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THE 
 
 REMEMBRANCES 
 
 A POLISH EXILE 
 
 ALBANY : PRINTED. 
 
 PHILADELPHIA I 
 REPRINTED FOR A POLISH EXILE. 
 
 1835. 
 
163. 
 
 C. SHERMAN &, CO. PRINTERS, PHILADELPHIA. 
 
DEDICATION. 
 
 aartrtcs of 
 
 The passag-e bird, that seeks the southern skies 
 
 When o'er his native land the winter lowers, 
 Looks all enraptured on the brilliant dyes, 
 
 And drinks the perfume of the southern flowers ; 
 
 And then he sings around their sunny bowers 
 The songs of his own land as to repay 
 
 Them for beguiling him of weary hours 
 By their unrivalled beauty : Even as he, 
 The Exile sings his song- unworthy though it be. 
 
 A. J -- . 
 
INTRODUCTORY REMARKS. 
 
 WHAT American has not felt his heartbeat syn> 
 pathetically to the sad and tragical story of the des- 
 tinies of Poland ? We cannot take the most super- 
 ficial glance at her history, without being impressed 
 with the conviction that we are contemplating the 
 fortunes of a brave and generous, and deeply af- 
 flicted nation. Her history is little more than a 
 record of budding hopes and withering disappoint- 
 ments ; of many struggles for freedom, and the 
 writhings of a broken spirit. We contemplate the 
 fruits of her genius with a sentiment of veneration, 
 while we think how bright a star in the intellectual 
 firmament she might have been, if her great minds 
 had not had their energies crippled by the hand 
 of oppression. We behold here and there a gleam 
 of light falling upon the darkness of her prospects, 
 and we share with her in the delightful hope that 
 it may prove to be a presage that all that darkness 
 is soon to break away. We follow her into the 
 scenes of her weeping and wo, of her captivity and 
 desolation f and as we see her ground to the dust 
 1* 
 
6 
 
 and her enemies riding over her in triumph, our 
 iijarts alternately bleed with sorrow for her mis- 
 fortunes, and burn with indignation toward the au- 
 thors of them. We pause by the grave of her 
 liberty ; and we cannot, and would not, repress the 
 aspiration that liberty may, ere long, rise from that 
 grave in the freshness of a renovated existence, 
 and make the very land from which she had been 
 exiled, the theatre of her brightest glories. We 
 remember that for our own national freedom we 
 are partly indebted to the sacrifices and the blood of 
 her sons ; while we embalm in our hearts the me- 
 mory of those who have suffered for us, we gladly 
 recognize the common obligation of gratitude under 
 which they have laid us to their country ; and so 
 long as we breathe the air of liberty, we will not 
 cease to sympathize with her in her calamities, 
 and to pray that the rod of her oppressors may be 
 broken. 
 
 It is well known that one of the effects of the 
 recent revolution in Poland has been that many of 
 her unfortunate sons have been exiled from their 
 native land, and that a considerable number of 
 them have sought and found a home on our own 
 shores. Our countrymen, who had waited with 
 deep interest the event of their revolution, and had 
 sincerely and keenly sympathized in their suffer- 
 ing lot, were prepared to welcome them in the 
 
spirit of fraternal kindness ; and at no distant period 
 after their arrival, most of them were provided 
 with places in which, by their own exertions, they 
 might secure to themselves an adequate support. 
 About thirty of them came to this city, some of 
 whom still remain here, industriously fulfilling the 
 duties of their respective stations ; while others 
 have scattered to different parts of the country. 
 
 Among those who have resided in this place is 
 the young gentleman who is the author of this 
 little work. He belonged to a family of great re- 
 spectability in his native country, and has evi- 
 dently received an education of a superior order. 
 During the few months that he has resided here, 
 he has been occupied principally in learning the 
 English, and teaching the French languages ; and 
 his uniformly amiable, discreet and gentlemanly 
 deportment, has secured to him, in an unusual 
 degree, the respect and friendship of all who have 
 had the pleasure of his acquaintance. Since his 
 residence here, he has found leisure to write this 
 small work, and I have been requested to write a 
 few lines to introduce it and its author to the 
 American public. I comply with the request with 
 pleasure, partly because the writer is a stranger 
 to most of his readers, and may fairly claim an 
 introduction to them ; and partly because I am sure 
 they will thank me for bringing them into com- 
 
8 
 
 pany, though it be but for an hour or two, in which 
 they will find so much entertainment. I can truly 
 say, that in going over with these pages the prevail- 
 ing sentiment which I have felt has been that of 
 astonishment, that a youth of nineteen, who, nine 
 months ago, was scarcely able to speak a word of 
 English, and who has had no resources from which 
 to draw but his own memory and invention, could 
 have produced such specimens of English Poetry 
 and Polish history as this volume contains ; and I 
 can scarcely doubt that all who read it agree 
 with me, that it indicates a genius which might in 
 the progress of its developement, shed glory on 
 any country. There is much here, especially in 
 regard to the literary history of Poland, which 
 will be new to nearly all American readers ; and 
 the whole volume, if I mistake not, will be found 
 to be enriched with interesting facts and beautiful 
 conceptions. The author of the work is about to 
 leave this city with a view to meet a near relative, 
 who, he has recently ascertained, resides in Mexi- 
 co : may the protection and blessing of a good 
 Providence attend him ; and though he is destined 
 now to sing the song of the exile in a strange land, 
 may he live to see the day when he can exercise 
 his genius in writing of the deliverance of his 
 country. 
 
 W. B. SPRAGUE. 
 Jllbany, January 30, 1835. 
 
PREFACE. 
 
 THERE is a time in our lives, when all our 
 thoughts wander back to the past for their nourish- 
 ment. This is a dark moment, for it comes only 
 when we cease to be excited by the brilliancy of 
 the present or the hopes for the future. This time 
 came but too soon in the life of the exiles. Wan. 
 dering and alone, our only treasures are remem- 
 brances. Thinking that these can interest some, I 
 have thought to communicate them to the public. 
 But when I began to remove the ashes of my me- 
 mory, so many spectres rose before me that I again 
 buried them in my own breast. I intended to 
 write a history, but I have written but fragments. 
 If there are any who are interested in the fate of a 
 great nation, which loved freedom so much, and is 
 now in bondage, which once celebrated, exists 
 now no more, they will be curious to know some- 
 thing of its education, its poetry, and its senti- 
 ments. Having no library to refer to, but my 
 own memory, writing in a language but little 
 known to me, and assisted by some persons, by 
 
10 
 
 whose care it is published, I have found it impos- 
 sible to give a sufficient description of them. Be- 
 sides the essays on poetry and education, I have 
 joined a few other fragments in the form of an ap- 
 pendix and a short story. 
 
 These Polish flowers are poor and colourless ; 
 but if the ladies of America will sometimes look 
 on them and think of the giver, he will be amply 
 repaid for collecting them. 
 
ESSAY ON POLISH POETRY. 
 
 IN speaking of the poetry of Poland, I shall not 
 only mention our writings, but our thoughts ; not 
 only our verses, but our sentiments. And, indeed, 
 where shall we look for poetry if not in the heart ? 
 And the more hearts that feel and understand that 
 poetry, in a nation, the more that poetry becomes 
 national. The poetry of Poland is her legitimate 
 daughter. She has all her characteristics, melan- 
 choly and gay, warlike and patriotic. The mis- 
 fortunes of our country, its bondage, together with 
 the strongest desire for liberty, has given a poetic 
 cast to our lives, our thoughts and feelings. A 
 Pole lived always between hope and remembrance, 
 and entirely in the abstracted world of his own 
 thought. His sentiments, chained by the iron 
 hands of despotism, were shut in his own heart 
 to exhalate there in mystery and silence, and there 
 they created a totally ideal world. In this man- 
 ner a Pole exalted in himself the love of his na- 
 tive country till that became his poetry, his ideal, 
 his all. This love was not only a common love 
 
12 
 
 of political independence, but it had that ancient 
 Roman enthusiasm, duke is pro patria mori, and 
 the word native country was a personification of 
 all virtue and of all happiness. And was this not 
 the poetry of the heart? In times more free, 
 during our revolution, poetry passed from the 
 heart to the lips, and our soldiers sung in the 
 midst of the battle's rage, their favourite patriotic 
 songs, which sounded from their lips like the 
 thunder from the thunder-cloud ; while our maid- 
 ens sat at their cottage windows and watched 
 through their tears for the dust of the horses, and 
 the banners of the Lancers and Krakus.* Even 
 in the time of our political death we died as the 
 Indian, and sang our death song in the midst of 
 tortures. 
 
 Nevertheless, returning to the written poetry, 
 that we had not, till later times. Since the six- 
 teenth century we have had verses, many imita- 
 tions of the ancients, but they have no national 
 characteristic. Krochanowski, who was the first 
 who began to write verses in Polish, had polished 
 our language and given us models of versification, 
 but he had not the merit of originality. His odes 
 have some energy, but they are almost all weak 
 
 *The Light Polish Cavalry, the most valorous, and 
 the most praised in the popular songs. 
 
13 
 
 copies of the Greek and Latin. His elegies on 
 the death of his daughter, have the most merit. 
 They have that naivete of sentiment that renders 
 them extremely sweet and tender, and in these 
 he was not guilty of imitation, he imitated but the 
 tones of his own heart. Nevertheless, he formed 
 a school, and many other imitators followed him, 
 but few with success, and it is unnecessary to 
 mention their names, as they had little merit, 
 even in the eyes of their countrymen. Szyma- 
 nowicz was a writer of pastorals, and it is to be 
 regretted, that with such talents as he displayed, 
 he had not seized upon the popular songs, and 
 given to his pastorals a national tone. But the 
 fashion of copying prevailed, and he remains only 
 an imitator. 
 
