promise of draughtsmanship. His pictures are less
fantastic than the drawings, and aim at probability, even when they are
allegorical, or, as is too often the case, _odd_ in sentiment. He is
apparently never concerned with what are called 'problems,' the
articulation of forms, or any fidelity to nature beyond the human frame.
Unlike many of the Pre-Raphaelites, he showed a feeling for the medium of
oil. His friends and contemporaries, with the exception of Millais, and
Rossetti occasionally, were always more at ease with water-colour or
gouache, and you feel that most of their pictures ought to have been
painted in _tempera_, the technique of which was not then understood.
Since Millais was of French extraction, Rossetti of Italian, and Solomon
of Hebrew, I fear this does not get us very much further away from the
old French criticism that the English had forgotten or never learnt how
to paint in oil. It must be remembered that Whistler, who in the sixties
achieved some of his masterpieces, was an American.

It is strange that Solomon did not allow a sordid existence to alter the
trend of his subjects, for these are always derived from poetry and the
Bible, or from Catholic, Jewish, or Greek Orthodox ritual--a strange
contrast to the respectable, impeccable painter, M. Degas, the doyen of
European art, nationalist and anti-Semite, who finds beauty only in
brasseries, in the vulgar circus, and in the ghastly wings of the opera.
How far removed from his surroundings are the inspirations of the artist!
I believe J. F. Millet would have painted peasants if he had been born
and spent his days in the centre of New York. With the life-long friend
of M. Degas--Gustave Moreau--Solomon had much in common, but the colour
of the English Hebrew is much finer, and his themes are less monotonous.
I can imagine many people being repelled by this troubled introspective
art, especially at the present day. There is hardly room for an inverted
Watts. At the same time, even those who from age and training cannot
take a sentimental interest in faded rose-leaves, whose perfume is a
little overpowering, may care to explore an interesting byway of art. For
poor Solomon there was no place in life. Casting reality aside, he
stepped back into the riotous pages of Petronius. Perhaps on the Paris
boulevards, with Verlaine and Bibi la Puree, he might have enjoyed a
distinct artistic individuality. Expeditions conducted by Mr. Arthur
Symons