The disjointed times being decidedly unfavourable to _belles lettres_, we were scarcely surprised at the first non-arrival of the monthly parcel, in which our punctual Paris agent is wont to forward us the literary novelties of the preceding thirty days. On a second and a third omission, we grew uneasy, and suspected the Red Republicans of abstracting our packages _in transitu_; but absolved the democrats on receipt of advice, that if the books did not arrive, it was because they were not sent; and that, if they were not sent, it was because there were none, or as good as none, to send. At last a case has reached us--half the usual size, but containing, nevertheless, the French literature of the entire summer. A poor display indeed! The pens of the novelists have shrivelled in their grasp; their plump goose-quills have dwindled into emaciated tooth-picks. Instead of the exuberant eight-volume romance, with promise of continuation, we have single volumes, meagre tales, that seem nipped in the bad, blighted by the breath of revolution. No author, not already involved in one of those tremendous series with which French writers have lately abused the public patience, now cares to exceed a volume or two. M. Sue, having got into the middle of the seven capital sins, is fain to flounder on through the ocean of iniquity; but his pen flags, evidently affected by the discouraging influence of the times. M. Dumas has brought out the final volume of "_Les Quarante Cinq_," a romance which we may observe, _en passant_, is a scandalous specimen of what the French call _faire la ligne_--doing the line, writing against paper, upon the Vauxhall principle of making the smallest possible substance cover the utmost possible surface. It is pity to see a man of remarkable talent, which M. Dumas really is, thus degrading himself into a mere mercantile speculator, lumbering his books with pages upon pages of useless and meaningless dialogue--if dialogue that is to be called, of which the following stuff is a specimen:-- "You are the Chevalier d'Artagnan." "Then let me pass." "Useless!" "Why useless?" "Because his Eminence is not at home." "What! His Eminence not at home! Where is he then?" "Gone." "Gone?" "Yes." "Where?" &c., &c.