Now is a good time for such penance. There are signs that our English literature has reached that point, when, like the literatures of all the nations that have been, it must fall at length into the hands of the decadents. The qualities that I tried in my essay to travesty--paradox and marivaudage, lassitude, a love of horror and all unusual things, a love of argot and archaism and the mysteries of style--are not all these displayed, some by one, some by another of les jeunes écrivains? Who knows but that Artifice is in truth at our gates and that soon she may pass through our streets? Already the windows of Grub Street are crowded with watchful, evil faces. They are ready, the men of Grub Street, to pelt her, as they have pelted all that came before her. Let them come down while there is still time, and hang their houses with colours, and strew the road with flowers. Will they not, for once, do homage to a new queen? By the time this letter appears, it _may_ be too late! Meanwhile, Sir, I am, your obedient servant, MAX BEERBOHM. Oxford, May '94. A Study By Bernhard Sickert [Illustration: A Study] _EPIGRAM_ _TO A LADY RECOVERED FROM A DANGEROUS SICKNESS_ _Life plucks thee back as by the golden hair--_ _Life, who had feigned to let thee go but now._ _Wealthy is Death already, and can spare_ _Ev'n such a prey as thou._ _WILLIAM WATSON_ The Coxon Fund By Henry James I