On entering the Brocken house, I experienced a somewhat unusual and unreal sensation.  After a long solitary journey amid rocks and pines, the traveler suddenly finds himself in a house amid the clouds.  Far below lie cities, hills, and forests, while above he encounters a curiously blended circle of strangers, by whom he is received, as is usual in such assemblies, almost like an expected companion—­half inquisitively and half indifferently.  I found the house full of guests, and, as becomes a wise man, I first thought of the night, and of the discomfort of sleeping on straw.  With the voice of one dying I called for tea, and the Brocken landlord was reasonable enough to perceive that the sick gentleman must be provided with a decent bed.  This he gave me in a narrow room, where a young merchant—­a long emetic in a brown overcoat—­had already established himself.

In the public room I found a full tide of bustle and animation.  There were students from different universities.  Some of the newly arrived were taking refreshments.  Others, preparing for departure, buckled on their knapsacks, wrote their names in the album, and received Brocken bouquets from the housemaids.  There was pinching of cheeks, singing, springing, trilling; questions asked, answers given, fragments of conversation such as—­fine weather—­footpath—­prosit—­luck be with you!—­Adieu!  Some of those leaving were also partly drunk, and these derived a twofold pleasure from the beautiful scenery, for a tipsy man sees double.

After recruiting my strength I ascended the observatory, and there found a little gentleman with two ladies, one of whom was young and the other elderly.  The young lady was very beautiful—­a superb figure, flowing locks, surmounted by a helm-like black satin chapeau, amid whose white plumes the wind played; fine limbs, so closely enwrapped by a black silk mantle that their exquisite form was made manifest, and great free eyes, calmly looking down into the great free world.

When a boy I thought of naught save tales of magic and wonder, and every fair lady who had ostrich feathers on her head I regarded as an elfin queen.  If I observed that the train of her dress was wet I believed at once that she must be a water-fairy.  Now I know better, having learned from natural history that those symbolical feathers are found on the most stupid of birds, and that the train of a lady’s dress may become wet in a very natural way.  But if I had, with those boyish eyes, seen the aforesaid young lady in the aforesaid position on the Brocken, I would most assuredly have thought—­“that is the fairy of the mountain, and she has just uttered the charm which has caused every thing down there to appear so wonderful.”  Yes, at the first glance from the Brocken everything appears in a high degree marvelous.  New impressions throng in on every side, and these, varied and often contradictory, unite in our soul in an as yet undefined uncomprehended