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days of the Listerian era, when hospital gangrene was the chief foe of every hospital surgeon. The simpler type of theatre is that which, with the partial exception of two in the University Hospital at Tokyo, is universal in the poor and practical country of Japan, Sweet are the uses of adversity.

The methods of the Japanese surgeons are those of the most advanced modern surgery all the world over. For years they have been trained mainly by Japanese and German professors, have been obliged to learn one foreign language, the one chosen being usually German, and have been encouraged to visit the German hospitals. They show therefore the faults as well as the virtues of German methods. The operative surgery in each hospital is all done by the best surgeon, and not, as in our better London system, by many rising surgeons and capable students under the supervision of the chief surgeon, a system which trains many men to the best work, and is probably to the actual advantage of the patients. The Japanese surgeons again follow the extreme modern school, whose confidence in their ability to exclude all sources of contamination from a wound is such that they employ no antiseptics; but to this end they have to boil even the tap-water in which they wash their hands. Experience however seems to show, in Japan as in England, that this confidence is not justified. One of their hospitals, at least, has had more than its fair share of suppuration. In other words, the Japanese, in this as in most departments of modern knowledge, have adopted the most apparently thorough method known in Europe; and they lack as yet the experience which may show them, as it has shown us, where it is defective and must be helped out by the older method, the use of antiseptics.

A shipload of patients had just been

admitted, and we went into the dressing-room to see the wounds being carefully examined, diagnosed and recorded. Thoroughness and care were again the dominant notes. Everything was done promptly and efficiently, without the least bustle, worry, or assertion of authority. Discipline in Japan is an instinct. The Roentgenray room was well fitted up, without superfluous complications, and it was a fascinating pleasure to watch the gentleness of the nurses in arranging and supporting the crippled limbs and patients for examination.

A large amount of the work of a naval hospital even in war time results from accidents on board ship, crushes, lacerations from machinery or falling spars, engineering tools, and parts of guns. This affords therefore a good experience in fractures, in which it is noteworthy that Dr. Totsuka has almost abandoned the custom of operation much favored by many advanced European surgeons. The best splintapparatus, however, is apparently unknown, although in common use in London.

The medical side of the hospital was of little interest. The infectious ward was empty. Most of the cases were those of diseases common in peace time; there were six of typhoid fever, a few of mild dysentery, and the usual proportion of internal disorders. Nursing-the most important agent after general health in the treatment of disease-appeared to be good, the staff consisting of six male attendants under one chief attendant for each ward, except in the case of the two big pavilions erected by the Red Cross Society, in each of which thirty-six patients, twelve of them in five or six small rooms at the end, were nursed by a Red Cross Sister and ten nurses, who sleep in a house outside the hospital. In all the hospital contained cubicles for twenty officers, besides six private

officers' rooms. The medical staff consists of twelve surgeons, and their hours now during the war are from 8 A.M. to 6 P.M. on all days, without any interval or remission, however easy the work may be. Much of their time is spent in the common-room; but the regulation induces many officers to find useful work to do that otherwise would not be done.

This rough sketch of the naval hospital at Sasebo will hold good also for the military hospitals of Japan, and will give a fairly representative idea

The National Review.

of the principles that pervade the medical work both of their army and navy. They have little more to learn from Europe, except the advantage of decentralizing responsibility, to which reference has already been made in regard to the surgeons; they have at least one supreme lesson to teach Europe and ourselves, in their absolute devotion to their work, their unprejudiced survey and adoption of the world's knowledge, and the confidence that such knowledge, systematization and devotion have conferred upon them.

Francis E. Fremantle.

MANDELL CREIGHTON.*

"I learned much history at a Board of Guardians," is a remark of Creighton's, printed in this excellent blography, which gives a good deal of the secret of his development. He was not one man as a student, another as a teacher, a third as an ecclesiastical statesman, a fourth as a Christian. Every part of his activity was pervaded by a single aim. There were no water-tight compartments in his mind. Everything he learnt as a parish priest at Embledon helped to widen and deepen his historical sympathies; every hour of historical research helped him to form his judgments in regard to modern problems as practical difficulties.

The one aim of which we spoke is easily discovered from a perusal of his letters.

