by misfortune, deterred me at the very time when this desire prompted me. I returned then to my first idea of occupying myself only with translations, and, accordingly, I translated into Polish: the Chaumière Indienne by Bernardin de St. Pierre; Johnson's Rasselas, Plutarch's Life of Cato of Utica, Pope's Rape of the Lock, Voltaire's Ce qui plaît aux Dames, and Racine's Tragedy Athalie. I began afterwards a Polish novel, under the title of Bielawski’s[1] Memoirs, of which I finished only two parts; I wrote nearly twenty fables in verse, and a tale in Swift's style, called the Cupboard. The latter was a satire against the foolish ambition and licentious life of the Empresses, but I soon burnt it. Lastly, I wrote an Eclogue between Russian shepherds, perhaps the strongest piece of irony and burlesque that my brain had ever brought forth. After my release, I gave those manuscripts to my friends Marshal Potocki and
- ↑ Bielawski, a poor versifier, who lived under the reign of Stanislaus-Augustus, was an object of ridicule and inexhaustible pleasantry among his contemporaries.
