Full Text: 1871-1905
Payne, John. "Sleepers and One That Watches." Intaglios, Sonnets. London: B. M. Pickering, 1871, 65-68.
Will the day never dawn?
The dim stars weep
Great tears of silver on the pall of night;
And the sad moon, for weariness grown white,
Crawls like a mourner up the Eastern steep.
I strain my eyes for morning, while these sleep;
Dreaming of women, this one with the lips
Half-parted, haply,--that in the eclipse
Of a child-slumber, dreamless, folded deep,
Eyes seal'd as though a hand of sleep strew'd flowers
Upon their lids, and mouth a fresh-dew's rose,
Wet with the kisses of the night. The hours
Are very heavy on my soul, that knows
No rest: for pinions of the unseen powers
Winnow the wind in every breath that blows. II
Surely, a lance-point glitter'd in the west!
Some trumpet thunder'd out its voice of doom!
But no: my eyes are hazy with the gloom.
'Twas but the moon-rays glancing on the crest
Of the tall corn; some bittern from her nest
Roused by a snake: for, see, the twain sleep on,
And nothing stirs their slumber. Oh! for one
Sweet hour of falling through the deeps of rest
Within that lake of sleep, the dreamy shored!
One little hour of overlidded eyes
And folded palms! Ay me! the terror lies
Upon my soul; I may not loose my sword,
Lest I should wake beneath flame-girdled skies,
And tremble to the thunders of the Lord. III
The blackness teems the shapes of fearful things;
Weird faces glare at me from out the night,
And eyes that glitter with the lurid light
Of lust and all the horror that it brings.
The air is stressful with the pulse of wings;
And what time clouds obscure the constant star
That overlooks my vigil from afar,
Strange voices tempt me with dread whisperings:
Dank hands clasp mine; and breathings stir my hair
That are no mortal's wooing me to leap
Over the hill-crest, through the swarthy air,
Into the hollow night, and thence to reap
The wonder and the weirdness hidden there.
Ah God! the day comes not; and still these sleep!
"The Dudley Gallery. The Seventh Exhibition of Water-colour Drawings." The Art-Journal, 1 March 1871: 85.
Mr. Simeon Solomon is never so much at home as in the Dudley Gallery, and to our mind has seldom shown himself so well as on the present occasion. Once again his genius oscillates between mediaevalism and classicism. ‘The Mystery of Faith’ (89), pertains to the religion and the ritual of the Romish Church. A priest, robed richly, elevates the Eucharist; his eye fixed as in a trance, his countenance that of an ascetic, reveal a soul steadfastly set on “the mystery of faith” — the Real Presence. The execution is worthy of the conception; the artist has achieved a triumph. Scarcely less successful in the opposite direction of the classic, is ‘The Singing of Love’ (496). The figures here brought upon the scene are, Somnus, Memoria, Morpheus, Amor, Voluptas, Libido, and Mors; each personates some distinctive phase of love, divine or carnal. The forms are typical, they signify a noble godlike race of beings, somewhat akin to the purest types on Greek vases, and sometimes reminding the spectator of Miltonic conceptions of archangels ruined.
"The Royal Academy. The One Hundred and Third Exhibition. Second Notice." The Art-Journal, 1 July 1871: 177.
S. Solomon, after his usual impressive, spiritual, and mystic manner, gives another version (485) of the Jewish Rabbi who appeared in the Dudley.
"The Dudley Gallery. Fourth Winter Exhibition." The Art-Journal, 1 December 1871: 285.
When we see the names of G. F. Watts, G. D. Leslie, H. S. Marks, J. D. Watson, Arthur Hughes, G. Mason, H. Moore, Simeon Solomon, J. A. M. Whistler, Briton Riviere, and Val Prinsep, in the list of exhibitors, we may be sure there will be interesting, if not valuable material. ... Mr. Simeon Solomon takes not unfrequent delight in the gloom of dark interiors; but, like Rembrandt, he also delights in the contrasting glory of strongly lighted surfaces. ‘Carrying the Law in the Synagogue at Geneva’ is, except to Jews, an uninteresting, and, to all, an undramatic, subject; but nevertheless he has made it interesting and grateful by the full richness of colour given to this little cabinet-piece. The rendering of yellow surfaces worked over with gold thread is a favourite study with this artist, and one in which he excels. The glimpse of blue sky through the synagogue is a happy suggestion of freedom from this dim interior. Had Mr. Solomon named his ‘Marguerite’ (217) ‘A Reverie,’ we should have been better satisfied, but as the title stands we feel there is something lacking to complete our idea of Goethe’s Marguerite. Nevertheless, the modelling of the face is very beautiful, and the half-shut eye is tender and full of love.
