ds those who assisted him.
This was an amiable, inartistic trait in his character, though it may be
a trifle negative; and for a positive virtue, as I say, he enjoyed his
drink, his overpowering dirt, and his vicious life. He was full of
delightful and racy stories about poets and painters, policemen and
prisons, of which he had wide experience. He might have written a far
more diverting book of memoirs than the average Pre-Raphaelite volume to
which we look forward every year, though it is usually silent about poor
Simeon Solomon. Physically he was a small, red man, with keen, laughing
eyes.

By 1887 he entirely ceased to produce work of any value. He poured out a
quantity of pastels at a guinea apiece. They are repulsive and
ill-drawn, with the added horror of being the shadows of once splendid
achievements. Long after his name could be ever mentioned except in
whispers, Mr. Hollyer issued a series of photographs of some of the fine
early sanguine, Indian ink, and pencil drawings. The originals are
unique of their kind. It is very easy to detect the unwholesome element
which has inspired many of them, even the titles being indicative:
'Sappho,' 'Antinous,' 'Amor Sacramentum.' One of the finest, 'Love dying
from the breath of Lust,' of which also he painted a picture, became
quite popular in reproduction owing to the moral which was screwed out of
it. Another, of 'Dante meeting Beatrice at a Child's Party,' is
particularly fascinating. To the present generation his work is perhaps
too 'literary,' and his technique is by no means faultless; but the
slightest drawing is informed by an idea, nearly always a beautiful one,
however exotic. The faceless head and the headless body of shivering
models dear to modern art students were absent from Solomon's designs.
His pigments, both in water-colour and oils, are always harmonious, pure
in tone, and rich without being garish. We need not try to frighten
ourselves by searching too curiously for hidden meanings. His whole art
is, of course, unwholesome and morbid, to employ two very favourite
adjectives. His work has always appealed to musicians and men of letters
rather than collectors--to those who ask that a drawing or a picture
should suggest an idea rather than the art of the artist. Subject with
him triumphs over drawing. He is sometimes hopelessly crude; but during
the sixties, when, as some one said, 'every one was a great artist,' he
showed considerable