USA > California > Alameda County > Oakland > Silver jubilee memorial Convent of Our Lady of the Sacred Heart, Oakland, Cal., 1868-1893 > Part 5
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Data Bryant Agnes O Neil
Mamie Cahill Mabel Watson
Kate Fitzwilliam Mary Workman
Convent of our Lady of the Sacred Heart, Oakland, Cal.
The Mission of the Snowflake
A soft feathery snowflake drifted slowly down to earth, who extended her arms and folded the pale wanderer to her heart. "Lie here, little one," she whispered low, " lie here till my fair daughter Spring comes in her youthful beauty ; then shalt thou make choice of a state of existence from the many that I will show to thee." All through the winter the snowflake slumbered, till at last it heard in the distance the sweet carol of birds, and all the air seemed one vast storehouse of rare perfumes. Then it felt a wonderful restless- ness steal over its spirit and said to Mother Earth : "Let me go forth ; give me some aim in life, for I can no longer abide this sleeping away of my time." "Thou art right, my child," she ' answered, "'Tis time to choose how thou wilt serve thy Maker. Many are the snowflakes that I have cherished in my heart and placed at length where God needed them most. See the vast Ocean: his waters like a silvery zone girdle me round ; his snow-capped waves are ever saluting me as they bear in chivalric pride rich treasures to my store-coral that rivals the red of fairest maidens' lips ; pearls that the haughtiest of my children stoop to gather ; while the shells and moss that he brings to me have tints and texture so delicate that man with all his boasted art can only admire-equal he cannot. He yields me constant incense in the vapors that are rising from his waters. These float over me and cool the winds that come sighing in the languishing summer time. Again they fall as gentle rain on the thirsty flowers. But ofttimes the flowers have not need for all that the grand and generous old ocean sends in the rain ; yet I do not permit it to waste, I treasure it up. Deep in my bosom it sinks,
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and bye and bye I show it some tiny opening where it trickles down through a rocky crevice. First, slowly and noiselessly it runs along, but as it finds its pathway growing wider, it laughs to itself with a rippling sound which the hills and woods around give back with a merrier echo, while the valley now lays off its garb of sombre brown, and dons a suit of richest green with royal trimmings of purple and gold. Deeper and wider the tiny stream grows, with a song ever on its lips as it plays around the stones that lie in its way, for now it knows it is drawing near to its ocean home. Nearer and nearer it draws, now it lays aside the careless air, as it thinks of its mighty origin-majesty and sublimity mark its closing path. The gurgling, splashing music, that accompanied the turning of the village mill-wheel, and the placid waters that mirror each sweet maid as she lingers on the rustic bridge to gaze with dreamy eyes into the brooklet's depths, now give way to the roar and dash of a Niagara's furious waters or the deep mysterious flow of a grand and mighty river. At length it reaches once more the mighty ocean who takes it into his arms and listens to the story of all its doings.
" I have other means of storing the beauty of the ocean. I seize the rain in its passage over my mountain heights, and I turn its diamonds into pearls ; then. I form a cloth of these jewels and I spread it over my coldest regions to warm my children beneath ; and some of the moisture that ladens the air I gather in crystal drops to gem the delicate flowers. On the tall fair lily and the graceful bluebell I hang these jewels, and even seek out the modest violet hiding away under velvety hangings to deck it with my fairest gems. All this and much more do I owe to the ocean with its bountiful waters, but God has added another gift to please my children here, and give them the hopes of a brighter life when this has passed away. When the rain falls like my children's tears, God smiles a smile of comforting love and there comes in the skies a beautiful bow, penciled with sunbeams and dyed with many and glorious hues, and his children take comfort therefrom. Hope lives
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once more in their bosoms with strength renewed ; they take up once more life's burden which before they bore so wearily. Now little snowflake choose from these ; what shall thy mission be? And the snowflake softly answered, " Not in the dew would I live, for this passes away with the morning sun ; nor in the stream, though happy its mission, but I would rise from lowly things-I would draw near to man's Maker. I would dwell in His beautiful bow that I might give to thy children, O Earth, hope in their hour of despair, and strength to carry the burden of life. But more, far more than this would I do, for I would teach them to love."
KATE FITZWILLIAM.
Convent of our Lady of the Sacred Heart, Oakland, Cal.
