and _The Harlot’s House_. It has become disseminated like a perfume from the writings of Pater in the men who came after him. It was, so to speak, a quickening stimulus to them as the rediscovery of a manuscript of Catullus, or a Greek figure was in the years of the Renaissance itself. With it came a sense of freedom. An attempt was made, because of it, for instance, to emancipate our literature to the same extent as the literatures of Latin countries move untrammelled by a hesitancy in the choice of certain themes. And people at the time, watching the fate of the prime movers, cried with a great deal of assurance, ‘That way lies madness!’ Be this as it may, the men of the nineties bequeathed a certain subtleness of emotion to our art that is not without its value. They took Byron’s satanism and inflamed it with the lurid light of Baudelaire. _Buveurs de lune_ after the manner of Paul Verlaine, they evoked something of the ethereal glamour of moonlight itself. A realist like Crackanthorpe tried to tread the whole _via dolorosa_ without faltering by the wayside. Poetry caught the mood of bizarre crises and Edgar Wilson wrought a strange delicate world of visions. In Max Beerbohm irony took on a weird twinge of grace almost Pierrot-like. Perhaps, indeed, they all had something of the Pierrot quality in them. Beardsley himself was enchanted by that little opera without words, ‘L’Enfant Prodigue.’ Dowson made a play about him. _The Happy Hypocrite_ might be a story of the Pierrot himself grown old. As I have hinted, much of the work conceived by these men was doomed to die, as in the case of every movement. What then remains, what is their balance to the good? Who knows? About everything man has loved and fashioned there abides vestiges of the interest of humanity. Only some things are easier to recall than others. They stand out more, so that one is bound to remark them. They have, so to speak, a _cachet_ of their own. Among these in this movement there comes the work of the men I have so hastily attempted to realise. Each has about him something of that quality which is indefinable, but easily recognisable. Each has his charm for those who care to come with a loving interest. INDEX _Academy, The_, 106. Adams, Francis, 102. _Adrian Rome_, 58. _Adventures of John Johns, The_, 60. _Æneids, The_, 28. _Albemarle, The_, 69. Allen, Grant, 102. _Amor Umbratilis_, 88. _Anatol_, 128. _Anatomy of Melancholy, The_, 108. Anquetin, 4. _Antony Garstin’s Courtship_, 76. Apuleius, 32. _A Rebours_, 58. Aretino, Pietro, 27. Aristophanes, 18, 26, 27. _Aristophanes at Oxford_, 132. _Art of Thomas Hardy, The_, 108. _Artist’s Model, An_, 39. _Ascension of St. Rose of Lima, The_, 25. _Atalanta_, 38. _Aubrey Beardsley_, 20, 29. _Aubrey Beardsley and The Yellow Book_, 37. _Aurora La Cujiñi_, 65. _Autumn City, An_, 52. Avenue Theatre, 21. Bacon, Francis, 79, 135.