Of the present state of literature in France, it is not possible to draw a very flattering picture; there is a good deal of moderate talent but certainly none that is transcendental, which remark may be applied to statesmen, orators, authors, artists, etc.; as to poetry there appears at present so little taste for it, and writers seem so thoroughly aware of its being the case, that they have too much good sense to attempt to obtrude it upon the public, and those who had obtained a certain reputation as poets seem to write no more. The works of de Lamartine certainly have many admirers, displaying a pleasing style of versification fraught with beautiful imagery, a happy arrangement of ideas enwreathed within the flowers of language, but little or no originality. As if himself conscious of that circumstance, he brought forth his Chute d'un Ange (the fall of an angel), which caused his own fall at the same time; if his sole desire was to attain originality, he gained his point, but at the price of common sense; the majority of the public appear to have been of this opinion, and M. de Lamartine seems to have passed from poetry to politics, being now one of the best and most conspicuous speakers in the Chamber of Deputies. A certain tone runs through M. de Lamartine's works, that leads one to infer he has deeply read and admired Lord Byron. M. Casimir Delavigne was a great favourite at one period; it might be my want of taste, or a deficiency in the knowledge of the French language sufficient to relish that class of poetry, but certainly I found his works laboured and tedious, and could not in spite of all my efforts derive any pleasure from their perusal. The productions of BÉranger are confined within a very small compass, but containing that which causes one to regret that his works are not more voluminous. The true nerve and genius of poetry, continually sparkling throughout his writings, as a patriotic feeling and a generous love of liberty formed the principal points in his character. The efforts to suppress that spirit which was attempted in the reign of Charles X called forth the powers of his muse, but since the accession of the present monarch to the throne, as all has been conducted on a more liberal system, his pen has lain dormant, which has disappointed all who have read and admired those effusions of a free and exalted mind, which he has at present published, and led to the hope that they would be continued. Of Victor Hugo's productions I need say but little, as they are so generally known in England, particularly his Notre-Dame de Paris, which has been dramatised under the title of Quasimodo and acted at Covent Garden, as well as at other theatres, and few I believe there are who have not felt some sympathy for Esmeralda. When Victor Hugo wrote this, the works of Sir Walter Scott I think were bearing upon his mind; his poems and dramatic pieces at one period created much sensation, and undoubtedly possess a certain tone of merit. The Comte Alfred de Vigny is the author of one work which may be considered as a gem amongst the mass of publications which emanate from the French press of that nature; it is entitled, Cinq-Mars, an historical novel, which is decidedly one of the best and most interesting of any that have appeared either in England or in France for several years past; he has also written a tragedy on the subject of the unfortunate Chatterton, which at the time it came out excited a deep interest, but M. de Vigny, like many of the present literary characters in France, appears resting on his oars. Not so with Alexandre Dumas, whose prolific pen appears like himself to be ever active; what with travelling to different countries, then publishing accounts of his wanderings, novels of divers descriptions, detached pieces, and dramatic productions, he must be constantly on the qui vive. There are very different opinions respecting his writings, they certainly possess a good deal of spirit, some of them considerable feeling, and are generally amusing. Of novel writers there are many, but unfortunately the bad taste prevails of introducing subjects in them that prevent their being read by females, with a few exceptions; those of Balzac are by no means devoid of merit and are exceedingly entertaining, and some there are which any one may peruse of EugÈne Sue, who has lately been knighted by the King of the Netherlands; the same may be said, although of the latter description there exist but few. Those of Paul de Kock are well known in other countries as well as France; they are very clever and exceedingly amusing, but partake of the fault alluded to. As a female writer and translator, Madame Tastu may be cited as having produced works which do credit to her taste and judgment. Madame Emile de Girardin, well known as Delphine Gay, is a talented writer, but would have been more esteemed had she steered clear of political subjects. Monsieur and Madame Ancelot both write tales and dramatic pieces, which are justly admired; but the author to whom the stage is most indebted is Scribe, who perhaps is one of the most multitudinous writers existing; his works completely made and sustained the Theatre du Gymnase, besides greatly contributing to the success of others. In consequence of their having been so much translated, and adapted to the English stage, they are almost as well known in one country as the other. M. Scribe is a man who is highly esteemed on account of his liberality to literary characters, and his extreme generosity to all who are in need of his aid. Of authors on more solid subjects there are not many who now continue to write, several of the most conspicuous having become completely absorbed in politics; of such a description is M. Guizot, whose works are generally known and admired, particularly his Commentaries on the English Revolution; partly a continuation of the same subject, it is stated he has now in preparation, but placed at the helm of the nation, as he now is, his time is too much occupied to be devoted to any other object than affairs of state, and his position is such as requires the exertion of every power of thought and mind to sustain, against its numerous and indefatigable assailants.

