When the first rays of the dawn gilded the lofty crescents, they were greeted with the wonted cry from the minarets which sustained them," God is one God, and Mahomet is his Prophet. To prayers! To prayers!" But there was something sad and mournful in that cry, for it was the last assertion of the Prophet's power in Spain. Evening was to see those crescents thrown ignominiously down, and the cross erected far above. As The lofty Alhambra soon caught the rays of the ascending sun.. those rays glanced among its glittering fountains, its slender pillars, and its marble courts, or buried themselves in the intricacies of the elaborate work which covered its walls, they seemed to sport for very glee, that they had found so lovely a spot. But they were not now greeted with the lighthearted song of the Moorish maidens, nor the merry tinkling of their cymbals, for there was sadness in the palace; there was sadness in the city; there was desolation in the plain; for hostile armies had girt that city round-War and Famine had done their work. The sun had scarcely drank the dew, when, from a postern-gate of the Alhambra, there issued a mournful band. At its head was he who had been king in Granada. Sad, indeed, were his thoughts, as he passed through those now desolate suburbs, leaving forever the city of his pride, and the realm of his fathers. He thought, no doubt, of the spirit which had impelled Musa to spur his steed into the Atlantic, indignant that it should check his career of conquest of the days when the followers of Taric had mown down the Christians, like corn before the sickle. But those days had past. For eight centuries the scimetar had striven with the lance of Christendom for that fair land. Three thousand and seven hundred terrible contests had deluged its plains with blood. Fiercely had the Moors contested every inch of that ground. They had made a battle-field of every defile-a siege of every mountain-castle. But, one by one, those passes had been forced, and one by one those castles had fallen. And now nothing remained but the royal city; and around that the resolute besiegers had reared a camp, not of canvas, nor of reeds-but of stone. Resistance was now hopeless, and Boabdil was bearing with him to the Christian camp the keys of his fallen city—all that now remained of the Moslem's domain in the sunny Peninsula. As he approached the camp, he was met by a glittering cavalcade, for Ferdinand and Isabella, attended by the chivalry of Spain, had come forth to meet him. To them he humbly delivered his trust, and hurried on from so painful a scene. He had not proceeded far in his weary way, before the cry of "Santiago" burst from the Christian ranks; for the silver cross and the penon of St. James had appeared above the city, for which they had fought so long. Once more that cry rent the heavens, and now its burden was "Castile," for the royal banner of Spain floated above the red towers of the Alhambra. And then, with joyful shouts and bursts of triumphal music, with waving banners and splendid armor flashing in the sun, the Christian army advanced towards the fallen city. We cannot The imagination turns cloyed and sated from a description of the splendid scene. Let us then seek relief in noticing an humble follower of the train. He was a poor, old man-a despised foreigner. The proud hidalgoes of the court looked upon him with contempt; yet he had come to claim honors above them all. For him that imposing. spectacle had no attractions-his imagination was busy with prouder scenes. He thought of himself as roaming through groves of spicesin a land whose waters were thick with pearls, whose streams flowed with gold, and glittered with diamonds. Then he seemed in a palace, worthy of the monarch of such a realm, receiving the allegiance tendered by that monarch to the Lord High Admiral and Viceroy of the Indies. And having returned with a fleet laden with untold wealth, he thought he had already hired the chivalry of Christendom to aid him in rescuing the Holy Sepulchre from the insulting Infidel. but pity the anxiety with which he allowed even his last moments to be troubled concerning the honors he did acquire; for the reputation of the enterprising mariner, CHRISTOPHER COLUMBUS, has long outlived the titled family of Christoval Colon. For this was the man, who, as Irving has expressed it, "begged his way from court to court, to offer to princes the discovery of a world." But as he laid him down that evening, to dream his golden dreams again, and thought of the long years he had spent in useless effort, he scarcely dared to hope that the sun he had just seen set was at the same time rising on what was to be, ere the return of that anniversary, the scene of his success. Yet so it was. His ships did not return from lands already known to exist, laden with baubles to corrupt the Civilized World; but he found a Continent fit for its use. He found no Great Khan or Prester