My Convent Home
How sweet the above words sound to our ears ! But far sweeter is the blissful realization of their true meaning, for it is a home worthy of the name it bears. 'Tis a lovely spot encircled by a band of cypress trees, some of which rear their lofty heads toward the smiling heavens and stretch out their hospitable arms, seeming to invite us to rest beneath their shadows. Grand and majestic rises the stately building, like some enchanted castle, with its circling foliage of shady trees, velvet lawns, bright patches of smiling flowers, and inviting orchards with their wealth of golden fruit, made unapproachable by a green hedge over which sundry longing peeps are taken by curious school girls. Overlooking all is the cross-crowned tower, mounting proudly to the smiling skies. In the background, peering through green arches gleaming with its heaven-borrowed hues, is a quiet lake upon whose placid bosom countless white sails are continually flitting. On loved holidays the " Rosa," " Aloysius " and "Swan " go forth to swell the number of fairy crafts, each bearing a happy freight of laughing school-girls, whose merry voices float out upon the breeze as they skim over the waters of the blue lake.
Leaving the happy rowers to enjoy their boat ride, we will take a stroll through the grounds, and admire God's fairest gifts, the flowers, which he has so generously bestowed upon this one of His favorite spots. All are here, from the stately sun-flower to the modest violet that peers shyly up as we pass by. There is one spot carefully circled by faithful cypress, where white flowers bloom untouched by childish fingers, where the drooping willow keeps a
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tender watch over two lonely graves. The black cross, marking the resting place of one of God's chosen ones, is covered with clinging ivy, twining gracefully around it as if to soften its dark outlines. There the mischief-loving children are hushed in their glee, hurrying feet tread more lightly, more slowly past that sacred spot where reigns a holy calm like the soft breath of prayer. Continuing our walk we enter the summer house built by nature herself, of cypress, which is kept trimmed in the shape of a hollow mound. In this shady retreat are spread, on feast days, sumptuous repasts to be partaken of in true picnic style. Still farther is the Grotto of Our Lady of Lourdes with roses clambering over its mimic rocks and from her niche in the rock over head, our Holy Mother seems to invoke a blessing on all who kneel at her shrine.
But what shady nook is that we see? "Tis the " Rustic Seat" so well beloved by all the girls. Let us rest beneath the cool shade of the overhanging pepper tree and await the return of the merry boaters, the dripping of whose oars is now plainly heard.
Ah! beautiful home, would that Time and Youth could ever linger within thy pleasant shades! But change, ruthless change, calls many from thy fold. We, too, one day will have to leave thee, to leave forevermore thy sunny bowers, thy dear old walks by the lake- side, thy loved haunts, thy sweet associations, thy dear and happy inmates. But ever in our hearts will we cherish a fond remem- brance of the home of our school-days.
KATE CORNELL,
Convent of our Lady of the Sacred Heart, Oakland, Cal.
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CONVENT OF OUR LADY OF THE SACRED HEART, OAKLAND, CAL., 1868
Art in The Service of Religion
Artists are nearest to God. Into their souls
" He breathes His life, and from their hands It comes in fair articulate forms To bless the world."
God is infinite truth and perfect beauty. Without the existence of God as infinite truth, science is impossible, for it can never be well grounded, unless it rests upon the eternal and first cause. As perfect beauty, God is the ideal of the soul in every conception of art. "There is in man a memory of the perfection with which he was sent forth from the hands of his Creator ; there is also a crav- ing to fashion himself after a picture of his imagination conformable to the idea he possesses of the beautiful-a type combining the first and last excellence of being ; which it is his to enjoy, since he has a conception of it, and to which he ought to be able to arrive, since he aspires towards it. Thus from remembrance and a feeling of a hereafter is born poetry, is born art ; the expression of ideal beauty under a created form, either gleaming on canvas, breathing in mar- ble, or speaking from the living page."
