SOBIESKI'S DEPARTURE FROM WARSAW.
From the termination of this awful day, in which a brave and hitherto
powerful people were consigned to an abject dependence, Thaddeus was
confined to his apartment in the garrison.
It was now the latter end of November. General Butzou, supposing that
the illness of his young lord might continue some weeks, and aware
that no time ought to be lost in maintaining all that was yet left of
the kingdom of Poland, obtained his permission to seek its only
remaining quarter. Quitting Warsaw, he joined Prince Poniatowski, who
was yet at the head of a few troops near Sachoryn, supported by the
undaunted Niemcivitz, the bard and the hero, who had fought by the
side heart, would have thrown himself on his knee, but the king
presented him, and pressed him with emotion in his arms.
"Brave young man!" cried he, "I embrace in you the last of those
Polish youth who were so lately the brightest jewels in my crown."
Tears stood in the monarch's eyes while he spoke. Sobieski, with
hardly a steadier utterance, answered, "I come to receive your
majesty's commands. I will obey them in all things but in
surrendering this sword (which was my grandfather's) into the hands
of your enemies."
"I will not desire it," replied Stanislaus. "By my acquiescence with
the terms of Russia, I only comply with the earnest petitions of my
people. I shall not require of you to compromise your country; but
alas! you must not throw away your life in a now hopeless cause. Fate
has consigned Poland to subjection; and when Heaven, in its
mysterious decrees, confirms the chastisement of nations, it is man's
duty to submit. For myself, I am to bury my griefs and indignities in
the castle of Grodno."
The blood rushed over the cheek of Thaddeus at this declaration, to
which the proud indignation of his soul could in no way subscribe,
and with an agitated voice he exclaimed, "If my sovereign be already
at the command of our oppressors, then indeed is Poland no more! and
I have nothing to do but to perform the dying will of my mother. Will
your majesty grant me permission to set off for England, before I may
be obliged to witness the last calamity of my wretched country?"
"I would to Heaven," replied the king, "that I, too, might repose my
age and sorrows in that happy kingdom! Go, Sobieski; your name is
worthy of such an asylum; my prayers and blessings shall follow you."
Thaddeus pressed his hand in silence to his lips.
"Believe me, my dear count," continued Stanislaus, "my soul bleeds at
this parting. I know the treasure which your family has always been
to this nation; I know your own individual merit. I know the wealth
which you have sacrificed for me and my subjects, and I am powerless
to express my gratitude."
"Had I done more than my duty in that," replied Thaddeus, "such words
from your majesty would have been a reward adequate to any privation;
but, alas! no. I have perhaps performed less than my duty; the blood
of Sobieski ought not to have been spared one drop when the liberties
of his country perished!" Thaddeus blushed while he spoke, and almost
repented the too ready zeal of his friends in having saved him from
the general destruction at Villanow.
The voice of the venerable Stanislaus became fainter as he resumed--
"Perhaps had a Sobieski reigned at this time, these horrors might not
have been accomplished. That resistless power which has overwhelmed
my people, I cannot forget is the same that put the sceptre into my
hand. But Catherine misunderstood my principles, when assisting in my
election to the throne; she thought she was planting merely her own
viceroy there. But I could not obliterate from my heart that my
ancestors, like your own, were hereditary sovereigns of Poland, nor
cease to feel the stamp the King of kings had graven upon that heart--
to uphold the just laws of my fathers! and, to the utmost, I have
struggled to fulfil my trust."
"Yes, my sovereign," replied Thaddeus; "and whilst there remains one
man on earth who has drawn his first breath in Poland, he will bear
witness in all the lands through which he may be doomed to wander
that he has received from you the care and affection of a father. O!
sire, how will future ages believe that, in the midst of civilized
Europe, a brave people and a virtuous monarch were suffered, unaided,
and even without remonstrance, to fall into the grasp of usurpation!--
nay, of annihilation of their name!"
Stanislaus laid his hand on the arm of the count.
"Man's ambition and baseness," said the king, "are monstrous to the
contemplation of youth only. You are learning your lesson early; I
have studied mine for many years, and with a bitterness of soul which
in some measure prepared me for the completion. My kingdom has passed
from me at the moment you have lost your country. Before we part
forever, my dear Sobieski, take with you this assurance--you have
served the unfortunate Stanislaus to the latest hour in which you
beheld him. That which you have just said, expressive of the
sentiments of those who were my subjects, is indeed a balm to my
heart, and I will earn its consolations to my prison."
The king paused. Sobieski, agitated, and incapable of speaking, threw
himself at his majesty's feet, and pressed his hand with fervency and
anguish to his lips. The king looked down on his graceful figure, and
pierced to the soul by the more graceful feelings which dictated the
action, the tear which stood in his eye, rolled over his cheek, and
was followed by another before he could add--pented the too ready
zeal of his friends in having saved him from the general destruction
at Villanow.
