NOTES.

Amidst the recent hurly-burly of politics in France, involving the fate of the Thiers government, if not of the republic itself, a minor grievance of the artists has probably been little noticed by the general public. Yet a grievance it was, and one which caused men of taste and sentiment to cry out loudly. The threatened act of vandalism against which they protested was a proposal to fell part of the Forest of Fontainebleau. The castle and forest have long belonged to the state, but why the woods should now be cut down by the government is not clear. The motive is probably to turn the fine timber into cash, though a Paris wit, in pretended despair of other explanation, jokingly alleged, at the time of Prince Napoleon's late expulsion from France, that the government was afraid the prince, taking refuge in its dense recesses, might there conceal himself (à la Charles II., we presume) in one of its venerable oaks. At any rate, it was arranged to level a part of the timber, and on hearing of this threatened mutilation of a favorite resort the French artists rallied to beg M. Thiers, like the character in General Morris's ballad, to "spare those trees." And well may they petition, for the forest contains nearly thirty-five thousand acres, abounding in beautiful and picturesque scenery. It can boast finer trees than any other French forest, while its meadows, lawns and cliffs furnish specimens of almost every plant and flower to be found in France. Now, when we add that its views are exceedingly varied, its rocks, ravines, plateaus and thickets each offering some entirely different and admirable study to the landscape-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 Forêt 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 château 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 Condé 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 plus que moi" could not escape being vigorously lashed by V. Hugo's old comrades of the quill, dating back with him to 1830, and now so loftily ignored. "See, even in his epistles of condolence," they cry, "the omnipresent moi of Hugo must appear, to overshadow everything else!" One indignant writer declares the poet to be a mere walking personal pronoun. Another humorously pities those still extant contemporaries of 1830 who, after having for forty years dedicated their songs and romances and dramas to Hugo, now learn from the selfsame maw which has greedily gulped their praises that they themselves do not exist, never did exist. One man of genius slyly writes: "Some of us veterans will find ourselves embarrassed—Michelet, G. Sand, Janin, Sandeau et un pen moi. Is it possible that we died a long time ago, one after the other, without knowing it? Was it a delusion on our part to fancy ourselves existing, or was our existence only a bad dream?" But to Victor Hugo even these complaints will perhaps seem to smoke like fresh incense on the altar of self-adulation which this great genius keeps ever lighted.

The reader may remember the story of that non-committal editor who during the late canvass, desiring to propitiate all his subscribers of both parties, hoisted the ticket of "Gr—— and ——n" at the top of his column, thus giving those who took the paper their choice of interpretations between "Grant and Wilson" and "Grceley and Brown." A story turning on the same style of point (and probably quite as apocryphal, though the author labels it "historique") is told of an army officers' mess in France. A brother-soldier from a neighboring detachment having come in, and a champenoise having been uncorked in his honor, "Gentlemen," said the guest, raising his glass, "I am about to propose a toast at once patriotic and political." A chorus of hasty ejaculations and of murmurs at once greeted him. "Yes, gentlemen," coolly proceeded the orator, "I drink to a thing which—an object that—Bah! I will out with it at once. It begins with an R and ends with an e."

"Capital!" whispers a young lieutenant of Bordeaux promotion. "He proposes the Republique, without offending the old fogies by saying the word."

"Nonsense! He means the Radicale," replies the other, an old captain from Cassel.

"Upon my word," says a third as he lifts his glass, "our friend must mean la Royaute."

"I see!" cries a one-legged veteran of Froschweiler: "we drink to la Revanche."

In fact, the whole party drank the toast heartily, each interpreting it to his liking.

In the hands of a Swift even so trivial an incident might be made to point a moral on the facility with which alike in theology and politics—from Athanasian Creed to Cincinnati or Philadelphia Platform—men comfortably interpret to their own diverse likings some doctrine that "begins with an R and ends with an e," and swallow it with great unanimity and enthusiasm.

Possibly the death of Mr. Greeley, after a prolonged delirium induced in part by political excitement, may add for Americans some fresh interest to the theory of a paper which just previous to that pathetic event M. Lunier had read before the Paris Academy of Medicine. The author confessed his statistics to be incomplete, but regarded them as ample for the decisive formulation of the proposition that great political crises tend to increase the number of cases of mental alienation. The leading point of his elaborate argument appears to be the classification of fresh cases of insanity developed since the beginning of the late French war. The strongest comparison is one indicating an excess of seven per cent, in the number of such cases, proportioned to the population in the departments conquered and occupied by the Germans, over those which they did not invade. Finally, M. Lunier reckons the cases of mental alienation induced by the late political and military events in France at from twelve hundred to fifteen hundred. Politics without war may, it is considered, produce the same results—results not at all surprising, of course, except as to their extent. As to this last, if M. Lunier's figures and deductions be correct, the mental strain of exciting politics is even more destructive than has been generally supposed.