M. Thiers owes his success in life to his literary productions, and his talents as an author are universally admitted; his History of the French Revolution is as well known in England as in France, and generally allowed to be the best work upon the subject, but he is also so totally engaged in political affairs, that the public cannot derive much advantage from the effusions of his pen, as it is impossible that they can be very voluminous, when his time and abilities are so exclusively appropriated to a still more important object; but it is understood that it is his intention to afford the world the benefit of other works which are now in embryo. The same remarks may in a degree be applied to M. Villemain, who has written upon literature, in which he has displayed considerable ability, but having become an active Minister of Instruction, of his publications there is at present a complete cessation. Nearly a similar instance may be cited in M. Cousin, who has written very ably upon philosophy and metaphysics, but as a peer of France, literature has been forced to succumb to politics, his talents also being directed into the latter channel. Amidst this general languor which seems to have come over France, with regard to the exertions of her most eminent authors, there are a few who occupy themselves with history, which now appears to be the most favourite study with those who devote their minds to reading; the very delightful work on the Norman Conquest, by M. Thierri, I trust is well known to many of my readers, or if not, I wish it may be so, as it cannot do otherwise than give them pleasure; he has written several other things, and amongst the rest RÉcit des Temps MÉrovingiens, which is highly interesting. A work of considerable merit, is l'Histoire des Ducs de Bourgogne, by Monsieur de Barante. M. Capefigue has published many historical productions, and amongst the rest a Life of Napoleon, which is perhaps one of the most impartial extant, and very interesting, as containing a sort of recapitulation of facts, without any endeavour to palliate such of his actions as stern justice must condemn. M. Mignet has also chosen the path of history, and has not followed it unsuccessfully; the foundation of his present prosperity consisting entirely in his writings, there are several other authors of minor note who have adopted the same course, but not any who have created any great sensation, or effected any permanent impression on the public.

The only living author whose name is likely to descend to posterity is that of Chateaubriand, who, although he has never been a writer of poetry, may be considered the greatest poet in France, as there is so much of imagination and of soul in his prose, so much of sublimity in his ideas, that the works in verse of his contemporaries appear insipid when compared to the wild flights of genius which ever emerge from his pen, yet when they are closely studied, and deeply sounded for their solid worth, it will be found that they consist merely of beautiful imagery, elegantly turned phrases, a sort of flash of sentiment, which catches the ear, but appeals not to the understanding, a gorgeous superstructure, as it were, without a firm foundation for its basis. As for example, in his preface to Attila, alluding to Napoleon, he observes "Qu'il Était envoyÉ par la Providence, comme une signe de rÉconciliation quand elle Était lasse de punir." Which may be rendered thus: that Napoleon was sent upon earth by Providence as a sign of reconciliation, when she was fatigued with punishing; this is certainly very pretty, but I will appeal to common sense, whether there was aught of fact to support such an assertion? Even those who were the most enthusiastic admirers of the martial genius of Bonaparte, could not participate in the fulsome compliment paid to their hero by M. Chateaubriand; but when strictly scrutinized, all his works will generally be found of the same tissue; yet, as there is so often a wild grandeur in his conceptions and in his mode of expressing them, whilst they are arrayed in all the grace and beauty which language can bestow, his volumes will always find a place in every well-assorted library, when probably those of most of the other French authors of the present period will be consigned to oblivion, excepting such as have written upon history, which will always maintain their ground, as they are in a degree works of reference.

