back upon the officials, who, I must do them the justice to say, treated me personally with more politeness than I deserved, I addressed myself in the next place to General Bamberg, the military governor of Cracow. After repeated applications for an interview, which was persistently refused me, I at last, by a successful stratagem, forced this distinguished officer to an engagement of words with me, and received the assurance from his own lips that, without a single exception, he should send every foreigner in Cracow about his business, without the smallest regard to the circumstances under which he might be there. Being anxious to test whether this course would be followed to the letter, I went to call on a gentleman of my acquaintance, whose estates lie in Volhynia, and who had fled with his wife and child from the clutches of the Cossacks. On being admitted, I found my friend engaged in the one employment with which half Cracow was taken up at the moment-i.e. packing

up his trunk. In spite of the illness of his wife and child, about whom the doctor had given his opinion that a railway journey would be highly dangerous to them, this gentleman had received notice that he would not be permitted to prolong his stay in Cracow. General Bamberg even went the length of assuring me that he should not make an exception to the rule of indiscriminate expulsion from Galicia in the case of Count Maurice Potocki, one of the largest proprietors in Russian Poland, and who is also possessed of an estate in the district of Cracow, where he was residing at the time.

In the course of my conversation with General Bamberg, he politely informed me that he thought me a very

dangerous fellow, and that he knew I was in communication with the heads of the revolutionary party, from finding my card about persons arrested. That I had conversed, and exchanged cards with suspected individuals, was certainly true; but I could not see the logic of attributing their views to me, because in mere civility I had not withheld my card in exchange for theirs, when proffered to me.

Had General Bamberg not been good enough to spare me the trouble of coming to a decision of my own on the matter, I could hardly have made up my mind to stay another week in Cracow, so utterly intolerable was life in that city under a state of siege. It was impossible to stir abroad at any hour of the day or night without encountering patrols prowling about the streets, seeking whom they might devour. If they did not arrest you personally, they arrested all your friends, which was almost as bad, and eyed you in a most suspicious manner, as much as to say, "It will be your turn next." The whole town was "gated," and a guard stationed, not only at all the barriers, but at almost every point, whence an exit from Cracow was possible. Even if you attempted to pass the bridge over the Vistula to gain the suburb of Podgorze, or had occasion to cross in the ferry at the foot of the castle, you were collared by the inevitable sentry, and required to give an account of yourself. Bored to death with perambulating the illpaved streets from morn till eve, I made an effort, the day before I left Cracow, to gain the cemetery, by way of enjoying a little recreation; but there, too, I was pulled up by the guard. The fact of General Bem having passed out of Vienna in a coffin, in the year 1848,

"RESURRECTURIS."

A POEM FROM THE POLISH OF SIGISMUND KRASINSKI.

I SUPPOSE it may be taken for granted that ninety-nine Englishmen out of a hundred never so much as heard of the name of Sigismund Krasinski. Yet he would rank high among modern poets, were he not rendered well-ni inaccessible to fame by the language in which he wrote. At the same time, no one in any degree acquainted with Polish can fail to recognise in that language a richness and vigour, combined with a remarkable simplicity, hardly surpassed by the Greek. While Polish will go word for word into Greek, without any perceptible change of construction, and into English or German without suffering much violence, it refuses absolutely to be rendered into French. Yet the French is just the one language into which translators have hitherto tried to force it. It is said that the poet Mickiewicz, who disputes with Krasinski the first place in the estimation of his countrymen, after reading a French translation of his poems, laid the book down with a sigh, exclaiming that from henceforth he renounced all claim to be considered a poet.

It is, indeed, a matter of surprise that in these days,