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 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,