In Flanders Fields And Other Poems [35]
was merely "stories",
and these stories in endless succession were told in a spirit of frank fun.
They were not illustrative, admonitory, or hortatory.
They were just amusing, and always fresh. This gift he acquired
from his mother, who had that rare charm of mimicry without mockery,
and caricature without malice. In all his own letters there is not
an unkind comment or tinge of ill-nature, although in places,
especially in later years, there is bitter indignation against
those Canadian patriots who were patriots merely for their bellies' sake.
Taken together his letters and diaries are a revelation
of the heroic struggle by which a man gains a footing in a strange place
in that most particular of all professions, a struggle comprehended
by those alone who have made the trial of it. And yet the method is simple.
It is all disclosed in his words, "I have never refused any work
that was given me to do." These records are merely a chronicle of work.
Outdoor clinics, laboratory tasks, post-mortems, demonstrating, teaching,
lecturing, attendance upon the sick in wards and homes, meetings,
conventions, papers, addresses, editing, reviewing, -- the very remembrance
of such a career is enough to appall the stoutest heart.
But John McCrae was never appalled. He went about his work gaily,
never busy, never idle. Each minute was pressed into the service,
and every hour was made to count. In the first eight months of practice
he claims to have made ninety dollars. It is many years
before we hear him complain of the drudgery of sending out accounts,
and sighing for the services of a bookkeeper. This is the only complaint
that appears in his letters.
There were at the time in Montreal two rival schools,
and are yet two rival hospitals. But John McCrae was of no party.
He was the friend of all men, and the confidant of many. He sought nothing
for himself and by seeking not he found what he most desired.
His mind was single and his intention pure; his acts unsullied
by selfish thought; his aim was true because it was steady and high.
His aid was never sought for any cause that was unworthy,
and those humorous eyes could see through the bones
to the marrow of a scheme. In spite of his singular innocence, or rather
by reason of it, he was the last man in the world to be imposed upon.
In all this devastating labour he never neglected the assembling of himself
together with those who write and those who paint. Indeed,
he had himself some small skill in line and colour. His hands were
the hands of an artist -- too fine and small for a body that weighted
180 pounds, and measured more than five feet eleven inches in height.
There was in Montreal an institution known as "The Pen and Pencil Club".
No one now living remembers a time when it did not exist.
It was a peculiar club. It contained no member who should not be in it;
and no one was left out who should be in. The number was about a dozen.
For twenty years the club met in Dyonnet's studio, and afterwards,
as the result of some convulsion, in K. R. Macpherson's. A ceremonial supper
was eaten once a year, at which one dressed the salad, one made the coffee,
and Harris sang a song. Here all pictures were first shown,
and writings read -- if they were not too long. If they were,
there was in an adjoining room a tin chest, which in these austere days
one remembers with refreshment. When John McCrae was offered membership
he "grabbed at it", and the place was a home for the spirit
wearied by the week's work. There Brymner and the other artists
would discourse upon writings, and Burgess and the other writers
would discourse upon pictures.
It is only with the greatest of resolution, fortified by
lack of time and space, that I have kept myself to the main lines
of his career, and refrained from following him into by-paths and secret,
pleasant places; but I shall not be denied just one indulgence.
In the great days when Lord Grey was Governor-General he formed a party
to visit Prince Edward Island. The route
and these stories in endless succession were told in a spirit of frank fun.
They were not illustrative, admonitory, or hortatory.
They were just amusing, and always fresh. This gift he acquired
from his mother, who had that rare charm of mimicry without mockery,
and caricature without malice. In all his own letters there is not
an unkind comment or tinge of ill-nature, although in places,
especially in later years, there is bitter indignation against
those Canadian patriots who were patriots merely for their bellies' sake.
Taken together his letters and diaries are a revelation
of the heroic struggle by which a man gains a footing in a strange place
in that most particular of all professions, a struggle comprehended
by those alone who have made the trial of it. And yet the method is simple.
It is all disclosed in his words, "I have never refused any work
that was given me to do." These records are merely a chronicle of work.
Outdoor clinics, laboratory tasks, post-mortems, demonstrating, teaching,
lecturing, attendance upon the sick in wards and homes, meetings,
conventions, papers, addresses, editing, reviewing, -- the very remembrance
of such a career is enough to appall the stoutest heart.
But John McCrae was never appalled. He went about his work gaily,
never busy, never idle. Each minute was pressed into the service,
and every hour was made to count. In the first eight months of practice
he claims to have made ninety dollars. It is many years
before we hear him complain of the drudgery of sending out accounts,
and sighing for the services of a bookkeeper. This is the only complaint
that appears in his letters.
There were at the time in Montreal two rival schools,
and are yet two rival hospitals. But John McCrae was of no party.
He was the friend of all men, and the confidant of many. He sought nothing
for himself and by seeking not he found what he most desired.
His mind was single and his intention pure; his acts unsullied
by selfish thought; his aim was true because it was steady and high.
His aid was never sought for any cause that was unworthy,
and those humorous eyes could see through the bones
to the marrow of a scheme. In spite of his singular innocence, or rather
by reason of it, he was the last man in the world to be imposed upon.
In all this devastating labour he never neglected the assembling of himself
together with those who write and those who paint. Indeed,
he had himself some small skill in line and colour. His hands were
the hands of an artist -- too fine and small for a body that weighted
180 pounds, and measured more than five feet eleven inches in height.
There was in Montreal an institution known as "The Pen and Pencil Club".
No one now living remembers a time when it did not exist.
It was a peculiar club. It contained no member who should not be in it;
and no one was left out who should be in. The number was about a dozen.
For twenty years the club met in Dyonnet's studio, and afterwards,
as the result of some convulsion, in K. R. Macpherson's. A ceremonial supper
was eaten once a year, at which one dressed the salad, one made the coffee,
and Harris sang a song. Here all pictures were first shown,
and writings read -- if they were not too long. If they were,
there was in an adjoining room a tin chest, which in these austere days
one remembers with refreshment. When John McCrae was offered membership
he "grabbed at it", and the place was a home for the spirit
wearied by the week's work. There Brymner and the other artists
would discourse upon writings, and Burgess and the other writers
would discourse upon pictures.
It is only with the greatest of resolution, fortified by
lack of time and space, that I have kept myself to the main lines
of his career, and refrained from following him into by-paths and secret,
pleasant places; but I shall not be denied just one indulgence.
In the great days when Lord Grey was Governor-General he formed a party
to visit Prince Edward Island. The route