But the book which lay near me, though full of nonsense, was not the Koran.  It was the so-called “Brocken-book,” in which all travelers who ascend the mountain write their names—­most inscribing their thoughts, or, in default thereof, their “feelings.”  Many even express themselves in verse.  In this book one may observe the horrors which result when the great Philistine host on opportune occasions, such as this on the Brocken, becomes poetic.  The palace of the Prince of Pallagonia never contained such absurdities as are to be found in this book.  Those who shine in it with especial splendor are Messrs. the excise collectors, with their moldy “high inspirations;” counter-jumpers, with their pathetic outgushings of the soul; old German revolution dilettanti with their Turner-Union phrases, and Berlin school-masters with their unsuccessful efforts at enthusiasm.  Mr. Snobbs will also for once show himself as author.  In one page the majestic splendor of the sunrise is described, in another complaints occur of bad weather, of disappointed hopes, and of the mists which obstruct the view.  A “Caroline” writes that in climbing the mountain her feet got wet, to which a naive “Nanny,” who was impressed by this, adds, “I too, got wet while doing this thing.”  “Went up wet without and came down wet within,” is a standing joke, repeated in the book hundreds of times.  The whole volume smells of beer, tobacco and cheese; we might fancy it one of Clauren’s novels.

* * * * *

And now the students prepared to depart.  Knapsacks were buckled, the bills, which were moderate beyond all expectation, were settled, the susceptible housemaids, upon whose countenances the traces of successful amours were plainly visible, brought, as is their custom, their Brocken-bouquets, and helped some to adjust their caps; for all of which they were duly rewarded with either kisses or coppers.  Thus we all went down the mountain, albeit one party, among whom were the Swiss and Greifswalder, took the road toward Schierke, and the others, about twenty men, among whom were my fellow “countrymen” and myself, led by a guide, went through the so-called “Snow Holes” down to Ilsenburg.

Such a head-over-heels, break-neck piece of business!  Halle students travel quicker than the Austrian militia.  Ere I knew where I was, the bald summit of the mountain, with groups of stones strewed over it, was behind us, and we went through the fir-wood which I had seen the day before.  The sun poured down a cheerful light on the merry Burschen, in gaily colored garb, as they merrily pressed onward through the wood, disappearing here, coming to light again there, running across marshy places on trunks of trees, climbing over shelving steeps by grasping the projecting tree-roots; while they thrilled all the time in the merriest manner and received as joyous an answer from the twittering wood-birds, the invisibly plashing rivulets, and the resounding echo.  When cheerful youth and beautiful nature meet, they mutually rejoice.