"General Exhibition of Water-colour Drawings. Dudley Gallery." The Art-Journal, 1 March 1872: 74-75.
Works of an entirely different vein are those by S. Solomon, ‘One Dreaming by the Sea’ (73), ‘Evening’ (111), ‘Dawn’ (189), &c. The ideas are fanciful, and as such not always perspicuous. In the first named appears a youth seated on the sea-shore—nude and very like an academic study. We are to suppose him sleeping, but it is difficult to do so in the upright position he maintains. The third is a like impersonation, but the proposition is more definite, for the general aspect is that of morning twilight, and he is in the act of throwing off the mantle of night. It will be understood that these conceptions are rendered with a feeling more sculpturesque than pictorial, and where the argument is clear the narrative is charming. These, however, with other works to be mentioned, are not without the taint of what is known as “style,” a compromise between classic and ancient Florentine Art, in which we find that the yearning after exalted expression often leaves no expression at all. ... 'Until the Day break and the Shadows flee away’ (189), Simeon Solomon, is the text standing in the place of a title to a group of three heads, but the relation between the drawing and the text lies in the dim twilight of conjecture. If it point to the consummation of our present dispensation, the allusion is not sufficiently perspicuous.
Samuel, S. M. "Literature", The Jewish Chronicle, 14 April, 1871, 4-5.
Literature
A Vision of Love Revealed in Sleep. By Simeon Solomon. (F. S. Ellis, 33 King Street, Covent Garden).
We are so accustomed to consider it necessary to poetry that is should be written in some sort of measured form, that it is somewhat difficult for us to accept as a poem a composition which is without rhyme or metre. Instances are not very numerous of poems written in prose; and although the poetical compositions of the Hebrew Prophets, and the Psalms, would appear to the uninitiated to be non-metrical, yet Dr Hermann Adler has pointed out to us that their composition was guided by certain rhymical forms. That poetry is independent of such forms, is however, proved by the universal acceptance (to quote an instance) of the works of Ossian as poems.
Poetry, properly so called, is merely imaginative composition of the highest order – the adequate expression of those thoughts which lift us out of the every day world of work into a land of dreams and unreality. Coleridge tells us that “Poetry is the blossom and fragrance of all human knowledge, human thoughts, human passions, emotions.” Doubtless a mode of expression distinct from that which serves us for our every-day use, is more suitable for the exposition of such thoughts and hence rhythmical language is commonly associated with poetical ideas. But it should at the same time be remarked that verse and poetry are things independent of each other. For instance, the “Bab Ballads” of Mr Gilbert are quite perfect as regards rhyme and metre; but nobody would, on that account, dignify them with the title of poems. Granted, the, that excellent verse can be bad poetry, it may be allowed that good poetry can be written in prose. Mr Simeon Solomon’s new work although the author does not expressly claim for it poetical honours on the title page, may, therefore, be entitled a ‘prose poem’.
But while it is written throughout in prose, the language used in it is not by any means that of conventional life. It resembles in its clearness and admirable simplicity the style of the authorised Version of the bible, which has undoubtedly exercised an immense influence upon modern poetry. This influence is most strongly to be seen in the works of Mr Swinburne, and in a lesser degree in those of Mr D G Rossetti; while in fact the whole of the latest school of elevated poetical writing shows, more or less, traces of having been written under its inspiration. Whatever may the delicious quaintness of its verbiage, and, more than all, by our familiarity with it from our earliest childhood.
Both the plan and execution of Mr Solomon’s work are undoubtedly original, and in this respect he asserts the strongest right to the title of poet. Referring to the Greek derivation of the word, Dryden says: “A poet is a maker, as the word signifies; and he who cannot invent has his name for nothing.”
The appearance of a painter as a poet is by no means without precedent; for from Michael Angelo down to Mr Rossetti, numerous instances might be cited of this combination of two sister arts. That Mr Solomon possesses poetical feeling of a high order has frequently been observed by those who have seen his pictures; but, until now, he was not credited with the capacity of expressing that feeling by means of word-painting. There is always in his art-work a striving after some elevated ideal; and he never prostitutes his powers, as so many do, to the perfect delineation of pots and pans, picturesque poverty, and similar objects of domestic interest.
