about the Battle of Stoczek.

After the revolution of the 29th of November(1), I decided to join the
ranks, and I pondered, whether to the infantry, or to the cavalry? To make
a definite choice, I ran through the streets of Warsaw, eyeing closely the
uniforms of several regiments. I stopped ahead of a battalion of
grenadiers, who marched in tight rows, silently, in order and seriously.
Each moustachiod, with chevrons on his shoulders. These were the remains
of the Napoleonic legions. As they passed, they were yielded to with the
utmost respect, and they were whispering in the crowd: "There are my
soldiers! there are our defenders!" I envy them, I thought, it's a
beautiful thing to be a grenadier! And I approached the division, and
having taken the place beside the drummer, I marched in the grenadiers'
step, singling out the commander, to whom I immediately wished to offer my
services.

Suddenly, on the other side of the street, a new military meteor appeared
to me. He was a Krakus(2) on a white horse, in a white _sukmana_(3), in a
red cap with a white feather, which cut like a swan through black waves of
crowding townsfolk. He turned his horse beautifully; he welcomed
pedestrians with a nod, with cavalrymen squeezed hands, and to beautiful
ladies, standing in windows, sent grateful kisses. All eyes turned towards
him; men clapped, women smiled in silence; and the beautiful Krakus became
the god of the moment.

It came to my mind right away, that a Krakus' uniform at my age and height
would suit me better, and so my true calling manifested itself: God had
made me a Krakus!

So I turned in the direction of the cavalry barracks; but halfway across
the road I fell into the immeasurable crowd who captured me into itself
and bore towards the tollbooths. The people pressed to meet the newly
approaching rows. A stranger figure rode at the front; it was it is an old
Capuchin in habit and on a horse, in one hand a lance and the other
blessing people with a cross, who kissed his legs. Behind the Capuchin
followed a thousand archers from the Augustow forests. They had slung
double-barrelled guns and badger skin bags with claws and bared teeth,
whitening on green jackets. Another thousand villagers, armed with crooked
scythes and axes, brought up the rear of the procession. Never had the
entrance of the most beautiful regiments, even the entrance of Prince
Jozef at the head of victorious legions, aroused such enthusiasm, as this