"Notwithstanding that I lost my pocket-book with your 'direction, in a skirmish soon after your departure, I have written to you frequently at a venture; and yet, though you knew in what spot in Poland you left Thaddeus and his family, I have never heard of you since the day of our separation. Yet, you must have some good reason for your silence; at least I will hope so-and let me beg that I may either hear from you or see you directly on your receiving this.

"Doubtless, public report has afforded you some information relative to the destruction of my ever beloved coun⚫ try! I bear its fate on myself. You will find me in a poor lodging at the bottom of St. Martin's Lane. You will find me changed in every thing. The first horrors of grief have subsided, and my dearest consolation rises in the midst of my affliction, out of what was its bitterest cause: I thank heaven, that my revered grandfather and mother were taken from a consummation of ills, that would have reduced them to a misery which I am content to endure alone.

"Come to me, dear Somerset. To look on you, to press you to my heart, will be a happiness, that even in hope makes my heart throb with pleasure.

"I will remain at home all day to-morrow in the expectation of seeing you; meanwhile adieu, my dear Somerset! You will find, at No. 5, St Martin's Lane, your ever affectionate

"THADDEUS CONSTANTINE SOBIESKI. Friday noon.

"P. S. Inquire for me by the name of Mr. Constantinc."

With the most delightful emotions Thaddeus sealed this letter, and gave it to Nanny, with orders to inquire at the post-office when he might expect an answer. The child returned with the information that it would reach Grosvenor Square in an hour, and therefore he could have the reply by three o'clock.

Three o'clock arrived but no letter. Thaddeus counted the hours till midnight, which brought him nothing but disappointment. The whole of the succeeding day wore

away in the same uncomfortable manner. His heart boun→ ded at every step that sounded in the passage, and throw ing open his room door, he listened to every person that spoke, but none bore any resemblance to the voice of Somerset.

Night again shut in, and the Count overcome by a train of doubts, in which despondence had now the greatest share, threw himself on his bed unable to close his eyes.

Whatever be our afflictions, not one human creature, who has endured misfortunes, will hesitate to aver, that, of all the tortures incident to mortality, there are none like the rackings of suspense. It is the hell which Milton describes with such horrible accuracy: in its hot and cold regions the anxious soul of man is alternately tossed from ardours of hope to the petrifying rigours of doubt and dread. Men who have not been suspended between confidence and fear, in the faith of a beloved friend, are igno rant of the nerve whence agonies are born.' It is, when sunk in sorrow, when adversity loads us with divers miseries, and our wretchedness complete; it is then we feel, that though life is brief, there are few friendships which have strength to follow it to the end.

Such were the reflections of the Count Sobieski, when he arose in the morning from his sleepless pillow. The idea that the letter might have been delayed, afforded him a faint hope, which he cherished all day, clinging to the expectation of seeing his friend before sunset. But Somerset did not appear; and Thaddeus, obliged to seek an excuse for his absence in the supposition that his application had miscarried, rather than hastily abandon himselt to the belief that he was treated with cruelty and ingratitude, determined to write once more, and deliver the let ter himself at his friend's door, accordingly, with different sensations from those with which he had addressed him a few days before, he wrote these lines.

"To PEMBROKE SOMERSET, ESQ.

"If he who once called Thaddeus Sobieski his friend, have received a letter which that exile, addressed to him on Friday last, this note will meet the same neglect. But if this be the first intelligence that tells Somerset

friend is in town; though robbed of all that he possessed he will receive him with open arms at his humble abode in St. Martin's Lane.

"Sunday Evening, No. 3, St. Martin's Lane."

Thaddeus having sealed the letter, walked out in search of Sir Robert Somerset's habitation.--After some inquiries he found out Grosvenor Square; and, notwithstanding the darkness of the night was directed to the house by the light of lamps and the lustre that shone through the open windows. He hesitated a few minutes on the pavement, and looked up. An old gentleman was standing with a little boy at the nearest window. Whilst the Count's eyes were fixed on these two figures he saw Som erset himself come up to the child and lead it away to wards a group of ladies.

Thaddeus immediately flew to the door with a tremor over his frame which communicated itself to the knocker, or he knocked with such violence that the door was opened in an instant by half a dozen footmen at once. He spoke to one.

"Is Mr. Pembroke Somerset at home?"

