Sobieski, he found it more difficult to bear calamity, when viewing another's poverty whom he could not relieve, than when assailed himself, by penury in all its shapes of desolation.

Towards night, the idea of Somerset again presented itself. When he fell asleep, his dreams repeated the scene at the play-house; again he saw him, and again he eluded his grasp.

His waking thoughts were not less true to their object; and the next morning he went to a coffee house in the lane, where he called for breakfast, and inquired of the master, if he knew any thing of Sir Robert Somerset. The question was no sooner asked, than it was answered to his satisfaction. The Court Guide was examined, and he found this address: Sir Robert Somerset, Bart. Grosvenor Square, -Somerset Castle, L-shire,--Deerhurst, C--shire.'

Gladdened by the discovery, Thaddeus hastened home; and, unwilling to affect

his friend by a sudden appearance, with an overflowing heart he wrote the following letter:

"To Pembroke Somerset, Esq. Grosvenor Square.

"Dear Somerset !

"Will the name at the bottom of this paper surprise you? Will it give you pleasure? cannot suffer myself to retain a doubt, although you have, by the silence of two years, almost convinced me that I am forgotten. In truth, Somerset, I had resolved never to obtrude myself and my misfortunes on your knowledge, until last Wednesday night, when I saw you going into Drury-lane theatre; the sight of you quelled all my resentment, and I called after you, but you did not hear. Pardon me, my dear friend, that I speak of resentment. It is a hard lesson to learn, that of being resigned to the forgetfulness of those whom we love.

"Notwithstanding that I lost my pocketbook,

E-5

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. You must have some good reason for your silence; at least I hope so —and let me beg, that I may either hear froin, or see you, directly after you receive this.

"Doubtless, public report has afforded you some information relative to the destruction of my ever-beloved country! 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 iny dearest consolation, rises in the midst of my affliction, out of what was its bitterest cause: I thank Heaven, that my revered grandfather and nother were taken from a consummation of ills, that would have reduced them

them to a misery, which I am content to endure alone.

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

"I will remain at home all day tomorrow, in the expectation of seeing you; mean while adieu, my dear Somerset ! You will find, at No. 5, St. Martin's Lane, your very affectionate

"THADDEUS CONSTANTINE SOBIESKI. Friday noon.

66

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

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

Three o'clock arrived and no letter. Thaddeus counted the hours until midnight, but they brought him nothing but disappointment. The whole of the succeeding day wore away in the same uncomfortable manner. His heart bounded at every step, which sounded in the passage; and, throwing open his room door, he listened to every person that spoke, but no voice bore any resemblance to that of Somerset.

Night again shut in; and the count, overcome by a train of doubts, in which despondence held the greatest share, threw himself on his bed, though unable to close his eyes.

Whatever be our afflictions, not one human creature, who has endured misfortune, will hesitate to aver, that, of all the tortures incident to mortality, there are none like the rackings of suspence. It is the hell, which Milton describes with such horrible accuracy; in its hot and cold regions, the anxious soul is alter

nately