The present work is entitled “A Vision of Love Revealed in Sleep”, and is an account (with episodes) of a series of progressive manifestations of embodied love, seen through the medium of a trance. Like the “Banquet” of Plato, by which it has probably been inspired, it is devoted to the glorification of pure Love – Love unsensual, unselfish, and ethereal – Love – perfect, peaceful, and passionless.
Mr Solomon strikes his keynotes upon three quotations from the “Song” of his great namesake. These quotations are, however, taken bodily out of the text, and without the slightest consideration for their context. They are: “I sleep, but my heart waketh”; “Many waters cannot quench love”; and “Until the day break and the shadows flee away”. This last is chosen as the motto of the work.
The first of these quotations is, of course, intended to convey the idea of the narrator’s condition at the time of the coming of the Vision; for in sleep the spirit is said to separate itself from the body, and to be thus rendered more susceptible of spiritual influence. The second is apparently intended to express the deathlessness of Love; and the third evidently embodies the spirit of the whole work – the longing for the light of peace shed by Love upon the soul of man.
The narrative commences by relating how the Narrator’s soul appeared to him in the form of a youth, unclothed, save for a fillet binding his head and a narrow vestment on his left shoulder; and bearing in his right hand a branch of blossomless foliage. Assuring him of support during the trials which he will have to undergo, the Soul promises to show him various manifestations of Love progressing towards perfection. Leading him forth by the sands of a grey sea at ebb, he vouchsafes to him a vision of Memory and of Innocent Pleasures that is Past. Stimulated by the sight of the latter, they set forward with renewed ardour in quest of Love, whole they find hiding in the cleft of a rock, surrounded by mocking spirits, in one of whom the Narrator recognises his own image. Love is next seen in pitiable plight, bound and wounded by the hands of men who have sought to alay and confine him. But even his wound sheds sweetness; for the blood from his heart changes into roses of divinest odour as it falls. This very beautiful metaphor is borrowed from the writings of one of the later Latin poets. It is, unfortunately, conveyed in a language which is somewhat faulty in construction (probably the result of too hasty revision), which, however, can easily be modified in a future edition. From the lips of Love proceed the words “Thou hast wounded my heart” (rendered in the Authorised Version of the Song of Solomon as “Thou hast ravished my heart”); and these words become engraven upon the heart of the seer.
The next episode is a symbolical description of Passion, or Lust, with an account of how she sought to slay love, “but was in her turn grievously wounded and tormented in strange self-devised ways”. Love is then seen as one dead; but, of course, being deathless, is not really so. Concerning this, there is a passage which may fairly be regarded as the gem of the whole work. It is a description of an embodiment of Death, and is so strikingly beautiful that we cannot refrain from quoting it in extensor:
“I looked forward and I beheld, slowly revealing himself in the heart of the thick darkness, one seated upon a dim and awful throne; he was wrapt about with sighs for raiment, and cypress heavy with the tears of ages was the crown upon his head; although his face was hidden in his potent hands when first he was manifested to my sight, yet I knew he wept, and his weeping was as the gathered-up lamentations of all time; how sore it fell upon my heart I may not say; and a great pity was begotten within me, which went forth upon my spirit, towards his throne. Anon he lifted his face, and the sadness and mourning which go forth of the hearts of all men seemed transfigured upon it, and I saw that it was overshadowed with the dark mystery of life; it appeared to me as the face of one who dwells for ever without the Holy Place, upon whose brow the highest radiance may never fall. Then I thought upon the words my Soul had spoken to me, before we entered herein, when he told me how mild of aspect was the face I should look upon. For I saw that his mien has in it an exceeding gentleness, as of a creature that desires to caress and to be caressed, but who dares not approach, lest he bring terror with him – as of one who throughout all eternity bears upon him a loveless burden, whereof he may not rid himself; his was the pallor of one who had wrestled with another strong as himself, and had prevailed, but whose own dominion was as gall to him, the knowledge of whose hateful might gnawed his own humiliation, whose strength his weakness. For a moment’s space I could not look upon him, for the memories of his prowess crowded within my heart, and surged up in a bitter stream into my eyes. Then I sought the face of my soul, and I saw upon its darkness the answer to my unuttered question, and I knew that I stood in the presence of him who had done battle with Love – Death, who would love us did he dare, whom we would love did we dare; for, when he folds us about with the chill white raiment, he sets the seal of his love upon us; and, as the bridegroom and the bride stand linked together, overshadowed by the mystic saffron-coloured veil, and one spirit makes them one; so, at that hour when time slips from us, are we wedded to him before whom I stood, and with the sacrament of his kiss he signs us unto himself, and makes us of one flesh with him”.
