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A novel is a species of composition commonly destined to be devoured with avidity, patronized with enthusiasm, praised beyond measure, abused without mercy, and, finally, when its brief season of celebrity is passed, condemned to moulder in dust, unnoticed and forgotten. It is not foreign to our province to inquire why the reputation of these elegant favourites of a modern library is as fugitive as their reign is transient: why, what everybody seeks is by all degraded; and what is liked by all, is by none approved. By the adventurous pen that first traced the novel, a terra incognita was opened to the exploring eye of the imagination, and a new world, boundless in extent, in exhaustible in resources, subjected to the imperial sway of fiction. These regions of enchantment had attractions for the humble wanderer of fancy, and the sublime potentate of genius. In this delicious foil the Muses disdained not to accept a retreat, and found in their voluntary exile a solace for neglect, and a repose from toil. The poetical spirit was here so attempered by the Graces as to become sentiment; and the dignified wand of history converted into the simpler pallet, produced on the ampler canvass human nature, new combinations of character, with all the correspondent drapery of 'manners living as they rise.' Even the severe moralist, whose object was not to amuse, but to improve mankind, embodied his ethics in the novel, and, aided by the illusions of fancy, invested abstract ideas with the corporeal forms of beauty, and gave to virtue such loveliness of expression as Plato might have been proud to worship. Such are the capabilities if the novel, which has been long obnoxious to obloquy and contempt, from the ill-founded opinion, that it is the least difficult of literary achievements. To the poetaster, the rhapsodist, and the whole tribe of literary adventurers, a common resource is the novel; and by the transfer of incidents from a Beville to a Neville, and an Emma to an Emily, a sufficient quantity of this paper currency is created to keep up the credit of the circulating libraries, and to support the confidence of their readers. From this constant influx of literary trash, a depravity of taste is produced, which renders as least one half of the public incapable of discriminating the few works of merit occasionally mingled in the mass of circulation. It is therefore the indispensable duty of the reviewer to give his candid and cordial recommendation to every novel entitled to distinction and celebrity. And we have no hesitation in reporting well of that [310] before us. It is one of the few which, once opened, could not pass unread. The attention is arrested by the first page, and never suffered to diverge till the final denouement. Thaddeus of Warsaw is an illustrious Polander, a descendant of the house of Solbieski, and grandson of Constantine, the Palatine of Masovia. The mother of Thaddeus, Therese Sobieski, had in early youth attended her father to Florence, and there had formed a clandestine marriage with an Englishman of the name of Sackville, by whom she was suddenly and mysteriously deserted. Overwhelmed with sorrow and remorse, she reveals her union to the Count, receives his pardon, and returns with him to the paternal palace of Villanow, near Warsaw, avowedly the widowed mother of Thaddeus. The young hero is introduced to us in 1792, on the eve of his departure with his grandfather for the Polish camp. The soul of Thaddeus bears the stamp of virtue, and the principles which he had imbibed from the Palatine are developed in a series of actions, munificent, generous, and humane. In the course of the campaign, which, with entering on military details, the authoress has made subordinate to the interest of her narration, Thaddeus saves the life of a young Englishman, who, stimulated by the zeal of a vain tutor, and his own impetuosity, had served in the Russian army; but who, during his residence with Thaddeus, not as a prisoner, but a friend, becomes enthusiastically devoted to the family of Sobieski, and the cause of Poland. Pembroke Somerset, for so he is called, is soon summoned by his tutor to Dantzic, on his return to England, and Thaddeus resumes the field. The eventful æra [sic] of 1793 succeeds, when, 'compressed to one-fourth of her dimensions, within the lines of demarcation drawn by her enemies, Poland was stripped of her rank in Europe, the lands of her nobles given to strangers, and her citizens left to starve for want of bread.' Another year elapses, during which the expiring liberty of Poland is sustained by the heroism and valour of Kosciusko and the two Sobieski's. On the tenth of October is fought the desperate conflict of Ferfen, when the Poles sustain a total defeat, and the venerables Palatine receives a mortal wound. With his last breath he reminds his grandson of his illustrious birth:

