This work has lain on our table for some time. The delay in writing the notice has been from no lack of admiration or appreciation of the book or its author, but from a desire to write more than an ordinary book notice.
This we will defer till the work is completed, and in the mean time we hasten to express our hearty approval of a literary and scientific enterprise, which reflects the highest honor on the profession of medicine and on the literature of the country.
Prof. Flint, the young author, has devoted his life to the study and teaching of physiology. He steadily refuses the allurements and emoluments of practice, and steadily and successfully pursues the object of his ambition. His present work, if completed in accordance with the first volume, will reward him for his past toil, and ensure him an honorable and most enviable future among the leading minds of his profession in this country and the scientific world.
It will be out of place to enter into any scientific discussion in the pages of a journal devoted to general literature. It is sufficient to say that Dr. Flint has presented, in elegant language and graphic style, a correct view of the science of physiology to the time of writing. He displays great erudition, a thorough grasp of the subject, and a sincere desire to appreciate and communicate the exact truth. It is the best book on the subject for college libraries, and is an almost indispensable necessity to the physician.
We hope the publication of such works will renew the habit of studying the philosophy of medicine as part of a liberal education, draw closer the bond between the intellectual classes and the profession of medicine, and in this way advance the interests of science, humanity, and civilization.
This work is issued in an elegant form, worthy of its eminent publishers.
KING RENÉ'S DAUGHTER.
A Danish lyrical drama. By Henrik Hertz. Translated by Theodore Martin. New York: Leypoldt & Holt. 1867.
This is indeed a poetic gem of the first water, and we venture to assert that few critics will contest our judgment. The author of the introductory sketches repeats twice that it is lovely, and we think we might repeat it twice more and it not be too often. He who will commence reading it, and not finish it at one sitting, we pronounce one of those beings so detested of Shakespeare, who has no music in his soul.
It forms but one act in seven scenes, but is replete with events, "stirring, surprising, yet harmonious." A bit of philosophy peeps out here and there to interest and charm the most unimaginative thinker; for instance, when Martha, the guardian of Iolanthe, the king's' daughter, reasons upon her unconscious blindness:
"May it not be, sir, while we darkly muse
Upon our life's mysterious destinies,
That we in blindness walk, like Iolanthe,
Unconscious that true vision is not ours?
Yet is that faith our hope's abiding star."