Thaddeus of Warsaw | Page 9

people.
The family of Sobieski had ever been foremost in the ranks of their
country; and at the present crisis its venerable head did not hang behind
the youngest warrior in preparations for the field.
On the evening of an anniversary of the birthday of his grandson, the
palatine rode abroad with a party of friends, who had been celebrating
the festival with their presence. The countess (his daughter) and
Thaddeus were left alone in the saloon. She sighed as she gazed on her
son, who stood at some distance, fitting to his youthful thigh a variety
of sabres, which his servant a little time before had laid upon the table.
She observed with anxiety the eagerness of his motion, and the ardor
that was flashing from his eyes.
"Thaddeus," said she, "lay down that sword; I wish to speak with you."
Thaddeus looked gayly up. "My dear Thaddeus!" cried his mother, and
tears started to her eyes. The blush of enthusiasm faded from his face;
he threw the sabre from him, and drew near the countess.
"Why, my dear mother, do you distress yourself? When I am in battle,
shall I not have my grandfather near me, and be as much under the
protection of God as at this moment?"
"Yes, my child," answered she, "God will protect you. He is the
protector of the orphan, and you are fatherless." The countess
paused--"Here, my son," said she, giving him a sealed packet, "take this;
it will reveal to you the history of your birth and the name of your
father. It is necessary that you should know a painful fact, which has
hitherto been concealed from you by the wish and noble judgment of
your grandfather." Thaddeus received it, and stood silent with surprise.
"Read it, my love," continued she, "but go to your own apartments;
here you may be interrupted."
Bewildered by the manner of the countess, Thaddeus, without
answering, instantly obeyed. Shutting himself within his study, he
impatiently opened the papers, and soon found his whole attention
absorbed in the following recital.

"TO MY DEAR SON, THADDEUS CONSTANTINE SOBIESKI.
"You are now, my Thaddeus, at the early age of nineteen, going to
engage the enemies of your country. Ere I resign my greatest comfort to
the casualties of war; ere I part with you, perhaps forever, I would
inform you who your father really was--that father whose existence you
have hardly known and whose name you have never heard. You believe
yourself an orphan, your mother a widow; but, alas! I have now to tell
you that you were made fatherless by the perfidy of man, not by the
dispensation of Heaven.
"Twenty-three years ago, I accompanied my father in a tour through
Germany and Italy. Grief for the death of my mother had impaired his
health, and the physicians ordered him to reside in a warmer climate;
accordingly we fixed ourselves near the Arno. During several visits to
Florence, my father met in that city with a young Englishman of the
name of Sackville. These frequent meetings opened into intimacy, and
he was invited to our villa.
"Mr. Sackville was not only the most interesting man I had ever seen,
but the most accomplished, and his heart seemed the seat of every
graceful feeling. He was the first man for whose society I felt a lively
preference. I used to smile at this strange delight, or sometimes weep;
for the emotions which agitated me were undefinable, but they were
enchanting, and unheedingly I gave them indulgence. The hours which
we passed together in the interchange of reciprocal sentiments, the kind
beaming of his looks, the thousand sighs that he breathed, the
half-uttered sentences, all conspired to rob me of myself.
"Nearly twelve months were spent in these delusions. During the last
three, doubts and anguish displaced the blissful reveries of an infant
tenderness. The attentions of Mr. Sackville died away. From being the
object of his constant search, he then sedulously sought to avoid me.
When my father withdrew to his closet, he would take his leave, and
allow me to walk alone. Solitary and wretched were my rambles. I had
full leisure to compare my then disturbed state of mind with the
comparative peace I had enjoyed in my own country. Immured within
the palace of Villanow, watching the declining health of my mother, I

knew nothing of the real world, the little I had learned of society being
drawn from books; and, uncorrected by experience, I was taught to
believe a perfection in man which, to my affliction, I since found to be
but a poet's dream. When my father took me to Italy, I continued averse
to public company. In such seclusion, the presence of Sackville, being
almost my only pleasure, chased from my mind