There can, indeed, be little doubt that German forests have, from earliest times, imparted something of their own nobility to German character. For, though so eminently practical, scientific, painstaking, and methodical in their pursuits, the Germans, as a race, possess a marvelous amount of ideality and sentiment, a part of which must be ascribed to the inspiring influence of their sylvan solitudes. To sit above Marienbad on a summer morning, soothed by the peaceful beauty of the Bohmer Wald while listening to the dream-like music of the distant orchestra, is only one of many pleasures which this forest offers. Another is to walk for miles on gently sloping paths through avenues of dusky pines, encountering here and there those little shrines to the Madonna or the saints, which have replaced the rustic altars of the Teutons. Another is to linger, book in hand, in leafy nooks, whose stillness is invaded only by the sighing of the breeze; whose awe inspiring gloom protects one from the ardent sun; and through whose narrow vistas one discerns long strips of sky, like fjords of a celestial sea. One feels at peace among these tall, potential masts, which yet shall never breast the waves. They teach one that restlessness and wandering are not all of life, and that the stately pine, whose roots are buried in its native soil, may no less certainly fulfil its destiny, than when transplanted to a wider world. In one such tranquil spot, upon a wooded eminence near Marienbad, stands a monument to Goethe. It marks his favorite resting-place for reverie. Upon the pedestal are inscribed the touching lines from his "Wanderer's Night Song," which he re-read, shortly before his death, with moistened eyes. Impetuous Youth strides by this slender obelisk, with scarce a glance, and heedless of its solemn words.

A Carriage Road In The Forest Of Marienbad.

Goethe's Monument.

Goethe.

A Forest Shrine In Winter.

Maturity surveys them with a deeper scrutiny, and then, perhaps with tightened lips, goes once more swiftly to the busy world. Only the souls that see life's shadows lengthening eastward feel the poem's full significance.

"On every height there lies repose; In all the tree-tops seest thou Scarcely a breath;

The little birds are silent in the forest; Only wait: soon shalt thou also rest".

Goethe At Marienbad.