothair; “the stars are to fall from the sky; but while I credit, I cannot bring my mind to comprehend, such a catastrophe.” “I have seen a world created and a world destroyed,” said Gozelius. “The last was flickering ten years, and it went out as I was watching it.” “And the first?” inquired Lothair, anxiously. “Disturbed space for half a century—a great pregnancy. William Herschel told me it would come when I was a boy, and I cruised for it through two-thirds of my life. It came at last, and it repaid me.”