Notre Dame's Grotto / by Dorothy V. Corson
The Brother Who Passed on the Story
Brother Frederick Kraling was a glazier at Notre Dame. He was known to etch important dates on a pane of glass. Evidence of this habit can still be seen today in a windowpane at the old St. Joseph Farm. Brother Frederick was washing a window at the farm when he heard of the big fire on campus. He scratched a memo on the pane that remains clear today: "23 of April 1879, College on Fire."
Between 1879 and 1886 it was announced in the Scholastic that Brother Frederick "and his faithful assistants were kept busy painting, graining and otherwise decorating the new building," the Minim's Hall, and Washington Hall. His artistic work in St. Edward's Hall is also described: "The walls of the study-hall are of a most pleasing shade of green which is both beautiful and pleasing to the eye. The walls are painted in oil, and stippled so as to represent pressed leather." The corridors of the Infirmary were "handsomely frescoed by Bro. Frederick." As well as the small parlor in the Main Building. "He also painted, in new and artistic designs, the hall of the Culinary Department. "His multi-talented craftsmanship and his attention to detail is affirmed in this piece that appeared in the June 14, 1884 Scholastic :
Among the contributions lately placed in the Cabinet of Curiosities are mounted models of cathedrals of Cologne, Strasberg, and St. Peters at Rome. These are a gift from Bro. Frederick who skillfully constructed the models and the glass cases which surround them.
He also directed the first gilding of the Dome: "Brother Frederick and a capable assistant have been actively engaged for the past weeks in the work of gilding the grand dome of the main building."(202)
The University Archives has the windowpane upon which Brother Frederick recorded the dates and cost of the gildings up until his death. The top of the transcript reads:
Notations on gilding of the Dome as etched by Brother Frederick in the windowpane in the old boiler room, behind the administration building on the site where the natatorium was later erected.
The last date Brother Frederick recorded was in 1904. He died on January 4, 1917, three years before the 1920 gilding. There were several items of particular interest in the transcript of those etchings, which are evidence of his meticulous care in recording history.
He lists the cost in detail (850.50 for the 1886 gilding) and the dates, July 3 and September 9, it was completed. He also adds this mention: 22nd Sept. '86, Hail Storm. In the last recorded entry in 1904, Brother Frederick includes "Gold scrapings net 162.42," and adds a note of humor: "P.S. John had charge of sizing, Steave [sic] of the gold and Jack of the winch and whiskey.(203)
Several months after the discovery of the two page story in the 1926 Dome, another earlier version came to light in paging through a 1917 Scholastic. This earlier version included the author's name. Neither of these two versions were indexed.
This slightly longer version of the legend was written by William E. Farrell, a Professor of History at Notre Dame, who knew the Brother who told the story. He explains his reason for writing, "The Legend Of The Sycamore:"
The death last week of Brother Frederick(204) of this community, will be learned with sincere regret and kindly memory by those who enjoyed an intimate acquaintance with him and who understood and appreciated his rare personality. For years, he was a familiar figure on our campus, where he could be seen frequently in animated conversation with one or another of those who found him congenial. Few men about Notre Dame possessed such a store of historical incident and legend associated with the grounds and environs of the University. He had read much and had talked frequently with the brave pioneers who had preceded him in the community, about the interesting places for miles around. He was equally familiar with the written sources and the oral Indian legends pertaining to these places.
Before age and ill health had made inroads on body and mind, he was remarkably gifted with clear memory and poetic insight. It was my privilege to know Brother Frederick well and I recall with "fragrant retrospection" the incidents and legends related by him several years ago in our occasional talks or on long walks through pleasant places. One legend, I shall endeavor, as he often requested, to tell.
