England could be nothing to him; if anything, it would prove
a desert, which contained no one object for his regrets or wishes.
The image of Pembroke Somerset, indeed, rose in his mind, like the
dim recollection of one who has been a long time dead. Whilst they
were together at Villanow, they regarded each other warmly, and when
they parted they promised to correspond. One day, in pursuit of the
enemy, Thaddeus was so unlucky as to lose the pocket-book which
contained his friend's address; but yet, uneasy at his silence, he
ventured two letters to him, directed merely at Sir Robert
Somerset's, England. To these he received no answer; and the palatine
evinced so just a displeasure at such marked neglect and ingratitude,
that he would not suffer him to be mentioned in his presence, and
indeed Thaddeus, from disappointment and regret, felt no inclination
to transgress the command.
When the young count, during the prominent interests of the late
disastrous campaign, remembered these things, he found little comfort
in recollecting the name of his young English guest; and now that he
was visiting England as a poor exile, with indignation and grief he
gave up the wish with the hope of meeting Mr. Somerset. Sensible that
Somerset had not acted as became the man to whom he could apply in
his distress, he resolved, unfriended as he was, to wipe him at once
from his memory.
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