"Yes," replied the man, suppoɛing him to be a visitor, and making way for him to pass.

"I do not want to see him now," rejoined the Count, "only, give that letter directly, for it is of consequence.

"Certainly, sir," replied the servant, and Thaddeus Instantly withdrew.

He now turned homewards, with his mind more than commonly depressed. There was a something in the whole affair that pierced him to the soul.-He had seen the house that contained the man he most warmly loved, but he had not been admitted within it. He coul i not forbear recollecting, that when his gates had opened wide as his heart to welcome Pembroke Somerset, how he had been implored by his then grateful friend, to bring the palatine and the Countess with their retinue to England, where his father would be proud to entertain them as the preservers of his son. How different did he find the reality, to all these professions. Instead of seeing the doors

opened to welcome him, he had been allowed to stand like a beggar on the threshold; and had heard them shut against him, whilst the form of Somerset glided above him, even as the shadow of his buried joys.

These discomforting retrospections on the past, and painful meditations on the present, continued to occupy his mind; till, passing over from Piccadilly to Coventry Street, he perceived a wretched looking man, almost bent double, accosting a party of people in broken French, and imploring their charity.

The voice, and the accent being Sclavonian, arrested the ear of Thaddeus. Drawing close to the man as the party proceeded without taking notice of his application, he hastily asked, “are you a Polander ?”

"Father of mercies !" cried the beggar, catching hold of his han 1, "am I so blessed! have I at last met him !" and bursting into tears, he leaned upon the arm of the Count, who, hardly able to articulate from surprise, exclaimed, " dear worthy Butzou! What a time is this for you and I to meet! But come, you must go home with

me.

66

Willingly, my dear lord," returned he, " for I have none. I have begged my way from Harwich to this town; an i have already spent two dismal nights in the streets." "O my country! cried the full heart of Thaddeus.

"Yes," continued the poor old soldier, "It received its death wound, when Kosciuszko and my honoured inaster fell."

Thaddeus could make no reply; but supporting the exhausted frame of his friend who was hardly able to walk, he gladly descried his own door.

The widow opened it the moment he knocked, and, seeing some one with him, was retreating when Thaddeus who found from the silence of Butzou and his increasing feebleness, that he was near fainting, begged her to allow hin to take his companion into her kitchen. She instantly made way; and whilst the Counts placed him in the arm-ch ur by the fire, the poor man seemed at once bereft of sensation.

as,

"He is my friend, my father's friend!" cried Thaddelooking at his pale and haggard face, with a strange

wildness in his own features, " for heaven's sake give me something to restore him!"

Mrs. Robson in dismay, and literally having nothing better in the house, gave him a glass of water.

"That will not do," exclaimed he, still upholding the motionless body on his arms; "have you no wine? nothing? He is dying for want.

"None, Sir, I have none," answered she, frightened at the violence of his manner: "run Nanny, and borrow some of Mrs. Watts."

"Do," said Thaddeus," and bring me a bottle from the nearest inn." As he spoke he threw her the only half guinea he possessed, and, added, "fly, for he may die in a few minutes."

The child flew like lightning over to the Golden-Cross; and brought in the wine just as Butzou had opened his eyes, and was gazing at Thaddeus with a languid agony that penetrated his soul-Mrs. Robson held the water to his lips. He swallowed a little, and scarcely articulated, whilst his head dropped back on the chair, "I am perishing for want of food."

Thaddeus caught the bottle from Nanny, and pouring some wine into a glass, made him drink nearly all. This draught appeared to revive him. He raised himself up in his seat, and, though still panting and speechless, leaned his swimming head upon the bosom of his friend, who knelt by his side, while Mrs. Robson was preparing some toasted bread and mulled wine.

After much exertion between the good landlady and the count, they sufficiently recovered the poor invalid to lead him up stairs, and lay him on the bed. The natural drowsiness attendant on debility, aided by the fumes of the wine, threw him into an immediate and deep sleep.

Thaddeus seeing him at rest, thought it proper to go down to Mrs. Robson, and by a partial history of his friend, satisfy her about the cause of the scene that she had just beheld. He found the good woman surprised and concerned, but no way displeased; and in a few words he gave a summary explanation of the precipitancy with which, without her permission, he had introduced a stranger to her roof.