Hortus Conclusus at Le Grand Seminaire

Years ago, I visited Le Grand Seminaire, it is where my great great uncles, Fr. Martin Callaghan and his brother Fr. James Callaghan are buried. It is also where both men were educated in the late 1800s and I've always felt that attending this school was a great opportunity for both men; they were born into the working class, they became priests, educated men, and they served their community. A few years after this first visit I went on a tour of the seminary; it is located on Sherbrooke Street West near Atwater. From the street you can see the twin towers, built in the late 1600s, they were a place of safety when Indigenous people might attack the compound; it was where they would hide in the towers.

Note the image of Christ at the top left
of this image; this hortus conclusus corresponds
better to the garden at Le Petite Seminaire
in Old Montreal

 

On my first visit to Le Grand Seminaire  I walked around the grounds; there is a kind of enclosed garden or green space; you can see the stone walls that surround the place below. There is a rectangular pool, see below, that had been neglected. I suspect that access to the grounds is now more difficult as the old seminary has become quite a prestigious private high school. 

Le Grand Seminaire from Sherbrooke Street West






These twin towers can be seen from Sherbrooke Street West

Drawing of Le Grand Seminaire from 1600s

Front entrance; these photographs were taken in the 1990s

The grounds and parking lot

Historical photograph from 1905, the pond or basin in better days

Historical photograph from 1913



This is is the man-made pond on the grounds of the Grand Seminaire

Deletions from an Introduction for a Selected Poems (3)

 

In 1975 I published "The Insecurity of Art", an essay describing that poets need to begin from a place of not knowing, of insecurity, and this becomes a place of discovery. I write out of what I have experienced and sometimes this is also a place of darkness, we've all experienced darkness at some time in our lives: some are lost in a dark forest; others have descended to the underworld; and some of us had to begin life again in middle age, for nothing was as we believed. But darkness is also a place of creativity, of self-awareness, of rebirth and vision. And so I ask, what can be seen in the immensity of this darkness no matter how dark it is? It took me many years to know what is obvious to others; that tiny dot of light in the darkness is the discovery of love in one's life. It is greater than any darkness.

 

Farewell, Tree

We've just had some of the big snow storm that crippled parts of Canada and the United States; some people here lost electricity due to the strong winds but, overall, Montreal was spared the very worst of the storm. But what wasn't spared was a tree we had at the front of the house; it was never much of a tree and for years I had a wire connected from the tree to the wall of the house, to hold it just in case it fell over. 

Now the tree is gone. We planted the tree at least twenty years ago; farewell twenty years of growing, Tree; farewell to 20 to 25 feet in height, Tree. The tree didn't collapse, it broke under the weight of the snow. Then I had the job of cutting it up; which, against my self-doubts, I did. 

I was of two minds regarding losing the tree. I wanted the tree but not necessarily this tree . . . although better this tree than no tree at all which is what I now have. It was never a great tree, it was a good enough tree; it tended to thinning out, but a few years ago I topped the tree and forced the growth to the bottom branches and the whole tree filled out nicely. That improved the tree. A tree, even this tree, adds a lot to the landscaping of a house, remove the tree and you are no longer distracted from the house that needs painting, pointing, and general maintenance. And I am basically a tree lover and don't like to cut down any tree. Farewell, Tree . . .

I wasn't sure I was up to cutting up the tree; I'm not young, but I did it. And then, a few days after the tree collapsed, I noticed from a basement window chick-a-dees walking around under the cut branches of the tree, finding something to eat. They missed the tree. And later, outside, I saw chick-a-dees sitting on the cut branches, I felt like a traitor to the birds, but I wasn't, I didn't cause the tree to break, all I did was cut up the branches. But the chick-a-dees missed the tree. And then I remembered that I used to sit in our living room, just a few feet from where the tree had been outside, and I could hear chick-a-dees in the tree, they'd sit on the branches, they used the tree, they liked the tree, they were happy in the tree, and here I was cutting up the branches. So, now, the tree has to be replaced with another tree.

Farewell, Tree

Farewell, Tree

That's the tree, on the left, in October

That's the tree, on the right

And now I miss the tree. 

"These" by William Carlos Williams

 

January 2015

These are the desolate, dark weeks when nature in its barrenness equals the stupidity of man. The year plunges into night and the heart plunges lower than night to an empty, windswept place without sun, stars or moon but a peculiar light as of thought that spins a dark fire – whirling upon itself until, in the cold, it kindles to make a man aware of nothing that he knows, not loneliness itself – Not a ghost but would be embraced – emptiness, despair – (They whine and whistle) among the flashes and booms of war; houses of whose rooms the cold is greater than can be thought, the people gone that we loved, the beds lying empty, the couches damp, the chairs unused – Hide it away somewhere out of the mind, let it get roots and grow, unrelated to jealous ears and eyes – for itself. In this mine they come to dig – all. Is this the counterfoil to sweetest music? The source of poetry that seeing the clock stopped, says, The clock has stopped that ticked yesterday so well? and hears the sound of lake water splashing – that is now stone.

