Many and mighty tribes, as the Wenden, Katten, and Sassen, once dwelt
in the Harz. Bloody battles have been fought for the possession of
this district, whose dense forests and impassable valleys afforded
not only defence, but the pleasures of the chase.
We find proofs of their existence here in huge mounds filled with
human skulls and bones, and in the names of some of her villages, as,
for example, Dorf Kattenstedt.
These primeval mountaineers were most disturbed by a wild and
powerful monastic tribe of giant size and strength, who frequently
broke into the mountains, plundered their huts, murdered children,
women, and old men, and led away the strong men into slavery.
Sometimes they only came in small numbers, but the terror of their
name went before them, and caused the inhabitants, despite their
peculiar bravery, without opposition, to flee into the ravines and
caves, while the enemy took possession of all they could lay hands on.
One called these giant people the Huns. No other race possessed such
immense size and terrible strength. They were held to be
unconquerable, and mighty magicians. Nevertheless, it happened that
once when a body of these giants broke into these mountains, the
bravest of the inhabitants united in defence against them; clad in
steel, with shield and spear, they marched to meet the advancing foe.
The Huns, surprised at opposition, and the sight of the huge weapons
of the mountaineers, hesitated to begin the attack.
Then the king of the Huns came forward and cried in scorn, "Do you
fear these dwarf figures? Tarry here; I alone will fight their whole
army, which extends itself beyond our view. As the storm-wind breaks
in pieces the trees of the mountains, so shall these fall before my
strong arm."
He seized his lance and battle-axe, hurled his javelin into the
thickest ranks of the enemy, his arrow to that point where their
leader stood, and stormed after them down the hill like a rock
suddenly broken from the mountain's side, crushing and destroying all
on his way, defending himself against the cloud of arrows that met
his advance with his huge shield.
His followers remained on the summit of the hill, and followed with
flashing eyes their hero king, that they might be ready to hasten to
his aid if in danger.
The crashing of his sword, as it rent helmet of oak and coat of mail
resounded above the wild cry of the combatants and the clashing of
shields.
Unceasing was his way through the ranks, and dying and maimed marked
his path. At last he reached the spot where the commander stood
surrounded by his braves, and here his progress was arrested.
Stubborn is the conflict, surrounded and shut in, his position seems
terrible, and the onlooking Huns cry out, "Shall we hasten to his
aid?"
And others answer, "No, no, he would be enraged if we deprived him of
the glory of being the sole conqueror. But see! see! the enemy grows
weak; now he totters, our king wields more quickly more mightily his
arm! They sink! They fly! Victory! Victory! Great is the glory
of our tribe, and of our mighty champion."
They raise the song of triumph and march to meet the royal conqueror,
who leans upon his spear, and looks upon his advancing army without
going forward to receive it.
He gives them a sign; they raise his helmet and loosen the coat of
mail; and the hero sinks lifeless on his bloody shield.
Strong and deep is the sorrow of his people, and loud are the
lamentations of woe.
At length one of the elders of the tribe exclaims, "Why do we lament
the fallen? Is not death the destiny of all, and is there a more
glorious death than that of the conqueror in the hour of victory?
Let us make a grave for our king on the field of his victory, a grave
that shall not only receive his ashes, but proclaim his victory to
the most distant centuries."
And they did so. They made a funeral pile, and laid the victor,
borne upon his shield, upon it, and the Huns formed a circle around
the burning wood and sang the death-song, led by the bards.
"The people shall see their king no more. And the halls of his
palace must remain for ever desolate. Never again shall the people
hear his voice, but in their hearts he shall dwell for ever."
The flames grow less, the death-song ceases. In silence they gather
the ashes in the sacred urn, lay the shield on the ground, the urn
upon it, and his armour above it.
Many lay upon the sacred heap what is held most dear, hunting spear
or battle-axe. And now the whole tribe sets hand to the work.
"We will build," they said, "a grave which neither man can destroy
nor storms and tempests wash away."
And they heaped rock on rock, and levelled whole hills to the plain
to pile up the giant grave to a giant king, and called it the Hero's
Grave.
And that is the _Sargberg_, or Coffin mountain.
The White Lady.
The Blankenburg family ghost is called the White Lady. A portrait
bearing this name hangs in the castle, said to be a likeness of a
Countess of Orlamünde. The legend is as follows:
The Earl Otto von Orlamünde died in 1340--several dates are
given--and left a young and beautiful widow, Agnes by name, a duchess
by birth, and the mother of two little children, a son of three, and
a daughter of two years.
