This is a recurring story that has puzzled me over the years. I have run across it in Scottish and Irish folklore, and am now coming across it in Missouri and Kentucky folklore. The most recent of my "finds" was in William Lynwood Montell's, Ghosts Across Kentucky.
The basic story is that a mysterious tunnel is found, and the locals want to find out where it goes to. After a while a Piper, or a Fiddler, offers to go, and says that they will play all the way. The people follow the sound for quite a while, but after while don't hear anything more. However, the music is occasionally heard over the years (centuries. Some variations has the musician's dog follow him in, but come out hairless, and it usually dies. This is usually in the Scottish or Irish versions. I haven't seen it in the American. And while its pretty equal with pipers and fiddlers in the British Isles I have only found fiddlers referenced in the American. One other variation I came upon was set in Edinburgh, and it wasn't a musician but a young thief who was offered his freedom if he went in. Of course, he never came back. I can understand one or two variations, or even how it could be spread through the British Isles, but it continues to "haunt" me why this strange theme would be one of the folkloric "survivors" that came with the settlers, and found roots in America.
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In John Mack Faragher's, _Sugar Creek_, he mentions that "pioneer" comes from the French term, "pionnier," which signified foot soldiers sent ahead of an army to clear the way. And later the westward moving pioneers are compared to nomadic bands.
Over the last month I have been given the opportunity to ponder about those pioneers, and about the blessings and curses that come with that drive. And I will apologize now, since I am trying to weave many memories, thoughts, and events in order to make up for my silence. I fear that there might be some tangles along the way. The comparison with a nomadic tribe does not stretch far when it comes to the american pioneers; whereas nomads follow ancient routes in a cycle that is a rhythm in their lives the pioneers were going from one place to another - in hopes of a better place just over the hill. And that was whether they came from across the ocean, or the next state. And I will not retell the whole of history, which would recount how they dislodged other peoples in their course. Though that too has had its own pattern through the millennia. Early in May one of the Chamber of Commerce directors was kind enough to invite me to attend the Governor's Prayer Breakfast, which I greatly appreciated. I had never been before, and this one in particular sounded like it would be worth going to, since the main speaker was to be Paul Rusesabagina, about whom the move “Hotel Rwanda" was made. Unfortunately, Mr. Rusesabagina needed emergency surgery, and Mr. Endless, the senior advisor to his foundation spoke in his stead. Even told by another Mr. Ruseasabagina's story is a moving example of how conviction and a great heart can stand against unreasoning hatred. Mr. Endless said that one tool that Mr. Rusesabagina used was to keep asking questions - so his advisories had to enter into conversation with him. To deal with him as a another individual. And as I listened I realized that Rwanda is a modern (unfortunately one of many) example of what happens when two peoples are thrown together, and differences stirred to an explosive, brutal, point. And somewhere in the back of my mind I heard echo the last line of Dan Keding's story, "The Two Warriors," which ends with, ".. you cannot hate someone when you know their story." A morning to humble one, and make you wonder if you could have such conviction and heart. And all I could hope is that I could use my gift of story to help in some small way. As the month wended on I spent a wet and chill day at the St. Andrews' Highland Games in Chatham, Il. As someone said, "we've imported the weather again." And chill and wet we may have been, but the sense of companionship held us in good stead, and the Games went on. And between tales, wrapped in my plaid, I had the fun of speaking with many people who are seeking the trail of their ancestors - seeking back to when their various families were the wanderers seeking a glowing home. With the ending of the month came the Clayville Spring Festival, and there was awakened the spirits of those long gone settlers as all of the volunteers poured out their love and energy to put on a spectacular 2 and half day event. I was only able to be there on Saturday, and a hot Saturday it was. I went out with a friend who was volunteering, and was soon settled in a cabin to tell my tales. For this day I was dressed in a civil war era gown (with hoops), and soon discovered the challenge of sitting in a chair with arms. And the greater challenge of telling while trying to keep the front of the hoop from flying up. It was a wonderful day, with such a powerful sense of community. And the visitors were a gracious and attentive audience - whether it was the 80 year old man who had come to reminisce about when Dr. Preston had the cabins moved, or a 6 year old girl. The end of the day also offered a chance for a little adventure as I took a ride in a real stagecoach. The first adventure was just trying to in (now in modern clothing) as I tried to balance on the toe pad for the last lunge. We only went around Clayville at a walk, but that was enough to bounce my teeth up into my nose, and threaten to bounce my head up into the ceiling. My salute to all those ancestors who traveled by stagecoach. They were indeed far heartier than I. In this case I am going to start with the middle of the tale first (since I don't have an end in sight, and the start is more involved).
