Such was the personal appearance of Boabdil el Chico, the last of the Moorish dynasty in Spain.
"These scrolls of Arabian learning," said Boabdil to himself, "what do they teach?
to despise wealth and power, to hold the heart to be the true empire.

This, then, is wisdom.

Yet, if I follow these maxims, am I wise?
alas! the whole world would call me a driveller and a madman.

Thus is it ever; the wisdom of the Intellect fills us with precepts which it is the wisdom of Action to despise.

O Holy Prophet! what fools men would be, if their knavery did not eclipse their folly!" The young king listlessly threw himself back on his cushions as he uttered these words, too philosophical for a king whose crown sate so loosely on his brow.
After a few moments of thought that appeared to dissatisfy and disquiet him, Boabdil again turned impatiently round "My soul wants the bath of music," said he; "these journeys into a pathless realm have wearied it, and the streams of sound supple and relax the travailed pilgrim." He clapped his hands, and from one of the arcades a boy, hitherto invisible, started into sight; at a slight and scarce perceptible sign from the king the boy again vanished, and in a few moments afterwards, glancing through the fairy pillars, and by the glittering waterfalls, came the small and twinkling feet of the maids of Araby.