of　Dumas；　Henriot；　drunk　with　blood　and　alcohol；　reels　within；
  and　chucks　his　gory　sabre　on　the　floor。　　〃All　is　lost！〃
  〃Wretch！　thy　cowardice　hath　destroyed　us！〃　yelled　the　fierce
  Coffinhal；　as　he　hurled　the　coward　from　the　window。
  Calm　as　despair　stands　the　stern　St。　Just；　the　palsied　Couthon
  crawls；　grovelling；　beneath　table；　a　shot；an　explosion！
  Robespierre　would　destroy　himself！　　The　trembling　hand　has
  mangled；　and　failed　to　kill！　　The　clock　of　the　Hotel　de　Ville
  strikes　the　third　hour。　　Through　the　battered　door；　along　the
  gloomy　passages；　into　the　Death…hall；　burst　the　crowd。　　Mangled；
  livid；　blood…stained；　speechless　but　not　unconscious；　sits
  haughty　yet；　in　his　seat　erect；　the　Master…Murderer！　　Around　him
  they　throng；　they　hoot；they　execrate；　their　faces　gleaming　in
  the　tossing　torches！　　HE；　and　not　the　starry　Magian；　the　REAL
  Sorcerer！　　And　round　HIS　last　hours　gather　the　Fiends　he　raised！
  They　drag　him　forth！　　Open　thy　gates；　inexorable　prison！　　The
  Conciergerie　receives　its　prey！　　Never　a　word　again　on　earth
  spoke　Maximilien　Robespierre！　　Pour　forth　thy　thousands；　and　tens
  of　thousands；　emancipated　Paris！　　To　the　Place　de　la　Revolution
  rolls　the　tumbril　of　the　King　of　Terror；St。　Just；　Dumas；
  Couthon；　his　companions　to　the　grave！　　A　womana　childless
  woman；　with　hoary　hairsprings　to　his　side；　〃Thy　death　makes　me
  drunk　with　joy！〃　　He　opened　his　bloodshot　eyes；〃Descend　to　hell
  with　the　curses　of　wives　and　mothers！〃
  The　headsmen　wrench　the　rag　from　the　shattered　jaw；　a　shriek；　and
  the　crowd　laugh；　and　the　axe　descends　amidst　the　shout　of　the
  countless　thousands；　and　blackness　rushes　on　thy　soul；　Maximilien
  Robespierre！　　So　ended　the　Reign　of　Terror。
  。。。
  Daylight　in　the　prison。　　From　cell　to　cell　they　hurry　with　the
  news；crowd　upon　crowd；　the　joyous　captives　mingled　with　the
  very　jailers；　who；　for　fear；　would　fain　seem　joyous　too；　they
  stream　through　the　dens　and　alleys　of　the　grim　house　they　will
  shortly　leave。　　They　burst　into　a　cell；　forgotten　since　the
  previous　morning。　　They　found　there　a　young　female；　sitting　upon
  her　wretched　bed；　her　arms　crossed　upon　her　bosom；　her　face
  raised　upward；　the　eyes　unclosed；　and　a　smile　of　more　than
  serenityof　blissupon　her　lips。　　Even　in　the　riot　of　their
  joy；　they　drew　back　in　astonishment　and　awe。　　Never　had　they　seen
  life　so　beautiful；　and　as　they　crept　nearer；　and　with　noiseless
  feet；　they　saw　that　the　lips　breathed　not；　that　the　repose　was　of
  marble；　that　the　beauty　and　the　ecstasy　were　of　death。　　They
  gathered　round　in　silence；　and　lo！　at　her　feet　there　was　a　young
  infant；　who；　wakened　by　their　tread；　looked　at　them　steadfastly；
  and　with　its　rosy　fingers　played　with　its　dead　mother's　robe。　　An
  orphan　there　in　a　dungeon　vault！
  〃Poor　one！〃　said　a　female　（herself　a　parent）；　〃and　they　say　the
  father　fell　yesterday；　and　now　the　mother！　　Alone　in　the　world；
  what　can　be　its　fate？〃
  The　infant　smiled　fearlessly　on　the　crowd；　as　the　woman　spoke
