ndscape-painters who frequent it in great numbers during the spring
and autumn months (for it is only fourteen or fifteen leagues out of
Paris, on the high road to Lyons), we have shown reason enough for the
consentaneous action on the part of the men and women of the brush and
pencil.

The traveled reader will hardly need to be told that good judges
consider the forest and castle to compose the finest domain in France.
But there are also numberless historic reminiscences intertwined with
Fontainebleau. And, by the way, it was originally known as the
Foret de Bierre, until some thirsty huntsmen, who found its spring
deliciously refreshing, rebaptized it as Fontaine Belle Eau. Such, at
least, is the old story. The first founding of a royal residence there
dates at least as far back as the twelfth century, and possibly much
farther, while the present chateau was begun by Francis I. in the
sixteenth. So many famous historic events, indeed, have taken place
within the precincts of the forest that the committee of "Protection
Artistique" is pardonable in claiming that "Fontainebleau Forest ought
to be ranked with those national historic monuments which must at all
hazards be preserved for the admiration of artists and tourists," as
well as of patriotic Frenchmen. What illustrations shall we select
from among the events connected with it, about which a thousand
volumes of history, poetry, art, science and romance have been
composed? At Fontainebleau, Charles V. was royally feasted by Francis;
there the Edict of Nantes was revoked; there Conde died; there the
decree of divorce between Napoleon and Josephine was pronounced; and
there the emperor afterward signed his own abdication. It is true
that nobody proposes to demolish the castle, and that is the historic
centre; but the petitioners claim that it is difficult and dangerous
to attempt to divide the domain into historic and non-historic,
artistic and non-artistic parts, with a view to its mutilation. There
is ground for hoping that a favorable response will be given to the
eloquent appeal of the artists and amateurs.

The vanity of Victor Hugo, though always "Olympian," perhaps never
mounted to a sublimer height than in the reply he sent to M. Catulle
Mendes on receiving from him the news of Gautier's death. It contained
but half a dozen lines, yet found space to declare, "Of the men of
1830, _I alone am left_. It is now my turn." The profound egotism of
"_il ne reste plu