Indeed, if the name of a good English novel by any one of them is demanded, it will be singularly difficult to suggest a satisfactory title. One can even go further, and state that they did not even have one amongst them who has handed on to us a vivid picture of their own lives in the form of fiction. Dowson, indeed, in the dock life of his books may have autobiographical touches, but they are purely personal. What I mean is, that there was no one standing by to give us a picture of them as Willy, the French writer, has given us of the sceptical yet juvenile enthusiasm of Les Jeunes of Paris of the same period in, for example, his _Maîtresse d’Esthètes_. What is cruder than Ranger-Gull’s _The Hypocrite_, which has pretensions to be a picture of the young men of the period? And when one comes to think of it this is a great pity, as an excellent novel might have been penned around the feverish activities of these young exotics of the nineties. Robert Hichens’ _Green Carnation_ is, after all, perhaps the most brilliant attempt to picture the weaknesses of the period, and it is merely a skit taking off in the characters of Esmé Amarinth and Lord Reggie two well-known personalities. _The Adventures of John Johns_, it is true, is supposed to be the history of the rise of one of the smaller epigoni of the movement, but it is not a very brilliant achievement, though it has considerable merit and interest. One cannot indeed say that it is up to the standard of Ernest La Jeunesse’s _Odin Howes_, wherein the French Jew has given a veritable flashing insight on the last days of Wilde in Paris and those holes into which he crept to drink. What a pity, indeed, an English contemporary has not done the same for the Tite Street days, or given us in his book a serious study of the strange world of Whistler or Dowson.