It is this ideal that wins the love of man, raises him on the wings of contemplation, and bears him aloft toward the Infinite. It gives to Nature its religious power over man, for this ideal is a gleam from the face of God which has penetrated the clouds of the
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material world, and is reflected through the blue heavens, the starry sky, or whatever is grand or beautiful in nature. "Man is neces- sarily impressed and ennobled by the beautiful, for there is nothing sensuous in the idea of true beauty. Its property is to purify desire, not to inflame. Hence art addresses itself less to the sense than to the soul ; it seeks to awaken not desire, but sentiment. Chastity and beauty seek each other. Chastity is beautiful, and beauty is chaste. Therefore, art which is the expression of beauty, is necessarily moral, elevating and religious." Man feels its in- fluence steal over him, inspiring him with a holy longing to return to that home from which he has caught one glimmering ray.
Is it not true that all the creations of art aim heavenward? Each in its own way aspires to perfect beauty. The massive Cathe- dral, rising above the surrounding habitations of man, points firm and fearless, straight to Heaven. Silently it proclaims the word of God and the destiny of man. The marble statue is but the created form of the ideal form in the sculptor's soul ; and the ideal is always spiritual, heavenly. In painting, music and poetry is seen the religious tendency and through them runs a vein of religious sentiment. In them is an echo of the Infinite. In them are strains of mortal music whose keynote is the rapturous melodies of Heaven.
The true artist seeks after beauty ; that only is beautiful which is perfect, and what is perfect must necessarily be true, good-God- like. The tendency to the author of all perfection.
Art, I repeat, is necessarily religious. But our nature being material, it is only by striking the sense that we rise to the spiritual, and it is thus that art acts as a medium between the soul and the body ; as a chain, a bridge, connecting Heaven and Earth .· We rise by its aid, on the wings of contemplation to spirituality and to God. When we look upon a lovely scene of nature, or gaze on the glory of a sunset sky, the soul expands, is overcome with a sense of the beautiful and is drawn irresistibly to God. It is the silent homage of the soul to the Creator. It fills us with what we call " inspiration," and it is in such moments that the poet pours forth
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his fullest melody of words, whose mighty thoughts roll out uncon- scious from the richness of his soul. "Tis then that the painter seems to have caught a ray from the celestial sun, and the brush in his hand seems to move to the promptings of some guiding angel. 'Tis then that the musician vents the ecstasy of his soul in showers of ethereal melody. Yet in the poet, the painter, the musician, it is the same angel of inspiration that whispers to their souls. This joy, this exultant feeling, has the same cause ; it is the effect of the beautiful, and each one gives vent to his emotions by the power or gift which is prominent in his nature. For Art is an inspiration, and an inspiration can come only from God. And since we love God as beauty, we love God in Art, which is an expression of the beautiful-itself a reflection of God.
Can we then separate Art-the work of the God-like nature within, the incarnation of spiritual sentiment-can we separate it from Religion ?
What seems to prove that Art is a child of Religion, is that never have its creations risen so high as when in her service. Beauti- ful may be the stately mansion or gorgeous palace, they please and charm the eye. But enter a temple raised to the honor of God. how" different the pleasure! Then beauty is of a higher kind. The walls and arches look down in silent eloquence. A something in their solemn majesty commands reverence.
Sculpture peoples the shrines of Religion with myriad saints and angels. Painting grows immortal as it reveals her truths with all their purity and holiness. Religion gives to music that celestial voice which lures the soul to its home above. In poetry she pours a language in our hearts that speaks to the ear of the Infinite.
Thus Art would ever make the visible beautiful, that we might ascend to the beautiful invisible. Art and Religion must then go forth hand in hand-Religion as the inspirer of true Art, and Art as the handmaid of Religion.
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ARCHITECTURE.
Foremost among the fine arts stands Architecture. Man in his fallen state built a wretched hut, or scooped out a cave wherein to shelter himself and his family ; but when he wished to give worship to the Deity, he erected an altar, decked it with festoons and sought to make it fair. And thus it is through all ages, man has ever had his temples. Under the influence of Religion man has wrought his grandest works; when we gaze on some great mass of stone, chast- ened and purified by the spirit of holiness that pervades it, instinct- ively we feel the presence of God. The mind expands when it beholds such spaciousness and strength-the work of man's feeble hand grown strong in faith. And what could profess his faith more loudly than the grand old Gothic cathedral! There the smallest ornament has its religious significance. The triple portal bids us marvel at the mystery of the triune God; the iris-hued rose window recalls his mystical unity. The tabernacle with its silken curtains gives a hint of the sanctuaries of old. The very shape of the church ,-a cross-is a commemoration of the death that brought life to mankind, and which rests there as a foundation upon which our Holy Religion is built. The silence and gloom of the crypt reminds us of the shadow of death and of the dimness of man's soul when steeped in ignorance and sin. The lofty spire seems a finger point- ing heavenward and calling our attention to the glittering cross by which alone victory can be obtained over the powers of hell.
