an American gentleman in Paris: Ah! Monsieur, you 'ave not de grand art de cuisine, in your countree: you know notting of dat. You trow away many good victual, for you shall not know how to cook dem. Now, dat vat you call de buckskin pantaloon, we shall make one fine soupe of him!' Monsieur doubtless meant, that from even the skin of a deer, good dishes might be constructed; but we question whether, in an emergency, he would hesitate to employ the veritable culotte, for a similar purpose.

PUBLIC AND PRIVATE ECONOMY. BY THEODORE SEDGWICK. Part First. New-York: HARPER AND BROTHERS.

THIS is a treatise on Political Economy, containing a mass of facts of the most interesting nature, in the collection and arrangement of which the author has been for a long time employed. The science of political economy has not yet met with the attention it deserves, in this country, owing principally to the circumstance, that the facts and illustrations which are found in the pages of Adam Smith, Say, Malthus, and Macculloch, are drawn from the scenes presented by the native land of those celebrated writers, and the condition of their own countrymen, and are, therefore, from the nature of things, partially, and often wholly, inapplicable to ourselves. It is with a view of remedying this defect in foreign treatises on political economy, that Mr. Sedgwick has written a work of a character purely American; and having for his object to show the value of property, and the means of acquiring it, has, with great industry, brought together, in the compass of two hundred and sixty pages, a quantity of facts that of themselves render his book extremely valuable, and which, accompanied as they are with sound inferences, and useful advice, should be read by all classes of the community. The title of the volume shows its design; and while the vices of extravagance and indolence are severely reprehended, and their baneful effects strongly set forth, the advantages of frugality, and a proper employment of time, to individuals and the nation at large, are ably depicted. The fallacy of the vulgar notion, that a national debt is a national blessing, and that extravagance in the higher classes is attended with a corresponding benefit to the lower, must be apparent to all who give the present work even a cursory perusal. We commend to our readers this excellent treatise, as one from which all may draw some information, and many perhaps be induced to put in practice, in their own domestic economy, the precepts so ably inculcated.

ONE IN A THOUSAND OR THE DAYS OF HENRI QUATRE. By the author of 'Richelieu,' etc. In one vol. 12mo. New-York: HARPER AND BROTHERS.

THE press is at this juncture so prolific in novels, romances, et id genus omne, that to give each the time it deserves for a perusal, would not only consume the entire day, but take largely from the hours usually devoted to sleep. We have contrived, however, to look over the work of Mr. JAMES, whose title heads this notice, and are compelled to pronounce it much inferior to its predecessors. The author has selected an epoch sufficiently interesting, and the historical events which he has incorporated into his work, contribute materially to strengthen the purely fictitious portion; but still there are such evident marks of haste in the execution of the whole, and such a want of discrimination in his description of the characters, that we do not believe the bock will become a favorite with 'one in a thousand of the reading world. The trade

of book-making has of late been carried to a truly fearful extent, and the reputations of many of the best modern authors have been seriously injured by the rapidity with which they have poured their productions before the public. Mr. James is especially liable to censure for the undue haste and want of correction which characterize this work. The plot is uninteresting, and were it not occasionally relieved by the introduction of Henri Quatre, and a few historical characters, would be insufferably dull. The battles of Ivry and Dunkirk are described with a power which recalled the best scenes of Richelieu' and ' De L'Orme,' but these and a few other bright spots serve only to place the intervening portions of the work in stronger contrast.

'One in a Thousand,' though afforded for a mere trifle, is well printed, upon clear types, and fine white paper. And this leads us warmly to commend the new enterprise of the Messrs. HARPERS to the literary public, of whom they have long been bountiful benefactors. They have recently commenced publishing a cheap and handsome series of novels, to embrace only the best and most popular works, as those of Bulwer, Marryat, James, D'Israeli, Grattan, Theodore Hook, etc. The series commenced with Rienzi, and The Gipsy and One in a Thousand soon followed. All the works are to be neatly and accurately printed, and substantially bound in muslin, for FIFTY CENTS per volume - each volume containing an entire work! The publishers well observe in their circular: 'It is scarcely necessary to point out the great and numerous advantages afforded to the purchaser by this mode of publication over that of periodical libraries. In the first place, the works will be, in almost every instance much cheaper the purchaser will have it in his power to select such as he pleases, instead of being obliged to receive whatever the publisher may choose to give him the care and risk of loss, attendant upon the necessity of preserving the numbers as they come out, will be avoided the expense of binding will be saved-the form in which they will be published, duodecimo, will be found much more convenient, as well as beautiful, than the lumbering quarto or octavo - and finally, the purchaser will escape the vexation of having to wait from week to week for the continuation of a story in which he has become interested.' Success to the experiment!