The voice of the venerable Stanislaus became fainter as he resumed--
"Perhaps had a Sobieski reigned at this time, these horrors might not
have been accomplished. That resistless power which has overwhelmed
my people, I cannot forget is the same that put the sceptre into my
hand. But Catherine misunderstood my principles, when assisting in my
election to the throne; she thought she was planting merely her own
viceroy there. But I could not obliterate from my heart that my
ancestors, like your own, were hereditary sovereigns of Poland, nor
cease to feel the stamp the King of kings had graven upon that heart--
to uphold the just laws of my fathers! and, to the utmost, I have
struggled to fulfil my trust."
"Yes, my sovereign," replied Thaddeus; "and whilst there remains one
man on earth who has drawn his first breath in Poland, he will bear
witness in all the lands through which he may be doomed to wander
that he has received from you the care and affection of a father. O!
sire, how will future ages believe that, in the midst of civilized
Europe, a brave people and a virtuous monarch were suffered, unaided,
and even without remonstrance, to fall into the grasp of usurpation!--
nay, of annihilation of their name!"
Stanislaus laid his hand on the arm of the count.
"Man's ambition and baseness," said the king, "are monstrous to the
contemplation of youth only. You are learning your lesson early; I
have studied mine for many years, and with a bitterness of soul which
in some measure prepared me for the completion. My kingdom has passed
from me at the moment you have lost your country. Before we part
forever, my dear Sobieski, take with you this assurance--you have
served the unfortunate Stanislaus to the latest hour in which you
beheld him. That which you have just said, expressive of the
sentiments of those who were my subjects, is indeed a balm to my
heart, and I will carry its consolations to my prison."
The king paused. Sobieski, agitated, and incapable of speaking, threw
himself at his majesty's feet, and pressed his hand with fervency and
anguish to his lips. The king looked down on his graceful figure, and
pierced to the soul by the more graceful feelings which dictated the
action, the tear which stood in his eye, rolled over his cheek, and
was followed by another before he could add--
"Rise, my young friend. Take from me this ring. It contains my
picture. Wear it in remembrance of a man who loves you, and who can
never forget your worth or the loyalty and patriotism of your house."
The Chancellor Zamoyisko at that moment being announced, Thaddeus
rose from his knee, and was preparing to leave the room, when his
majesty, perceiving his intention, desired him to stop.
"Stay, count!" cried he, "I will burden you with one request. I am
now a king without a crown, without subjects, without a foot of land
in which to bury me when I die. I cannot reward the fidelity of any
one of the few friends of whom my enemies have not deprived me; but
you are young, and Heaven may yet smile upon you in some distant
nation. Will you pay a debt of gratitude for your poor sovereign?
Should you ever again meet with the good old Butzou, who rescued me
when my preservation lay on the fortune of a moment, remember that I
regard him as once the saviour of my life! I was told to-day that on
the destruction of Praga this brave man joined the army of my
brother. It is now disbanded, and he, with the rest of my faithful
soldiers, is cast forth in his old age, a wanderer in a pitiless
world. Should you ever meet him, Sobieski, succor him for my sake."
"As Heaven may succor me!" cried Thaddeus; and putting his majesty's
hand a second time to his lips, he bowed to the chancellor and passed
into the street.
When the count returned to the citadel, he found that all was as the
king had represented. The soldiers in the garrison were reluctantly
preparing to give up their arms; and the nobles, in compassion to the
cries of the people, were trying to humble their necks to the yoke of
the dictator. The magistrates lingered as they went to take the city
keys from the hands of their good king, and with sad whispers
anticipated the moment in which they must surrender them, and their
laws and national existence, to the jealous dominion of three
despotic foreign powers.
Poland was now no place for Sobieski. He had survived all his
kindred. He had survived the liberties of his country. He had seen
the king a prisoner, and his countrymen trampled on by deceit and
usurpation. As he walked on, musing over these circumstances, he met
with little interruption, for the streets were deserted. Here and
there a poor miserable wretch passed him, who seemed, by his wan
cheeks and haggard eyes, already to repent the too successful prayers
of the deputation, The shops were shut. Thaddeus stopped a few
minutes in the great square, which used to be crowded with happy
citizens, but now, not one man was to be seen. An awful and painful
silence reigned over all. His soul felt too truly the dread
consciousness of this utter annihilation of his country, for him to
throw off the heavy load from his oppressed heart, in this his last
walk down the east street towards the ramparts which covered the
Vistula.
He turned his eyes to the spot where once stood the magnificent
towers of his paternal palace.
"Yes," cried he, "it is now time for me to obey the last command of
my mother! Nothing remains of Poland but its soil--nothing of my home
but its ashes!"
The victors had pitched a detachment of tents amidst the ruins of
Villanow, and were at this moment busying themselves in searching
amongst the stupendous fragments for what plunder the fire might have
spared.
"Insatiate robbers!" exclaimed Thaddeus; "Heaven will requite this
sacrilege." He thought on his mother, who lay beneath the ruins, and
tore himself from the sight, whilst he added, "Farewell! forever
farewell! thou beloved, revered Villanow, where I was reared in bliss
and tenderness! I quit thee and my country forever!" As he spoke, he
raised his hands and eyes to heaven, and pressing the picture his
mother had given him to his lips and bosom, turned from the parapet,
determining to prepare that night for his departure the next morning.