The words “who would love us did he dare, whom we would love did we dare” appear to us thoroughly to express the longing which many feel for death, a feeling which is checked by the fear of what lies beyond the grave.
By the throne of Death stands Eternal silence – the embodiment of the knowledge of the Mystery of Eternity. This is also described with great power; and the reflections to which the sight of these Beings gives rise in the mind of the narrator bear evidences of deep thought on the part of the author.
Passing out of the Temple of Death the Angel of Divine Charity bearing in his arms his charge, Sleep, is next seen. After this Time appears, bearing Love from his apparent death-place, comforting him as he carries him along. The meaning of this episode is sufficiently obvious.
A beautiful description next occurs of the death of Day in all-embracing arms of Night, leading to a vision of Love finding shelter in a ruined Temple near Sleep. A light is emanating from Love’s heart as a symbol of the first symptom of his recovery. He is next seen upon a lowly throne, as Love in Oblivion, with a poppy branch (the emblem of sleep) mingled with the myrtle (the plant sacred to Venus) in his hand. It may be remarked that the mention of poppies pervades this portion of the narrative to a somewhat monotonous extent; but this is probably intended to convey the idea of the state of somnolence through which Love is passing.
A description of the passing away of Night and the coming of Dawn now follows, the symbolism of which is again admirable. The “shadows” (the visions of Love in distress) now commence to “flee away”, and at dawn the Narrator meets those whom he has known and loved, and upon whose faces the light of Love has rested. A certain delicacy is conferred upon this passage by the omission of all mention of the sex of these persons. The next vision shows Love rising from the waters, restored to his pristine youth and beauty, and with his myrtle crown blossoming with golden stars. The “many waters” have “not quenched love”. A very beautiful episode here occurs (which, by the way, is based upon a Talmudical idea) of the instantaneous begetting of Charity by the embrace of two six-winged seraphim. Charity (a theological virtue) being an emanation of Love, this episode is in keeping with the former manifestation.
The meaning of the episode next in order lies less upon the surface than that of the foregoing. It describes the appearance of a Being imbued with the essence of Love, from the ground touched by whose feet spring flowers, and who bears a rod which blossoms spontaneously, around which play flames that do not consume it. From this Being emanates an essence which prepares the Seer to receive the last and greatest Vision of the Very, or, Perfect Love, while he bears a Lamp to light them to Love’s Temple. A somewhat ingenious turn of expression is to be found in the query of the Soul; “Wouldst thou learn who is this thus leading us?” the word thus which seems rather out of place, resembling Ovos, the Greek equivalent for “ “. The remainder of the book is devoted to a very charming episodical narration of the Birth of Love, and to the description of the final and crowning manifestation of the Perfect, or, as the Author terms it – the Very Love, which is no less remarkable than the previous portion of the work.
The poem concludes thus:-
“Then all this wondrous vision was fulfilled, and looking upon the sky I saw the stars had set and the dawn had spread his wings over the world; and again the words of the sage King, “Until the day break and the shadows flee away, came into my mind”.
In the foregoing analysis we have merely given the outline of the chief incidents of the poem, and have conveyed but a very faint idea of the wealth of symbolism and metaphor which it contains. It is emphatically a work to be carefully and thoughtfully read; for it is clearly the product of a thoroughly original mind. The language is happily chosen, and exceedingly flowing, sustaining throughout the dreamy, languid character of the composition, although (perhaps with this intention) it appears occasionally to lack vigour.
One passage, however, strikes us as being unmusical. This occurs at page 8, in the description of Passion when, after using the past tense for ten lines, the author suddenly concludes in the future. Force is thus gained at the expense of continuity.