MAHMOUD. A Novel. In two volumes, 12mo. New-York: HARPER AND BROTHERS,

THIS is a romance upon the model of 'Anastasius,' though greatly inferior in talent to that work. The hero is the reputed son of Stamati Morozi, a Greek merchant of Smyrna, and is sent at an early age to the Morea, where he begins a life of startling and varied adventures. After many personal encounters with the Turks and the Pirates of the Archipelago, he is taken prisoner by the Algerines while on a voyage to Egypt, and carried to Algiers, whence, after several vicissitudes, he departs with the caravan, over land for Cairo. By devoting himself unscrupulously to the interests of Mohammed Bey, at that time an aspirant for power, he becomes, upon the successful termination of the intrigues of that able and blood-thirsty chieftain, a personage of importance, occupying a station corresponding to that of Minister of the Police in European governments. The work concludes with his elevation to the rank of Bey, and the discovery that he is the son of a Pacha and a Sultana. The incidents are well told, and sufficiently stirring to secure a perusal by most novel readers, though the constant succession of murders, and the darkest atrocities, is apt to pall upon the taste, and grow tiresome, before the conclusion. This redundancy of horrors constitutes the great fault of the work; since it is difficult to conceive that any one could pass through such scenes and trials, without being killed a dozen times, and maimed

for life yet oftener. But the heroes of romance are privileged beings, and laugh to scorn the assaults of bullets and daggers. If the reader can reconcile the improbabilities of the narrative, he will find it abundantly entertaining.

The following account of the hero's escape from a harem, where he had been suddenly surprised by the aga-lover of his mistress, is spirited, and is a fair specimen of the author's powers:

"The two negroes now loosened their hold of me, and I was commanded to rise; they remained, one on each side, with drawn sabres, eying me with looks of savageness, very expressive of their eagerness to commence the operations of their trade.

"On my right there was a low window, shaded by projecting lattice-work, looking into the garden. I had determined to attempt my escape at this outlet, had not the entreaties of Cobah to save her rendered me regardless of personal safety. I revolved in my mind, with amazing rapidity, the several chances of escape which the window held out to me. I measured the colossal forms and proportions of the negroes at my side. As to the aga, he was less than nothing in my estimation.

"While my mind was undergoing this fever of agitation and doubtful hope, the aga advanced with the cup of liquid in one hand, and a handjhar in the other. He gave me the alternative of swallowing the contents of the former, which were poison, or of submitting to tortures from which my mind recoiled with horror.

"Make your choice,' he cried. By Allah and our holy Prophet, such will be your doom. Choose!' he repeated, in a louder tone, advancing still nearer.

"Never in the whole course of my life did I labor under such terrible excitement as on that occasion. The idea of enduring the horrible and protracted torture of a loathed existence, roused all my energies. I felt myself suddenly glowing with unwonted vigorthe strength of an Atlas was imparted to my frame-my sinews seemed to knit with preternatural tenseness and rigidity.

"Almost before thought could conceive the daring project, I had laid one of the negroes sprawling on the floor. His companion darted upon me-I grasped him with the strength of a Hercules- we both fell-I was uppermost.

"I seized him by the throat with a gripe so fierce and powerful, that he was compelled to let go the hold which he had taken of my dress. All this was the work of an instantI was free! I sprang upon my feet, and with one bound darted through the window, leaving the aga overcome with wonder and dismay at my escape.

