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 Guepe, which possesses the talent of being very severe and stinging wherever it fixes.  M. Barthelemy 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