 In the middle of the 17th, and beginning of the 
 18th century, the exterior and interior wars exiled 
 all the muses from our country. Although these 
 disastrous times were not without glory to Poland, 
 although the victories of Sobieski, and the delivery 
 of Vienna, had caused her name to be celebrated in 
 all Europe, yet we find no traces of song but those 
 which are written on her land. The letters are the 
 graves of her sons, which are deserted by even 
 nightingales to chaunt their dirge. 
 
 The 18th century, the age of the regeneration of 
 letters and education in Poland, was not the age of 
 2 
 
14 
 
 poetry. Naruszewicz, our celebrated historian, was 
 not happy in his poetic career. His writings have 
 more of declamation than enthusiasm. Karpinski 
 is a tender writer of Idyls, and although he has 
 nothing grand, yet he has the power to soften and 
 sadden the heart. His virtuous soul pervades his 
 writings, and he will remain as a first writer of 
 eulogies in our literature. At the same time Bishop 
 Krasicki distinguished himself by destroying many 
 national vices by the bitterness of his satires. His 
 heroi-comic poem, Monochomachia, or the war 
 of the monks, is the finest satire on the prevailing 
 system of education in the religious colleges. The 
 declamatory speeches of the monks, full of words, 
 but empty of all subject, and their syllogistic dis- 
 putes, void of reason, are seized upon and lashed 
 with the keenest wit. This work had the most 
 influence in changing the prevailing system of edu- 
 cation. His satires, properly satires, are all ex- 
 cellent ; the best are the " Fashionable Wife," 
 " Drunksrd," and " Gamester." These are su- 
 perior to the master-pieces of Horatius. 
 
 Thus we had satirical poetry, but not yet poetry 
 of the heart. 
 
 In the beginning of the former century, Niem- 
 cewicz,* whose writings are patriotic and useful, 
 
 * In speaking of Niemcewicz, I cannot refrain from 
 giving a slight sketch of his history, as he has since been 
 
15 
 
 wrote historical songs. They are the first which 
 have national characteristics, but they could not 
 yet make an epoch in the literature. At this time a 
 taste for foreign literature prevailed, and our poets 
 translated and imitated, but wrote little original. 
 The French school was preferred, Voltaire and Ra- 
 cine much copied, and, indeed, until the time of 
 Mickiewicz, (of whom we shall speak,) the gar- 
 dens of our poetry bloomed only with the faded 
 and artificial flowers of the French literature. But, 
 in the mean time, as poetry gradually arose, the 
 
 an American citizen. Educated at the court of Prince 
 Czartoryski, the cradle of so many of our patriots, his 
 after life was a model of public and private virtue. He 
 came to America and fought at the side of Kosciusko for 
 the liberty of the land of Washington. Returning to 
 Poland, he was elected deputy to the celebrated Diet 
 of 1788, where he distinguished himself by his elo- 
 quence. But the defence of his country called him 
 again to the army, and fighting with Kosciusko, he was 
 imprisoned with him. After his liberation he returned 
 
 again to America, where he married Miss L , and 
 
 remained many years. In Napoleon's time he returned 
 again to Poland, and devoting himself to science and 
 literature, he became President of a learned society 
 there. He wrote in several departments, but as a his- 
 torian and novelist, he enjoys the highest reputation. 
 In our revolution he was looked upon as the personifica- 
 tion of virtue and patriotism. 
 
16 
 
 political death of our country cast a deep dark 
 gloom over the minds of the people, and they al- 
 ready sang in the depths of their heart, the strong- 
 est poetry of feeling, and even prepared to enter 
 fresh and bright into the great field of national 
 literature. 
 
 Our popular poetry has two branches ; first the 
 songs of Podolia and Ukraina, and second, those 
 of Cracovia. The poetry of Podolia is the child 
 of an unhappy and romantic country, often ra- 
 vaged by the Turks and Tartars lately destroy- 
 ed by the Russians. It is sad and melancholy. 
 Ukraina was the residence of the Polish Cossacks. 
 This warlike people, so strange and wild in their 
 feelings, had their own proper valiant poetry. Its 
 ruins yet exist, and from them our modern poets 
 have taken the base of the national characteristics. 
 The subjects of the songs differ ; sometimes they 
 are composed in honour of heroes, battles, and 
 great events ; sometimes they are fantastic, and 
 resemble the Scotch ballads. But oftener they 
 have no subject, and are but an expression of 
 feeling, a tone of the heart, as this song : 
 
 Tell me, tell me, little tree, 
 Who on this spot has planted thee ? 
 Did the birds your young seeds bear, 
 Or the wild winds waft you here, 
 
17 
 
 Or grew you mid the storms and snows 
 Of yourself, as young love grows ? 
 
 The birds did not my young seeds bear, 
 Neither winds have blown me here, 
 Nor grew I here mid storms and snows 
 Of myself, as young love grows. 
 But a young sister planted here 
 My seed, that I might deck the bier 
 Of her loved brother. As I grew, 
 Her tears to me were like the dew, 
 She sighed o'er me and her sweet sighs 
 Were like the wind of autumn skies, 
 And she was as the sun to me; 
 She looked on me, and her dark eyes, 
 To me were like the moonlit skies. 
 
 The Cracovian song is more gay, and some- 
 times very witty. It is commonly short, and 
 presents only one idea. The people improvise, 
 dancing at the same time. It is a duty of a young 
 countryman to address his mistress in the dance 
 with a song. The following is an example : 
 
 The branch is green, but the bird is not there, 
 My heart is young, but mirth is away, 
 The bird rests not on the branch alone, 
 And how without thee can my spirit be gay. 
 
 These songs perish soon after their birth, to- 
 gether with the names of their authors. Another 
 
 2* 
 
IS 
 
 kind of those songs is called Mazurka, but this 
 only belongs to the Cracovians. They are often 
 patriotic. They sang Kosciusko, and now they 
 sing in secret the heroes of our last revolution. 
 Almost every peasant on the bank of the Vistula 
 and Dnieper, is himself a poet and a singer. 
 Some of these compositions are consecrated to 
 the country festivities, the harvests, weddings, 
 etc. It is unnecessary to cite them more. They 
 have scarcely poetic merit ; but sung in the fields, 
 amid their labours and amusements, on the Carpa- 
 thian mountains, mingled with the great poetry 
 of nature, and echoed by the birds and streams, 
 they fill our hearts with a truer poetical enthusi- 
 asm than books themselves. 
 
 Such was the state of poetry in Poland when 
 Mickiewicz arose. He stands forth a single star 
 on the mental chaos of thoughts and sentiments 
 his materials were the remembrances of our an- 
 cient glory the bones of our heroes cried to him 
 for a song. Mickiewicz had been nourished by 
 the German, English, and Italian literature, and 
 by the Roman and Greek master-pieces ; thus, 
 joined to his great knowledge and his natural 
 genius, he struck out for himself a brilliant path 
 in the field of literature. His poem, Ancestors, 
 has produced great effect. It seems as if he had 
 
19 
 
 created a new language, the language of the soul. 
 It is like the music of a strange instrument that 
 we feel, we understand, but know not the mystery 
 of playing. This poem is long and unfinished. 
 He paints it in a passionate character mad of 
 love. He seizes upon all traits of character, and 
 surrounds it with so dark and mysterious a 
 drapery, that we feel sure on reading it, of seeing 
 a vampyre returning from the grave to tell his 
 history. He gives to him the very language of 
 the grave, the songs of a church-yard. We feel 
 by degrees his rage, his fear, his sorrow, his 
 pity, and the poet plays upon our passions, and 
 tunes them to his will. Even this unfinished 
 work made an epoch in our literature. 
 
 Mickiewicz soon after his first work, published 
 the sonnets of Crymee. In these sparkle all the 
 wealth of the eastern poetry. His love sonnets 
 are written in the style of Petrarch, and are full 
 of sentiments. Some are translated from him 
 (Petrarch). Another oriental poem of his, Paris, 
 abounds in beautiful thoughts and expressions ; it 
 is difficult to find richer poetry in any language. 
 While reading it we follow his Paris,* where 
 
 * Faris signifies a brave Arabian warrior, and is used 
 in the Arabian poetry as a Knight in ours. This poem 
 was dedicated to Count Rzewuski, who in travelling 1 
 
20 
 
 neither the green haired palms, nor the white 
 breasted tents shade his brow, where the skies 
 are his only canopy, where the stars only move 
 and the rocks only rest." We feel with him all 
 the delight of the desert life when he says 
 
 And my Arab steed was black, 
 
 As the tempest laden cloud, 
 
 And I gave to the winds his plume-like mane, 
 
 And his feet with lightning glared. 
 
 And no one followed me 
 
 From the earth or azure skies. 
 
 I looked on the heaven above, 
 
 And the stars with their golden eyes, 
 
 All gleamed on me from their paradise. 
 
 The most considerable work of Mickiewicz 
 is Wallerod. The subject is taken from the an- 
 cient history of the wars between the Litwanians 
 and the Knights of the Cross. The hero is a 
 
 through Arabia, distinguished himself in the Bedouin 
 wars, and has obtained from them the title of Emir. He 
 returned to Poland, dressed in the Arabian costume, and 
 introduced their customs into his house. In the revo- 
 lution he was one of the leaders of the Podolian insur- 
 rection. After the battle of Daszow his fate was unknown. 
 This extravagant man, whose life was so poetical, wrote 
 some pieces of the most brilliant poetry; however they 
 were never published, and are but little known. 
 