"Ah! those cathedrals of the middle ages pre-eminently bespeak the faith of those times. The wonders of a beauty most sublime and spiritual were not wrought at the decrees of princes, but at the inspiration of Faith and Charity. Entire populations toiled at the sacred task. It is not astonishing that they produced such extra- ordinary results, Salisbury, Cologne, Strasbourg, Rheims, Paris! On beholding such vast structures, your massive piles, one feels as if the inspiration of a million religious souls had materialized !"
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Review those grand structures: Milan looms up as a glorious embod- iment of Faith.
Only some angelic spirit could portray its perfection and grandeur. Like some fair mirage suspended in air does it appear, so ethereal and immaculate looking are its thousand pinnacles. One would think that some spirit had thrown over it a veil of driven snow, embroidered and begemmed with myriad jewels, for only thus can one account for the richness and delicacy of this massive pile.
And what of that grandest of temples-St. Peter's at Rome ! I shall glean a few quotations-the first from that charming book- " A Sister's Story."
" In Gothic churches our first impulse is to kneel and bow down in humble prayer and deep contrition, while in St. Peter's on the contrary, the spontaneous feeling is to open our arms wide with joy, and to look up to heaven with rapturous enthusiasm. Sin does not seem to crush us there. A consciousness of forgiveness through the triumph of the Resurrection fills the whole soul."
Listen to this eloquent stanza from Byron:
" Enter. its grandeur overwhelms thee not; And why? It is not lessened, but thy mind, Expanded by the genius of the spot, Has grown colossal, and can only find A fit abode wherein appear enshrined Thy hopes of immortality."
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One more quotation-that very familiar one from Mme. de Staël's Corinne:
" The architecture of St. Peter's is frozen music."
Ah! yes, I add, it is truly the music of a great and mighty soul. I can well imagine it to be some grand triumphal hymn that has suddenly been stayed in its heavenward flight and transformed into a permanent hymn of praise to God. Thus tower, and spires, and wondrous domes, uprise all over the earth, as silent guides in our wanderings here below, ever pointing out our way to the home towards which we, as pilgrims are traveling.
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SCULPTURE.
We love the marble spell of sculpture that binds the ideal of a master-mind almost imperishably before us. Its fairest conceptions are in the service of religion ; it is that very spirit of religion breathed into them that has made them immortal.
As architecture has been styled "frozen music" so might sculpture be called a "frozen poem." It is the giving of form to the conception of the soul. It is one mighty thought, arrested by an angel in its flight through the mind, a conception worthy of being known to other minds, and revealed in all the whiteness of its purity.
Pagan sculpture was beautiful indeed-beautiful because of its proportion, its grace and delicacy ; but that secret beauty which speaks to the soul was unknown; it seemed to lie dormant in the beautiful but soulless forms, as it was in the illumined souls. The Pagan sculptor has not even tasted the living waters of faith and love at the ever-flowing fountains of our religion. Pagan art was the work of the imagination, Christian art of the soul. Gifted in- deed, was the hand of Phidias that sculptured the Olympian Jupiter, but were we to compare it with the Moses of Michael Angelo, we would find one lifeless and cold, the latter alive and animated by the breath of religious inspiration. In viewing one we can never forget that it is marble; in gazing upon the latter it is almost im- possible to realize that it is merely stone, for a soul seems to have been imparted to the lifeless clay. "There is something infinite in that countenance. The sadness which steals over the face of Moses is the same deep sadness which clouded the countenance of Michael Angelo himself"-the sadness of a great soul that realized in some degree the awful chasm between God, in His infinite holiness, and the sons of men, in their pettiness and folly-an indefinable melan- choly and veneration which sought no model and has found no rival.
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.It was religion that inspired the Gates of Ghiberti "fit to be the gates of Paradise "-the Campanile of Giotto, so delicate and fairy-like that it looks as if "it should be kept under a glass case."
