Loyola College - Review Yearbook (Montreal, Quebec Canada)

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10 LOYOLA COLLEGE REVIEW towards its attainment. Your classical course is intended to make yours, in the words of the old Loyola Prospectus, a well rounded character. You may not become a scholar, a savant, an eminent scientist, a famed litterateur—in fact your name may never be mentioned among the illuminati—but you can and you must be- come a Catholic gentleman. You must leave the college halls with a love for the better things of life, a taste refined and free from grossness. Your thoughts must be elevated and serene.—Still you must not forget that the intelligence that soars on high in proud aloofness from the interests of human kind is like the aviator who finds the chill of death in the rarefied at- mosphere of the clouds. Your heart, un- selfish and pure, must lend its warmth to the workings of your mind. You must, in a word, be practical idealists. Unswerv- ing in your principles, straightforward and unafraid in their application, gen- uinely sympathetic in all your dealings, you will be, in truth, a Catholic gentle- man. My speech is ended. I yearned for a glimpse into the future. Imagination, her countenance wreathed in smiles, offered to draw aside the veil that hid it from my view. I declined her ser- Rev. E. DE LA PEZA, S.J. Rev. G. BRADLEY, S.J. Rev. ALEX. MACDONALD, S.J. Rev. D. F. MACDONALD, S.J. Rev. LEWIS DRUMMOND, SJ. vice. Fancy is too apt to be creative and to deceive with alluring mirages. Whilst I spoke my refusal, the spirit of prophecy, heaven-sent, stepped forward and spread out before me a scene of enchantment. It looked like a fairy city, built around a cluster of stately structures. From every side came young men with eager step, who fell into groups as they neared the centre of the city. I followed them. I heard the sound of strange tongues. I caught snatches of conversation about law, medi- cine, science, and theology. I could not be back in mediaeval days, in a seat of inter- national learning—the setting was too modern. I looked in bewilderment at my guide. He spoke no word but hurried me along. Soon the vast, artistic buildings, the mecca of those student crowds, broke full upon our view. I could sense the ap- peal of their wide-flung arms. Here was truly the home of knowledge, the sanc- tuary of truth. I raised my eyes to the huge lettering over the central gate. These are the words I read: LOYOLA UNIVERSITY and I whispered fervently: Amen. GERALD С. Murray, C.SS.R. Loyola, В.А. '04.

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The Past—The Present— The Future HE problem of supply and demand is discussed with keen wit by Canon Sheehan in the introduction to one of his novels. He finds that, in his case, the demand for more of his exqui- site literary craftsmanship sets his well- stored mind a-working and awakens to life his powers of tender and forceful ex- pression. Would that I had some of the Canon’s gifts to answer the call that has come to me for a bit of writing! Shall I try to recall the days that are gone and to live once more in the hallowed halls of Old Loyola? As reminiscence tugs at the strings of memory, strong, kindly faces come before me. From Father Gregory O’Bryan who greeted me on the threshold of my college course to Father Isidor Kavanagh, who bade me Godspeed on its completion, there is not a member of the Faculty that I knew who does not claim from me a tribute of affectionate gratitude. They all crowd in upon me now and call insistently for the recognition they deserve. I cannot do them justice— I am utterly unequal to the task. I can only bless their memory, cherish their ideals, and hold them as my friends. You would not ask me to speak of the students who sat on the benches beside me. Many of them are gone, cut off in the flower of manhood. But just as crushed roses fill the air with delicate perfume, their heroic deaths breathe into our souls a spirit of nobility and unselfishness. The other boyish faces are a blur, faintly descried through a mist of blood. Wher- ever they may be, scattered through the wide world, I hope that they too are faith- ful to the sacred traditions of their Alma Mater. Memory, veiled and silent, warns me away from the past. I turn to the present. What is this miniature army stretching out before me—line upon line of clean- limbed youths, their faces beaming with the joy of life, their eyes alight with the holy fires of sincerity and goodness? It is the new generation, the New Loyola. What an inspiration to the world are those happy countenances, untarnished mirrors of unspoiled souls! Young Gentlemen, do you realize your privileges? Let me be frank with you. I know that you do not. I wonder if any words of mine could help you to appre- ciate them more. Will you bear with me? I will not be didactic—just simple and straight-forward. You are blessed in your professors— men dedicated and consecrated to the su- blime work of fashioning and moulding human souls to the likeness of Christ, men with a tradition behind them of over three centuries of successful teaching in every land, men filled with sympathy and un- derstanding for the new age with its new problems. You are blessed in the atmosphere in which you live. There is Catholicity in the air you breathe. You know what that implies. It means that your mind ranges in wide spaces, unfolds its powers un- trammeled by any but salutary restraints, fraternizes with the greatest thinkers and dreamers of all time. Try to appreciate the advantages you enjoy: Make the most of the golden op- portunity offered you. Is it not a pity that on account of youthful thoughtiess- ness particularly, man should come to be defined as a “creature of regrets’? My first thought then is: Prize highly the truly liberal education you are receiving. That, I am sure, is sane advice and sound philosophy. Because love or appreciation is the real driving-power of all human en- deavor. Philosophy tells us, too, that the end we have in view influences every step we take

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LOYOLA COLLEGE REVIEW 11 Rev. В. CLORAN, S.J Rev. J. HOWITT, S.J. Rev. F. J. MACDONALD, SJ. Rev. J. HOLLAND, S.J. Rev. L. NELLIGAN, S.J. The Prince’s Bounty I know not if she dreamt; it well may be It happens thus, and each revolving year— (So seeming long because replete with joy)— High festival resounds o’er Heaven’s hills On Christmas midnight. For the Christ is seen A Babe in Mary’s arms, and in her eyes The rapture of that hour in Bethlehem When at her breast lay first in smiling sleep Our GOD,—made Man to win for us delight Unending, fathomless.—Then every Saint Comes to the Babe in turn, and mercy asks On some poor toiler of the earth, near-lost In sinful quicksands. As His tender Heart Each wish fulfils, a song of victory Re-echoes through the courts,—and mightier grows Hurled back from golden turrets and jasper walls. (This Agnes saw, and lately told to me— Agnes a lowly maiden on whom lies The weary care of a pauper home, bereft Of mother's help or mother's comforting.) She sang the while with the Seraphim. At length Her turn had come to whisper to the Child Her wishes. Stepping from out the shining host,