followed the wars and conquests in
Europe, but in the Great West, conquered by labor and
enterprise, all is progress and unexampled prosperity."

There are numerous other passages tempting us to translate them, but
our space is already exhausted, and we forbear.

* * * * *

We have already taken occasion to commend the _Tausend und ein Tag im
Orient_ (Thousand and One Days in the East) by BODENSTEDT, the
well-known author of the Wars of the Circassians. No writer gives so
just an insight into the character of that portion of the great Oriental
family which he visited--the Circassians and Georgians. The second part
of his present book (lately published at Berlin) contains some
interesting criticisms of a Tartar poet, whom Bodenstedt knew at Tiflis,
upon European poetry. Our traveller, partly by way of practice in the
Tartar language, and partly to inspire his eastern friend with greater
respect for the bards of the Occident, used to translate English and
German songs into Tartar. Mirza Shaffy, the name of the Tartar sage and
poet, proved himself no contemptible critic of these foreign
productions. Not once could he be induced to tolerate a poem whose only
merit was the beauty and melody of its language in the original, nor to
swallow the mere sentimentalism which plays so great a part in German
poetry especially. This sentimentalism, says Bodenstedt, is as unknown
as it is unintelligible to the Oriental poet. He aims always at a real
and tangible object, and in gaining it puts heaven and earth in motion.
No image is too remote, no thought too lofty for his purpose. The new
moon is a golden shoe for the hoof of his heroes' steed. The stars are
golden nails, with which the Lord has fastened the sky, lest it should
fall with admiration and desire for his fair one. The cypresses and
cedars grow only to recall the lithe and graceful form of Selma. The
weeping willow droops her green hair to the water, grieving because she
is not slender like Selma. The eyes of his beloved are suns which make
all the faithful fire-worshippers. The sun itself is but a gleaming
lyre, whose beams are golden strings, whence the dawn draws the
loveliest accords to the praise of the earth's beauty and the power of
love.

Mirza Shaffy was a great lover of Moore and Byron, and some of their
songs which were translated needed no explanation to render them
intelligible to him. Wolfe's marvellous poem on the