However, last week I was introduced to a fascinating lady, though one who has been dead since 1910 (and no, I am not talking about ghosts). The lady in question, though, was Leigh Day of Springfield, Il, who was a very talented early photographer. (One who may well have designed many techniques that were later claimed by male photographers). Leigh Day is more often called, "Mrs. George Day." While in the Sangamon Valley Collection of the Lincoln Library a friend and I were shown 3 books of her work; two that had been published, and one a photo album. These were jewels. I am not sure that there are words to describe the delicacy of Mrs. Day's work. Granted many photos were the posed style we are used seeing from that era, but in many cases she had hand colored the photos with such a skilled hand you felt like you were looking at color photos. She also set photos amongst hand drawn scenes, but scenes again drawn with a delicacy and skill that made the two blend easily. The photo album was the crown jewel though. In her own hand she noted when some of the photos were done, and added in poetry. And scrapebookers today could learn something from her as she hide photos behind hand decorated flaps that tied into other ornamentation. Not only were these books wonderful examples of early photography, but they are also gentle windows into the lives of she and her friends, and their children. For she had a knack for catching her subjects honestly. Plus the book had photos done by Susan Lawrence Dana of Leigh Day and her daughter. Now to jump to the beginning of the story, and why I don't know the end..... Back in Nov some friends came out to visit - one of whom is a history professor whose specialty is the suffragette movement of the late 19th, and early 20th, century. One of the places I took her to was the Dana-Thomas House, which was commissioned by Susan Lawrence Day, and designed by Frank Lloyd Wright. After a walk through of the house we talked about how little most knew of Susan L. Dana, who was a fascinating woman. She was one of the leaders of the Illinois suffragette movement, and deeply involved with the spiritualist movement. My friend thought that she would make a worthy individual to research someday. So I thought looking about on the web to find more for her, and because my own curiosity was peaked. I grew up with stories of grandfather, who was a newspaper editor, attending her fashionable parties. At that time there was little, though I had been put in touch with a couple of possible sources. Then the topic went to the back burner - until one of the ladies emailed me to see if I had learned anything new. I hadn't, but I stirred back to my research. And this time hit a gold mine in the form of one of the Dana-Thomas docents, which is how I ended up seeing the Day books. Leigh Day was a girlhood friend of Susan Lawrence, - a friendship that lasted till Leigh's death. As the docent commented - there seems to be something in the air - since more people are suddenly taking an interest in Susan Lawrence Dana. And in doing so - looking more closely at her friends, who were truly special in their own rights. I recently finished reading Stu Fliege's, Tales & Trails of Illinois, which is a collection of often little-known historical events and personages. The stories are concise and well-written, and cover the full range of the state.
Two stories caught my attention. One was, "James Buchanan Eads and His Wonderful Bridge," and the other was, "Quincy's Pioneer in the Sky." James Eads was born in 1820, and by the age of eighteen he had acquired what "formal" education he was going to have - an education that came from being allowed to read an employer's voluminous library. And with that knowledge in his head he went out to work on the Mississippi River where he became fascinated with salvage. Despite being told it couldn't be done he designed diving bells - successfully. For the Civil War he designed steam-powered, armoured warships to patrol the river. Then, this man, who had no engineering training, except for what he had taught himself, and what the Mississippi itself had taught him, decided to span that river so that St. Louis could have a bridge. He did it, using techniques then never truly heard of, and the Eads Bridge still stands today. The other tale was about Thomas Scott Baldwin. He was an orphaned boy, who started gaining his fame when in his teens by doing high dives into the sawdust piled near the Mississippi River. He was agile and daring, and soon won a place for himself in a traveling circus. He moved on to balloons, then the first parachutes, trained the military in balloon use, flew dirigibles, and then airplanes. And passed at the age of 63 safely on the ground. What caught my imagination with these two stories is that these were two individuals who had only the conviction of their skills and their creative ability to attain their goals. Stories of individuals dreaming the "impossible" and then achieving it are necessary - they teach the children and remind the adults - that the creative spark, combined with determination, are vital elements in achieving just about anything. These individuals might be said to be creativity in its purest, most potent, form. While I don't know who the current educational favorites are I know that after a while the same names and the same tales start to become tuned out. They are no longer really heard. There are many forgotten pioneers who could offer potent tales. So I thought I would do my part in calling two, Mr. Eads and Mr. Baldwin, back into the limelight. As I pursue my history research for various programs I stumble upon interesting, and odd, tidbits that are (at least to me) too interesting not to share. So I have decided that monthly, and maybe even more often if I find something I can't wait to share, I will add these tidbits to the blog.
The first tale comes from John W. Allen's Legends and Lore of Southern Illinois. In his chapter on, "Folklore," he has an entry on, "A Phantom Funeral," which he collected from some of the older inhabitants at Prairie de Rocher. One of the elderly ladies went onto tell of an occurrence that happened to her on July 4th, 1889. She was helping a friend keep a vigil over the friend's dead baby, and they were sitting out on the porch trying to catch a little cool air when the informant saw a funeral coming down the road, which was unusual since it was near to midnight. They counted 40 little, matching wagons, which were followed by twenty-six horsemen. None of which made a sound. Nor did anyone come back down the road later. The only other person to see the strange procession was the informant's father was awake - due to the howling of his dog. The elderly lady went onto to tell the author that a friend from DuQuoin later came visiting, and after hearing the strange tale said that her daughter had told her of a story about Fort Chartres. The story that a man, "who was most important of all," was murdered in an ambush to stop him from continuing his work. And after he was killed that his men went to Kaskaskia to learn what to do with the body. They were told that he must be buried at midnight in an obscure cemetary, without any lights. They were to go on a full moon since that was to be their only light. And that it can only be seen by 3 people on a July Friday night, with a full moon, and only between 11 pm and 12. On the most basic level this story reminded me of the many tales of phantom funerals that are in Great Britian, which would not be surprising as beliefs traveled as well as people. And it also echoed in my mind some f the elaborate precautions found in dying wizard stories. I tried to find out more about the story. Here are some of the sites I found: On Troy Taylor's site (http://www.prairieghosts.com/fort.html) he mentions the theories that it was either an officer killed by a merchant, or that a young British officer was killed by a French officer. And that the secrecy was due the need to keep hostilities from breaking out. Yet, to me, neither of these quite fit. Or at least don't fit with the story given to the informant by the friend from Du Quoin. This is not mentioned on Troy Taylor's site. Some other sites are Military ghosts - http://www.militaryghosts.com/chartres.html, and The Odd Midwest - http://dailyabuse.typepad.com/odd_midwest/ghost_stories/ (this one does mention the secondary story). One of these days I would like to research this story further, and maybe take a trip to Fort Chartres - though not necessarily on a July 4th, with a full moon. |
Cathy Mosley
I am a Springfield, IL based storyteller with a fascination for how folklore travels, and for history. Archives
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