It was religion that guided the chisel of the sculptor, as he peopled with marbled saints every nook, portal and spire of the vast Gothic Cathedral, until, like some holy multitude crowning some fair mountain in heaven, they seemed indeed a celestial con- course petrified in adoration. When Architecture had done its work, Sculpture came in to throw a veil of beauty over the pride of the architect's imagination. From base to finial was added vari- ation upon variation of delicate stone tracery ; fine embroidery was tossed and strewed from pillar to vault, and niches were filled with countless angels and saints. Thus in the service of Religion, Sculpture and Architecture ever worked in harmony.
PAINTING.
Painting, likewise, asks to be received into the temple of Re- ligion. Within the Painter's soul Religion imprints her glorious ideal, and, guiding his brush across the canvas, she aids him to reproduce this ideal. All nature, physical and spiritual, yields to the sway of Painting; from earth to Heaven she wings her flight, portraying all between.
But the painting of Paganism encompassed a far smaller sphere, for it confined itself to the material; above this it could not ascend, for the artist expressed no higher inspiration than that afforded by his imagination, a purely organic faculty. Yes, Reli- gion has imparted to Painting its fire, its soul, and within her hallowed sanctuary have artists executed the world's masterpieces.
See how nobly Religion has employed this art. It is the language of the church. There hung with pictures it is an open book, from which even the ignorant may learn. We need not
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turn its pages, but only gaze and read in colors the life pictured there.
" Christian painting began in the Catacombs. In the rude pictures of that subterranean world we find the chief doctrines of Religion represented under forms the most touching. Painting there represents the Phænix rising from its ashes, emblem of the immortality of the soul and the resurrection of the body; the good shepherd bearing upon his shoulders the lost sheep, which teaches with touching simplicity one of the most beautiful of Our Lord's parables; the three youths in the fiery furnace, signifying the Providence of God for those who fear and love him; Pharaoh and hosts engulfed in the Red Sea, proclaiming to the faithtul that God is the avenger of those who put their trust in Him."
St. Basil declares that painters accomplish as much by their pictures as orators by their eloquence. Indeed, the divinity of Christ is as manifest in the " Transfiguration " of Raphael as in the famous sermon of Massillon. His sufferings on Mount Calvary are as feelingly portrayed on the canvas of Rubens as in the un- equalled discourse of Bourdaloue. No one can look upon the " Last Supper " by Leonardo de Vinci without being inspired with a sublime conception of that holiest event.
Thus the most renowned works of the great masters were ever inspired by Religion-the delicate cherubini of Angelico, the As- sumption of Titian, the marvelous improvisations of Tintoretto. To it Correggio devoted his Cupolas, with all their grace and chiar- oscuro. Therein Domenichino found his "Last Communion of St. Jerome," the second painting in the world. The Christ of Carlo Dolce and the Madonnas of Sassoferrato and Murillo are in every household. From Religion, Raphael, that prince of painters, drew the epics which compose the Vatican galleries. Not only were his first essays works of faith, but also those which he wrought in his zenith, such as, "The Dispute of the Holy Sacrament," " Heli- odorus," and the " Miracle of Bolsena." When he preferred to fol- low only his imagination, he strayed away as in the commissions
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ON THE CONVENT GROUNDS CONVENT OF OUR LADY OF THE SACRED HEART, OAKLAND, CAL.
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for the story of Psyche; but later on he turned himself to the grand "Transfiguration " from the midst of which he passed to behold it in heaven.
And Michael Angelo? I can never cease wondering how in the Sistine Chapel he has portrayed the two extreme points of the life of the human race-the Creation and the Last Judgment.
K
MUSIC.
One step higher in the scale of the fine arts, and the mingled symphony of color, light, and shade, bursts into harmony of sound. Music is the voice of angels speaking to our souls. It is the voice of some strayed spirit exiled from Heaven and doomed to earth to teach man to love and to hope. Wandering and telling of its celestial home, it goes pouring its soul in sounds that still retain the heavenly echoes. Music by its nature tends heavenward; we can almost see those high silvery notes stream upward through the air and pierce the blue sky; then when we no longer hear the strain, it has not died away, but is far beyond on its way to Heaven.
The ancients were wont to say that he who cultivates music imitates the divinity, and St. Augustine tells us that it was the sweet sound of psalmody that made the lives of the monks of old so beautiful and so harmonious.
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