There are several very clever men who write for the newspapers, or what may be styled pamphleteers, amongst whom are Jules Janin, and Alphonse Karr; the latter publishes a satirical work called the GuÊpe, which possesses the talent of being very severe and stinging wherever it fixes. M. BarthÉlemy has written some poetry much in the same strain, which is rather pungent, but he latterly appears to have sunk into the same slumber which seems to have enveloped so many of the present literary men of France. M. Deschamps now and then produces some poetic effusions which are pleasing, and prove the author to be possessed of that ability which would induce a wish that his works were less brief and more frequently before the public. But taking all into consideration, this is by no means a literary era in France; the nineteenth century has not yet produced any such names as Montesquieu, Voltaire, Rousseau, and many others, who have shed a lustre on the French name; there are no doubt many clever men still living who have written scientific works upon medicine, surgery, natural history, physiology, botany, astronomy, etc., whilst the names of De Jussieu and Arago, as eminent in the latter sciences, are known all over Europe, as well as many others who are celebrated in their different departments.

Although the present age is not fecund in the production of French genius as relates to the polite arts, yet there never was a period when there was more anxiety for their promotion, and now all classes read; but the reading of the lower orders consists principally of a political nature; the newspapers now however have what is called a feuilleton, which embraces many subjects, and appears to interest all; the criticisms on the theatrical performances are perused with much avidity, an extreme partiality for dramatic representations still forms a considerable portion of the French character, as also a general love of music, without being at all particular as to its quality; no matter how trifling it be, as long as there is any thing of an air distinguishable it will please. There are at present a host of composers in France whose fame will probably be not so long as their lives; Paris is inundated every year with a number of insignificant ballads which just have their day, and if perchance there should be one or more that are really clever amongst the mass of dross which comes forth, after a twelvemonth no one would think of singing it because it has already been pronounced ancienne, and it is completely laid aside, and in a few years so totally cast in oblivion, that it cannot even be procured of any of the music-sellers, or anywhere else: this was the case with some delightful airs which appeared about ten years since, and which are now nowhere to be found, although once having excited quite a sensation. The French cannot certainly be considered as a musical nation, yet many of their airs are full of life, and quite exhilarating, whilst others have a degree of pathos which touches the heart; still none of their music has the nerve, the depth, the sterling solidity of the German, nor the elegance nor grace of the Italian. Yet some composers they have whose works will have more than an ephemeral fame, amongst whom may be cited Aubert, whose music is not only admired in France but throughout all Europe; another author of extreme merit is Onslow, whose productions are not so voluminous or so extensively known as those of Aubert, but possessing that intrinsic worth which will increase in estimation as it descends to posterity: the compositions of HalÉvy and Berlioz have also some degree of merit. But amongst the numerous productions which have emanated from the French composers for the last fifty years, one there is that for soul and grandeur stands unrivalled, and that is the Marseilles Hymn, or March, by Rouget de Lille; perhaps there exists no air so calculated to inspire martial ardour, and there is no doubt but that it had considerable effect upon the enthusiastic republicans in exciting them to rush into what they considered the struggle for liberty and honour; it appears to have been an inspiration which must have suddenly lighted upon the composer, as none of his works either before or since ever created any particular sensation. Although of far distant date, the old air of Henry IV must certainly be placed amongst the gems of French musical composition; there is a peculiar wildness in it, which gives it a tone of romance, and reminds one of very olden time, there is in it an originality, a something unlike anything else; the Breton and Welsh airs alone resemble it in some degree, and in both those countries they pretend that they are of Celtic origin. Music is of very ancient origin in France: in 554 profane singing was forbidden on holy days; in 757, King Pepin received a present of an organ, from Constantin VI; a tremendous quarrel occurred between the Roman and Gallic musicians, in the time of Charlemagne, and two professors are cited, named Benedict and Theodore, who were pupils of St. Gregory; but the most ancient melodies extant, and which are perfectly well authenticated, are the songs of the Troubadours of Provence, who principally flourished from the year 1000 to the year 1300. Saint Louis was a great patron of music, so much so that in 1235 he granted permission to the Paris minstrels, who had formed themselves into a company, to pass free through the barriers of the city, provided they entertained the toll-keepers with a song and made their monkies dance. At that period they had as many as thirty instruments in use; the form of some of them are now totally lost. Rameau is the only French composer whose name and compositions may be said to have had any permanent reputation, which does not now stand particularly high out of his own country; Lulli, Gluck, and Gretry were not born in France, although it was their principal theatre of action. It remains to be proved whether the works of BoÏeldieu will stand the test of time, as also of those composers who are still living and are the most esteemed.

