The Ignatian
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r •- . > v ,/< // •' .- .,'- '/' / THE IGNATIAN 1BER 1917 San Francisco No. 1 California Ai> let (glnriaitt QlmttnttB Page Sentinel Rock ---------- 7 The Glamour of War -------- 8 An Interview with Archbishop Hanna ----- 21 The Conscript 26 "It's a Cinch" 28 Hallowe'en ..--------33 An Aviator True ---------34 Winter in California --------40 Our Roll of Honor 43 Editorial -----------45 University Notes --------- SO Law Notes ..-------.57 Alumni Notes ---------- 62 University Athletics .--.--.-71 High School Athletics 76 Sty* ifgnaitatt Published Quarterly by the Students of St. Ignatius University San Francisco, Cal. October, 1917 £*ttthu>l Rnrk, fjuamtt* LL hail sublime and lofty Sentinel, Thou guardian of Yosemite's green dell— Sequoia's bower. Majestic giant, towering granite wall, To watch where yon the silver waters fall In mystic shower. No flow'ry paths adorn thee with their bloom— Tall whispering pines send forth their rich perfume Athwart thy ledges. Beneath thy feet the powdered highways run All bright with mottled sheen of noonday sun At river's edges. The clouds in billows toss their snowy manes About thy crevices and rugged fanes As we behold thee. Who sets for all a time and place to grow, Still keeps thee spite of all, that man may know Whose Hand did mold thee. Edouard W. L. Rouleau. <% (glamour of War JAR as conceived by some people may be likened to a game of chess. They look upon it more or less as the interesting pastime of rival kings, in which a multitude of human pawns are placed upon the chess board of the battlefield and with cold scien tific precision and order are maneuvered, moved and sacri ficed in one great game. The chess board may represent the battlefield. The pawns of the game are the companies and battalions of living soldiers, the obedient instruments of belligerent governments. The game itself is war, stripped of all its realism and dread significance, nothing more than an array of moving units. But there is another and truer conception of war; a con ception of war not as a scientific contest or a strategic enter prise of nations, but as the hideous expression of passion triumphant over reason; the wild orgy of ghastly exploits and sanguinary strife; the embodiment of all that is abhor rent to the eye of man, of all that is most repulsive to his feelings, of all that is most adverse to the natural yearnings of his heart. And well we might conceive of war as such. Shattering all the sweet ties of domestic happiness, peace and simple contentment, war, like some clutching fist of mail, reaches into the hallowed precincts of the home and snatches from out the warmful associations and loving sympathies of family life, the very flower of young manhood. And for what? To tear those beloved creatures into pieces with jagged shot, until they starve and parch and perish through days of endless torture, deserted on the battlefield. Proud cities, the costly products of ceaseless human toil, have raised their towering edifices with civic majesty. But war transforms the healthful activity of industry into the wild, THE GLAMOUR OF WAR maddened action of the battlefield. War crushes the thriving cities and leaves a desolate ruin, a fruitless field, a dreary waste. Many civilizations there have been, epoch-making triumphs of mankind, the growth of evolutionary develop ment. They have held their allotted sway upon the earth; they have reached heights in arts, in science, never known before. But even these vast civilizations have found their ruin by the sword. War has shaken their firmament until, like the falling stars, they have plunged from the very zenith of glorious achievements down into the abyss of degradation. This is the record of war. When we consider war's direful picture; those scenes of grieving families, broken homes, ruined cities, wasted nations and tottering civilizations, we fully realize that war is terrible. Yet, strange to say, in spite of all this horror, there is a glamour, a fascination, an almost inexplicable witchery, that inspires us with admiration; there is a thrill which makes our hearts beat quickly. Let us consider for a while this thrill, its effect on literature and the cause of the thrill. We all remember how in days of childhood we listened with beaming eyes and with a feverish emotion of youth to those strange old tales of battles and of wars, of brave deeds and valiant men. How our young breasts thrilled at such inspiring stories. How we loved to hear our parents at eventide tell us of Richard the Lion-Hearted and his bold Crusaders, or