And ever remember,' said the Palatine, raising his head, which had dropt [sic] on the bosom of his grandson, 'that you are a Sobieski it is my dying command that you never take any other name.' 'I promise!' Thaddeus could say no more, for the countenance of his grandfather became altered, his eyes closed. Thaddeus caught him to his breast, no heart beat against his: all was still and cold; the body dropped from his arms, and he sunk senseless by its side. When sensation returned to him he looked up: the sky was shrouded [311] in clouds, which a driving wind was blowing from the orb of the moon, as a few of her white rays, here and there, gleamed on the weapons of the slaughtered soldiers. The scattered senses of Thaddeus slowly re-collected themselves: he was now lying, the only creature, amidst thousands of the dead, who the preceding night had, been like himself, alive to all the consciousness of existence: his right hand rested on the chilled face of his grandfather; it was wet with dew: he shuddered; and taking his own cloak from his shoulders, laid it over the body: he could have said as he did it, 'So, my father, I would have sheltered thy life with the sacrifice of my own;' but the words choaked [sic] in his throat, and he sat watching by the corse [sic] till the day dawned, and the Poles returned to bury their slain.'

Scarcely has Thaddeus consecrated the remains of Palatine with tears than the Russians, still advancing in the career of victory, surround Warsaw, and the destroying angel devote its fated walls to horror and destruction. In this moment of anguish Thaddeus seeks his mother, who predicts that she at least, shall not survive her country's ruin:

'Look up, my dear boy ! and attend to me. Should Poland become the property of other nations, I conjure you, if you survive its fall, to leave it. When reduced to slavery, it will be no longer an asylum for a man of honour. I beseech you, should this happen, go that very hour to England: that is a free country, and I have been told the people are kind to the unfortunate. Thaddeus, why do you delay to answer me? These are your mother's dying prayers.' 'I will obey you' 'Then,' continued she, taking from her bosom a picture, 'let me tie this round your neck: it is the portrait of your father. Prize this gift, my child: it is likely to be all that you will now inherit wither from me or that father. Try to forget his injustice, my dear son ! and in memory of me, never part with it. O Thaddeus ! since the moment in which I first received it till this instant, it has never been from my heart.'

By this time the ramparts of Villanow are stormed; the palace is filled with cries and groans; and Thaddeus, vainly looking for an asylum for his mother, receives her last sigh in his arms. He is roused from grief by the entrance of the brave veteran Butzou, and by his remonstrances urged, by timely flight, to secure his own safety: he reaches Warsaw, beholds the lofty turrets of Villanow involved in flames; and with a smile of agony exclaims, 'See what a funeral pile Heaven has given to the manes of my mother!' The pathetic farewel [sic] which Thaddeus takes of his country is too beautiful to be analysed: we must indulge our readers with the whole passage:

'He arose by day-break, and having gathered together all his little wealth, which consisted merely of the Hussar uniform that he [312] wore, a few rings and pieces of gold, which he concealed with his linen in the portmanteau that was buckled to his horse, precisely two hours before the triumphal car of General Suwarrow entered Warsaw, Sobieski left it, bedewing its stones, as he rode over the streets, with his tears. They were the first that he could shed during the long series of his misfortunes, and they now flowed so fast from his eyes that he could not scarcely discern his way out of the city. At the great gate his horse stopped: 'Poor Saladin,' said Thaddeus, stroking his neck, 'are you so sorry at leaving Warsaw, that, like your unhappy master, you linger to take a last look?' His tears redoubled, and the warder, as he opened the gate and closed it after him, implored permission to kiss the hand of the noble Count Sobieski, before he turned his back on Poland, never to return. Thaddeus looked kindly around, and shaking hands with the honest man, after saying a few friendly words to him, rode on, with a loitering step, till he reached the part of the river which divides Masovia from the Prussian dominions. Here he flung himself from his horse, and standing for a moment on the hill that rises near the bridge, retraced, with almost blinded eyes, the long and desolated lands through which he had passed: then involuntary dropping on his knees, he plucked a tuft of grass, and pressing it to his lips, exclaimed, 'Farewel [sic], Poland ! farewel all my hopes of happiness!' Almost stifled by his regrets, he put this poor relic of his country into his bosom, and remounting his horse, crossed the bridge.'