The Legend Of The Sycamore
A little to the west and to the rear of Corby Hall stands an old, impressive-looking sycamore tree. If one is at all observant of nature's manifold beauties, those that appeal to the sense of grandeur, as well as to the sense of delicacy, this noble tree, especially in the season of foliage, cannot but arrest attention. Its majestic proportions are in themselves enough to command admiration: it towers above its fellows, and gazing calmly down upon them, seems like a tall, white-haired seer, who quietly regards the youthful lives about him and gravely recalls the memories and associations of his own springtime of life. From its sturdy trunk, huge limbs shoot at symmetrical angles in every direction, ever widening as they rear higher. The grandeur and symmetry of it all is truly striking.
The physical beauty of the tree is, however, incidental only to the chief interest that is attached to it. If you examine the outlines carefully, you will detect an almost exact formation of the human hand projecting from the ground and lifted as if in appeal, the trunk forming the wrist and the five limbs into which the trunk divides, forming the fingers.
For some years after the founding of Notre Dame, it was not uncommon to see an Indian moving about the grounds, revisiting old haunts and enjoying the natural beauty which then, as now, was very great. One old chief, in particular, was observed coming here several times. He seemed most interested in two places; one along the shore of the lake, where, usually in the evening he would stand with arms folded, silently contemplating the waters with their peace and beauty at sunset; the other was near the sycamore, then in its youth. He would linger at this spot for a long time with head bowed or with eyes raised to heaven, as if in silent prayer. One of the brothers who had observed this several times became interested and inquired from the Indian why he spent so much time near this tree. The Indian did not speak for a few seconds. His face was calm, yet revealed his suppressed grief. Then he lifted his hand impatiently as if to wave the matter aside, but when the brother spoke again in a tone of sympathy, the old chief told his story.
In the earlier days, when raids between the white men and the Indians were frequent, one white settler, who had lost a friend he cherished greatly, swore eternal enmity against every Red-skin. On one occasion this man, while hunting, was passing through what are now the grounds of Notre Dame, when he caught sight of an Indian, fishing peacefully on the shore of the lake. The Indian was unarmed and suspected nothing. He was a Christian convert, a man of peace and had always sought friendship with the white man. At the sight of the Indian, however, the Indian-hater could not restrain his feelings. He crept up softly toward the shore of the lake and, springing suddenly from the bushes, drove his hunting knife into the back of the fisherman. The Indian with a yell, started up and ran eastward from the lake, but when he reached the spot where now stands the great sycamore, he fell exhausted. Here his assaulter reached him again, and in spite the Indian's supplications and protestations of innocence, attacked him a second time.
The Indian in agony cried out, saying: "What have I done that you should kill me in this way?"
But the white man, answered, "You are an Indian, and Indians have killed my dearest friend."
The Indian, then on the point of death, exclaimed: "I am innocent of the blood of any man. I appeal to God for vengeance." With these words on his lips, the Indian died.
Some time after this occurrence, a little tree of strange shape sprang up where the Indian's blood had trickled into the earth. Later the chief, who knew the circumstances of the Indian's death, on passing that way was struck by the peculiar shape of the tree, a miniature of its present form. It's signification then dawned upon him. Here was the hand and wrist of his dear friend extended to heaven. As the sapling grew it still retained its strange shape and the hand remains to this day lifted in appeal to God as a warning to all who might put to death an innocent man.
As with most stories of this kind, it may have had its origin in some fact and was then embellished by the Indian imagination.(205) Such is the tale told by the old chief to the brother, and the brother, who loved such beautiful things as legends, passed the story on to us. Call it a tale of fancy, invented by an over-vivid imagination; call it an unbelievable dream; but the huge old sycamore, remains to this day on the Grotto lawn, a relic of the romantic days of Notre Dame, a record of a day long since passed, and as such, its story will continue to live with us.(206)
The Indian chief's words in the legend aptly describe those hostile times during the late 1790s and the early 1800s when the legend was born and the sycamore is most likely to have taken root.
As the story goes, the innocent Redskin being unable to reap human vengeance for his death, entered in spirit into the tree, and stretched its branches to heaven in supplication for God's justice. Tradition holds that the event in this legend actually happened though it cannot be confirmed from surviving records.