of the daring knights of the Round Table, or of Napoleon's lightning strokes. How we loved to paint with the rich coloring of the youthful mind those glorious scenes. Just as, long ago, the boy Spartacus, sitting at the feet of his aged grandsire, heard with throbbing temples and cheeks aglow with a mysterious ardor, those rousing tales of Marathon and Leuctra, so we in childhood days desired to hear those stirring tales of wars and heroes. We were thrilled not only with the deeds, but even with the death of heroes. Yes, even at tales of death in the ranks 10 THE IGNATIAN of battle we were not shocked; we were not horrified; we were inspired by that same mysterious, irresistible emotion. We felt that such a death is glorious. "Come to the bridal chamber, Death, Come in consumption's ghastly form, The earthquake's shock, the ocean storm, And thou art terrible! "But to the hero, when his sword Has won the battle for the free, Thy voice sounds like a prophet's word. And in its hollow tones are heard The thanks of millions yet to be. We tell his doom without a sigh; For he is Freedom's now, and Fame's— One of the few, the immortal names, That were not born to die." In more mature years, as we emerged from the fanciful days of childhood, as we learned to appreciate the purpose of various wars, and as we began to realize what great causes, what great principles, what great blessings are won and lost through the cruel arbitrament of the sword, then our enthu siasm was increased, our thrilling interest in war was intensi fied. The Crusades were fought that the sacred soil of Palestine might be purged of the sacrilegious, scoffing Sara cen. Are we disgusted at the cost in blood and in life of those holy wars? No, we are aflame with the holy cause. Our revolution was fought that our nation might be free. Do we not thrill at the recollection of each sad event of that sorrowful time? Our Civil War was fought that our nation, conceived in liberty, might endure. It was fought to spread the cause of freedom through the world. Just as we have felt the thrill of war, so people of every century have been influenced by the same subtle emotion. We are not surprised therefore to find that war is the pre dominant note in all literature. Poets and orators, thrilling THE GLAMOUR OF WAR 11 with the spirit of war, have gloried in the war theme. We have no time to even mention the hundreds of stirring war anthems and songs and odes and tales and speeches of every nation, so we shall give our attention to a few of the more eminent authors. Homer, the master poet of all ages, has painted with unfading colors the ten years' war of Troy. As the pure waxen lily bursts from the stagnant pond, as the silken corn with grains of living gold springs from corruption, so also the beautiful works of Homer have taken being from the blood-soaked fields of Troy. The characters of the Homeric poems have been an in spiration to all succeeding ages. There is the wise Ulysses, fertile of resources, indomitable of will. His Jove-like wis dom and unconquerable will are ever at the service of his country. He is ever planning new schemes to help the Grecian cause. Now in the assembly of kings he stands to offer godlike wisdom; now amid the brawling soldiery he stirs up wild enthusiasm. Although he has suffered greatly for his native land, "both with those that loved him, and alone, on shore, and when through scudding drifts the rainy Hyades vext the dim sea; yet he finds it dull to pause, to make an end, to rust unburnished, not to shine in use." Beside a snow-white tent sits mighty Achilles grieving over an injustice done him. Without his aid the tide of battle turns against the Greeks. But when he hears of the slaughter of his friends, he enters into battle and none dare stand against him. To avenge the death of his friends he seals the doom of Troy, and amid the glory of the con quest yields up his own life for those he loves. Homer not only arouses admiration for the numerous selfless heroes and heroines of the war, but holds up to everlasting contempt the selfish slackers. When the cox comb, Paris, fled from battle he sought refuge among the 12 THE IGNATIAN women of his home. Hector, wishing to urge him into the fray, found him in the glittering rooms, admiring his useless weapons and chatting with the women. The hero thus addressed him: "Thy hate to Troy, is this the time to show O wretch, ill-fated, and thy country's foe! For thee great Ilium's guardian heroes fall, Till heaps of dead alone defend her wall; For thee the soldier bleeds, the matron mourns, And wasteful war in all its fury burns.