  thus。　　And　the　old　priest；　who　stood　amongst　them；　said　gently；
  〃Woman；　see！　the　orphan　smiles！　　THE　FATHERLESS　ARE　THE　CARE　OF
  GOD！〃
  …
  NOTE。
  The　curiosity　which　Zanoni　has　excited　among　those　who　think　it
  worth　while　to　dive　into　the　subtler　meanings　they　believe　it
  intended　to　convey；　may　excuse　me　in　adding　a　few　words；　not　in
  explanation　of　its　mysteries；　but　upon　the　principles　which
  permit　them。　　Zanoni　is　not；　as　some　have　supposed；　an　allegory；
  but　beneath　the　narrative　it　relates；　TYPICAL　meanings　are
  concealed。　　It　is　to　be　regarded　in　two　characters；　distinct　yet
  harmonious；1st；　that　of　the　simple　and　objective　fiction；　in
  which　（once　granting　the　license　of　the　author　to　select　a
  subject　which　is；　or　appears　to　be；　preternatural）　the　reader
  judges　the　writer　by　the　usual　canons；namely；　by　the
  consistency　of　his　characters　under　such　admitted　circumstances；
  the　interest　of　his　story；　and　the　coherence　of　his　plot；　of　the
  work　regarded　in　this　view；　it　is　not　my　intention　to　say
  anything；　whether　in　exposition　of　the　design；　or　in　defence　of
  the　execution。　　No　typical　meanings　（which；　in　plain　terms　are
  but　moral　suggestions；　more　or　less　numerous；　more　or　less
  subtle）　can　afford　just　excuse　to　a　writer　of　fiction；　for　the
  errors　he　should　avoid　in　the　most　ordinary　novel。　　We　have　no
  right　to　expect　the　most　ingenious　reader　to　search　for　the　inner
  meaning；　if　the　obvious　course　of　the　narrative　be　tedious　and
  displeasing。　　It　is；　on　the　contrary；　in　proportion　as　we　are
  satisfied　with　the　objective　sense　of　a　work　of　imagination；　that
  we　are　inclined　to　search　into　its　depths　for　the　more　secret
  intentions　of　the　author。　　Were　we　not　so　divinely　charmed　with
  〃Faust；〃　and　〃Hamlet；〃　and　〃Prometheus；〃　so　ardently　carried　on
  by　the　interest　of　the　story　told　to　the　common　understanding；　we
  should　trouble　ourselves　little　with　the　types　in　each　which　all
  of　us　can　detect；none　of　us　can　elucidate；　none　elucidate；　for
  the　essence　of　type　is　mystery。　　We　behold　the　figure；　we　cannot
  lift　the　veil。　　The　author　himself　is　not　called　upon　to　explain
  what　he　designed。　　An　allegory　is　a　personation　of　distinct　and
  definite　things；virtues　or　qualities；and　the　key　can　be　given
  easily；　but　a　writer　who　conveys　typical　meanings；　may　express
  them　in　myriads。　　He　cannot　disentangle　all　the　hues　which
  commingle　into　the　light　he　seeks　to　cast　upon　truth；　and
  therefore　the　great　masters　of　this　enchanted　soil；Fairyland　of
  Fairyland；　Poetry　imbedded　beneath　Poetry；wisely　leave　to　each
  mind　to　guess　at　such　truths　as　best　please　or　instruct　it。　　To
  have　asked　Goethe　to　explain　the　〃Faust〃　would　have　entailed　as
  complex　and　puzzling　an　answer　as　to　have　asked　Mephistopheles　to
  explain　what　is　beneath　the　earth　we　tread　on。　　The　stores
  beneath　may　differ　for　every　passenger；　each　step　may　require　a
  new　description；　and　what　is　treasure　to　the　geologist　may　be
