This letter was indeed a balm to the soul of Thaddeus. That his adored mother had received the cruel event with such a resignation, was the best medicine which could now be applied to his wounds, both of mind and body, and when he was told that on the succeeding morning, the body of his grandfather should be removed to the convent near Biala, declared his resolution to attend it to the grave.

In vain his surgeons and general Wawrzecki remonstrated against the danger of this project; for once the gentle and yielding spirit of Thaddeus, seemed inexorable. He had fixed his determination, and it was not to be shaken.

Next day, being the seventh from that in which the fatal battle had been deciaed, Thaddeus, at the first beat of the drum, rose from his bed, and, almost unassisted, put on his clothes. His uniform being black, he needed no other index than his pale and mournful countenance, to announce that he was chief mourner.

The procession began to form, and he walked from his tent. It was a fine morning: Thaddeus looked up, as if to upbraid the sun from shining so brightly.Lengthened and repeated rounds of cannon rolled along the air. The solemn march of the dead, was moaning from the muffled drum, interrupted at measured pauses by the shrill tremor of the fife. The troops, preceded by their general, moved forward with a decent and melancholy step. The bishop of Warsaw followed, bearing the sacred volume in his hand: and next, borne upon the crossed pikes of his soldiers, and supported by twelve of his most veteran companions, appeared the body of the brave Sobieski. A velvet pall covered it, on which were laid those arms, with which, for fifty years, he had asserted the liberties of his country. At this sight the sobs of the men became audible. Thaddeus, followed with a slow firm step his eyes bent to the ground, and his arms wrapped in his cloak; it, was the same which had shaded his beloved grandfather from the dews of that dreadful night. Another train of solemn music succeeded; and then the squadrons which the deceased had commanded, dismounted, and leading their horses, closed the proces sion

On the verge of the plain that borders Biala, and within a few paces of the convent gate of St. Frances, the bier stopped. The monks saluted its appearance with a requiem which they continued to chant till the coffin was lowered into the ground. The earth received the sacred deposit. The anthems ceased: and the soldiers kneeling down, discharged their musketry over it; then with streaming cheeks, rose, and gave place to others. Nine vollies were fired and the ranks fell back. The bishop advanced to the head of the grave; all was hushed; he raised his eyes to heaven, then, after a pause, in which he seemed to be communing with the regions above him, he turned to the silent assembly, and in a voice collected, and impressive, addressed them in a short, but affecting oration, in which he set forth the brightness of Sobieski's life; his noble forgetfulness of self, in the interest of his country, and the dauntless bravery which had lain him in the tomb. A general discharge of cannon and musketry was the awful response to this appeal. Wawrzecki took the sword of the palatine, and breaking it, dropt it into the grave. The aids-de-camp of the deceased did the same by theirs, showing, that by so doing, they resigned their offices; and then, covering their faces with their handkerchiefs, they turned away with the soldiers who filed off. Thaddeus sunk on his knees; his hands were clasped, his eyes, for a few minutes fixed themselves on the coffin of his grandfather; then rising, leaned on the arm of Wawrzecki, and with a tottering step, and pallid countenance, mounted his horse, which had been led to the spot, and returned with the scattered procession to the camp.

The cause for exertion being over, his spirits fell with the rapidity of a spring too highly wound up, which snaps and runs down to perfect immobility. He entered his tent and threw himself on the bed, from which he did not arise during five days.

CHAPTER VII.

Ar a time when the effects of these sufferings and fatigues had brought him very low, the young count Sobieski was aroused by the information that the Russians had already planted themselves before Prague, and were threatening to bombard the town. This news rallied the spirits of the depressed soldiers, who readily obeyed their commander, to put themselves in order to march the next day. Thaddeus felt that the decisive blow was pending; and though hardly able to sit on his horse, he refused the indulgence of a litter; determining, that no illness, however severe, should make him flag one hour from the active exercise of duty.

Devastation was spread over the face of the country. As the troops moved, the unhappy and houseless villagers presented an agonizing picture to their view. Old men stood among the ashes of their homes, deploring the cruelty of power; children and women sat by the way side, weeping over the last sustenance which the wretched infant drew from the breast of its perishing mother.

Thaddeus shut his eyes on the scene.