John to do him reverence; but, thanks to his enterprise, we are here this day. Many a sun has since that morning risen and set. Many a circling year has told its tale of the mutability of all things human. The Alhambra still throws its rugged shadow on the bosom of the gentlyflowing Zenel, its very ruins reminding the admiring traveler of the creations ascribed to the genii of Eastern fable. But those sovereigns have disappeared, with their proud array; yet they are not forgotten. Often, as the Spanish muleteer carelessly threads the defiles, which once the treacherous ambush choked with heaps of slaughtered men, does he cheer his weary way by recalling the legends, that tradition has taught him, of the romantic and instructive history of his unhappy country. Oft does he relieve his solitude with a ballad of by-gone times. "There was crying in Granada when the sun was going down, Here passed away the Koran,-and there the cross was borne- And here was heard the Christian bell,—and there the Moorish horn. "Te Deum Laudamus! was up the Alcala sung; Down from Alhambra's minarets were all the crescents flung. The arms thereon of Aragon they with Castile's display, One king comes in triumph,-one weeping goes away. "Thus cried the weeper, while his hands his old white breast did tear, Woe! woe! thou pride of heathendom! Seven hundred years, and more, "The gardens of thy Vega-its fields and blooming bowers,— Woe! woe! I see their beauty gone and scattered all their flowers. No reverence can he claim-the king that such a land has lost; One charger never can he ride, or be heard among the host; "But in some dark and dismal place, where none his face may see, GENIUS VERSUS PRINCIPLE FEW Principles have ever been more universally adopted, than the one implied in our title. It refers to the opinion that the possession of Genius is in some manner incompatible with a strict adherence to principle; that the two are not homogeneous, and that when they do occur together, it is an exception to a general rule. The existence of such a prejudice will not be denied; its general prevalence, except among the liberal and enlightened, and its powerful sway over those who receive it, are equally palpable. Popular prejudices, indeed, are remarkable for these characteristics. Whatever be their origin, once having gained a foothold, it is a far-reaching and a strong one. Whether they are excited by mistaken religious views, the offspring of a blind zeal and a contracted charity; whether they are the results of inaccurate observation, or the fruits of hasty and irregular conclusions; once established, thy take root in the constitution of the mind itself. They grow with the increase of its powers, and if in themselves of sufficient importance, gradually usurp the position and authority of intuitive truths. The extent to which they prevail corresponds to the importance of the doctrine they inculcate. At first suggesting themselves to the minds of a few, they are gradually communicated to others; silently, but surely, the sphere of their influence extends, until at length what once but vaguely presented itself to individuals, becomes strong grounds of belief to the mass. All acknowledge, all act upon them; and too often are they made the sole basis of trains of reasoning and courses of action, no less removed than their source from the standard of true propriety. Their progress to such a pitch of power is unperceived by their subject; like the mephitic vapor of the mines, insensibly they gain upon the unwary, until the guide-lamp of reason is forever extinguished, and the true life of the soul gives place to hopeless insensibility. Such being the usual course of popular prejudices, we cannot wonder at their general incorrectness. It were strange, indeed, that the hasty conclusions of the vulgar, from grounds either insufficient or irrelevant, should partake of the accuracy which pertains to the results of deep and patient thought. With them a hasty glance takes the place of a thorough investigation; relations the most artificial and absurd are deduced from the most accidental associations. But when the light of truth and reason illumines the subject, these airy phantoms of a misguided judgment disappear with the mental darkness which gave them birth. It may be useful occasionally to examine such opinions, not less for the exercise itself, than to arrive at the actual truth-since every exposure of error must tend to confirm the mind in the love of truth, and every new exertion adds increased ability and resources to aid us in its search. Is it true, then, that Genius and Principle are so different, so antagonistic in their natures, that with the increase of the one the other must diminish? Must we look among those whom the Creator has endowed with mind superior to their brethren, for the most striking examples of human frailty and imperfection? What are the spontaneous promptings of the heart in answer