Farewell, 2022!

 

 

Farewell old year, you won't be missed. Happy New Year! Welcome 2023!

Last walk on the hidden trail for this year

Although we've had a few mild days, the cold is upon us and it makes life a lot less enjoyable. While I am usually happy to go for a morning walk, now, hearing that it is -10 C outside, I think it might be a good day to stay indoors, or go for a shorter walk and buy a few groceries on the way home. There is really nothing appealing about cold weather, not our cold weather. And it was cold a few days ago when I went for a last walk for this year on the hidden trail. The usual conviviality of walkers and dog owners was gone, it was all women dog walkers and me. The dogs enjoyed barking at me, and what of the women? I ignored them as I hurried along, cold, colder, and getting colder still. 

Note: these photos were taken at least two weeks ago, before we had all of the snow we now have, and it's still falling.

The man who saved St. Mary's Hospital

When I was growing up I often heard about the three Callaghan priests, Frs. Martin, James, and Luke. The oldest priest was known familiarly as Fr. Martin, he was the first Montreal-born pastor at St. Patrick's Basilica; when he died he was buried in a plain wooden casket and, as his funeral cortege moved through the streets, people bowed their heads and acknowledged that he was an exceptional and humble man of God; they all loved Fr. Martin. Fr. James, the second born, was less known; the youngest, Fr. Luke Callaghan, was prominent but not as beloved as Fr. Martin. 

The Callaghans were proud of all of their children. John Callaghan, their father, was involved in religious organizations in Montreal and, coincidentally, he was a longtime friend of my great great grandfather, Laurence Morrissey, a relationship that predates the marriage of his daughter to Laurence's son, Thomas. The Sulpician order educated these three young men and they each became prominent figures in the Montreal community. Born into the working class their intelligence was recognized by the Church and they were given every opportunity to make something of themselves; they were given the greatest gift, an education. 

There is a saying, that one pays something forward (defined as "when someone does something for you, instead of paying that person back directly, you pass it on to another person instead.") Back in the 1920s and 1930s, and before, some members of the Irish Catholic community in Montreal wanted to build a hospital, and they did, it is St. Mary's Hospital which is also a McGill University teaching hospital. It was Fr. Luke Callaghan who saved the hospital when it was in jeopardy of being cancelled; he paid forward the good fortune that he had received from others.

Father Luke Callaghan

A Notman photograph of St. Michael's Church, 1934; Fr. Luke Callaghan
was the pastor here and he helped build the church.

The mission of founding a hospital originated with Sister Helen Morrissey (no relation) in 1908; she was born in the United States, and she was joined in this work of founding a hospital by Dr. Donald Hingston, an eminent Montreal surgeon and a member of an eminent Montreal family, his father had been a surgeon and mayor of Montreal. The first location of St. Mary's Hospital, chosen by Mother Morrissey, was Shaugnessy House, on then Dorchester Blvd West, and it opened on 21 October 1924; it is now the location of an architectural centre and museum. 

Shaugnessy House was soon recognized as being too small to serve its purpose and work began raising funds for a new much larger building. But the main hurdle was Mother Morrissey, she had her own vision of the new hospital, and that vision was that it would be under her control. She was also convinced of her own correctness, she was domineering, intelligent, articulate, and formidable. She was a literate person, she had written a book on Ethan Allen, and she knew what kind of hospital she wanted; soon, the business men fled saying Mother Morrissey was unworkable with. The men could do nothing with Mother Morrissey, she would not budge from her belief in what she wanted and her moral authority in getting it.

The original St. Mary's Hospital located at Shaugnessy House

St. Mary's Hospital in 2014

It seems that the men, prominent business men and politicians, cowered in the presence of Mother Morrissey, or they threw up their hands and were prepared to let the whole project become history. Thomas Morrissey was married to Mary Callaghan, a sister of the three Callaghan priests, and when Thomas died in 1916 Mother Morrissey visited the family in their working class home. Also present when were Mary Callaghan's brothers, the priests. So, when the hospital project went off the rails due to Mother Morrissey, who did they call? They called the only man who had the authority and connections to do an end-around Mother Morrissey, they called Father Luke Callaghan, pastor of, at the time, the largest congregation in Montreal, St. Michael's Church on St. Viateur Street in Mile End. Perhaps Fr. Luke had a chat with Mother Morrissey, he had the diplomacy to deal with all sorts of people and to get them onboard; he had seen through the building of St. Michael's church, a church that is architecturally unique in the city. Having lost her position of authority in the hospital project, Mother Morrissey seems to have disappeared from her involvement with the hospital. Soon, a million dollars was raised for the construction of a new hospital. The new hospital, located on Lacombe Avenue near Cote des Neiges Road, opened in 1934, where it is still located.

