pines. A road from the Lake leads over an antiquated bridge that spans the valley, and then branches symetrically to the right and left, while its main stem reaches the administration building. Attention is immediately attracted to the massive, oaken doors, hand carved about three quarters of a century ago by the first settlers of Wisconsin. On entering, two wide, curved staircases on either side lead to the upper halls. The walls of the corridors are artistically decorated with paintings, portraits of church dignitaries connected with the work of the Seminary, and class pictures—a Hall of Fame and an inspiration to the youthful sacerdotal aspirants. We do not ascend the stairs for arched doors invite to the chapel, the interior architecture of which is simple, Roman almost to the smallest detail. Everything is arched, the windows, the paintings, the altars, the pews. The slabs in the sanctuary that mark the resting places of the first Archbishop of Milwaukee and that of the founder of the institution are unique to the casual visitor. A rare painting depicting the solemn consecration of the institution's patron, St. Francis de Sales, as Bishop of Geneva, is done on the wall behind the high altar. The extraordinary assembling of its many dignitaries and servants-in-attendance together with its highly inspiring symbolical group in the ethereal sphere represent the genius of a Christian poet-artist. When we consider that here at the feet of their Divine Master in the Blessed Sacrament, thousands of youths have sought that knowledge which leads to the love of God, we cannot help but think of some of America's greatest national and community leaders, who are today esteemed for their devotion in promoting the best for God and Country: we kneel and thank God that He still brings boys into silence and here prepares them to break the mad rush of the masses led on by demagogues to our country's destruction of idealism and spiritual growth. A Seminary Chapel,-and crudely described; yet what a granary of inspiration for the poet! Here men live to commune with God. Love, because of its purity and beauty has been the theme of our best poets; what would these poets have conceived here, in the Chapel of the Infinite Love? Kilmer says, or we might say prays: "I take my leave with sorrow of Him I love so well. I look my last upon His small and radiant prison cell. O happy lamp! to serve Him with never ceasing light; O happy flame! to tremble forever in His sight." Poets as this must have been in the mind of Juvenal when he says that a poet is one "whose vein is not that of the common herd," to be "such a one......I cannot embody in words, and can only feel in my soul." We would be delighted to remain in the chapel, but our time is limited. The class rooms are becoming like those of the great universities abroad: age and the memories of those who occupied them as professors and students make them invaluable. What kind of dreams were the great church dignitaries and humble country priests dreaming as they carved their initials in the desks? From year to year added improvements are made and the past will soon be forgotten. We must keep abreast with the times, yet at least one of these rooms should remain in its entirety. It would be a Wonder House of thought for the poet that would only take a desk and set to work! Here he has everything that Ruskin refers to when he says that poetry is "the suggestion by the imagination, in musical words, of noble grounds for the noble emotions." And this idea is completed when we add, "These emotions must be felt for noble causes, the causes or grounds must be invented or furnished by the imagination; the mere expression of noble emotion expressed by real persons, not being poetry." We must pass halls, dormitories, refectories, gymnasium, library, museum, base ball diamonds, hand ball and tennis courts, centres and many other places, each capable of furnishing the poet with a wealth of ideas ready to be converted into a collection of priceless poetic gems. Let us start a hurried pilgrimage: visit the Chapel in the Woods," a quaint little edifice built more than a half century ago; make the Fourteen Stations of the Cross which are artistically arranged along a winding lane that beats its way thru a rich grove of almost every conceivable tree and hedge; continue to the sunken gardens, little creek and pool that add beauty to a little grotto; and thence into the chapel once more and finally visit the little cemetery. All this reminds us of the different stages in man's life. We enter the "Chapel in the Woods," and here we recall the time when as little babes we were brought into the church. Everything is peacefully quiet and we are unmindful of the realities of life. If we could remain here forever we would be happy: we are unconscious of the sorrow and trial that awaits us until we too make the Way of the Cross. The grim reality of the cross we have to carry is soon ours. Between different periods of life it seems as though we must succumb under the burden of our crosses; we are reminded of this as we pass from one station to the next, following in the footsteps of the Master on His Way to Calvary. Here in God's beautiful groveland, between the stations we look above and are encouraged as we see and hear the lively little chirpers twittering away gleefully and joyously. The little birds are full of life and have no care, only live from day to day and are satisfied, and so too it is with us if we raise our spirits above and prepare our souls to listen to the chirping of the Prince of Peace. And continuing our little pilgrimage we visit the replica of the world's renowned grotto, Lourdes. Life seems to have lost all its hope, like a little child that is misunderstood by the world and all but its mother, we now flee to Mary. Her mother-heart understands, and if we confide in her like we do in mother, and tell her of our helplessness and faith in her, she dare not refuse anything that her maternal heart knows is good for us. We enter the chapel for the last time, tarry a while and then visit the graveyard. So too end the average pilgrimage on earth. At this time of the year (fall) the leaves, wind beaten, fallen to the ground, chase each other in a mad rush around the tombstones. These leaves are symbolical of lives spent. Some are small, their beauty lying in their perfection and in their usefulness in having made a tree beautiful. Some are perforated, some we can hardly recognize. Some are soiled, some are beautifully tinted and some are near perfection. If these meet with good fortune, they are preserved for centuries and centuries, their memory lives, while that of most leaves has long been forgotten-devastation of some kind sweeps over the land, and takes even the last memory of these treasured leaves: mortal man. |