to such an inquiry? Do we not shrink from the thought? Who can contemplate the very idea without a feeling of sadness and gloom stealing over him? Sad indeed were the belief that the luscious fruit of knowledge should still bring with it a curse; bitter reflection to the lover of his race that the mind in which shone forth most clearly the impress of its Divine Maker, should most distort the image of his moral perfection! Can it be that the Author of all good should affix to the noblest of his work a stigma so dreadful? How far preferable, then, the limited faculties of the merest boor to the gigantic intellect of a Newton! However circumscribed our powers, they would at least be attuned in harmony with their great Original, and their proportions justly preserved, though on a narrow scale. Little to be desired were abilities which should defeat their own noblest ends,-or resources only the more fearful as they were vast. Let us see if investigation will prove more favorable to this theory. What is Genius? It has often been defined, but a form of words can convey little real knowledge of its nature. Ask the POET in what he differs from his fellows. Follow his thoughts as he looks out upon the world, and gather from them the character of his mind. There is nought around him but has its interest; nought so common but in it he finds something worthy of his attention. As he rambles musingly over hill and dale, his eyes now upturned to heaven, now cast down to earth in deep meditation, what is it thus engrosses his mind? What is it glistens in his eye, as he silently watches the sports of the innocent animals around him, or listens with hushed delight to the melody of the happy birds? What peculiar charm meets his glance in that modest little flower, so meekly bending its tiny petals before the foot of every careless wanderer? Observe him as he whiles away the midnight hours in silent converse with the mighty dead-his brethren of ages long gone by; or yields his thoughts to "Him that yon soars aloft on golden wing, Guiding the fiery-wheeled throne The Cherub Contemplation." What lends that glow to his cheek, that unwonted fervor to his eye? It is the SPIRIT OF BEAUTY, beaming forth to meet his enraptured gaze, throughout the works of an all-perfect Creator! The Spirit of Beauty alike in all fashions the charm that binds his soul; for alike through the world of mind and of matter does its realm extend, and its earnest votary is the Poet. Quick in its perception-ardent in his devotion to its sway-herein consists his Genius. What is the master-spell with the Artist? Is it not, too, the Beautiful? His province, indeed, is more narrow than the Poet's, since it is only with the outward world that he is concerned. Ideal Beauty, as displayed in form and feature, or in the varying hues which Nature presents, is his material. He can but imitate the forms around him, or by combining their charms, fashion new embodiments of the same principle. But this is still the same in its nature; the spirit which breathes through the whole is ever the same. When we lose ourselves in that labyrinth of poetic beauty, Shelley's " Alastor," or revel in the mysterious luxuriance of "Christabel," the true source of our delight does not differ from that which so thrillingly sheds over us its sweet influence, as we gaze upon the Madonna's heavenly countenance. Sister-streams have nourished the exquisite blossoms of Geniussister-streams, alike fed from the sweet waters of beauty, welling up from all created things. But the tender flowerets of Poesy bend in their loveliness on its margin to catch the gentle murmurs of the onethe images of visible beauty are reflected from the placid bosom of the other. Once more. What kindles the impassioned words, the burning thoughts, that fall from the lips of the Orator? Behold him as he stands before his fellow-men, whether to instruct, to convince, or to persuade. Watch the changeful emotions that agitate his features; the heartfelt earnestness of his manner, his voice, his gesture. Listen to the fervid sentences that flash from his lips-like fiery meteors from the autumnal sky-burning deep into the very souls of his hearers. And above all, ponder upon the thoughts which they envelop,-the real source of all his own emotions, and no less of those which throb in their bosoms. This were not the place to recount the triumphs of the orator, or to depict the power of that eloquence which sways the vast multitude as the wintry blast bends the rushes by the river-side. It is not ours to dwell upon that mysterious influence, so peculiar to Genius, which most approaches the power of Him who turns men's hearts, and directs at his pleasure their stubborn wills; that influence, which, with more than the might of Israel's inspired deliverer, can melt the adamant of a callous heart, or raise up to noble emotions a soul groveling in the mire of sense. Others, and far worthier, have |