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98 pages, Paperback
First published January 1, 1836
One of the Pashas, a wizened old man, terribly fussy, was talking animatedly to our generals. Seeing me in a frock-coat, he asked who I was. Pushchin gave me the title of poet. The pasha folded his arms on his chest and bowed to me, saying through an interpreter: 'Blessed is the hour when we meet a poet. The poet is brother to the dervish. He possesses neither fatherland nor worldly goods; and while we, poor souls, fret about glory, power, and treasures, he stands equal with the rulers of the earth and they bow down to him.'