This was a thunderbolt to the imaginary pope. He immediately recovered from the trance, into which he had been thrown by the three mysterious words. He perceived that, instead of being in the vatican, he was still at Toledo, in the closet of don Torribio; and he saw, by the clock, it was not a complete hour since he entered that fatal cabinet, where he had been entertained by such pleasant dreams. In that short time the dean of Badajos had imagined himself a magician, a bishop, a cardinal, and a pope; and he found at last that he was only a dupe and a knave. All was illusion, except the proofs he had given of his deceitful and evil heart. He instantly departed, without speaking a single word, and finding his mule where he had left her, returned to Badajos. * * * * * ~Phrenology.~ _For the Table Book._ “You look but on the _outside_ of affairs.” KING JOHN. Oh! why do we wake from the alchymist’s dream To relapse to the visions of Doctor Spurzheim? And why from the heights of philosophy fall, For the profitless plans of Phrenology Gall? To what do they tend? What interest befriend? By disclosing all vices, we burn away shame, And virtuous endeavour Is fruitless for ever, If it lose the reward that self-teaching may claim. On their skulls let the cold-blooded theorists seek Indications of soul, which we read on the cheek; In the glance--in the smile--in the bend of the brow We dare not tell when, and we cannot tell how. More pleasing our task, No precepts we ask; ’Tis the tact, ’tis the instinct, kind Nature has lent, For the guide and direction of sympathy meant. And altho’ in our cause no learn’d lecturer proses, We reach the same end, thro’ a path strew’d with roses. ’Twixt the head and the hand, be the contact allow’d, Of the road thro’ the eye to the heart we are proud. When we feel like the brutes, like the brutes we may show it, But no lumps on the head mark the artist or poet. The gradations of genius you never can find, Since no matter can mark the refinements of mind. ’Tis the coarser perceptions alone that you trace, But what swells in the heart must be read in the face. That index of feeling, that key to the soul, No art can disguise, no reserve can control. ’Tis the Pharos of love, tost on oceans of doubt, ’Tis the Beal-fire of rage--when good sense _puts about_. As the passions may paint it--a heaven or a hell. And ’tis always a _study_--not _model_ as well. * * * * * TO THE RHONE _For the Table Book._