  rubbish　to　the　miner。　　Six　worlds　may　lie　under　a　sod；　but　to　the
  common　eye　they　are　but　six　layers　of　stone。
  Art　in　itself；　if　not　necessarily　typical；　is　essentially　a
  suggester　of　something　subtler　than　that　which　it　embodies　to　the
  sense。　　What　Pliny　tells　us　of　a　great　painter　of　old；　is　true　of
  most　great　painters；　〃their　works　express　something　beyond　the
  works；〃〃more　felt　than　understood。〃　　This　belongs　to　the
  concentration　of　intellect　which　high　art　demands；　and　which；　of
  all　the　arts；　sculpture　best　illustrates。　　Take　Thorwaldsen's
  Statue　of　Mercury；it　is　but　a　single　figure；　yet　it　tells　to
  those　conversant　with　mythology　a　whole　legend。　　The　god　has
  removed　the　pipe　from　his　lips；　because　he　has　already　lulled　to
  sleep　the　Argus；　whom　you　do　not　see。　　He　is　pressing　his　heel
  against　his　sword；　because　the　moment　is　come　when　he　may　slay
  his　victim。　　Apply　the　principle　of　this　noble　concentration　of
  art　to　the　moral　writer：　　he；　too；　gives　to　your　eye　but　a　single
  figure；　yet　each　attitude；　each　expression；　may　refer　to　events
  and　truths　you　must　have　the　learning　to　remember；　the　acuteness
  to　penetrate；　or　the　imagination　to　conjecture。　　But　to　a
  classical　judge　of　sculpture；　would　not　the　exquisite　pleasure　of
  discovering　the　all　not　told　in　Thorwaldsen's　masterpiece　be
  destroyed　if　the　artist　had　engraved　in　detail　his　meaning　at　the
  base　of　the　statue？　　Is　it　not　the　same　with　the　typical　sense
  which　the　artist　in　words　conveys？　　The　pleasure　of　divining　art
  in　each　is　the　noble　exercise　of　all　by　whom　art　is　worthily
  regarded。
  We　of　the　humbler　race　not　unreasonably　shelter　ourselves　under
  the　authority　of　the　masters；　on　whom　the　world's　judgment　is
  pronounced；　and　great　names　are　cited；　not　with　the　arrogance　of
  equals；　but　with　the　humility　of　inferiors。
  The　author　of　Zanoni　gives；　then；　no　key　to　mysteries；　be　they
  trivial　or　important；　which　may　be　found　in　the　secret　chambers
  by　those　who　lift　the　tapestry　from　the　wall；　but　out　of　the　many
  solutions　of　the　main　enigmaif　enigma；　indeed；　there　bewhich
  have　been　sent　to　him；　he　ventures　to　select　the　one　which　he
  subjoins；　from　the　ingenuity　and　thought　which　it　displays；　and
  from　respect　for　the　distinguished　writer　（one　of　the　most
  eminent　our　time　has　produced）　who　deemed　him　worthy　of　an　honour
  he　is　proud　to　display。　　He　leaves　it　to　the　reader　to　agree
  with；　or　dissent　from　the　explanation。　　〃A　hundred　men；〃　says　the
  old　Platonist；　〃may　read　the　book　by　the　help　of　the　same　lamp；
  yet　all　may　differ　on　the　text；　for　the　lamp　only　lights　the
  characters；the　mind　must　divine　the　meaning。〃　　The　object　of　a
  parable　is　not　that　of　a　problem；　it　does　not　seek　to　convince；
  but　to　suggest。　　It　takes　the　thought　below　the　surface　of　the
  understanding　to　the　deeper　intelligence　which　the　world　rarely
  tasks。　　It　is　not　sunlight　on　the　water；　it　is　a　hymn　chanted　to
  the　nymph　who　hearkens　and　awakes　below。
  。。。
  〃ZANONI　EXPLAINED。
  BY。〃