Here is an excerpt from Dr. J.J. Dineen's St Mary's Hospital, The Early Years: 

Canon Luke Callahan was named by Dr. Hingston as the man who, through his intervention with the Archbishop during the 1929 closure, saved the hospital. Father Callahan had persuaded the Bishop to sanction the removal of Rev. Mother Morrissey and bring in the Grey Nuns. Many of the Irish clergy had been strongly in favour of turning over the hospital to Rev. Mother Morrissey or another religious nursing order. The community in general was dissatisfied with the doctor-dominated board and it was during this state of general discontent, that a new board of prominent businessmen and politicians was established prior to the first major successful drive in July 1931.

I tell this story because some years ago someone very close to me was very ill, at one point she almost died while in hospital, but doctors and nurses rushed to her bedside and by the next morning she was still alive, but barely. Every year I expected it to be her last but it is now eight years later and each year is a blessing, it is a gift and to whom do I owe this gift? To the doctors, nurses, administrators, and staff at St. Mary's Hospital. God bless them all! And to whom do I owe this hospital? To Mother Helen Morrissey, Dr. Donald Hingston, and Fr. Luke Callaghan who helped keep the hospital project alive; he paid it forward and I, his great, great nephew, am one of the many recipients of his gift. Then, in June 2021, I had cancer, it required surgery; I was referred to the chief surgeon at St. Mary's and, within a few weeks, I was operated on and here I am, writing this and once again thankful to the doctors and nurses at St. Mary's Hospital and Fr. Luke for saving it from the misguided control of Mother Morrissey. By the way, I have no special privilege at the hospital; everyone is treated equally with dignity and care.

And this is what "paying it forward" looks like from someone who has received the generous gift of those who paid it forward. I hope everyone can be generous and give something to a reputable charity like the St. Mary's Hospital Foundation. Fr. Luke, when he helped save St. Mary's Hospital, had no idea that it was descendants of his own family that would be saved by his intervention with Mother Morrissey. 

Merry Christmas to you all!

Note: Sister Helen Morrissey's book, Ethan Allan's Daughter, was published in Montreal in 1940.

Hortus Conclusus at Le Petit Seminaire, Notre-Dame Basilica

Here is a satellite photograph of Old Montreal and, more specifically, of Notre-Dame Basilica and the enclosed garden, the hortus conclusus, behind the Petit Seminaire on the south-west side of Notre-Dame Basilica. The Petit Seminaire adjoins Notre-Dame Basilica and there is an entrance to the basilica from the seminary. The (possibly) better known Grand Seminaire is located on Sherbrooke Street West near Atwater. The enclosed garden at the Petit Seminaire is closed to the public and there don't seem to be many photographs of it. Of course, Montreal is "Ville Marie", the City of Mary, and Mary has a large presence here; the hortus conclusus is closely associated with Mary. Photographs of the exterior of Notre-Dame Basilica and the Petit Seminaire were taken in February 2002.

All of the institutions mentioned here are owned by the Sulpician Order. 

Seminary Gardens, Montreal, QC, about 1870;
photographed by Alexander Henderson (1831-1913). 
You can see the Victoria Bridge, top left of the photo.

Here is an old photograph of the rear of the Petit Seminaire and, coincidentally, 
of the enclosed garden at the seminary; the buildings in the background have been
demolished and new buildings constructed there

The following photographs were taken in February 2002 during a tour of the Petit Seminaire.

On rue Notre Dame, in Old Montreal, the entrance to the Petit Seminaire

Notre-Dame Basilica in Old Montreal

Le Petit Seminaire

St. Joseph's Oratory, Montreal

When we were children we would bike to the Oratory, it wasn't far, then walk around, always in awe and amazed by the size of the place and the celebration of religion that was unlike anything found in daily life, or my life; it was exotic, supernatural, and incredible. On occasion I still visit the Oratory, and quite often I drive by the entrance on Queen Mary Road and look up and marvel. The small chapel is where Saint Brother Andre began his healing ministry; later the larger building that most people are familiar with was constructed.

Driving by the Oratory, on Queen Mary Road

The smaller, older, chapel

In the original, small, chapel near the Oratory

In the small chapel

In the small chapel