The widow lived alone in the Plassenburg, and thought often it were
better to marry again.
One day a remark of the Earl, Albert the Handsome von Nurnberg was
repeated to her: "I would willingly espouse the fair Countess Agnes,
but for the four eyes."
The Countess fancied he meant her two children. Seeing they stood in
the way of her marriage, she resolved to free herself of them, and
engaged a man named Hager, with promises of rich gifts, to murder
them.
The murderer is said to have confessed his crime on the rack.
According to another tale, the Countess murdered them herself by
sticking pins in their skulls.
Her guilty spirit cannot rest, but wanders in Orlamunde and
Blankenburg. Her appearance always betokens death in the family.
Frau Berta is also called the White Lady. She haunts the imperial
royal palaces, and also Darmstadt and Carlsruhe.
As family ghost she harms no one, greets every one she meets, never
speaks, and always wears a white veil and carries a bunch of keys in
her girdle.
The Chapel of Roses.
It was a stormy, dismal winter night, when a teamster drove with a
heavy load of wine along the almost impassable road near the little
mountain church of Elend, at the foot of the Brocken.
The disc of the moon blinked only seldom through the dark clouds,
which, restless, and ever succeeded by new ones, chased each other
across the heavens.
A sharp north wind shook the bare branches of the trees that grew
thick on both sides of the way, blew the snow in the ravines, and
heaped it to huge snow-drifts, which threatened the traveller
unacquainted with the locality with danger.
The wind grew every moment more sharp and cutting, the snow deeper,
and the difficulty greater for the tired horses to draw their weary
load.
Often the teamster stood and listened, and gazed into the darkness in
search of some shelter, and called for help, and heard the echoes of
his own voice ring deep in the snowy wood, but all remained desolate,
dumb, and awful.
No bark of a dog that so rejoices the nightly wanderer, no lowing or
neighing of friendly stall.
The silence of death reigned; only now and then the dark wings of
some nocturnal bird of prey fluttered over his head, and a ghostly
rustling was heard among the dry underbrush; the stars seemed like
silent, cold eyes looking down on the weary man and horses, the
clouds scudded silently past, and the snow, too, was silent as a
spirit.
The lonely traveller grew more terrified, and urging on his horses,
the waggon suddenly sank in a deep place, and no efforts of the tired
animals could move it from the spot. Loud cried the deserted man for
help. No one heard. In despair he wrung his hands and besought the
Virgin to aid him in his distress.
Suddenly he heard a rustling in the thicket, and a female form, like
the silver moon when she appears above the peaks of the mountains,
glided out of the darkness into view, slender as the fir-tree of the
Harz, rosy as the early dawn, fresh as meadow-dew, beautiful as
eternal youth.
A lustre like a sunset in spring, or an Alpine glow on the eternal
snow, floated around the heavenly form, and breathed on the rigid
snow masses a soft glimmer like a fairy light.
Terrified, the teamster gazed at the radiant Virgin, who with an
enchanting, heavenly smile approached the sunken waggon, and with a
single touch drew waggon and horses out of the deep place.
Surprised by the mysterious vision, and cheered by the unexpected
aid, the teamster endeavoured to thank his helper and deliverer, and
expressed his regret that he had neither cup nor goblet in which to
offer her a draught of wine.
At these words the strange apparition touched a shrub that stretched
forth its dried, thorny branches, when instantly leaves and buds
burst forth, and soon the whole shrub was loaded with most beautiful
roses, that breathed forth a wondrous and unwonted perfume.
The Virgin Mary, for it was she herself, broke off clusters of the
roses and formed a drinking-cup, and as the teamster would return it
filled with wine, the vision had vanished.
Meanwhile the horses had gone on with the waggon, which they now drew
with perfect ease, but stood still before the chapel of Elend, and
could not be brought from the spot.
The teamster entered with reverence the oratorium, to thank the
Almighty for his deliverance, when lo! he recognized in the figure of
the Virgin his deliverer, and placed the rose drinking-cup as a
costly relic before her shrine.
With amazing rapidity the fame of the miracle of the Church of Roses
spread over Germany, and it became one of the most frequented and
sacred shrines.
The original of the rose-cup was sent to Rome; but first an exact
copy of it was made in clay and preserved in Elend.
The most wonderful miracles continued to be performed; the devotees
swarmed to the mountain church, so that it was enlarged, and seven
doors were cut in its walls.