"On alighting in the garden below, the two slaves who had been intrusted with the execution of Cobah, issued from a low building on my left, fresh from their inhuman employment. I flew past them-a few paces brought me to the garden wall-I vaulted over it with ease, such velocity of motion and activity had terror imparted to my limbs, and gained the street in safety.

"The two negroes had scaled the wall almost at the same instant as myself, and followed me with a perseverance which left but a trifling distance between us. Despair, however, lent wings to my flight. Fortunately it was a time of day when the heat of the sun confined the inhabitants to their houses, to enjoy their siesta. The cries of the negroes brought several to their doors; they satisfied themselves with merely gazing on in stupid wonder, but did not offer to molest me.

"As I approached the more bustling part of the city, I was several times opposed, but the swiftness of my career bore down every obstruction. I now entered the principal street, where the dey's palace stood.

"Half a dozen janizaries stood lounging in the shade of the gate-way. The cries of my pursuers immediately roused them into action. They drew their swords, placed themselves across the street, awaiting my approach. Gasping for breath-worked up to a climax of phrensy- I turned like a tiger at bay upon my pursuers.

"A vast body of people had now collected, and came rushing on like a river which had broken its banks. A few seconds I stood convulsively panting in the middle of the street, gazing alternately on the wild and undulating crowd, and the threatening attitude of the janizaries. I knew my fate if taken by the former-I should be torn to pieces I was decided in an instant.

"I had but one hope left: I flew towards the janizaries, threw myself at their feet, crying out 'Allah! Allah! I am a Mussulman!'

The populace-like all mobs, turned by a feather- lately bent on my destruction, now manifested an equal solicitude to protect me, and even proceeded to treat the slaves and domestics of the aga, who clamorously demanded me to be given up to them, with a roughness which speedily put an end to all further interference in that quarter. The slaves, however, rushed upon me with their weapons, and attempted to cut me down. "He is an adulterer!' they shouted-take his life take his life.' "He is a true believer! returned my protectors - the sacrifice is too great.' They pushed and buffeted the slaves till they were forced to relinquish the contest, and the latter retired, muttering, curses on me and the people."

EDITORS' TABLE.

THE DRAMA. The past month has not been marked by any thing especially novel or interesting in theatricals. At the PARK, Mr. WALLACK, (assisted by Mrs. SHARPE,) has finished a short engagement, Mr. REEVE has made a second tour of his line of cha- a new play has been brought out under the auspices of Mr. Wallack, and racters, most effectively damned, and voila tout.

Mr. Reeve's second engagement has not added to his reputation as an actor. He has no comedian. proved himself a very funny man, capable of creating roars of laughter whenever it -a grotesque farceur, and a clever imitator pleases him

Mr. Reeve has been the means of introducing to our acquaintance a set of farcical compositions; and, taken together, we can safely challenge all Grub-street, assisted by the playwrights of the Bowery, to produce an equally stupid mass of irredeemable trash. Who the creators of these illegitimate bantlings may be, we dare not assume their works are in the risk of a supposition. Their paternity is not announced in the play-bills, neither is their genealogy the subject of a prologue. They have a being visible existence before us-but the appellatives of the bright spirits who created them, are unknown to the world, in this instance; although from exertions like these we cannot but hope that Fame has acknowledged them. If not, we call upon them in the name of all that is glorious in genius, we invoke them by the immortal shade of Shakspeare the mantle of whose spirit has fallen upon them-to come out from the obscure depths of Shin-bone Alley to descend from the skiëy influences of their elevated sanctuaries in Pudding-Lane, and, hiding the amiable blushes of modest genius, bow their honorable heads, and receive the crown of immortality, which their dram-attic spirits have woven!