He arose by daybreak, and having gathered together all his little
wealth, the whole of which was compressed within the portmanteau that
was buckled on his gallant horse, precisely two hours before the
triumphal car of General Suwarrow entered Warsaw, Sobieski left it.
As he rode along the streets, he bedewed its stones with his tears.
They were the first that he had shed during the long series of his
misfortunes, and they now flowed so fast, that he could hardly
discern his way out of the city.
At the great gate his horse stopped, and neighed with a strange
sound.
"Poor Saladin!" cried Thaddeus, stroking his neck; "are you so sorry
at leaving Warsaw that, like your unhappy master, you linger to take
a last lamenting look!"
His tears redoubled; and the warder, as he closed the gate after him,
implored permission to kiss the hand of the noble Count Sobieski, ere
he should turn his back on Poland, never to return. Thaddeus looked
kindly round, and shaking hands with the honest man, after saying a
few friendly words to him, rode on with a loitering pace, until he
reached that part of the river which divides Masovia from the
Prussian dominions.
Here he flung himself off his horse, and standing for a moment on the
hill that rises near the bridge, retraced, with his almost blinded
sight, the long and desolated lands through which he had passed; then
involuntarily dropping on his knee, he plucked a tuft of grass, and
pressing it to his lips, exclaimed, "Farewell, Poland! Farewell all
my earthly happiness!"
Almost stifled by emotion, he put this poor relic of his country into
his bosom, and remounting his noble animal, crossed the bridge.
As one who, flying from any particular object, thinks to lose himself
and his sorrows when it lessens to his view, Sobieski pursued the
remainder of his journey with a speed which soon brought him to
Dantzic.
Here he remained a few days, and during that interval the firmness of
his mind was restored. He felt a calm arising from the conviction
that his afflictions had gained their summit, and that, however heavy
they were, Heaven had laid them on him for a trial of his faith and
virtue. Under this belief, he ceased to weep; but he never was seen
to smile.
Having entered into an agreement with the master of a vessel to carry
him across the sea, he found the strength of his finances would
barely defray the charges of the voyage. Considering this
circumstance, he saw the impossibility of taking his horse to
England.
The first time this idea presented itself, it almost overset his
determined resignation. Tears would again have started into his eyes,
had he not by force repelled them.
"To part from my faithful Saladin," said he to himself, "that has
borne me since I first could use a sword; that has carried me through
so many dangers, and has come with me even into exile--it is painful,
it is ungrateful!" He was in the stable when this thought assailed
him; and as the reflections followed each other, he again turned to
the stall. "But, my poor fellow, I will not barter your services for
gold. I will seek for some master who may be kind to you, in pity to
my misfortunes."
He re-entered the hotel where he lodged, and calling a waiter,
inquired who occupied the fine mansion and park on the east of the
town. The man replied, "Mr. Hopetown, an eminent British merchant,
who has been settled at Dantzic above forty years."
"I am glad he is a Briton!" was the sentiment which succeeded this
information in the count's mind. He immediately took his resolution,
but hardly had prepared to put it into execution, when he received a
summons from the vessel to be on board in half an hour, the wind
having set fair.
Thaddeus, somewhat disconcerted by this hasty call, with an agitated
hand wrote the following letter:--
"TO JOHN HOPETOWN, ESQ.
"Sir,
"A Polish officer, who has sacrificed everything but his honor to the
last interests of his country, now addresses you.
"You are a Briton; and of whom can an unhappy victim to the cause of
loyalty and freedom with less debasement solicit an obligation?
"I cannot afford support to the fine animal which has carried me
through the battles of this fatal war; I disdain to sell him, and
therefore I implore you, by the respect that you pay to the memory of
your ancestors, who struggled for and retained that liberty in
defence of which we are thus reduced--I implore you to give him an
asylum in your park, and to protect him from injurious usage.
"Perform this benevolent action, sir, and you shall ever be
remembered with gratitude by an unfortunate
"POLANDER.
"DANTZIC, _November_, 1794."
The count, having sealed and directed this letter, went to the hotel
yard, and ordered that his horse might be brought out. A few days of
rest had restored him to his former mettle, and he appeared from the
stable prancing and pawing the earth, as he used to do when Thaddeus
was about to mount him for the field.
The groom was striving in vain to restrain the spirit of the animal,
when the count took hold of the bridle. The noble creature knew his
master, and became gentle as a lamb. After stroking him two or three
times, with a bursting heart Thaddeus returned the reins to the man's
hand, and at the same time gave him a letter.
"There," said he; "take that note and the horse directly to the house
of Mr. Hopetown. Leave them, for the letter requires no answer."
This last pang mastered, he walked out of the yard towards the quay.
The wind continuing fair, he entered the ship, and within an hour set
sail for England.