On his arrival at Dantzick Sobieski takes his passage for England, when perceiving how inadequate his finances were to the maintenance of his horse, he resolves to consign him to the protection of a British merchant long resident at Dantzick, with a solemn charge to shelter him from injurious usage. The separation of Sobieski from his faithful Saladin is one of the most affecting passages in his eventful history.

In England, Sobieski conceals his rank and misfortunes under the obscure name of Constantine, becomes the inmate of an indigent widow, and employs his talents for drawing to procure the means of subsistence. In one of his melancholy perambulations he recognizes, in a wretched mendicant, his venerable friend and preserver Butzou, who had been reduced to the hard necessity of begging alms in a foreign country. With the unfortunate veteran Thaddeus resolves to share his last mite; and happening to catch a glimpse of his old but forgetful friend, Pembroke Somerset, he no longer scruples to remind him of the endering [sic] intimacy which, in happier days, had subsisted between them. With this view he addresses two letters to Somerset, which are returned in a blank envelope to the ill-fated Sobieski. Indignant at this complicated insolence and ingratitude, Thaddeus solemnly renounces Pembroke, determined to endure any evil rather than again subject [313] himself to the cruel pang of unmerited disappointment. An incident, honourable to his courage and humanity, procures him the acquaintance, and eventually the friendship, of Lady Tinemouth. From this æra the fable meanders too much to permit us to pursue the hero in a direct course: a variety of incidents occur, all calculated to augment the respect and attachment already due to Sobieski. New characters are introduced; and one of the most interesting personages of the drama makes her debut by the name of Mary. As this heroine bears little resemblance to the modern dames of novels, we beg leave to present to our lady-readers the following sketch, with the conviction that an original so attractive cannot fail of producing many copies:

'Notwithstanding this freedom from the chains with which her formidable advisers would have shackled her, Miss Beaufort possessed too much judgement and delicacy to flash her liberty in their eyes. Enjoying her independence with meekness, she held it more secure. Mary was no declaimer; not even in defence of oppressed goodness, or injured genius. Aware that direct opposition often incenses malice, she directed the shaft from its aim, if it were in her power; and when the attempt failed, strove, by respect or compassion, to heal what she could not preserve. Thus whatever she said or did not bore the stamp of her soul, whose leading attribute was modesty. By having learnt much, and thought more, she proved, in her conduct, that reflection is the alchemy which turns knowledge into wisdom.'

The affected penchant of Euphemia is well contrasted with the ill-controlled passion of Lady Sara: whilst the dignified tenderness of Mary presents

'Reserve with frankness, truth with art allied;' 'Courage with softness; modesty with pride.'

But sacred be the secrets of love ! and sacrilegious it that pen which presumes to expose its elegant mysteries. Tho' Reviewers are a description of literary gossips to whom custom has sometimes permitted the impertinence of anticipating the reader's curiosity, we have too much respect for his independence. And too sincere a regard for his pleasures, to claim a privilege which might interfere with the interests of our unfortunate foreigner, or impugn the rights of or amiable countrywoman. Over the fates of Thaddeus, then we drop the curtain of suspense, not without observing that Miss Porter has given us, in Thaddeus Sobieski, not merely a model of magnanimity, but a true hero - a man never above the feelings of humanity - a noble of nature, formed to enjoy and to dispense felicity, fitted to endure and surmount adversity.

After the extracts we have given, a recommendation of the work would be superfluous: enough has been disclosed to ex [314]cite an interest in its favour - enough concealed to leave the reader the pleasures of discovery. Thaddeus is a work of genius. It is not invariably correct, nor universally excellent: some little inaccuracies and redundancies are discernible, which the mere mannerist in literature is not liable to commit, and at which the hypercritical inquisitor of literature will not fail to declaim: but these we predict, with confidence, will be by few perceived - by fewer still regarded. Thaddeus has nothing to fear at the candid bar taste: he has to receive the precious meed [sic] of sympathy from every reader of unsophisticated sentiment and genuine feeling. [complete]

© 2001 Imperial Review / JW/PC / Sheffield Hallam University