"Our life is the development of our personality." "To me the one supreme of human life is, and always has been, to grow nearer to God; and I regard my own individual life as simply an opportunity of offering myself to Him."

"Life and Letters of Mandell Creighton, Sometime Bishop of London." By his Wife. London: Longmans, Green & Co. 1904.

"All that a man is, he is to himself and God. His work is in himself; all else is accidental. Life seems to me to consist in becoming more than in being, and in being rather than doing."

And this from a man whose amazing energy, both practical and speculative, wore him out in his prime, although he gave to the world the imperishable possession of his memory, and the inspiration of a mind and heart always on fire for the highest; alive to the greatest principles as well as the smallest details of things; as happy romping with children as in discussing the merits of George Sand, or the doctrine of Indulgences.

Mrs. Creighton's biography draws all the threads together, and will afford to many who did not understand him the true presentment of one who was emphatically the Great Bishop of London. I do not speak of his achievements in regard to ritual difficulties, though these were by no means small, and brought out all that combination of tolerance, patience, and strength, which was so eminently his characteristic. Yet the measure of his success was only surpassed by that vital hold on

principles, and apprehension of the true the recesses of human nature or social

But neither administration

Is it possiin any real intellectual

mission of the Church of England, which are likely to bear fruit in the far future. nor conflict were more than the occasions of his activity. His enduring gift to London and to the world was himself. He solved in his own person the problem which is in the mouths of many, and the hearts of nearly all, who live in the modern world. ble to be a Christian, and sense imbued with the ideals of modern culture? That a man may be very learned, and even very thoughtful, and yet a Christian, can only be denied by those persons whose original criterion starts from the assumption, conscious or unconscious, that nobody but a fool is a believer. But the interests of men like Maurice, or Lightfoot, or Cayley, were predominantly theological, or historical, or mathematical; and, great as these men were, and fruitful as were and will be their ideas, they did not in themselves afford a solution of the problem, which presses more nearly to the hearts of men, than ecclesiastical circles often admit.

Now, Creighton, so far as one man's life can, afforded a solution of this problem. He was a man soaked in the atmosphere of the modern world, who took one of his guiding principles from Goethe, who read the fiction of five nations, who studied the outgrowth of the modern from the medieval world, as few Englishmen have done. His passion for knowledge was inexhaustible. His reverence for intellectual freedom and political liberty was apparent in every speech he uttered-"almost a craze for liberty," he said himself. He was one of the earlier supporters of "Wagner"-the very symbol of nineteenth century culture. He never wrote a line, or uttered a sentence, without exhibiting the power of intellect guided by purpose to wrest some secret from

life. He understood politics better than most statesmen, and art more deeply than many a critic; and of the literature of European culture since its infancy was a master and an admirer. Here was a man who combined in a unique degree scholarship and culture, the knowledge of the past with sympathy for the present and hope for the future; and, to these intellectual achievements (not gifts), added a practical capacity which might be the despair of the organizer. And yet this man, because he felt that scepticism "narrows the real problem, refuses to face the actual facts," and owing to his belief that "the great question about oneself is the formation and nurture of this central point of our being, this personality," was driven to assert that "Christ stands the central point of personality," that Christ was "the light of the world, not only of the Church." As he says in the same letter:

Relationships founded on a sense of lasting affection are the sole realities of life. This is obvious; it is the burden of all literature. It leads straight to Christ. Faith is personal trust in a person*

And again:

"Outward things, systems, doctrines are only useful as they keep open the way to Jesus, and point to Him, as the one object of the soul's desire.

This is the fundamental secret of Creighton's life-obscured for many by his brilliance and paradox, and for others by his hatred of sentimentalism.

It is to be observed that this cuts both ways, and that Creighton's whole position, founded on the reality of self, would have been opposed to those extreme forms of altruism, often mistaken for Christianity, which merge the individual development entirely in social improvement, and are logically only

tenable by disbelief in immortality. Far too many people nowadays are under the delusion that, whatever be his creed, Tolstoy, in his ethics, is fundamentally Christian. All the many letters of Creighton's, bearing on his inner life, ought to be read and pondered by those of his admirers-neither few nor foolish-who admire him with reservations, and wonder how so great a mind could be Christian. It is not merely that Creighton accepted Christianity apart from his intellectual life; the point is, that they were intimately united, and that the strength of his judgment and the breadth of his sympathies are directly due to his faith in Him, Who said: "I have come that they might have life, and might have it more abundantly."