One of the most meritorious characteristics of the work is its perfect purity. There is not a sentence in it which could raise a blush to the cheek of the often quoted “young person”, for whose moral welfare reviewers are so solicitous. This is the more remarkable from the nature of the subject, which might naturally have been made the vehicle for much suggestive writing, especially as poetry of the new school is not as a rule, remarkable for its reticence.
It may further be pointed out, as a special feature of interest to the readers of this journal, that allusions to, and quotations from, our sacred writings are very frequent in this poem. It is quite refreshing, par le temps qui court, to peruse a new poetical work which is not thoroughly Pagan. Mr Solomon’s book is imbued throughout with the spirit of religious belief and reverence.
The author has given us a specimen of his art-work in the photograph from an original drawing which serves as a frontispiece, representing the Narrator and his Soul. The latter is pointing onward, and the former, bearing his pilgrim’s staff, is setting our upon the quest. While preserving a resemblance in the faces of both, the artist has cleverly managed to impress the spectator with the distinction between the human and supernatural beings. The model chosen is classical and of great beauty, and the drawing is masterly. The work, however, hardly shows to so much advantage in the photograph, as in the original drawing, which was exhibited not long since at the London Institution.
Some of our readers may probably remember having seen various incidents of the poem, portrayed by the hand of the author, in the Academy, the Dudley Gallery, and elsewhere. We would suggest to Mr Solomon that should he publish a new edition of this work, further photographs of these pictures would be acceptable not only as embellishments, but as illustrations of his meaning.
Artistic taste is shown even in the cover of the book, which is dark blue, adorned with two symbols; the one consisting of a starred myrtle and a sun – apparently intended to convey the idea of the blossoming of love and the fullness of the light of its Day; the other representing half closed poppies and a ring encircling stars; evidently meant to symbolise night and sleep. Both of the devices seem to be designed as illustrations of the motto which is printed between them. “Until the day break and shadows flee away”.
We have devoted more space to reviewing this work than its dimensions would seem to call for; but the publication by a coreligionist of a work of imagination of such high literary aim and merit is so rare an event, that it requires special attention at our hands. In conclusion, we trust that Mr Solomon will find frequent occasion for the exercise of the dual facility which he possesses of conveying to us his poetical thoughts clothed in colour as well as imaged in metaphor.
"The Royal Academy. The One Hundred and Fourth Exhibition [continued]." The Art-Journal, 1 July 1872: 184.
Mr. S. Solomon’s group, ‘Judith and her Attendant going to the Assyrian Camp’ (665), refers very distinctly to the situation proposed.
"The Dudley Gallery. Egyptian Hall." The Art-Journal, 1 December 1872: 309.
So entirely now does painting take its themes from domestic sources, that mythology, and even poetry, are but little referred to. There is, however, another mythological conceit, ‘Autumn Love’ (96), Simeon Solomon, but so enigmatical as to leave us in doubt as to its reading. The Cupid of the piece is not the chubby child commonly pictured by painters and sung by poets, but a well-grown youth passing through a thicket, subject to the inconveniences of a cold wind which whirls aloft the now sere and yellow leaves. It may, or may not, be the solution of life the riddle that love is cold in the autumn of life: under any circumstances the question is scarcely worth propounding as a riddle. ... On the two screens are some small pictures ... are a few paintings of merit, by ... Miss Solomon, ...
Temple, A. G. The Art of Painting in the Queen's Reign. London: Chapman & Hall, Ltd., 1897, 334-336.
Freer in his handling, and perhaps more intense in poetic feeling, but setting not so great a regard upon finish, is Simeon Solomon, from whose hand it is to be regretted so few examples comparatively have come. Between 1860 and [page 334] 1870 appears to have been the time his best work was produced. Mr. William Coltart has several, most of them of that period. "Love in Winter" (33 x 26), painted in Florence in 1866, gives the effect of the rude winds, whose chill breath scatters the dead leaves and roughly handles the crimson wings and raiment of the figure of Love as, forlorn of aspect, he passes on his way. This is in oil, but most of his work has been in water-colour. Unquestionably among the finest of these "A Greek High Priest" must be ranked (17 x 13), painted in Rome in 1867. It is a superb piece of water-colour art, strong and brilliant, the handsome bronzed face standing out from the rich vestments in its dark manly beauty, the tall candlesticks on the altar behind him serving well to relieve the shadowed background. "The Elevation of the Host," painted in 1870, shows a younger priest in white gold-embroidered robe. The painter's power of expression, weak as the drawing may sometimes be, is exceptional. In a small work entitled "He shall give His Angels charge over Thee" this power is particularly instanced. It was formerly in the collection of the late Mr. James Anderson Rose, and shows, in a room carpeted with dark green, an aureoled angel, with red wings and habited in green, receiving with infinite tenderness a frail white-robed figure that hurries in dire distress towards it. All the works that have been mentioned hitherto are in Mr. Coltart's collection. Mrs. Salaman, of Mill Hill, also has several, but none of them in very mature condition; and the late Mr. Craven, of Bakewell, had one of the best examples, "The Sleepers and the One that Waketh" (14 x 18), showing three almost [page 335] life-sized heads, but painted with much feeling, although the hands are a little wanting in their modelling. [page 336]
"Inquest." The Times, 18 August 1905: 9.