But seriously. If, from this pile of unmeaning fooleries, we could select one piece more execrably absurd than the rest, it would probably be that exquisite compound of delicate probabilities, and Punch-and-Judy witticisms, yclept The Mummy.' This condensation of stupidity is just what one might expect to see cxhibited in the ring of a circus, in honorable companionship with The Miller of Brentford, The Dumb Soldier, and other equally intellectual compositions. Why is it that an audience, and that audience seated in the Park Theatre, an establishment that is the pride of the American public to hold up as the first in the Union-why is it that such an audience will sub'The Mummy,' mit to an insult to taste and propriety, so gross as that which is imposed by the representation of such vile abortions of mercenary farce-writers, as 'Catching an Heiress,' 'The Climbing Boy,' cum multis aliis? Because they have so long been accustomed to look upon every thing which has received the stamp of a London audience (no matter of what theatre) as current coin, that they quietly receive all emanations from that source, with a religious faith in their sterling value, without taking upon themselves the responsibility of an opinion:

"Tasteless, insipid, indolent, and tame,

At second hand we chiefly praise or blame :'

Why is it?

The public are to be censured, that such things are. They are the quiescent cause. They hold the remedy in their own hands. We are constantly told of the immoralities of the stage: we are reminded of what the stage was, and what it ought to be; managers are blamed for suffering their establishments to be prostituted; actors are reviled for assisting in the degrading exhibition; and authors, beyond all, are condemned for creating the nauseous dose. Yet after all, neither manager, author, nor actor, deserve the weight of condemnation. 'Tis their vocation, Hal.' The public are the cause, and most accursed effect. They, by their constant greediness for every thing which has the appearance of novelty, swallow with avidity the most execrable stuff that the dry remnant of exhausted ingenuity can invent. They declare their delight with the newcomer, so long as its newness lasts: it grows old, they are impatient for another importation behold! they have it: the author is paid, the actor receives his salary, the manager fills his treasury, and the public are satisfied. What would they more? While the best productions in the language go tamely off; while the sparkling wit of Shakspeare and Sheridan sinks pointless upon the dull souls of the fashionables in the boxes, (the umpires of taste forsooth!) the stale jokes, coarse witticisms, licentious inuendoes, or broad and glaring indecencies of such abominations as Cupid, The Climbing Boy, Catching an Heiress, and Scan. Mag., are applauded to the echo! Who, in such a state of its affairs, will dignify the stage with the approbation which the great and good of former days have bestowed upon it? Who will make himself so ridiculous, as to declare the stage a model, 'holding the mirror up to nature?' If Nature can see herself reflected there, then verily do we blush for that venerable lady.

The stage exercises an influence over the passions and feelings of the multitude, unequalled even by the pulpit, (we speak it with reverence,) and unexcelled by the press. Many, perhaps most persons, attend the theatre 'to beguile the time.' They consider it a place of amusement- and so it is, but it is amusement blended with an influence which instructs to good or evil. None are so indifferent, as not to be affected, to some extent, by what is thus vividly brought before them. Their feelings and sympathies are excited, to some degree, let it be great or small; and in that proportion are they likely to receive an impression either for good or evil, according to the moral excellence of the subject. There can be no doubt of the favorable influence of a well-conducted stage. It is a truth settled long ago; nor can there be less doubt of the pernicious effects of many of those disgraceful exhibitions which, under the name of plays, are suffered to pollute it.

MISS MASON made her first appearance in this country on the 26th ultimo, in Knowles' play of The Hunchback. Owing to the lateness of the period, we have barely time to notice, slightly, her performance of Julia.

The play of the 'Hunchback' has become such a general favorite, and the part of Julia has been so often represented by the best performers, that almost every person who witnesses its representation now, is a qualified critic to judge and compare the merits of every new personator of the character with her predecessors in the part. Whether this circumstance presented itself to Miss Mason, in the shape of an objection or otherwise, we are unable to say: but we are happy in asserting, that her representation of the character suffered not at all in comparison with any that have gone before her.

To a very flexible countenance, full of thought and expression, Miss Mason adds the great requisite of a strong, pleasing, and most effective voice, with a figure sufficiently commanding to give expression to the heroic characters of tragedy, and not too dignified for the less aspiring personages of the lighter drama. Her conception of the character of Julia, although differing in some particulars from others that we have seen, appeared to be true, natural, and according to the intention of the author. Her acting throughout the 'Letter Scene,' in the fourth act, was especially correct, considering the situation of the characters. Instead of the loud and violent expressions of surprise, to which we have been accustomed, when Julia seems to recognise in