This is a fact. It must be explained by those who hold opposite views. Creighton puzzled the world when he was alive. It is to be hoped that the contemplation of his personality, at last fully expressed, will go on puzzling it

and will be a source at least of enquiry to those who want to know how culture in its completest sense is compatible with Christianity, no less than of warning to those many Christians who misconceive their faith.

This is, I think, the supreme lesson of Creighton's life: "The end of man is the development of his character," as Humboldt said; this is only possible through a life in which love is the ruling principle, inspiring mind as well as heart; and to talk of love without an eternal object is impossible. Love is the evidence of religion; and its analysis is its true apology.

But, of course, there are many other points. His sense of the supreme value of knowledge, and the difficulty of attaining it, is only too much needed in a world which finds its daily food in The Daily Mail, and seeks its philosophy in lady novelists. It is, again, in Creighton's own life that we see exem

plified the value of knowledge. Perhaps his most remarkable quality was his amazingly wise judgment-the result, it is clear, of the severe systematic study by which alone he disciplined with enduring strength an intelligence whose quickness might easily have degenerated into mere dilettantism, and its acute insight into cynicism. These volumes afford ample proof that Creighton did not become what he was without an effort long and continued, and that mere cleverness and mental alertness would of themselves have no more saved him, than they do others, from frittering away his abilities into futility, or sharpening his wits merely into censoriousness. To those who saw Creighton only in the full maturity of his splendid gifts; who observed his strange intellectual serenity and his subtle moral force, exercised without appearance of struggle or arrière pensée; who perceived his amazing grasp of every kind of work at once, leaving him still an unclouded brain; who heard the judgment, calm and unprejudiced, of a mind whose powers seemed almost miraculously balanced, it may well have seemed that he was what he was by grace of nature, and that he was so great because he could not help himself. Far from it. Even at the end of his life, there is an interesting piece of self-revelation in a letter to his daughter. He discusses whether he ought not to adopt the conventional pomposity of the Anglican episcopate.

'If you are going to be yourself, you must pay for it; but ought a bishop to have anything to pay? Of course he must have something; but can I struggle on in the effort to educate people at large? This frequently comes into my mind. Ought I to get rid of myself and become dull and solemn?

There are other similar touches, as where he laments in early life his inability to resist the "temptation to be

worried and pressed."

This alone is proof that it was only by severe struggle that he acquired that marvellous leisure of mind which in later years, amid a thousand pre-occupations, always enabled him to listen to anyone who had anything to say to him, and led him to tell one of his clerics: "I'm never busy," in the midst of a rush of business which would leave most men stupefied. Again we find him, in early life, lamenting his lack of intellectual large-heartedness. Such a lament seems almost incredible to those who reflect on the width of his sympathies and the depth of his tolerance. But he was right. Little as he changed in essentials, it is clear that his breadth of sympathy came to him, not easily, but only because he strove so hard to acquire it. "The perfection of character by effort" is, in fact, the message of his life to other workers, not the conquering of success by original genius. It is a great boon that Mrs. Creighton should have taken off the veil of reserve which hid from many his moral struggles, no less than his religious feeling. The greatness of Creighton is not the greatness of a man like Sheridan, whose brilliancy of intellect triumphed in spite of moral limitations, accepted without resistance. It is the The Independent Review.

greatness of one whose peace of mind was at all times assured by his faith, but whose outward activity was an unceasing and laborious effort to deepen his sympathies, to annihilate his defects, not to rest satisfied with either the knowledge or the power of the moment.

"The most alert and universal intelligence in the island," said Lord Rosebery. It was true; and the reason is to be found, not so much in his native talents, dazzling though they were, as in the untiring strength of will with which he strove to understand all points of view, to discover the real meaning of every kind of fact that was presented to his eyes, and, above all, to get into personal sympathy with every human being with whom he had to do. He did not find this easy. The greatness of his life is the greatness of a man whose sympathies and interests were always widening, because he strove against every kind of narrowness; because he was ruled by a fundamental humility of spirit which strove to discern in every mind, however stunted, something of the Divine, and to bring out of every character, however meagre, that element in it which God must love.

J. Neville Figgis.

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