Mr. Walter Schroder held an inquest at St. Giles's Coroner's Court yesterday regarding the death of Simeon Solomon, aged 63, bachelor, an oil-painter, who was described as of the pre-Raphaelite school and at one time an associate of Rossetti and Burne-Jones. Solomon, according to his cousin, Mr. G. J. Nathan, of late years had led an intemperate and irregular life. The witness last saw him alive in May, when he gave him an outfit of clothes and money. He also gave him a commission for a drawing which was never executed. People highly placed in society would have liked him to paint pictures for them, but he could not be relied on to execute any commission. Other evidence showed that Solomon had been "off and on" an inmate of St. Giles's Workhouse during the past five years. On Wednesday, May 24 last, after the visit to his cousin, he was found lying on the footpath in Great Turnstile, High Holborn. He complained of illness and was conveyed to King's College Hospital, whence he was transferred to St. Giles's Workhouse. He was then suffering from bronchitis and alcoholism. He remained in the house, and on Monday morning last suddenly expired in the dining hall from, as Dr. A. C. Allen, the medical officer testified, heart failure consequent on aortic disease of that organ and other ailments. The jury returned a verdict accordingly. It was stated that a picture by the deceased recently sold at Christie's realised 250 guineas and that in former days several of his paintings were exhibited at the Royal Academy.
M., W. "Art Notes." The Illustrated London News, 26 August 1905: 312.
Mr. Simeon Solomon's death in St. Giles's Workhouse leads us to say that although his art was essentially uncommercial, it would have been well able to give the means of livelihood to the artist had he been of normal temperament and reasonable habits. But this great artist did not possess the art of living. For twenty years life had been a struggle, and it is even doubtful if the attempt at its alleviation by friends and admirers made it easier for Mr. Solomon to meet or to endure his doom. His work was charged with the suggestion of an overstrained emotional capacity; and certainly in life Simeon Solomon was without that comfortable insensitiveness which leads along the happy middle way. The tragedy is not exhausted in the language of the daily paper which sorrows over the fact that one who exhibited at the Royal Academy should die in a workhouse.
A friend of Burne-Jones and Rossetti, Simeon Solomon was watched by the interested eyes of many great men during the earlier days of his career and during the 'sixties. Lady Burne-Jones has recorded her husband's admiration for his work: "I remember his telling me before we were married about a book filled with Solomon's designs, which he said were as imaginative as anything he had ever seen--here was the rising genius--to which I listened with a jealous pang! This artist afterwards became a friend of mine, as well as Edward's, and the tragedy of his broken career is one before which I am dumb; but all the more do I cling to recollections of hope and promise, surely not false, though unfulfilled in this world." The sweetness and sanity that never fails the biographer of Burne-Jones is apparent in the little sentence which best suffices for his obituary record. (page 312, columns 1 and 2)
Will the day never dawn?
The dim stars weep
Great tears of silver on the pall of night;
And the sad moon, for weariness grown white,
Crawls like a mourner up the Eastern steep.
I strain my eyes for morning, while these sleep;
Dreaming of women, this one with the lips
Half-parted, haply,--that in the eclipse
Of a child-slumber, dreamless, folded deep,
Eyes seal'd as though a hand of sleep strew'd flowers
Upon their lids, and mouth a fresh-dew's rose,
Wet with the kisses of the night. The hours
Are very heavy on my soul, that knows
No rest: for pinions of the unseen powers
Winnow the wind in every breath that blows. II
Surely, a lance-point glitter'd in the west!