21 
 
 Litwanian, a traitor, who served in the army of 
 the Crusaders for the purpose of betraying it. 
 This is written in an allegorical, romantic and 
 patriotic style, and contains many great ideas and 
 glorious remembrances. It had so great an effect 
 on our youth, that it may be counted among the 
 principal causes of our revolution. The Russians, 
 not understanding its allegorical sense, permitted 
 it to be published. It is patriotic only by passages. 
 That which I select is the song of a Litwanian 
 bard, " If I could stir up the enthusiasm in the 
 breast of my countrymen, if I could reallume the 
 pale features of the dead, if I could speak burning 
 words to the hearts of my brothers, perhaps they 
 would live for a moment as sublimely as their 
 ancestors lived always.'* 
 
 The last work of Mickiewicz is the continuation 
 of his former work, Ancestors. But although 
 there is indignation and enthusiasm expressed, 
 we see in that more of reason than of flowers, 
 more of the philosopher than the poet. How- 
 ever, it is filled with high wrought pictures of 
 Russian tyranny, painted in the most vivid colours, 
 and it will remain a fearful monument of the per- 
 secutions of our country. Others may excite Eu- 
 rope against the tyranny of Nicholas. But he 
 says in his preface, " I write not to excite com- 
 
22 
 
 passion or sympathy for my country ; we can say 
 to other countries of Europe as Christ has said, 
 ' Daughters of Jerusalem, weep not for me, but 
 weep for yourselves and your children.' " 
 
 Such was and such is our romantic and patriotic 
 poetry. Our dramatic is yet in a low state. An- 
 ciently, strange and rude dramas were formed 
 from the scriptures, when Christian virtues were 
 personified, and angels, devils and saints, appear- 
 ed together. A taste for these plays continued 
 till the time of Kochanowski. If he had, (as 
 Mickiewicz well observes,) lighted these dramas 
 with his genius, they might now have been like 
 the Spanish Sacramentalas ; but unhappily he 
 despised the taste of ignorant people, and they have 
 passed away with the dark ages. On the time of 
 the regeneration of letters, the want of a national 
 theatre was felt, but unhappily it was an age of 
 imitation. We had many comedies but no trage- 
 dies. In the former, Zablocki excelled, and in 
 the latter, Felinski's Barbara was considered the 
 first. It is a large historic gallery well painted, but 
 it could not be called a tragedy. Jt has no tragical 
 scenes, nor tragical sentiments. For Felinski and 
 other writers, before Mickiewicz, worshipped 
 to idolatry the rules of the French theatre.* 
 
 * The three rules of the French theatre were : First, 
 Unity of time by which all action was to continue but 
 
23 
 
 Their three unities was the law that governed 
 all our theatrical writers. But now we hope 
 more from our tragedy ; Korzenioivski, a living 
 author, removed all these prejudices, took 
 Shakspeare for his model, and commenced a 
 new era in the Polish tragedy. It is much 
 to be regretted that the Russian despotism has 
 permitted only a few of his pieces to be pub- 
 lished. His first tragedy, (the title Angelique,) al- 
 though founded only on domestic life, abounds in 
 tragical positions and sentiments, and we readily 
 perceive in it the embryo of a superior genius, 
 that was to awaken our sleeping Melpomena. 
 This was the first work of Korzeniowski. His 
 other tragedies have more merit, they are how- 
 ever mostly in manuscript. But we will not 
 speak of those things which exist only in the fu- 
 ture and in hope; we will return again to the 
 romantic poetry. 
 
 Enough has already been said of the poetry of 
 Mickiewicz. It is in conformity to the modern 
 romantic taste, joined to the most elevated senti- 
 ments of sorrow and patriotism. Indeed, these 
 now become the nationality of our poetry, and 
 all our authors are distinguished by the same 
 
 one day ; Second, The action must be confined in one 
 tplace, and Third, The unity of interest. These were 
 'ridiculous, and destroyed all appearance of possibility. 
 
24 
 
 characteristics, although all their works are modu- 
 lated by their peculiar genius. Malczewski may 
 be counted among the most distinguished of them. 
 In his poem, Maria, we find much energy of ex- 
 pression, and fine pictures of old Polish manners 
 and characters, and they are such fine descriptions 
 of our romantic Ukraine, that they rival the 
 master-pieces of Mickiewicz. In his description 
 of Mary, he says 
 
 She is young 1 , but the winds of earthly love, 
 Have blown o'er her spirit like autumn's breath, 
 When it withers the flowers of the sunny grove ; 
 And her warmest hopes are cold in death ; 
 And we see no more in her beaming eye, 
 The war of thought and the light that broke 
 From the lamp of love, that burned so high, 
 Is quenched, and her brow is dark with its smoke. 
 
 Or this description of ancient manners : 
 
 The old time returned and the banquet was gay, 
 With the feast and the song, the night passed away ; 
 The tables were heavy with silver and gold, 
 And the jest of the tale was merrily told, 
 And the Hungary wine at the festal board, 
 Flowed as free as the blood in the heart of the lord ; 
 The shade of his ancestors graced the wall, 
 And coldly smiled on the festive hall. 
 
 It is much to be regretted that Malczewski, 
 
25 
 
 who wrote only for amusement, and applied him- 
 self little to literature, has published but this work. 
 This alone, however, will be an eternal monument 
 to his glory. 
 
 We have now a constellation of young poets, 
 cotemporary with Mickiewicz, and nourished by 
 the honey of his songs, but whose names are not 
 yet enrolled in the history of our literature. It 
 may be well to mention some of them. 
 
 Zalewski, an Ukraine poet, has seized on all 
 the popular songs and created them anew. Fresh 
 as the herbs of Ukraine, and wild as the rushing 
 of Dnieper. He has given but few of his works 
 to the public, but these are sparkling with genius. 
 Goszczynski, who was one of the first to com- 
 mence our revolution, possessed with his patriotic 
 spirit, a high degree of poetic merit. His poem, 
 The Castle of Kaniow, and his patriotic songs, 
 elevate him to the highest degree. 
 
 There are yet many young poets of great pro- 
 mise, but the limits of this short essay forbid my 
 mentioning them. 
 
 Thus, our country can never perish. So much 
 glory hangs around her name ; such a spirit of 
 sacrifice exists within her ; her language enriched 
 with poetry and songs these all tell us she will 
 yet exist. And we can but hope, that these songs 
 3 
 
26 
 
 will assist in awaking, at a future day, the sound 
 of her revenge and salvation. Be it so. 
 
 I close the essay, by citing other fragments of 
 our poetry. 
 
 THE PRIMROSE. 
 
 Jin imitation of Mtckiewicz. 
 
 Scarcely its heavenly song, 
 The lark had sung to lovers, 
 When from its golden covers, 
 
 The first sweet primrose sprung. 
 
 Too early my flower, said I, 
 
 The wind of the north yet blows, 
 The hills are white with snows, 
 
 And the groves are not grown dry. 
 
 Under the parent stem, 
 
 Cover their petals bright, 
 
 Before the dew of night, 
 To pearl has changed them. 
 
 Our days, said the lovely flower, 
 Are like the insects bright, 
 Our birth is at morning light, 
 
 And our death at mid-day hour. 
 
 And if you would deck your bowers, 
 Or send to her your love, 
 
27 
 
 A gift your faith to prove, 
 Oh ! gather the lovely flowers. 
 
 A SONG OF PODOLI A. 
 
 If like the eagle I could fly, 
 Ah ! I would breathe PodohVs air, 
 And rest again beneath her sky, 
 Where all my thoughts and wishes are. 
 
 That is the land that first I loved 
 The land where passed my earliest years, 
 The land that holds my fathers' dust- 
 That saw my earliest smiles and tears. 
 
 There like some disembodied shade, 
 I'd wander o'er the bright abode, 
 Where all my buried hopes are laid, 
 Oh ! change me to an eagle, God ! 
 
 Oh ! could I be a star, whose light 
 Illumes Podolia's tower and grove, 
 To gaze and linger through the night, 
 Upon the face of her I love. 
 
 Or from silvery cloud to send, 
 Around her eyelids, visions bright 
 As those soft rays, the evening stars 
 Send on the lakes in summer's night. 
 
28 
 
 And then to watch with unseen eyes, 
 Her steps through day e'en from afar, 
 Until enchanted with the sight ; 
 Change me, Oh ! God, into a star ! 
 
 It is in vain the bursting soul, 
 Why dream it ; weep bitterly, 
 O my beloved, for his fate 
 The exile who was dear to thee. 
 
 We are accursed. The eagles fly, 
 The glittering stars of night roll on, 
 But we are chained. Thou art afar ; 
 Tears are around me hope is gone. 
 
 A GIRL. 
 
 Song from Korsdk. 
 
 Her lips are always smiling, 
 And ever bright her eyes, 
 Enchanting and beguiling, 
 As the moon in the skies ; 
 How beautiful the girl ! 
 
 When she speaks to a gentle youth, 
 Who to her deep love bears, 
 By a smile she his grief can soothe, 
 Or she mingles with his tears ; 
 How tender is the girl ! 
 
29 
 
 When once again they meet, 
 And passionately kiss, 
 Their pleasure is so great, 
 So tender their embrace 
 How passionate the girl ! 
 
 And then the wing of change, 
 Of joy and love ; the death 
 Sweeps o'er their gentle thoughts, 
 And blasts them with its breath ; 
 Where is the constant girl ? 
 
 She again in a week or day, 
 For another one will take 
 The heart she gave the first, 
 And leave the first to break ; 
 How changeable the girl ! 
 
 She gave her heart to the first. 
 And gave her hand to another ; 
 And she has wed another, 
 And, alas ! she killed the first ; 
 How cursed the girl ! 
 
 SONG. 
 
 From the Mickicwicz's poem, Ancestors, 
 
 She is fair as an angel of light, 
 The fairest of all. And her eye, 
 3* 
 
30 
 
 Oh ! its beams are as heavenly bright, 
 As the sun in the azure sky. 
 
 And her kiss ! 'tis the nectar of heaven, 
 The union of flame with flame ; 
 
 'Tis the voices of two lutes, 
 
 That one harmony weds the same. 
 
 Imitation of a song from the poem, Wallenrod. 
 
 Wilia, mother of our streams, 
 Has golden face and surface blue, 
 But Litwa, that thy valley drains, 
 Has fairer face and heart more true. 
 
 Through Kowno's* vale the Wilia flows, 
 'Midst daffodils and tulips rare, 
 But daffodil nor tulip blows 
 As at thy feet, oh ! maiden fair. 
 
