for Father Hemelt to read the prayer intentions for sick relatives that seminarians would write down on small pieces of paper and submit to him. Father Hemelt unwittingly led a prayer for Gypsie Rose Lee, the famous burlesque star of the 1930s: “Please pray for Rose, who is suffering from pneumonia.” Everyone burst out laughing, and he didn’t know what in the devil was going on. That’s called seminary humor.
The main seminary courses were in philosophy taught by Father Jules Baisnee, who had lost his left arm while serving in the French Army in World War I. He used his physical loss to prove that the brain was the center of feeling as well as of thought. “Today I can feel the nerves in my left hand (which was missing) as if I still had it,” he would say.
One of the most practical courses taught us how to properly project our voices so the congregation could hear us. I’m convinced this could help today’s seminarians, who often rely too much on sophisticated sound systems. What happens if the sound system goes haywire, which is not an isolated occurrence? Our professor, Mr. Wisniewski, first sized us up with a rough physical exam — as though he were measuring us for a suit. We always called him “The Tailor.” The exam was to see if we had strong enough lungs and diaphragms. Then we received individual attention in how to enunciate clearly and project our sound. After class we were encouraged to walk into the woods behind the seminary and yell loudly to develop our vocal strength. He didn’t want us staying inside because you get used to the sound of your own voice. The key was to breathe from your abdomen to provide the proper support. I’m glad there were no neighbors around. I’m convinced after hearing a lot of television announcers these days that they could have profited from having Mr. Wisniewski as their teacher.
We had advanced courses in Latin and the usual studies for a bachelor of arts degree, but the course in English, taught by Father Speer Strahan, dwarfed all the other offerings. Father Strahan was a recognized poet and a graduate of Yale who really believed in the goals of a classical education set by Mr. Basselin. His special quarters in Caldwell Hall included space for a grand piano, which he could play without unduly affecting the other residents.
We had to submit a theme for each of the three classes a week during the first semester. His minute criticisms savaged the products of our minds. The next semester we engaged in writing a novel. First, we composed an outline of the novel. In successive weeks we wrote the first chapter, the climactic chapter, and the final chapter. Before the year was over, we had performed other substantial assignments. In later years Father Strahan admitted he had “overdone” our assignments. He didn’t have to let me know that. My classmates and I had come to that same conclusion years before.
Catholic Evidence Guild
Seminary training didn’t come only inside the seminary walls. Seminarians could join the Catholic Evidence Guild, a group that started in London’s Hyde Park in 1918 and specialized in defending the Catholic faith in the public square. We would prepare talks on different aspects of Catholicism and then go to a public park, set up a light pulpit, and begin speaking. Before long, a crowd would gather. My area of expertise was the development of the Bible and how the Church determined what books would be included in it. After my talk I had to answer any questions and objections the crowd would have. That was great practice defending the faith, and I still can’t understand why we didn’t continue it.
We attended the special lectures presented by the university on current topics, generally held in the auditorium of McMahon Hall. We were in the Roosevelt days of the NRA (National Reconstruction Act), and one evening Monsignor John A. Ryan, a renowned champion of social rights, gave a witty and effective talk justifying FDR’s Agricultural Administration Act that resulted in the slaughter of six million young pigs in order to drive up pork prices and get more money into the hands of farmers.
Shortly thereafter, Father Fulton J. Sheen, then an assistant professor in philosophy at Catholic University, criticized FDR’s program, citing the killing of the pigs as a sign of a skewed program in view of the widespread hunger in the country. Sheen was becoming the orator of the nation, and his words went far beyond the classroom.
Of course, Father Sheen was better known for his sermons than his academic courses, but one of his lectures always produced an immense audience. It was his annual lecture on “The Hound of Heaven,” the famous poem by Francis Thompson and arguably the best religious poem in the English language.
The nuns and the lay students came in droves. As the classroom overflowed with people, Father Sheen would announce, “The word has gotten out that we are giving away samples. The class will be held in the auditorium.” Then ensued a mad scramble to get good seats in the auditorium. Father Sheen spoke about the poem so often he could quote passages of it without having to refer to any paper, and he would read the phrases in his dramatic fashion and explain the philosophical content. The audience feverishly recorded every word he spoke, even the most banal. I always attended accompanied by a seminarian from Milwaukee named McGrath. We marveled at the spectacle, making remarks about the audience but always astounded by the power of Father Sheen’s drama.
Many of my classmates at St. Charles were also Basselin students, which made the transition very easy. One was Marty Killeen from Atlantic City, a very intelligent and personable fellow, with whom I was a fellow student all through our seminary days, including the North American College in Rome.
I had very congenial, if different, roommates each year. Vince Sullivan, a real “brain” and later a Sulpician, was my first-year roommate. Next year was “Bonny” Herbeck, named for his blond hair, who was a consistent sleepwalker. Every night of the full moon he would walk around the room but could be coaxed back rather easily: “Bonny, get back to bed. No, don’t just sit on the bed. Get into the bed.”
The third year Dick Ginder, from Pittsburgh, was my roommate. He was an extraordinary musician and a fellow of the guild of organists, and he really rattled the establishment the first time he was allowed to play the organ for our Sunday High Mass in the Shrine of the Immaculate Conception. He played for the recessional a rousing, hopping Bach piece. Father Baisnee didn’t approve at all, but Father Vieban was understanding. The music lovers were rapturous.
Our recreation consisted of taking walks on Wednesday afternoon and playing baseball, for the sports-minded, after dinner. The walks took us all over Washington. I remember a walk with Wilbur Wheeler, a converted Episcopal minister, who was really intrigued with the library in the Masonic Temple on 16th Street. We made our entrance, dressed in Roman collars, and that caused a sensation among the library attendants. Worse yet, Wilbur wanted to see the anti-Jesuit section of the library. It was impressive. The attendant showed it to us and then made a suggestion about seeing another part of the library, but that didn’t budge Wilbur. The attendants seemed very relieved when we left.
Seminarians at the Sulpician Seminary in Washington, D.C., taken in May 1934. I am in the third row, fourth from the left
Baseball was the center of the recreational program. I played center field for the team, and our chief rivals were the team from the famed Dominican House of Studies, next door to the seminary. Once a year we played St. Mary’s Seminary from Baltimore. They had a couple of famous hitters, but we had an ace pitcher from Hartford. Before the game he would caution me, “I’ll use my fastball on them. Play way back. In fact, play in the center of the tennis court (which was behind me in the outfield).” At the appointed time, I’d go back to the center of the tennis court. To my relief, he struck out most of the opposing batters.
The development of the spiritual life of the students was strongly nurtured and closely watched. My spiritual director was Father Collins, who believed in student initiative, and I cannot remember his ever pressuring me to continue studies for the priesthood. Of course, attendance at all the spiritual exercises — morning prayers and meditation, Mass, spiritual reading, and night prayers — was mandatory, and the cassock was the required “uniform” of the seminary.
We had a wonderful opportunity to hear outstanding Catholic scholars speak at the university. There was plenty of controversy, heightened by the crisis of the Depression and the terrible drought in the early 1930s. We students certainly learned that the basic