University of Notre Dame - Dome Yearbook (Notre Dame, IN)

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THERE is a great deal to be said about the earliest traditions of Notre Dame. That which I am privileged to say here is best put in the form of personal impressions. It wiU be a long day before I forget the first hours I spent at Notre Dame, my first Sunday here, my first glimpse of the interior of our beautiful University Church. Where was I? Not in the ordinary American Catholic church! No; but in something quite different, something that strangely and most satisf yingly linked the present with the past, the America of my own tradition with the Europe which I had grown to know. I was transported — I seemed to be literally transported — to another world. And it was a familiar world, the richly colored, meUow toned world of old Gothic fanes; a world, an atmosphere, at once restful and inspiring. High groined ceilings swept their graceful shadows above me from column to column. Nave and transept opened up lofty vistas before me. Around me and over me glowed the softly stained light of gem ' like windows and the storied coloring of richly frescoed walls and ceilings. Central, for every worshipping eye to see, rose a golden ' pinnacled altar — not jammed against the back wall as if it had been almost crowded out, but separately and singly erected, the heart and core of the temple, with spacious sanctuary, carved oak choir stalls, raised levels, the dignity of ascending steps. And beyond, as if pillared with rainbow light, the garnet and violet shadows of a spacious apse that gave forth a vision, literally a vision — Our Lady, advancing, her feet upon a cloud, her arms not so much clasping but offering her Child; and over her crowned head the greater crown, as it were, of her supreme apotheosis, floating in what seemed the dim lustrous air of Heaven itself. A slanting shaft of Tyrian purple sunlight struck across that vision, as if picking out a royal way for that regal Madonna. Now this is neither a fanciful nor an exaggerated picture. It is the impression of that first memorable hour of mine at Notre Dame, put into as simple words as I can command. The point is, as I have already said — I was transported. I was somewhere else besides in prosaic Indiana. I was in a place not alone made beautiful with holiness, but likewise made holy with beauty. And, again, it was a familiar place. I had been often there before; I felt at home. I was in Catholic France. I was in Notre Dame, yes; but I was iij.,.Notr5NPame de Paris. Nowhere else had I seen the vision, stand, and advance as this Madonna; picture, the effect, was complete. The panning arches, the vistas in shadows and half lights, as a sorJ f restoration of the Church as a ship ' -Recording to the manner and 5f old v lbjrld Christianity, of France Daughter ,j lfe , of the Church. crowned Mada nowhere elsi vaulted cei!