 The Wilia cares for shrubs nor flow'rs, 
 But seeks her love the Niemen deep, 
 So Litwa's fair scorns Litwa's youth, 
 And for a stranger love will weep. 
 
 * Niemen and Wilia> are two rivers in Litwanie, 
 which in Poland is called Litwa. Koumo is a city, in 
 whose vicinity is the beautiful valley, one of the hand- 
 somest in Poland. 
 
31 
 
 But see ! the Niemen's chilling 1 arms, 
 Have Wilia clasped and turned away, 
 O'er craggy rocks and desert plains, 
 And both must perish in the sea. 
 
 And then, far from thy native plain, 
 Oh ! Litwa's maiden, wilt thou g-o, 
 Condemned to feel the keenest pain, 
 To die in solitary wo ? 
 
 But vain to bind the stream or soul, 
 The Wilia flows, the maid loves on, 
 T* oblivion Wilia's currents roll, 
 The girl in silence weeps alone. 
 
HISTORICAL SKETCH OP EDUCATION 
 IN POLAND. 
 
 IN tracing the progress of education in our 
 country, I shall not speak of those feeble lights 
 which glimmered in the dark ages. Those were 
 not the times for improvement in education in 
 any part of Europe, and least of all, in Poland. 
 To mount the horse, conch the lance, and shine 
 at the tournament, constituted the whole education 
 of a Polish gentleman. Learning shone out here 
 and there among the monks, but this was very 
 rare, and very imperfect. We had, however, in 
 the twelfth century, our historian, Kadtubek, and 
 his history, filled with fables, miracles and preju- 
 dices, bears the characteristics of his age. It was 
 not until the reign of the virtuous and gentle 
 Queen Hedwige, that the Academy was founded 
 at Cracovie, which was but the cradle of science. 
 
 At the commencement of the sixteenth century, 
 we possessed Copernicus. Copernicus, who 
 changed the face of the physical universe, and 
 wrested from nature her mysteries. The dispute 
 
33 
 
 continues to this day, whether Copernicus was a 
 Polander or a Prussian; the learned Sniadecki 
 has proved the former.* This age, the age of the 
 reformation, introduced among us, theological dis- 
 putes on the subject of religious tolerance. Under 
 the reign of Sigismonds, the dissemination of all 
 opinions was permitted. It was at that period 
 that Poland ranked among the most enlighten- 
 ed countries of Europe ; it was at that time that 
 Kochanowski gathered the first flowers of Polish 
 poetry, and scattered them upon the tomb of his 
 beloved daughter ; it was at that period that Ozre- 
 chowski acclaimed with the eloquence of Demos- 
 thenes against the despotism of Rome ; it was at 
 that period that Modrzejowski wrote a work on 
 the republic a work truly splendid for its time. 
 
 That was an age the most splendid to the poli- 
 tics and literature of Poland. Our deputies, who 
 went to Paris to Henri de Valois, from the Polish 
 crown, enchanted France with their learning. 
 But a change soon took place. King Stephen 
 Batory, who performed a great service to know- 
 ledge by founding the Academy of Wilnor, most 
 unfortunately introduced the order of the Jesuits, 
 and education was soon in the hands of these 
 
 * In his dissertation on Copernicus, in Polish, French 
 and German. 
 
34 
 
 monks. Under Sigismond III., they possessed 
 great power, controlled the mind of that monarch, 
 directed public instruction, and consequently the 
 spirit of the nation. Vain disputes about words, 
 hatred between Catholics and Lutherans, and on 
 the fair fields of poetry, the enfeebling influence 
 of excessive penegyric. These were the effects 
 of the education of the Jesuits. 
 
 Misfortunes and wars, both foreign and domes- 
 tic, under the laws of Sigismond and other kings, 
 were not more favourable to civilization. Some 
 luminaries, however, are to be observed in those 
 ages. We look upon some pieces of poetry, but 
 they bear the marks of bad taste. In fact, the 
 whole style of writing, and the system of study, 
 were in every respect corrupt. Authors wrote 
 but to panegyrize, and nothing was taught in the 
 schools but Latin, theology, and a little scholastic 
 philosophy. At length, after so many wars, 
 Poland found herself at peace at the beginning of 
 the eighteenth century ; but she was not in pos- 
 session of such tranquillity as was necessary, like 
 a balsam, to heal the wounds she had received. 
 Poland was crushed and destroyed ; and education 
 was in a similar condition. But jn the middle of 
 this century, Komarski, a monk, conceived the 
 noble project of saving the country by raising the 
 national spirit. With this object he formed a new 
 
35 
 
 system of education in a college which he founded 
 at Warsaw. This was, indeed, an entirely aris- 
 tocratic institution : for only nobles were allowed 
 admission ; but it at least revived the spirit of 
 that part of the nation who alone had the right to 
 control, and from that time may be dated the re- 
 formation of education and opinions. 
 
 In the time of Komarski, there also existed in 
 Poland, a family who were the protectors of 
 genius, and whose mansion was the cradle of 
 good taste : the family of Prince Czartoryski. 
 They conferred many other favours upon the 
 country, and were the first to cherish learning. 
 During the period of our political death, in that 
 house still gleamed, as from a funeral lamp, a 
 feeble lamp of national existence. There were 
 collected our ancient recollections, there was our 
 literature ; there were assembled all the enlighten- 
 ed men, in whose hearts alone, the country lived. 
 
 But it was not until the year 1773, after the 
 Jesuitic order had subsided, that education in 
 Poland assumed a form truly public and national. 
 All the property of the Jesuits had been placed 
 by the Diet under the direction of a committee of 
 education, which was composed of the most 
 learned men in the nation. A new system of 
 education was formed, under which instruction 
 was allowed to all, being supported by the public 
 
36 
 
 funds, derived from the confiscated estates of the 
 Jesuits. An elementary society was formed, which 
 offered prizes for works on instruction for the 
 schools. 
 
 At this period, which was the era of the restora- 
 tion of learning, when everything contributed to 
 the elevation of the national spirit, we had valuable 
 authors. Naruszewicz, in tracing our history, in 
 making us recall the past, pointed out the path to 
 an equally glorious future. Staszic employed his 
 pen on subjects of the greatest wisdom and impor- 
 tance ; Krasicki, by his satires and satirical ro- 
 mances, corrected many of our faults. 
 
 The effects of the new system of education were 
 displayed in the Diet of 1788, known as the con- 
 stituent Diet. The representatives, trained under 
 it, and free from ancient prejudices, proclaimed 
 new opinions in the council. This Diet produced 
 the celebrated constitution of the third of May, 
 which, (alas ! too soon,) proved the scourge of our 
 happiness and liberty. 
 
 Before the Diet we had education, though on an 
 aristocratic plan. The Committee who directed 
 it, it is true, were unable to offer its benefits to the 
 peasantry, and that part of the nation was still 
 ignorant and enslaved, but the constitution of the 
 third of May meliorated their condition ; and, in 
 time, without doubt, would have given them educa- 
 
37 
 
 tion ; for circumstances were in a favorable train ; 
 education, civilization, and all other improvements, 
 being on the advance. By the present we might 
 have been equal to the most learned and civilized 
 nations. Our circumstances do not now permit 
 the indulgence of such a hope. 
 
 Civilization and learning being in such a condi- 
 tion, in 1792, under the protection of the consti- 
 tution, many were elevated to the highest pitch. 
 But our political tempests did not permit the legis- 
 lators of our Diet to see the fruits of their labors, 
 or even allow the plants they had cherished, to at- 
 tain their full growth. We were once more com- 
 pelled to exchange the pen for the sword, and en - 
 gage in a terrible and desperate war ; for now, with 
 heroic feelings and spirit, our nation had become 
 incapable of suffering longer under the policy and 
 treachery of Catherine. The country saw at her 
 head a hero who, with laurels gathered in Ameri- 
 ca, with sentiments of liberty acquired in another 
 world, desiring to see the same liberty on his na- 
 tive soil. All took arms : but the hour of death 
 had already struck for our unfortunate country ; 
 nor could the genius of Kosciusko, or the arms of 
 his brave countrymen avail to save her ; and the 
 death of liberty must ever and inevitably produce 
 the death of learning.* 
 
 After the close of the revolution, our libraries and 
 4 
 
38 
 
 It is an incontestible fact, most abundantly 
 proved, that despotism cannot be the friend of 
 science, and especially in a nation where educa- 
 tion bears the mark of nationality. After freedom 
 had departed from our country, the plan of educa- 
 tion was overthrown. The University of Vilna, 
 owes its existence to the noble director, Poczobut, 
 and we are under great obligations to that for our 
 literary existence. Then the brothers, Sniadecki, 
 enlightened us with their valuable philosophical 
 works; thence, afterwards, proceeded the poet, 
 Mickicevicz, and those youths who most distin- 
 guished themselves in learning and in arms. 
 
 Thus, in the provinces belonging to Russia, the 
 ancient system of education still existed, but in 
 those under Austrian domination public instruction 
 was exhibited, and even in our native language. 
 The Austrians treated us with greater cunning and 
 
 literary institutions were at the mercy of barbarous 
 savages. There was a large and rich library in Warsaw; 
 the gift of the family of Zaluski to the public, which 
 was known by its name. It was ravaged almost like that 
 of Alexandria. The Cossacks, who carried the books on 
 their horses to Petersburgh, lighted their pipes with the 
 leaves, and about the middle of their journey, being 
 ordered to put their spoil in their knapsacks, they cut 
 the largest books in two, to reduce them to the common 
 
39 
 
 severity than any other nation. They alone sought 
 to deprive us, by degrees, of our nationality ; to 
 corrupt our minds and our hearts : in a word, to 
 take away our memory, to rob us of all the past, 
 and to root out all that still vivified the soul of our 
 unfortunate and long illustrious nation. It was 
 thus, that education, in Austria, became completely 
 paralyzed, and finally died. 
 
