The grand old race of French story-tellers has wellnigh departed. One by one the great names in this department of modern French literature become erased from the lists of the living. Nor is this all. Many of the most brilliant of the novelists of the day have relinquished the pen of the romance-writer for that of the politician. About, for instance, expends in the leading articles of the _XIXe. Siecle_ the wit, the sparkle, the energy that charmed us long years ago in the pages of his novels. The younger Dumas--always less a novelist than a dramatist and (we must coin a word to do justice to the position) an _im_moralist--confines his efforts now to the production of unclean plays and uncleaner prefaces, that glow with unwholesome lustre like the phosphorescent flames that are bred of corruption and quiver over graves. Pitiless and cold, with a scalpel in one hand and a magnifying-glass in the other, he is at once the closest observer and the most eloquent denunciator of the moral maladies of French society. But he is not a novelist, strictly speaking. His gifts have another direction, his mind another bent. Nor is he altogether a dramatist, as is Sardou. His comedies are less remarkable on the stage than they are in the library. An invincible passion for preaching mars the development of the action. His characters say more than they do, and his plays charm less by any actual theatrical qualifications than by the extreme finish and brilliancy of their style. He will bring two men on the stage, and will let them talk together for half an hour without moving a muscle. They say wonderfully wise and witty things, it is true. But such dramatic writing is not exactly in the manner of Shakespeare. M. Dumas evidently dreams that his mission is to regenerate French society, but, apparently, he has as yet found the task beyond his powers. Nor are the means he suggested--in _L'Etrangere_, for instance--exactly those that would most strongly commend themselves to the Anglo-Saxon mind.