In Flanders Fields And Other Poems [34]
by few in the profession.
In spite, or rather by reason, of his various attainments
John McCrae never developed, or degenerated, into the type
of the pure scientist. For the laboratory he had neither the mind
nor the hands. He never peered at partial truths so closely
as to mistake them for the whole truth; therefore, he was unfitted
for that purely scientific career which was developed
to so high a pitch of perfection in that nation which is now
no longer mentioned amongst men. He wrote much, and often,
upon medical problems. The papers bearing his name amount to
thirty-three items in the catalogues. They testify to his industry
rather than to invention and discovery, but they have made his name known
in every text-book of medicine.
Apart from his verse, and letters, and diaries, and contributions
to journals and books of medicine, with an occasional address to students
or to societies, John McCrae left few writings, and in these
there is nothing remarkable by reason of thought or expression.
He could not write prose. Fine as was his ear for verse
he could not produce that finer rhythm of prose, which comes from
the fall of proper words in proper sequence. He never learned
that if a writer of prose takes care of the sound the sense will take care
of itself. He did not scrutinize words to discover their first
and fresh meaning. He wrote in phrases, and used words at second-hand
as the journalists do. Bullets "rained"; guns "swept"; shells "hailed";
events "transpired", and yet his appreciation of style in others was perfect,
and he was an insatiable reader of the best books. His letters are strewn
with names of authors whose worth time has proved. To specify them
would merely be to write the catalogue of a good library.
The thirteen years with which this century opened were the period
in which John McCrae established himself in civil life in Montreal
and in the profession of medicine. Of this period he has left a chronicle
which is at once too long and too short.
All lives are equally interesting if only we are in possession
of all the facts. Places like Oxford and Cambridge
have been made interesting because the people who live in them
are in the habit of writing, and always write about each other.
Family letters have little interest even for the family itself,
if they consist merely of a recital of the trivial events of the day.
They are prized for the unusual and for the sentiment they contain.
Diaries also are dull unless they deal with selected incidents;
and selection is the essence of every art. Few events have any interest
in themselves, but any event can be made interesting by the pictorial
or literary art.
When he writes to his mother, that, as he was coming out of the college,
an Irish setter pressed a cold nose against his hand, that is interesting
because it is unusual. If he tells us that a professor took him by the arm,
there is no interest in that to her or to any one else.
For that reason the ample letters and diaries which cover these years
need not detain us long. There is in them little selection, little art --
too much professor and too little dog.
It is, of course, the business of the essayist to select;
but in the present case there is little to choose. He tells of
invitations to dinner, accepted, evaded, or refused;
but he does not always tell who were there, what he thought of them,
or what they had to eat. Dinner at the Adami's, -- supper at Ruttan's, --
a night with Owen, -- tea at the Reford's, -- theatre with the Hickson's, --
a reception at the Angus's, -- or a dance at the Allan's, -- these events
would all be quite meaningless without an exposition of the social life
of Montreal, which is too large a matter to undertake, alluring as the task
would be. Even then, one would be giving one's own impressions and not his.
Wherever he lived he was a social figure. When he sat at table
the dinner was never dull. The entertainment he offered was not missed
by the dullest intelligence. His contribution
In spite, or rather by reason, of his various attainments
John McCrae never developed, or degenerated, into the type
of the pure scientist. For the laboratory he had neither the mind
nor the hands. He never peered at partial truths so closely
as to mistake them for the whole truth; therefore, he was unfitted
for that purely scientific career which was developed
to so high a pitch of perfection in that nation which is now
no longer mentioned amongst men. He wrote much, and often,
upon medical problems. The papers bearing his name amount to
thirty-three items in the catalogues. They testify to his industry
rather than to invention and discovery, but they have made his name known
in every text-book of medicine.
Apart from his verse, and letters, and diaries, and contributions
to journals and books of medicine, with an occasional address to students
or to societies, John McCrae left few writings, and in these
there is nothing remarkable by reason of thought or expression.
He could not write prose. Fine as was his ear for verse
he could not produce that finer rhythm of prose, which comes from
the fall of proper words in proper sequence. He never learned
that if a writer of prose takes care of the sound the sense will take care
of itself. He did not scrutinize words to discover their first
and fresh meaning. He wrote in phrases, and used words at second-hand
as the journalists do. Bullets "rained"; guns "swept"; shells "hailed";
events "transpired", and yet his appreciation of style in others was perfect,
and he was an insatiable reader of the best books. His letters are strewn
with names of authors whose worth time has proved. To specify them
would merely be to write the catalogue of a good library.
The thirteen years with which this century opened were the period
in which John McCrae established himself in civil life in Montreal
and in the profession of medicine. Of this period he has left a chronicle
which is at once too long and too short.
All lives are equally interesting if only we are in possession
of all the facts. Places like Oxford and Cambridge
have been made interesting because the people who live in them
are in the habit of writing, and always write about each other.
Family letters have little interest even for the family itself,
if they consist merely of a recital of the trivial events of the day.
They are prized for the unusual and for the sentiment they contain.
Diaries also are dull unless they deal with selected incidents;
and selection is the essence of every art. Few events have any interest
in themselves, but any event can be made interesting by the pictorial
or literary art.
When he writes to his mother, that, as he was coming out of the college,
an Irish setter pressed a cold nose against his hand, that is interesting
because it is unusual. If he tells us that a professor took him by the arm,
there is no interest in that to her or to any one else.
For that reason the ample letters and diaries which cover these years
need not detain us long. There is in them little selection, little art --
too much professor and too little dog.
It is, of course, the business of the essayist to select;
but in the present case there is little to choose. He tells of
invitations to dinner, accepted, evaded, or refused;
but he does not always tell who were there, what he thought of them,
or what they had to eat. Dinner at the Adami's, -- supper at Ruttan's, --
a night with Owen, -- tea at the Reford's, -- theatre with the Hickson's, --
a reception at the Angus's, -- or a dance at the Allan's, -- these events
would all be quite meaningless without an exposition of the social life
of Montreal, which is too large a matter to undertake, alluring as the task
would be. Even then, one would be giving one's own impressions and not his.
Wherever he lived he was a social figure. When he sat at table
the dinner was never dull. The entertainment he offered was not missed
by the dullest intelligence. His contribution