Loyola College - Review Yearbook (Montreal, Quebec Canada)

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LOYOLA COLLEGE REVIEW F Hnx—P — r —nOh——h H — PY K‏ ل The success with which this innovation has met in the past is indicative of its worth, and as time goes on and keener interest is aroused in projects of this kind, it shall become manifest that Canada is fulfilling an important duty towards her younger sons. Each succeeding year is bound to bring its share of bereavement to all of us. Happy indeed are they who can watch the onward march of time and experience no sorrow or regret at the departure of those whom they have regarded Our with esteem and cherished with affection. The past year has, in Bereavements. truth, been in a certain sense a year of mourning for Loyola, for of her sons within her walls and scattered throughout the world, a larger number than usual have answered the final summons. It is with sentiments of real sorrow that the College has borne these losses; sorrow for the departure of those once numbered on her roll of present students as well as for those affectionately regarded as ‘‘ Loyola Old Boys. To their families and relatives a deep expression of sympathy is hereby tendered, with the hope that the poignancy of their present loss may be tempered in some measure by the prospect of a future reunion, not to be interrupted. Canada THOU art no land for a dreamer, Proud, fearless, defiant and young, Pregnant with magical music, Yet mute аз а barp unstrung, Awaiting tbe toucb of a master, Land of tbe Songs unsung. Endless processions of forests, Silver lakes only God-known, Great rivers tbat surge witb a volume, Of thousands of trumpets blown, Shattering with echoes the stillness That broods ост а vast Alone. Wher e Nature, rejoicing and wanton, Baring her breasts to the sky, Pierces the clouds with her rugged peaks, Hurling a dauntless defy Into the face of the heavens, Ever awaiting reply. 44}

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LOYOLA COLLEGE REVIEW MM M n í ———- ———— —— ———————————————‏ ل مل great thinkers of the past have disagreed upon fundamentals, what chance has the youthful undergraduate for genuine discrimination? When one has never had a sound philosophical training in one set system, he will be merely amused or dis- sted on turning the pages of a book containing little more than the history of the intellectual disputes of innumerable thinkers, spread over thirty centuries of time. The history of philosophy tells how the speculations of one вісім are elimin- ated by those of another, whose, in turn, are eliminated by those of a third. Can every philosopher be right? As a modern writer aptly expresses it: Greek meets Greck and polysyllables fly. Bacon poohpoohs the Scholastics and pleads for science while he invents the most unscientific and impractical Utopia. Spinoza goes gunning for the gods of the world; the God of Aristotle and the God of Descartes, the god of Voltaire and the god of Spencer are all cancelled by his system. Bergson drives an ineffective rapier through the materialism of Spencer. Kant cuts the ground from under Berkeley and incidentally from under science and all human knowledge. Nietzsche slashes at the pacifism of Jean Jacques Rousseau and is slashed in turn by the pacifists, Croce and Russell. Schopenhauer quarrels with life itself and solves existence by hating it.” There may be some truth in attributing the student suicides to philosophy. For if the student reads from one p that the world 1s nothing but a place of gloom and that man has no positive feelings except those of pain, and from another that we can be sure of nothing, not even of our own existence, and from another that there is no future life, and from another that there is no God, and from another that everything is God, and so on ad infinitum,—without any one sound system to guide his thought,—there is little reason for wonder if the wave of student suicides seems to be approaching the fulfilment of Schopenhauer's dream of one grand act of uni- versal suicide. It is not by a study of all systems that the greatest results can be obtained from philosophy. A course in philosophy should be the study of a system upon which one can rely in all circumstances, not merely of a transient cult, but rather a rule of thought that is applicable for all time. Such a course should not be the study of all systems, obliging the student to ferret out from each its mite of truth, and рег- mitting him to fall a victim to the absurdities, eccentricities and fallacies of any system that appeals to him. If he learns one system, he has something; or we may say, everything; but if he learns all systems,—he has, in the true sense, nothing. Within the рик few years people have eagerly adopted the current idea of “making a day of іс.” Mother's Day, Labor Day, and Arbor Day, as well as in- , fumerable other “Бау,” are flourishing under this régime of concentrated н. remembrance. It was m because the calendar did not furnish enough ` days, that entire weeks began to be consecrated to the promulgation of ideas, constructive or memorial. In the meantime, while our teeth, our food and our clothing became the subjects of days and weeks of intense meditating, the hope of the nation,—our boys,—were relegated to the background of unconcern. This neglect, or oversight, resulted in the boys being denied those attempts at self-expression so indispensable to their advancement, while, at the same time, biased and pessimistic writers seized the opportunity to give vent to a general wail anent the degeneracy of the modern boy. At length, Boys' Week has become a reality. An entire week has been set apart during which they may, without let or hindrance, express their views and organize and carry out those plans and projects which belong most intimately to themselves. {3}

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LOYOLA COLLEGE REVIEW ə“---------------------------------------------------------- Valleys majestic in glory, Filled with soft pools of light, Gulches that swallow the sunsets, Glens ever silent with night, Crags that frown in the distance, Granite faces of might. Awaiting the touch of a master, Then music shall leap through the land. The ripple of children’s laughter, Melodies men understand; The crooning of joyous mothers, Music symbolic and grand. The crash of huge trees in the woodland, The music of labour and toil, The hum of the drill and the motor, The song of the plough through the soil, The blasts of the belching furnace, Anthems of those who toil. The jargon of seamen' s voices, And sirens lone and shrill Of the tugs and ships in the harbours; From the mainland, the roar of the mill, With its thunder of driving pistons, And its wheels that never are still. The chiming of swinging sickles Heard as the reapers mow, And the murmur of human voices, From the harvest, soft and low; The homeward tread of many feet At twilight, tired and slow. These are the songs of the Master, And into a symphony He will weave the croonings of Nature With the paans of Industry. And the music will roll down the ages, Flooding eternity. JOHN Cummins, 28.