 Our enlightened and patriotic countrymen had 
 ever wished to cherish our education and our lan- 
 guage : and that time, while some fought under the 
 banner of Napoleon, with the hope of reviving the 
 country, others, in the bosom of their native land, 
 cultivated its language and literature, and took care 
 that our memory, and our history should not perish. 
 In 1802, a society was formed in Warsaw under 
 the name of " The Society of the Friends of Let- 
 ters." The learned Czacki was one of the first 
 movers of that Association, who devoted his pen, 
 his fortune and his labors to restore public educa- 
 tion, with Ignatius, and Stanislas Potocki ; those 
 brave champions in the famous Diet of 1778, 
 together with Dmochowski, the translator of Ho- 
 mer's Iliad. 
 
 This society, endowed with privileges by Prus- 
 sia, under the pretext of science, animated the 
 feelings of the nation. There Niemcewicz wrote 
 his historical song;* there Brodzinski read his 
 * See the "Essay on Poetry." 
 
40 
 
 literary compositions, which always bore the 
 marks of patriotism. 
 
 Czacki also founded the Lyceum of Kremienice, 
 in Vollynia, and endowed it with a rich library, 
 where the studies are formed on his plan. He 
 was tutor of this institution, which he called his 
 child. It became the cradle of many young 
 geniuses, and young patriots. 
 
 After the fall of Napoleon, the Emperor Alexan- 
 der, in opposing the constitution to that small por- 
 tion of our country which he named the Kingdom 
 of Poland, pretended to allow it the liberty of the 
 press. But this was only a flattering promise, for 
 when, in the year 1818, a liberal and patriotic 
 journalist was imprisoned, (the editor of " The 
 White Eagle,") that journal was immediately sup- 
 pressed by the unworthy brother of Alexander, 
 the cruel Prince Constantine. Alexander always 
 endeavoured to conceal his hypocritical designs 
 with the mask of humanity. He elevated education 
 with one hand, and destroyed it with the other. 
 He founded the University of Warsaw in 1818, 
 which promised much at its commencement: to 
 take the lead of education in Poland, and to 
 enlighten all classes of people, by establishing, in 
 villages, sabbath schools and other useful institu- 
 tions. But these projects were never realized, 
 and the Government was obliged to arrest its own 
 
41 
 
 work, for the Emperor could not allow those men 
 to become citizens whom he wanted as slaves. 
 And his own plan of education would have given 
 them a liberal and philosophical turn. 
 
 Our education was not immediately applicable 
 to any condition in society ; it did not exactly form 
 men merchants, agriculturists or mechanics, it 
 rather gave them a philosophical and reflecting 
 character, and thus raised their minds to a certain 
 ideal point. That point they could not realize, for 
 they saw only chains behind and before them ; but, 
 yet towards it they directed their desires and aimed 
 all their exertions. A man with such feelings, 
 must think, and will know how to think: but he 
 cannot carry his thoughts into the real world. 
 That would be Siberia to him and to his feelings. 
 Their world was, therefore, in their minds, in the 
 hope of the future. Thus the very plan of our 
 education proved one of the causes of our revolu- 
 tion ; a revolution which each of our youth had 
 long carried in his thought and in his bosom. 
 
 Alexander looked upon all things with an air of 
 indifference, until the death of Kosciusko. Prussia 
 had exposed the revolutionary tendency of the Ger- 
 man schools, and he feared that similar influences 
 might appear in those of Poland. The University 
 of Vilna became the principal object of observation 
 
 to his minister Nawosiltzow : a cruel instrument 
 
 4* 
 
42 
 
 in the hands of a dark despot of the North. In 
 that University a literary association was formed 
 among the students, which had a secret object, 
 to maintain the national spirit. The president, 
 Thomas Zan, excited uneasiness with the govern- 
 ment, by his bold and mysterious character. The 
 society, which bore the name of Philarets, was 
 not of long continuance, but was succeeded by 
 another, called the Philomathes. A young student 
 named Plater, only twelve years of age, wrote on 
 the gates of the University, " Long live the Con- 
 stitution ! Death to the Tyrants !" which gave 
 offence to Nowosiltzow, and the students became 
 the object of a cruel persecution, several of them- 
 were nearly killed by beating ; others, though 
 mere children, were torn from the arms of their 
 families and put in chains, or sent off to be trained 
 as Russian soldiers. Although Zan wished to 
 sacrifice himself for his comrades, he was trans- 
 ported with numbers of them to Siberia : more 
 than one hundred of the young students, some chil- 
 dren of the first families, were thus persecuted for 
 a few liberal thoughts. 
 
 It was in the year 1823, that the persecution of 
 the schools and of education commenced. The 
 study of the law of nature and of nations was pro- 
 hibited, a barbarous police was established in the 
 institutions, composed of old Russian soldiers, of 
 brutal feelings and disgusting habits, by whom, for 
 
 
43 
 
 a word about liberty, written in a literary disserta- 
 tion, a student was often thrown into prison. 
 
 But the spirit of the people was in a state of 
 excitement. Lelewell, the professor of history in 
 the University of Wilna, was Jike an invisible 
 and supernatural being who quickened the tendency 
 to revolution in every young bosom. Mickiewicz* 
 gave it a poetic direction. He wrote an allegori- 
 cal poem, unintelligible to the Russians, in which 
 he led the fancy of his countrymen, back to the 
 fair regions of past, and made comparisons with 
 the present. 
 
 All things conspired to cherish the spirit of 
 liberty, especially in the schools, and hence it 
 was, that when seven o'clock, the appointed hour, 
 struck at Warsaw, on the memorable 29th of 
 November, the first who appeared under the stand- 
 ards were the students. 
 
 Russia has established schools since the revolu- 
 tion, in which are taught only reading and writing, 
 with a catechism of the Emperor, who, acccord- 
 ing to its doctrines, rules on earth as the Almighty 
 does in Heaven. These have succeeded to the 
 institutions we had for a while enjoyed with 
 various publications, in which was displayed the 
 eloquence of liberty ; but almost in the twinkling 
 of an eye, revolution and liberty, like phantoms of 
 the night, like castles of clouds, have disappeared 
 and are seen no more. 
 
 * See "The Essay on Poetry." 
 
THE POLISH LOVERS, 
 
 For his only monument shall be the dry wood of the 
 gibbet; his only glory shall be the tears of women and the 
 long conversations of his countrymen. -MICKIEWICZ. 
 
 ON the beautiful banks of the Dniester, in Po- 
 tlolia, stand the ruins of an ancient castle. The 
 remains of its grandeur remind us of former days 
 of happiness and glory, and its ruins of misfor- 
 tunes, and of war. Two years since it was still 
 inhabited, but it stands now, a lone and deserted 
 monument. The dogs howl at its once hospitable 
 doors, and no sound echoes through its desolate 
 halls but the scream of the owl. 
 
 One morning the sun rose brightly, enlightening 
 once more the old mansion, and painting with the 
 golden colours the alleys of the garden. The 
 birds were awake on the trees, praising, in a low 
 voice, the glory of their Maker : but in a summer- 
 house sat a yet gentler and lovelier bird, the sweet 
 Halina of the castle. Her voice harmonized not 
 with the merry notes of the birds around her, it 
 was more tender and sorrowful. 
 
45 
 HALINA'S SONG. 
 
 To-morrow shall sparkle the glorious star 
 And to-morrow my love will be on to the war, 
 His dark eye will brighten to meet with the foe, 
 But he leaves my lone heart in the darkness of wo. 
 
 And to-morrow, perhaps, he will rest in the grave, 
 And no one will weep o'er the tomb of the brave; 
 Oh ! this sad heart shall bleed for the doom of my love, 
 But never from the grave can his ashes remove. 
 
 Perchance on that banner the last gift of mine, 
 His last sigh shall linger, his last glance shall shine, 
 When he sleeps in the tomb o'er his ashes 'twill wave. 
 A relict of love, on the tomb of the brave. 
 
 And yet he will perish, and perish for thee, 
 Oh! Poland! my mother, thatthou may'st be free, 
 I will conquer my sorrows ancl think but of thine; 
 And my love and my life I lay on thy shrine. 
 
 As she finished, she hung her guitar on a rose- 
 bush, saying : " Alas ! my songs float away with- 
 out an echo, his sweet voice will never more ac- 
 company me." She heard a rustling among the 
 leaves, and turning quickly round, she beheld the 
 figure of her lover, a youth dressed in the uniform 
 of a Polish lancer. 
 
 "To-morrow," said he, "I go: it is the day 
 appointed for our insurrection. Dearest, we shall 
 
46 . 
 
 meet no more ; but, remember your Casimir, 
 who left you, only for his country." 
 
 " Farewell, my beloved," said Halina, as she 
 gave him a banner, " take this, and fight under its 
 shadow : it is a gift to Poland, from her unhappy 
 daughter." 
 
 She sighed deeply, but she wept not. Although 
 she sacrificed to her country, her Casimir, her 
 ideal, her world, she wept not she was a Pole. 
 
 " This flag," replied he, " the work of thy 
 gentle fingers, shall be my avenging angel in the 
 day of battle. And when I return, it shall be 
 dyed with the blood of the Russians. Oh ! I 
 will never be unworthy of the gift." 
 
 " And kt it be, also, your guardian angel, for 
 in its embroidery are enchained many drops of 
 my soul, many tears. They will guard you in 
 the hour of danger. May the blood of the enemy, 
 not thine, dye this flag, and, at thy return, I will 
 crown thee with laurels. But if thou shouldst 
 perish " 
 
 The words died upon her lips, and the burning 
 tears rolled down her angelic face. And now, she 
 was a woman. 
 
 Again he embraced her, and binding the bless*- 
 ed flag to his lance, disappeared like a vision. 
 Halina gazed after him, till the faithful flag, only 
 
47 
 
 visible, seemed waving its last farewell to its 
 sweet mistress. 
 
 II. 
 
