was made by friends and relatives to reclaim him. Studios were taken for
him, commissions were given him, clothes were bought for him. He spent
his week-ends in the lock-up. Several picture-dealers tried giving him
an allowance, but he turned up intoxicated to demand advances, and the
police had to be called in. He was found selling matches in the Mile End
Road and tried his hand at pavement decoration without much success. The
companion of Walter Pater and Swinburne became the associate of thieves
and blackmailers. A story is told that one afternoon he called for
assistance at the house of a well-known artist, a former friend, from
whom he received a generous dole. Observing that the remote
neighbourhood of the place lent itself favourably to burgling operations,
Solomon visited his benefactor the same evening in company with a
housebreaker. They were studying the dining-room silver when they were
disturbed; both were in liquor, and the noise they made roused the
sleepers above. The unwilling host good-naturedly dismissed them!

Though a very delightful book might be made of his life by some one who
would not shirk the difficulties of the subject, it is unnecessary here
to dwell further on a career which belongs to the history of morbid
psychology rather than of painting. After drifting from the stream of
social existence into a Bohemian backwater, he found himself in the main
sewer. This he thoroughly enjoyed in his own particular way, and
rejected fiercely all attempts at rescue or reform. To his other old
friends, such as Burne-Jones and Sir Edward Poynter, there must have been
something very tragic in the contemplation of his wasted talents, for few
young painters were more successful. Any one curious enough to study his
pictures will regret that he was lost to art by allowing an ill-regulated
life to prey upon his genius. He had not sufficient strength to keep the
two things separate, as Shakespeare, Verlaine, and Leonardo succeeded in
doing. At the same time, it is a consolation to think that he enjoyed
himself in his own sordid way. When I had the pleasure of seeing him
last, so lately as 1893, he was extremely cheerful and not aggressively
alcoholic. Unlike most spoilt wastrels with the artistic temperament, he
seemed to have no grievances, and had no bitter stories or complaints
about former friends, no scandalous tales about contemporaries who had
remained reputable; no indignant feeling towar