. The magazine of American history with notes and queries. Goncourt is recog-nized as the head of the realistic school of which M. Zola is the mostmilitant member. A recent correspondence with M. Renan has broughtinto high relief the last volumes of the Journaux des Goncourt; Memoiresde la Vie Litteraire. As every one knows, there was not only a communityof affection but a literary partnership existing between M. Edmond deGoncourt and his younger brother M. Jules de Goncourt, who died in1870, a year marked in the elder M. de Goncourts heart in a doubly sadmanner, by the loss of his beloved co-
. The magazine of American history with notes and queries. Goncourt is recog-nized as the head of the realistic school of which M. Zola is the mostmilitant member. A recent correspondence with M. Renan has broughtinto high relief the last volumes of the Journaux des Goncourt; Memoiresde la Vie Litteraire. As every one knows, there was not only a communityof affection but a literary partnership existing between M. Edmond deGoncourt and his younger brother M. Jules de Goncourt, who died in1870, a year marked in the elder M. de Goncourts heart in a doubly sadmanner, by the loss of his beloved co-worker and by the disastrous eventsof the war. The portion of the journal relating to this period is filledwith a series of striking pictures, for he caught and painted the atmos-phere and the local coloring with such realism that as I turn his pages Ifind myself once more involved in that most melancholy experience. Hisgenius seized many things which were very striking, but which wouldhave passed unnoted if he had not fixed them upon his canvas. In the. BOOK PLATE OF M. PAUL DE SAINT VICTOR. THE SPARTANS OF PARIS IOI future his name will remain attached to some of the most emotionalchapters of the siege of Paris. His descriptions call up in memory a crowd of little things which Ihad forgotten, which combine and form a perfect whole with others whichhave always remained clearly defined. At thatepoch I dwelt in the avenue dAntin, a fewdoors west of the Champs Elysees. In frontof my windows was a small brick pavilionwhich became my barometer, for the damp-ness, commencing at the foot of its walls,gradually mounted as the fires were extin-guished one by one, until all were dead fromwant of fuel in the great apartments. Itrose hour by hour, and day by day, until itarrived at the roof itself. At that momentthe intense cold suddenly fell and drove themoisture within, and the next morning upon awakening I found that it had dropped from the ceiling and fallen uponthe floor, so that in
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