Much may be said of the French musical performers, who certainly may be considered to excel upon several different instruments, particularly on the harp, which all can testify who have ever heard Liebart. There are also a number of ladies to be met with in private society who play extremely well; the same may be said with regard to the piano-forte, but although there are many professors who astonish by their execution, yet they have not produced any equal to a Liszt or Thalberg; I have even amongst amateurs known some young ladies develop a lightness and rapidity of finger quite surprising, and far surpassing what I have generally met with in England (except with the most accomplished professors), but I do not consider that they play with so much feeling and expression as I have often found even with female performers in my own country, and which affords me a much higher gratification, as fingering is after all but mechanical, which may astonish, but will never enchant. On the violin they have produced some very fine players, as also upon other instruments, and the bands at their operas can hardly be too highly praised. But their music which has afforded me the most delight has been the performances of their first masters on some of their magnificent organs; on those occasions I heard the most exquisite feeling and expression displayed, and have known the most powerful sensations excited; this most superlative enjoyment I have experienced at the churches of Notre-Dame, St. Sulpice, St. Eustache, and St. Roch, but it happens only on particular and rare occasions, and it is difficult to find out when such performances will take place; sometimes it is announced in Galignani's paper but not always, and their sacred music is often most exquisite particularly that which is vocal.

In respect to singing, although the Conservatory of Music and the most talented masters give every advantage to the pupil of theory and science, yet they cannot confer a fine quality of voice where it has not been afforded by nature, and that deficiency I find generally existing with the French females; they will often attain an extreme height with apparent facility, and even will manage notes at the same time so low that no fault can be found with the compass of their voices, nor any lack of flexibility; their execution being perfectly clean and correct. I have frequently heard them run the chromatic scale with extreme distinctness and apparent ease, and acquit themselves admirably in the performance of the most intricate and difficult passages, all of which is the result of good teaching and attentive application of the pupil, but sweetness of tone exists not in their voices, which are generally thin and wiry; they want that depth and roundness which gives the swell of softness and beauty to the sound; hence there is generally a want of expression in their singing as well as their playing. Of course there are exceptions, and Madame Dorus-Gras may be cited as such, as well as many others, who have won the admiration of the public. The voices of the men are better, often very powerful, possessing extremely fine bass notes, but many of them have even still a horrid habit of singing their notes through the nose. I don't know whether it is that they regard their nasal promontory in the light of a trumpet, so considering it as a sort of instrumental accompaniment to their vocal performance, but although it is a practice which is wearing off, there is a great deal too much of it left. Nourrit had none of it, his voice was firm and sweet, and few men have I ever heard sing with so much feeling. Duprez is also a singer of no common stamp, and of whom any nation might be proud, and I have often met men in society sing together most delightfully, either duets, trios, or quartettos, and totally devoid of the nasal twang, or, as the reader will observe, delightful it could not be.