e famous writers of modern France have
had their word to say about Fontainebleau. Chateaubriand, Michelet,
Beranger, George Sand, de Senancour, Flaubert, Murger, the brothers
Goncourt, Theodore de Banville, each of these has done something to the
eternal praise and memory of these woods. Even at the very worst of
times, even when the picturesque was anathema in the eyes of all Persons
of Taste, the forest still preserved a certain reputation for beauty. It
was in 1730 that the Abbe Guilbert published his "Historical Description
of the Palace, Town, and Forest of Fontainebleau." And very droll it is
to see him, as he tries to set forth his admiration in terms of what was
then permissible. The monstrous rocks, etc., says the Abbe, "sont
admirees avec surprise des voyageurs qui s'ecrient aussitot avec Horace:
Ut mihi devio rupes et vacuum nemus mirari libet." The good man is not
exactly lyrical in his praise; and you see how he sets his back against
Horace as against a trusty oak. Horace, at any rate, was classical. For
the rest, however, the Abbe likes places where many alleys meet; or
which, like the Belle-Etoile, are kept up "by a special gardener," and
admires at the Table du Roi the labours of the Grand Master of Woods and
Waters, the Sieur de la Falure, "qui a fait faire ce magnifique
endroit."

But indeed, it is not so much for its beauty that the forest makes a
claim upon men's hearts, as for that subtle something, that quality of
the air, that emanation from the old trees, that so wonderfully changes
and renews a weary spirit. Disappointed men, sick Francis Firsts and
vanquished Grand Monarchs, time out of mind have come here for
consolation. Hither perplexed folk have retired out of the press of
life, as into a deep bay-window on some night of masquerade, and here
found quiet and silence, and rest, the mother of wisdom. It is the great
moral spa; this forest without a fountain is itself the great fountain
of Juventius. It is the best place in the world to bring an old sorrow
that has been a long while your friend and enemy; and if, like
Beranger's, your gaiety has run away from home and left open the door
for sorrow to come in, of all covers in Europe, it is here you may
expect to find the truant hid. With every hour you change. The air
penetrates through your clothes, and nestles to your living body. You
love exercise and slumber, long fasting and full meals. You forget all
your scruples and live a while in peac