"In Kosciusko's noble breast, how pure,
How bright, the patriotic flame burnt on,

'Midst toils and sufferings, e'en till quenched in death!
For Poland's weal he bravely lived and died;
For her his heart and pulse beat ever true:
And when her independence was at stake,
A diadem and proffered wealth he scorned.
How swelled his manly breast with manly pride,
When his broad camp was pitched on Voia's plain,
Where soon 'gainst odds threefold he won the day!
His generous spirit brooked no foreign rule;
For freemen's rights, 'neath freedom's flag he fought.
Unchanged the hero in each dire reverse,

Though doomed his country's ruin to survive,
And waste his weary days in captive gloom.

"After many conflicts, and repeated victories over superior forces, Kosciusko and his little band were overpowered by numbers. The 10th of October, 1794, was fatal to the patriots. The Russians, who had been joined by 40,000 Prussians, unknown to Kosciusko, were prevailing; and Poninski, who was expected every minute with reinforcements, not arriving, Kosciusko, at the head of his principal officers, made a grand charge into the midst of the enemy; he fell, covered with wounds, and all his companions were killed or taken prisoners. His inseparable friend, the amiable poet Niemcewitz, was among the latter number. He lay senseless among the dead, but notwithstanding the plainness of his attire, was at length recognized, and found still breathing. His name, even now, commanded respect from the Cossacks, who had been going to plunder him. They immediately formed a litter with. their lances, to carry him to their general, who ordered his wounds to be dressed, and treated him with the respect he merited. As soon as he was able to travel, he was conveyed to Petersburgh, where Catherine condemned him to perpetual imprisonment.

"The death of Catherine, in 1796, delivered the Poles from one of their most detestable tyrants. Paul, who, though ferocious and tyrannical in his latter years, appears in the early part of his reign to have been animated with generous sentiments, set Kosciusko at liberty, offered him a high military post, and gave him 1,500 serfs, and 12,000 roubles, as a testimony of his regard. But he declined the offer, and returned the presents, intending to go to America. All the Poles whom Catherine had imprisoned were liberated, and 12,000, who had been sent to Siberia, were allowed to return to their homes. This December, 1849.--VOL. LVI.—NO. CCLXXIV.

II

beneficence was more fatal to Polish independence than scores of Praga butcheries, as gratitude would keep the liberated Poles on an honourable parole. Kosciusko never drew his sword again."

It was in 1798 that he touched at England, on his passage to America. He staid some time at Bristol, in the house of M. Vanderhort, the foreign consul, where Dr. Warner had an interview with him, which he describes in his "Literary Recollections," and gives the following pleasing picture of the great man:

"I never contemplated a more interesting human figure than Kosciusko stretched upon his couch. His wounds were still unhealed, and he was unable to sit upright. He appeared to be a small man, spare and delicate; a black silk bandage crossed his fair and high, but somewhat wrinkled forehead; beneath it, his dark, eagle eye sent forth a stream of light, that indicated the steady flame of patriotism which still burned within his soul, unquenched by disaster and wounds, weakness, poverty and exile. Contrasted with its brightness was the paleness of his countenance, and the wan cast of every feature. He spoke very tolerable English, though in a low and feeble tone; but his conversation, replete with fine sense, lively remark, and sagacious answer, evinced a noble understanding and a cultivated mind. On rising to depart, I offered him my hand. He took it; my eyes filled with tears; he gave it a warm grasp. muttered something about brighter prospects and happier days.' He faintly smiled, and said, 'Ah, sir, he who devotes himself for his country must not look for his reward on this side the grave.'

The Days when we had Tails on us. London: Newman and Co. THIS is an amusing little brochure, written by a gentleman who has frequently enriched our pages with contributions full of wit and worth. The introduction into the army of the shell jacket is still fresh in our readers' minds. Against this innovation one unanimous cry has been raised. Our author adopts the line of argument commonly called reductio ad absurdum, and shows, by help of most spirited coloured plates, and corresponding letter-press, that the change effected has been neither useful nor ornamental. In this he has succeeded admirably. We commend his production to all who feel and deplore the grievance here held up to public laughter. Our notice of it is somewhat late, but our copy was unfortunately mislaid.