Professor Valentine Mott's Surgical Cliniques in the University of New-York. Session 1859-60. Reported by Samuel W. Francis, M.D.
This volume, which is gotten up in the best style of typography, and illustrated with many superior engravings, embraces a report of nearly one hundred surgical cases treated by the eminent surgeon, Professor Valentine Mott, M.D. The treatment of the cases is simple and judicious, and they are narrated clearly and concisely. The work is of great practical value and interest to the medical profession, and reflects credit on its able reporter, Dr. Samuel W. Francis. It is embellished with a very accurate portrait of Professor Mott.
Wa-Wa-Wanda: A Legend of Old Orange. In one Volume: pp. 280. New-York: Rudd and Carleton, Corner of Grand and Crosby-streets.
This is a book seriously written, containing the narrative of an old Indian called Winter Pippin. The author, declining the trouble of giving us a measure of his own, which certainly the originality of his work demands, has modestly employed that of Mr. Longfellow's Hiawatha, for which Mr. Longfellow ought to be very grateful.
The book before us—the work, a-hem!—on our table—reader, it's no use; we can't write prose after reading it. We are alone in our sanctum—no friend present to hold us in. We are wound up to a pitch of excitement, the case is desperate, it must come. O shade of Winter Pippin, listen!
Here's a poem as is a poem,
Poem writ for all the ages;
Poem sung by Winter Pippin,
'Winter Pippin—Piping Pippin.'
Should you ask us, gentle reader,
Is it twaddle, sorry twaddle?
Is it bosh and utter nonsense,
Nonsense all, not worth the paper,
Or the ink with which 'tis printed?
We should answer, we should tell you,
Buy the book and read it, read it,
Pay your last red dollar for it,
For this song of 'Wa-wa-wanda.'
Say no more, O carping critic!
That our time hath borne no poet;
Poet born to chant the chorus,
Chorus of the mighty Present;
Sing the age—its living genius,
Sing the age—its grand upheavings,
Sleepy nations slow awaking,
Crownless kings with ague shaking;
Sing the night, chased by the morning,
Sing the day that now is dawning.
Mourn no more, O wailing critic!
For HE's come. His name is Pippin,
Winter Pippin—not a Greening,
Not a Golden, but a Pippin—
And he sings in sweetest measure,
Sings this song of 'Wa-wa-wanda.'
(How it rhymes with 'goosey gander.')
Shades of Homer, Shakspeare, Milton!
From your graves rise up and greet him,
Greet him with your heads uncovered,
Beavers doffed, with low obeisance,
All your hats off in his presence.
Minstrel! thou who now art singing,
Singing through this mighty nation,
(Greatest nation in creation,)
Henry Wadsworth, long-drawn FELLOW,
Ye who sang of Hiawatha,
Sang the charming golden legend,
Sang the voices of the darkness,
Cease your singing, hush your fiddle,
Hang your jews-harp on the willows.
Whittier, too, and tuneful Lowell,
Funny Holmes, and graceful Stoddard,
Ye who soar in upper ether,
Feel at home the while you're up there—
Down at once, and fold your pinions,
Fold them, for the Eagle soareth,
Soareth where ye cannot follow.
All ye poets, Yankee poets,
Go to bed and sleep upon it,
Ere again ye sound the cymbals,
Sound the cymbals, wake the echoes
Which have floated o'er the waters,
Floated sweetly o'er the waters,
Till far-distant climes have heard them.
Time and space would surely fail us,
Were we now to show the beauties,
Show the beauties of this poem,
Poem writ for all the ages;
How there lived a cider-maker,
'He, the first of cider-makers;
How his cunning built a saw-mill,
Sawed right through the Western country,
Into cask-staves sawed the forests,
Threw the slabs in the Pacific,
Threw the scrags in the Missouri.'
How he squeezed the juicy apples,
How he loved the juicy cider,
How he thought the world a barrel,
Bound together by a cooper,
Filled with cider to the bung-hole;
How he feared 'twould 'burst its hoops off,
Burst its hoops and split asunder;'
How it didn't split asunder,
But on fire was set one evening,
When the careless sun, retiring,
'Went to sleep and left his candle,
Slept and left his candle burning;
And it caught the chamber-curtains,
Caught and set them all a-blazing.'
How he thought, in month of August,
Draco the meridian straddles,
'Elongates himself to northward,
Nine degrees and twenty northward;
And then thirteen more to westward,
Takes another twist, and downward
Slaps his tail of starry spangles
In the face of Ursa Major.'
How, one day, 'Aurora opened
Not as wide as wont her portals;
And the day-king, Phæton driving,
Ran against and brake the gate-posts:
Day of dash and dark disaster;
And with sun-dogs set, the heavens
Frowned affronted, scowled and scolded.'
'Hold! no more! in mercy spare me!'
Thus the reader now is pleading.
Can it be that taste poetic
From the world has fled forever?
Can such lofty, moving numbers,
Tire the reader in a second,
Tire him in a fleeting second?
Ere we part, O mighty poet!
Poet of the tuneful numbers,
Hear, oh! hear, our meek petition:
Hear an ancient Knickerbocker!
Greatly long we once to see thee,
Once to gaze upon thy visage,
Once to hear the voice that sung it,
Once to press the hand that wrote it,
Once to feel the bumps that thought it,
Once to clip the hair it came through;
(Clip a lock off for a locket.)
Once to tell thee all our wonder,
All our joy at this thy music,
Music sweet as 'Goosey-Gander,'
Music sung of 'Wa-Wa-Wanda,'
Music sung of apple-cider.
Call on us, O mighty Pippin!
At our snug and quiet sanctum,
Sanctum in the second story,
Of the building fifth in number,
Fifth in street that men call Beekman,
In the city known as Gotham;
And—our word is now at stake, Sir,
You our beaver hat can take, Sir,
Take our hat, our cherished beaver!
Lewis' New Gymnastics for Ladies, Gentlemen and Children: and Boston Journal of Physical Culture: a Monthly Journal: pp. 16. Edited by Dr. D. Lewis of Boston.