 Again it was morning. But the air was chilly 
 and dark ; clouds overhung the old mansion like 
 messengers of ill ; rain poured heavily down, as if 
 even the heavens were weeping. Halina thought- 
 ful and weary, was again in the summer-house, 
 for, what was storm or sunshine to her without 
 [ier beloved ? And so calm and holy an air per- 
 vaded that spot, that she sought it daily. The 
 Dalsam of love seemed still to linger in the air she 
 had breathed with Casimir ; the trees seemed still 
 to echo the adieu he had once uttered beneath 
 their shade. In the half-year that had elapsed in 
 his absence, all had changed but the summer- 
 house, and the soul that dreamed within. Hope 
 had ceased to linger in Poland; the land of 
 iKosciusko was in bondage. The revolution pass- 
 red away like the visions of a young dreaming 
 soul. 
 
 Again Halina wept bitterly, but her tears were 
 holy, they fell on the altar of patriotism she 
 wept for her native country she was a Pole. 
 
 And yet when she thought of one brave de- 
 fender of that country, and of his uncertain fate, 
 
48 
 > 
 
 tears of passion may have mingled with those of 
 patriotism she was a woman. 
 
 At this moment a stranger appeared among the 
 trees. Halina' s heart, the watch of her soul, that 
 seemed to tell of the approaching hour of happi- 
 ness, beat stronger and stronger as he approached 
 with torn garment and a pilgrim's staff in his 
 hand. 
 
 " Oh, my Cassimer they have not enchained 
 my Cassimer but why is he in this garb ?" 
 
 " It is the dress of a Polish pilgrim not so 
 fair as the warrior's, but not the less honourable. 
 Our swords are broken, but our hearts are not. I 
 have come, my Halina, to behold you once more 
 but, alas ! to say, again, farewell. I will depart 
 on a pilgrimage, rather than bow my proud heart 
 to the despot. Yes, we will wander through the 
 world, and invoke justice and vengeance. Let 
 the nations of Europe see the projects of tyrants, 
 and tremble from our example. Adieu ! yet, 
 again we shall meet in happier days. The hope 
 is not gone." 
 
 But echo answered in a sepulchral tone, 
 " gone." 
 
 " And will you leave me again ?" said she. 
 
 " Oh ! weep not, my Halina, that I go, what 
 will be our life without freedom ?" 
 
 They conversed yet awhile. That which they 
 
49 
 
 spoke I will not repeat ; I will not intrude into 
 that sanctuary of the heart not violate that mass 
 of the feelings. How many thoughts they had 
 to communicate in one hour that hour of fare- 
 well. 
 
 Halina, at length, dried her tears, dispelled the 
 gloom from her brow, and smiled once more on 
 her lover. With those lips it seemed that a 
 heaven opened on his view, something unearthly 
 glowed in her eyes ; he forgot the world, life, and 
 Poland herself, in that moment of ecstacy. He 
 took her in his arms, kissed her till his soul seem- 
 ed stamped in that last embrace ; he kissed her 
 once more, and once more, again and again. 
 
 But the sound of farewell struck on her ear, and 
 he was gone ! 
 
 III. 
 
 Our patriots, though exiled, still nourished the 
 hope of delivering their native country. Their 
 project was to commence a war, similar to the 
 Guerrilas in Spain, to be a prelude to the general 
 insurrection, and, at least, to preserve, always, 
 the spirit of revolution and freedom in the coun- 
 try, and to show the nations of Europe, that the 
 JPoles could never be wholly enchained. This 
 was called the war of the Partisans. Their num- 
 ber, however, was too small, though their sacri- 
 5 
 
50 
 
 fices were so great. They were obliged to hide 
 themselves in the woods, or to fight but very 
 small detachments of the Russian troops. 
 
 Nicholas, to defeat their projects, and deprive 
 them of the sympathy of Europe, proclaimed them 
 as robbers, and punished them as such. The 
 gibbet was, and is, alas ! until this time, the re- 
 compense of the Polish patriots. 
 
 A small detachment of Partisans attacked the 
 city of Jozefaw, in the palatinate of Lublin. They 
 knew not the state of the enemy, till the light- 
 nings of the firing revealed their numbers. They 
 continued, however, slowly to retreat, constantly 
 and fearlessly firing. The Russians fell in great 
 numbers, and three only of the Partizans, were 
 missing. They, being wounded, fell into the 
 hands of the enemy. 
 
 " Ha ! we have some of those bird-catchers* at 
 last," said they, as they advanced to the prostrate 
 forms of those who had fallen, content to revenge 
 the death of so many of their companions on 
 these. But two were already dead of their 
 wounds, and in the third, the remains of organic 
 life still lingered, but his brow was pale and 
 spectre-like ; no soul beamed from his eye. He 
 
 * Bird-catchers the name given by the Russians to 
 the Polish riflers. 
 
51 
 
 seemed like the magic-lantern, with no light 
 within. 
 
 And this was Casimir; but, alas ! how 
 changed ! 
 
 " And what shall we do with this fellow ?" 
 said the Cossack ; " his last hour seems near, and 
 the Poles are the very devils, he may yet re- 
 vive and murder us." 
 
 " God and St. Nicholas preserve us from it ;" 
 cried the other, and addressing the captain : " it is 
 )etter to kill him ; one blow of my lance will 
 suffice." 
 
 " But the order of his Majesty is, that they 
 shall be hung. We will build here a gibbet, and 
 show the people of Jozefaw how our emperor can 
 .punish the rebels." 
 
 IV. 
 
 At an early hour the next morning, the multi- 
 ude had assembled to witness the death of a pa- 
 riot. But they came not from curiosity, not 
 jven willingly, to witness that horrible spectacle, 
 but by the stern orders of the despot. 
 
 No tumult was heard, a solemn and mysterious 
 silence reigned over the crowd. All thoughts 
 iwelt on the glorious remembrances of two years 
 oefore ; and they looked at the hero as a holy 
 
52 
 
 offering, a sacrifice on the altar of freedom. Sad, 
 horrible offering ! the offering of blood and life ! 
 
 The deed was done ; and he, so young, so 
 proud, so beautiful, had died the ignominious 
 death of the gibbet. Well for him, that with his 
 weakened frame, he knew not of his dreadful 
 death. 
 
 Proud spirit ! with plumes so light ; soarings so 
 high ; and thoughts so pure ! Thou wast destined 
 to other climes. 
 
 The crowd was yet silently struggling to hide 
 their emotions, though from some, sighs were 
 heard, and from some, tears, burning tears, scorn- 
 ing the commands of the despot, rolled free and 
 unsubdued to the urn of national sorrow and dis- 
 tress. 
 
 But one loud voice was heard from the crowd ; 
 it was a long, piercing, sorrowful cry a woman's 
 cry ; from whose breast it may be imagined. 
 
 On the evening of the same day, the body of 
 the warrior was buried under his gibbet. The 
 ministers of God offered no prayers for his soul ; 
 no sable plumes waved over his corse ; no martial 
 music ; the muffled drum and the tolling bell, 
 sounded not his dirge ; warriors bore him not to 
 his last rest. 
 
 But prayers arose from the grave of the hero, 
 though the priest offered them not ; and tears fell 
 
53 
 
 upon his dust, though warriors shed them not. 
 A beautiful form knelt there the form of his 
 beloved ; a beautiful spirit sighed there the spirit 
 of his beloved. The pale moon rose and set, and 
 still she knelt on his grave. 
 
 At morning some peasantry came to look at the 
 grave of the Partisan ; she was yet kneeling, but 
 pale and cold. The beautiful flower of Podolia 
 was blighted and dead, like the spectre of a rose 
 on the grave of a warrior ; but her spirit, free and 
 light, had already joined the strong soul of Casi- 
 mir. Such was the fate of the Polish Lovers. 
 
 5* 
 
54 
 
 THE CAUSES OP THE EMIGRATION OP 
 THE POLES. 
 
 THERE are so many opinions as to the causes 
 of our emigration, thst it becomes almost a duty 
 to explain the true ones. The ignorant, suppose 
 that, like other emigrants, we came here to seek 
 our fortunes, and establish ourselves. Others, 
 more truly, that the cause is, the impossibility of 
 our returning to Poland, without being sent to 
 Siberia, or exposed to other punishments. Al- 
 though this is, in part, yet it is not the whole 
 cause. 
 
 After the dreadful termination of our last revo- 
 lution, Nicholas offered an amnesty to all the 
 army, except some higher officers ; however, few 
 returned. Many believing yet in the regeneration 
 of their country, retired to France as the most 
 congenial shelter. 
 
 It may be well here to point out what led us 
 to expect sympathy and assistance from the 
 French. Since the time of their great revolution- 
 ary drama, that country was considered as the very 
 
55 
 
 heart of revolution and of liberal opinions. After 
 the fall of Kosciusko, our patriots came to France, 
 cherishing the hope of the resurrection of their 
 own country ; and that the revolutionary volcano 
 would destroy her murderers, and she would rise 
 from her ashes once more. For the preservation 
 of some remains of the Polish army, they formed 
 two legions, which served under Napoleon, but 
 wore the Polish uniform, and fought under their 
 national banners. These men, cherishing, yet, 
 hope for their country, followed every where the 
 great Napoleon. Their bones are whitening on 
 the plains of Italy, of Germany, of Spain and St. 
 Domingo. 
 
 But Napoleon, instead of reinstating Poland, 
 gave liberty only to a small portion of it, under 
 the name of the Principality of Warsaw. 
 
 In the time of our revolution, that patriarch of 
 liberty, the venerable Lafayette, endeavoured to 
 excite the feelings of the French nation in our 
 behalf; and after our fall we still cherished the 
 hope of success, seeing the tendency of Europe 
 to republican forms of government and liberal 
 ideas. Our countrymen from Gallicia, which, at 
 first, was their shelter, came to France, preferring 
 exile to the amnesty of a despot. The great num- 
 ber of those who had been members of the 
 national government, in the revolution, remained 
 
56 
 
 in Paris as the representatives of the Polish 
 people, as the living protestation against the ty- 
 ranny of Nicholas. They formed a committee, 
 which served as a government for the emigrants, 
 and as an organ of national feelings. 
 
