We were now going through wooded mountains, which must appear wild and sad to one coming from a gorgeous fruitful country; attractive only for the inner content of their womb.
So wrote the great Goethe in his poetic memoirs, describing a trip through the forest which Germans call Black. Last week other travelers saw this forest, travelers from the fruitful fields of Kent, from tight little hills of the Cotswolds, from the broad sweep of Devon and Yorkshire moors. To these men the forests had a grisly attraction. These travelers were R. A....
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