He could not forbear
recollecting that when his gates 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 to England, "where his
father would be proud to entertain them, as the preservers of his
son." How different from these professions did he find the reality!
Instead of seeing the doors widely unclose to receive him, he was
allowed to stand like a beggar on the threshold; and he 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, until
crossing 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 the application, he hastily asked, "Are you a
Polander?"
"Father of mercies!" cried the beggar, catching hold of his hand, "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 with
surprise, exclaimed--
"Dear, worthy Butzou! What a time is this for you and I to meet! But,
come, you must go home with me.
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