 Thus, the emigration from Galiicia to France, 
 was immense. Galiicia, though belonging to 
 Austria, is, however, a Polish province, and those 
 who fled there, found open doors at the houses 
 of their parents and friends. The tyranny of 
 Nicholas even obliged many of those who had 
 the simplicity to believe in his amnesty, to leave 
 the country and seek more secure shelter in Gal- 
 iicia. Thus, the emigration was divided in two 
 parts, one remaining in France, another in Galii- 
 cia. The latter were almost at home. The 
 junction of these two parties, by secret corres- 
 pondence, was very useful. Our committee could 
 inform us of the state of feeling that was abroad 
 among the nations of Europe, and we, in the 
 mean time, were exciting the spirit of the people 
 in the heart of the country, animating the dispirit- 
 ed, elevating the depressed, and preparing all for 
 another revolution. The Austrian government, 
 seeing the tendency of our measures, waited only 
 for a pretence to exile us from Galiicia. In 1832, 
 the Austrian Emperor, ordered every Polish 
 emigrant to present himself at the police and give 
 
57 
 
 his decision, whether he would return to Russia 
 or take his passport to France. Thus, many 
 were obliged to leave Gallicia. The small num- 
 ber that remained were scarcely known to the 
 government, and remained under the particular 
 protection of their friends. In 1833, the emi- 
 grants in France projected the Partisan's war. 
 This was to be the sign to all the enchained 
 nations of Europe, to arise and go forth against 
 their oppressors. This bold project was executed 
 but in part. The reasons are little known to me. 
 Disturbances again commenced in Poland. Many 
 emissaries were sent to Gallicia from our com- 
 patriots in France, and many emigrants of Gal- 
 licia, joined the war of the Partisans. The go- 
 vernment of Austria again became alarmed, and 
 issued orders to all Polish emigrants to leave Gal- 
 licia immediately. Those who came not willingly 
 to the office of the police, were taken from the 
 houses of their friends by the force of arms, and 
 conducted, under strong guards, to the Moravian 
 city, Brun; with orders to wait there for the ar- 
 rival of their passports to France, which were to 
 come from Vienna. But, instead of that, we were 
 taken to a prison, and told that the countries of 
 Europe would not receive us ; and that we must 
 go to America, or return to Russia. To this we 
 made an opposition, insisting on joining our com- 
 
58 
 
 rades in France. But France, indeed, wished not 
 to receive us. Our hearts trembled to leave all 
 our hopes in Europe, to be unable to share the 
 hardships of war with our compatriots, in the re- 
 surrection of Poland. The struggle was painful, 
 but our resolution was soon taken. We deter- 
 mined rather to cross the ocean than return to a 
 country that was no more ours. We decided to 
 go. The Austrians ordered us to write our reso- 
 lution, to show, afterwards, to Europe, that our 
 decision was voluntary ; but we almost all wrote, 
 44 that our will is to go to France, but as we are 
 told that that government refuses to receive us, 
 then, obliged by the Austrian government, we 
 must go to America." We then proceeded to 
 Trieste, whence we sailed. The rest of our his- 
 tory is but too well known. 
 
 To show some characteristics of our emigration 
 In France, I will cite some quotations from a work 
 of Mickiewicz, called 44 The books of the Polish 
 nation and the Polish Pilgrimage." It is written 
 in the style of the Holy Scriptures ; so impressive 
 and yet so simple, as to be understood by the 
 most common intellects, and indeed, this is the 
 purpose of the work. 
 
 " The soul of the Polish nation is the Polish 
 pilgrimage, and the Pole in his pilgrimage is not 
 
59 
 
 called a wanderer, for the wanderer is one that 
 roams without a purpose. 
 
 " Neither an exile ; for an exile is one banished 
 by his own legislature, and the Pole is not exiled 
 by his own legislature. 
 
 " The Pole has not yet his name in his pilgrim- 
 age, but it will be given to him afterwards, as it 
 was afterwards given to the exiles of Christ. 
 
 ' And in the mean time, a Pole is called a pil- 
 grim, for he made a vow to wander to a holy land, 
 to a free native country, and he will wander till 
 he find it." 
 
 Christ said, " those who follow me must leave 
 father and mother, and risk their lives for me." 
 
 " The Polish pilgrim says, ' Who would seek 
 freedom, must leave his country and risk his life 
 for her.' 
 
 " Because he who dwells in his country, and 
 suffers slavery, will leave his country and his life ; 
 and he who leaves his country to defend freedom 
 with his life, he will recover his native country, 
 and will live for ever/' 
 
 To show yet more, the spirit of hope and con- 
 stancy in my countrymen, I will give the address 
 of the Polish committee, when some of their com. 
 panions, disheartened with their misfortunes, had 
 determined to return to Poland. 
 
60 
 
 ADDRESS 
 
 OF THE POLISH COMMITTEE IN PARIS, TO THE 
 POLISH EMIGRANTS. 
 
 Warriors and Countrymen ! 
 
 Once more fate has thrown our country 
 beneath the feet of her enraged foe ; once more 
 our countrymen must bow their necks to a leader 
 of slaves, the murderer of freedom. Once more, 
 on the hand of a free Pole, the iron of a despot 
 will print the emblem of slavery ; once more it is 
 a vice to call ourselves Polanders. 
 
 This fate was prepared for us by procrastination 
 and treachery. For where can the enemy boast 
 of the triumph of their arms ? What field was a 
 witness of their valour ? When has a Pole fled 
 before a Russian ? 
 
 But although they felt, for your leaders had 
 not as you had, a strong hope in the resurrection 
 of the country, instead of believing in their own 
 strength, instead of hope, even after so many 
 victories, they only waited the intervention of 
 strangers, or wished to conciliate you, (against the 
 will of the people,) with your foe. 
 
 Your arms have been weakened by delay, for 
 when the enemy, in the fear of total destruction. 
 
61 
 
 fled before you, he was saved by the ordered ces- 
 sation of hostilities ; and he, whom your arms 
 might have driven to the Dnieper, remained on 
 the banks of the Vistula. 
 
 After, wishing to extinguish that fire which 
 animated you in the midst of battles, they permit- 
 ted him to cross the Vistula, and to ravage the 
 country, and when you would have driven back 
 the invader, they ordered you as in derision, to 
 defend yourselves within the walls. There hor- 
 rible treachery divides the army ; to finish this 
 work, born of the darkness of hell, they jest with 
 your holiest feelings, and would put you you, 
 freemen ! in chains, and give you to the hands of 
 the oppressor. Your hearts trembled at the thought 
 of the future. -What ! shame on the forehead of 
 a Pole ? No never ! He may tear asunder the 
 tenderest ties, spill the heart's blood, but the blush 
 of shame dies not his cheek. You preferred exile 
 to shame ; you came to a foreign country, for 
 there, where your ancestors breathed a free air, 
 you would not die slaves. Your eyes would meet 
 faces that scorned your misfortunes. The tyrant 
 of Poland would order you to name that your na- 
 tive country ; he would order you to kiss his hand, 
 red with the blood of your brothers, and to call 
 him your deliverer from anarchy, demagogues and 
 insurgents. 
 
 6 
 
62 
 
 There is no native country where freedom is 
 not. The sun rises not for the slave, the earth is 
 not adorned for him, and his food is changed to 
 poison. Before such disgrace, you fled, brethren. 
 The black bread and fresh water, to you was a 
 sweet repast, when it was not moistened by tears 
 of shame and sorrow. 
 
 But let us breathe more freely after the weight 
 of such remembrances ; let our eyes be cheered 
 by the bright prospects of the future ; let our 
 thoughts be elevated with this blessed hope. 
 Hear you not the prayers of Europe and America 
 for our cause, hear you not the songs of praise 
 addressed to you. Every where is heard the 
 voice of respect and astonishment at your deeds ; 
 every where hospitable doors are thrown open to 
 the Pole, for his wandering is trouble. And in 
 that wandering let us be constant to the end. This 
 will be the last experiment of our strength. The 
 nation cannot perish entirely. Our language yet 
 lives, our customs and our religion, and the me- 
 mory of our greatness has not departed. The 
 memory of the Polish lordship over those who 
 now enchain our country, is not yet effaced. 
 Our swords are not yet broken the Polish steed 
 will yet bound beneath the weight of the Polish 
 warrior and the lances of our lancers, and Krakus, 
 
63 
 
 the star of liberty, will yet sparkle. The return 
 of a revenging fate is not afar. 
 
 Then, return not as slaves to the land where 
 you can return as victors, return not to the land 
 polluted by the feet of the Bachker.* Let not 
 the hand of a free Pole embrace the hand of a 
 slave of despotism. The time will come, when 
 the voice of a trumpet shall call you again to your 
 native plains. There the graves of your murder- 
 ed biethren will open, and avengers shall rise 
 from their bones. Let us invoke their shades, 
 but with sword in hand, for in no other way will 
 they recognize us, and if they see our shame, 
 their groans would say before heaven that we, 
 with our cowardice had troubled their last repose. 
 
 Let the independent and free Poland of Jagel- 
 lons, or eternal death, be our cry ! 
 
 * The savage tribes of Siberia. They were in the 
 Russian army, and distinguished themselves by their 
 robberies and great cruelties. 
 
APPENDIX, 
 
 CONTAINING A SHORT NOTICE OF UKRAINE AND 
 PODOLIA. 
 
 Ukraine, one of the most beautiful provinces of 
 Poland, lies in the southern part, bounded on one 
 side by Podolia, and on the other by Russia. Its 
 boundaries were not limited on the south ; each 
 war formed and destroyed them ; sometimes it 
 extended even to the Black sea. Ukraine, which 
 contains even now many large and deserted 
 prairies, called by Mickiewicz, the dry oceans, 
 was formerly of a wild and desert-like appearance, 
 and inhabited principally by the Cossacks. 
 