"O, my country! my country!" exclaimed he, "what are my personal griefs to thine? Nothing, nothing. It is your wretchedness which barbs me to the heart! Look there," cried he to his soldiers, pointing to the miserable spectacles before him, "look there, and carry vengeance into the breast of their destroyers. Let Prague be the last act of this tragedy.

Unhappy young man, unfortunate country! it was indeed the last act of a tragedy, to which all Europe were spectators; a tragedy which the nations witnessed without one attempt to stop or delay its dreadful catastrophe! O! how must virtue be lost when it is no longer an article of policy even to assume it.

After a long march, through a dark and dismal night, the morning began to break; and Thaddeus found himself on the Southern side of that little river, which divides the territories of Sobieski from the woods of Kebylka. Here, for the first time, he endured all the tor turing varieties of despair.

The once fertile fields were burnt to stubble; the cottages were yet smoking from the ravages of the fire; and in place of smiling eyes and thankful lips, the dead bodies of the peasants were stretched on the high roads, mangled, bleeding and stripped of that decent covering, which humanity would not even deny to guilt.

Thaddeus could bear the sight no longer but setting spurs to his horse, fled from the contemplation of scenes which harrowed up his heart.

At night-fall the army halted under the walls of Villanow. The count looked towards the windows of the palace, and by the glare of light shining through the half drawn curtains, soon distinguished his mother's room. He then turned his eyes on that sweep of buildings appropriated to the palatine, but not one solitary lamp illumined its gloom; the moon alone glimmered on the battlements, silvering the painted glass of the study window where, with that beloved parent, he had so lately gazed upon the stars, and anticipated a campaign, which had so fatally terminated.

These thoughts with his grief and his forebodings, were buried in the depths of his soul. Addressing genera Wawrzecki, he bade him welcome to Villanow; requesting at the same time, that the men might be directed to rest till the morning: and that he, and the officers would partake of refreshment within the palace.

As soon as Thaddeus had seen his guests seated at different tables in the eating hall, and given orders for the soldiers to be served from the cellars, he withdrew to seek the Countess.

He found her in her dressing room surrounded by her attendants, who had just informed her of his arrival. The moment he appeared at the door, the women went out at an opposite passage, and Thaddeus, with an anguished heart, threw himself on the bosom of his mother. They were silent for some time. Poignant reflection stopped their utterance but neither tears nor sighs filled up its place, until the Countess, who felt the full tide of maternal affections press upon her soul, and mingle with her grief; raised her head upon her son's neck,and said, whilst she strained him close in her arms; "Receive my thanks,

O father of mercy that thou hast yet spared to me this blessing!"

Sobieski breathed a response to the address of his mother; and drying her tears with his kisses, dwelt upon the never dying fame of his beloved grandfather; upon his preferable lot to that of their brave friend Kosciuszko, who was doomed not only to survive the liberty of his country, but to pass the residue of his life within the dungeons of a Russian prison. He then tried to reani mate her spirits with hope. He spoke of the approaching battle, without expressing any doubt of the valour and desparation of the Poles rendering it successful. He talked of the firmness of the king, of the courage of the general, of his own resolution. His discourse began in a wish to cheat her into tranquility, but as he advanced on the subject, his soul took fire at his own warmth, and he half believed the probability of his anticipations.

The Countess looked on the honorable glow that crimsoned the harrassed features, with a pang at her heart. "My heroic son !" cried she, " my darling Thaddeus! what a vast price do I pay for all this excellence! I could not love you were you otherwise than what you are; and being what you are, O! how soon may I lose you! Already has your noble grandfather paid the debt that he owed to his glory; he promised to fall with Poland; he has kept his word; and now, all that I love on earth, is concentrated in you." The Countess paused, and pressing his hand almost wildly on her heart, she continued, in a hurried voice; "The same spirit.is in your breast; the same principle binds you; and I may at last be left alone. Heaven have pity on me!"

Thaddeus,

She cast her eyes upwards as she ended. sinking on his knees by her side, implored her with all the earnestness of piety and confidence, to take comfort. Her ladyship embraced him with a forced smile and said, "You must forgive me, Thaddeus, I have nothing of the soldier in my heart; it is all woman. But I will not detain you longer, my dear boy, from that rest which you require; go to your room, and try to recruit yourself for the fatigues, which I expect to-morrow will bring forth."

VOL. I

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