 The commencement of the history of these wild 
 Knights of the Desert, is very strange. Some 
 islands lying in the Dnieper, became the retreat 
 of all the outlaws of Poland and Russia. They 
 formed a kind of chivalric order, if it may be called 
 so; they never married, and sustained themselves 
 by robbery. However, they robbed only the 
 Turks and Tartars ; they acknowledged the autho- 
 rity of the Polish King, and were of great assist- 
 ance to Poland. King Stephen Batory, seeing 
 
65 
 
 their numbers increasing to such extent, formed 
 them into a more regular body, in order that they 
 might act as sentinels on the frontiers of Turkey 
 and Tartary. He also gave them for their capital, 
 the castle Trechtymirovv, and granted them many 
 other privileges. Thus, under the protection of 
 the laws, their number was increased by all the 
 adventurers from the surrounding country. Their 
 strength consisted principally in their cavalry, 
 though every Cossack could fight equally on foot 
 as on horseback. But as the Tartars, the Cos- 
 sack life and death was on horseback. Living 
 such a wild life and cherishing such savage feel- 
 ings, the love of freedom became a common sen- 
 timent, and as in one of their songs : 
 
 " The Cossack never knew a Lord ; from a 
 man he became a bird of the desert, for he has 
 grown on horseback. He weeps not, he knows 
 nothing of long speeches, he knows nothing of the 
 things of heaven, and on earth he knows nothing 
 but blood." 
 
 They distinguished themselves in our wars with 
 the Turks and Russians. Sometimes in their 
 light canoes, they crossed the Black Sea and fed 
 the banks of Asia Minor with blood and fire. 
 They went even to Constantinople and the em- 
 peror of Turkey has beheld from the windows of 
 his seraglio, the city wrapt in flames by Cossacks. 
 6* 
 
66 
 
 They were also distinguished in that war, in 
 which, after the battle of Klusin, three Russian 
 czars were made prisoners by the Polish chief. 
 Their light cavalry penetrated even to Asia, and 
 they were always cruel, victorious and savage. 
 But this was almost the last action in which they 
 assisted Poland. Robbery was their chief occupa- 
 tion, and with their unquiet spirit, having no other 
 object but plunder, they robbed Poland itself. Per- 
 haps too severe measures were taken to subdue 
 them, having as they did, such ideas of savage 
 liberty, they were not to be conquered at once. 
 They were taken by the Polish nobility as the 
 peasant, but they soon had their revenge. A 
 petty circumstance gave them the opportunity to 
 rebel. One Czaplicki, a Polish nobleman, se- 
 duced the wife of Bohdan (Jhmielnicki the Cos- 
 sack chief. The wounded pride and love of the 
 Cossack, remained not long unrevenged. He be- 
 came the leader of a rebellion, and in a short time 
 Czaplicki was cruelly murdered, Podolia and Vol- 
 hynia drowned in blood and tears. Bohdan join- 
 ed to the qualities of a greot general the cruelty of a 
 savage. The Polish general, the prince Wisznio- 
 wiecki, was forced to entrench himself in his cas- 
 tle, and King John Casmir was obliged to go to 
 his assistance. But Bohdan went against him, and 
 he was left entirely at the mercy of the Cossack 
 
67 
 
 chief. A treaty was made, but it continued but 
 for a short time. Chmielnicki rebelled again, 
 and again Podolia, Ukraine, and all the south of 
 Poland, was deluged in blood. The war was 
 carried on with cruelties on both sides ; we may 
 judge of it by the following example : When a 
 town in Ukraine was besieged and taken by the 
 enemy, a woman placed herself on a barrel of 
 gunpowder and fired it, singing at the same time. 
 This fact speaks more than books of reasoning, 
 on despair and cruelty. At last, on the fields of 
 Boremle, a small town in Volhynia, the fate of two 
 armies were to be decided. This bloody battle 
 continued ten days, and resulted in the victory of 
 the Poles, and the destruction of 30,000 Cossacks. 
 Bohdan, soon after this decisive battle, placed him- 
 self under the protection of Russia and refused 
 ours. Such are the circumstances by which we 
 lost that warlike tribe, so useful to our country. 
 Some remains of them, enslaved and degenerated, 
 remained yet in Ukraine. The cruel policy of 
 Russia, always harassing Poland, continued to ex- 
 cite those remains to insurrection and robbery. 
 Gonta, an outlaw, celebrated in popular songs for 
 his cruelty, became the leader of a rebellion. 
 Zluman, a city of Ukraine, in one night, was 
 plundered, its inhabitants murdered, and the un- 
 fortunate Podolia became again the theatre of 
 
68 
 
 bloodshed and distress. We had no army in that 
 part of the country, and Russia, artfully offered 
 us assistance, and sent troops there, but the assis- 
 tant was worse than the enemy, and the Polish 
 people repeat yet the name of Colonel Drewicz, 
 the leader of the Russians, with the greatest of 
 horor. At length the sleeping spirit of our coun- 
 try arose, after the fatigues of war, and entered in- 
 to the confederation of Bar. In this confederation 
 the family of Pulaski, the bishop Krasinski and 
 others, began a war against the Russians and the 
 King of Poland, who was under their protection. 
 This war was frequently renewed, and in it fell 
 all the family of Pulaski, except Casimir, who 
 remained always at the head of the opposition. 
 The result of that confederation was too dreadful 
 for us. It ended in the first division of Poland, 
 between Russia, Prussia, and Austria, and the 
 banishment of Pulaski. He came to America, 
 served in the army of Washington, and died as 
 the hero of the battle of Savannah. The fate of 
 Colonel Drewicz is unknown, and bis glory re- 
 recorded only with his cruelties. 
 
 Such was the fate of Ukraine. Of Podolia, I 
 will yet speak. It was the cradle of my child- 
 hood, the spot where the first flowers of my youth- 
 ful thoughts expanded. 
 
 It is a lovely, beautiful fertile and romantic conn- 
 
69 
 
 try ; and in ancient times, it was called the granary 
 of Poland. But a happy fate was not for Podo- 
 lia. Lying on the frontiers of Turkey, it has 
 always been the theatre of cruel scenes, from the 
 ravages of the Turks, Tartars and Cossacks. In 
 the 17th century, a great part of it, together with 
 its capital, Kamienniec, was subdued by the Turks, 
 and neither the sword of John Sobieski, nor the 
 valour of its inhabitants could deliver it. At last 
 the King, Augustus II., regained it by treaty. 
 Kamienniec has yet some relics of the Turks, 
 which give it a foreign and oriental cast. The old 
 castle of Kamienniec, now in ruins, speaks with 
 its dark stones of yet darker times, and stands as 
 a spectre amid the green trees that surround it. 
 
 The misfortunes of Podolia, have imprinted 
 their traces on its inhabitants. The people have a 
 fantastic, romantic and poetic character. It may 
 be said, with truth, that Podolia is to Poland, as 
 Scotland is to England. No people are so preju- 
 diced as the peasantry of Podolia. The church- 
 yards are full of ghosts and vampires ; every grave 
 in the field and every cross, is consecrated by 
 some legend. If you ask the Podolian peasant of 
 the plague, he will tell you that a woman has pass- 
 ed there in a white dress, with one hand waving 
 the habiliments of the grave, with the other hold- 
 ing a black handkerchief and she is the plague. 
 
70 
 
 None of them die without the prophesy of the 
 owl's cry or the dog's groan. 
 
 Podolia, in the second division of Poland, was 
 changed to a Russian province. In the revolution 
 it revolted, but without the assistance of the regu- 
 lar troops, and the insurrection soon subsided. 
 
 I close by a song, alluding to the time that Po- 
 dolia was subject to Turkey : 
 
 THE INSURRECTION. 
 
 Sons of Podolia rise ! 
 'Tis time to burst your chains ! 
 
 For o'er your homes and lives, 
 A Turkish tyrant reigns. 
 
 Who loves his bleeding land, 
 Who worships Liberty 
 
 Rise ! burst the galling band, 
 Rise ! and be free ! 
 
 Brothers, arise, arise ! 
 Your breast shall be a shield, 
 
 Your arms and strength, shall be 
 The weapons you shall wield. 
 
 What to a fearless breast, 
 Can be those hosts of hell ? 
 
 Though they shall pour out blood 
 And write their laws with steel. 
 
71 
 
 Misfortune's chosen sons, 
 Ye nourished by despair, 
 
 Unsheath your faithful swords, 
 And on to war once more. 
 
 Leave those that round ye weep, 
 Leave home and friends once more ; 
 
 That sword though dimmed with tears, 
 Shall glow with Turkish gore. 
 
 Arise ! your toils shall give 
 Peace to your country's breast, 
 
 Freedom to those ye love, 
 And to your fireside rest. 
 
 Brothers, arise, arise ! 
 And let the tyrants see, 
 
 Upon Podolia's plain 
 A shrine to liberty. 
 
 The body of our foes 
 The offering shall be, 
 
 And o'er the Cecoran* fields, 
 Their blood shall wander free. 
 
 Brothers, arise, arise ! 
 Your breasts shall be a shield, 
 
 Your arms and strength, shall be 
 The weapons you shall wield. 
 
 ZABOROWSKI. 
 
 * A place celebrated by the death of a Polish chief 
 murdered by the Turks. 
 
72 
 SONG. 
 
 The bastions of Kamienniec lie 
 
 Wrapt in the drapery of night, 
 And the pale moon their sentinel, 
 
 Beneath the waves has hid her light. 
 
 'Tis dark and silent. Here and there 
 
 Is heard some sound, some voice suppressed, 
 
 That seems to call departed shades, 
 
 Back from their homes of dreamless rest. 
 
 A sad'ning influence steals o'er me, 
 
 As if upon my spirit's strings, 
 Unseen, angelic fingers play, 
 
 And of Podolia's sorrows sings. 
 
 Her hope has fled. Where gleamed free swords, 
 Now clanks the chain and groans the slave, 
 
 Where Freedom's standard once unfurled, 
 The flags of mourning sadly wave. 
 
YA 0754