Some trumpet thunder'd out its voice of doom!
But no: my eyes are hazy with the gloom.
'Twas but the moon-rays glancing on the crest
Of the tall corn; some bittern from her nest
Roused by a snake: for, see, the twain sleep on,
And nothing stirs their slumber. Oh! for one
Sweet hour of falling through the deeps of rest
Within that lake of sleep, the dreamy shored!
One little hour of overlidded eyes
And folded palms! Ay me! the terror lies
Upon my soul; I may not loose my sword,
Lest I should wake beneath flame-girdled skies,
And tremble to the thunders of the Lord. III
The blackness teems the shapes of fearful things;
Weird faces glare at me from out the night,
And eyes that glitter with the lurid light
Of lust and all the horror that it brings.
The air is stressful with the pulse of wings;
And what time clouds obscure the constant star
That overlooks my vigil from afar,
Strange voices tempt me with dread whisperings:
Dank hands clasp mine; and breathings stir my hair
That are no mortal's wooing me to leap
Over the hill-crest, through the swarthy air,
Into the hollow night, and thence to reap
The wonder and the weirdness hidden there.
Ah God! the day comes not; and still these sleep!
"The Dudley Gallery. The Seventh Exhibition of Water-colour Drawings." The Art-Journal, 1 March 1871: 85.
Mr. Simeon Solomon is never so much at home as in the Dudley Gallery, and to our mind has seldom shown himself so well as on the present occasion. Once again his genius oscillates between mediaevalism and classicism. ‘The Mystery of Faith’ (89), pertains to the religion and the ritual of the Romish Church. A priest, robed richly, elevates the Eucharist; his eye fixed as in a trance, his countenance that of an ascetic, reveal a soul steadfastly set on “the mystery of faith” — the Real Presence. The execution is worthy of the conception; the artist has achieved a triumph. Scarcely less successful in the opposite direction of the classic, is ‘The Singing of Love’ (496). The figures here brought upon the scene are, Somnus, Memoria, Morpheus, Amor, Voluptas, Libido, and Mors; each personates some distinctive phase of love, divine or carnal. The forms are typical, they signify a noble godlike race of beings, somewhat akin to the purest types on Greek vases, and sometimes reminding the spectator of Miltonic conceptions of archangels ruined.
"The Royal Academy. The One Hundred and Third Exhibition. Second Notice." The Art-Journal, 1 July 1871: 177.
S. Solomon, after his usual impressive, spiritual, and mystic manner, gives another version (485) of the Jewish Rabbi who appeared in the Dudley.
"The Dudley Gallery. Fourth Winter Exhibition." The Art-Journal, 1 December 1871: 285.
When we see the names of G. F. Watts, G. D. Leslie, H. S. Marks, J. D. Watson, Arthur Hughes, G. Mason, H. Moore, Simeon Solomon, J. A. M. Whistler, Briton Riviere, and Val Prinsep, in the list of exhibitors, we may be sure there will be interesting, if not valuable material. ... Mr. Simeon Solomon takes not unfrequent delight in the gloom of dark interiors; but, like Rembrandt, he also delights in the contrasting glory of strongly lighted surfaces. ‘Carrying the Law in the Synagogue at Geneva’ is, except to Jews, an uninteresting, and, to all, an undramatic, subject; but nevertheless he has made it interesting and grateful by the full richness of colour given to this little cabinet-piece. The rendering of yellow surfaces worked over with gold thread is a favourite study with this artist, and one in which he excels. The glimpse of blue sky through the synagogue is a happy suggestion of freedom from this dim interior. Had Mr. Solomon named his ‘Marguerite’ (217) ‘A Reverie,’ we should have been better satisfied, but as the title stands we feel there is something lacking to complete our idea of Goethe’s Marguerite. Nevertheless, the modelling of the face is very beautiful, and the half-shut eye is tender and full of love.
"General Exhibition of Water-colour Drawings. Dudley Gallery." The Art-Journal, 1 March 1872: 74-75.
Works of an entirely different vein are those by S. Solomon, ‘One Dreaming by the Sea’ (73), ‘Evening’ (111), ‘Dawn’ (189), &c. The ideas are fanciful, and as such not always perspicuous. In the first named appears a youth seated on the sea-shore—nude and very like an academic study. We are to suppose him sleeping, but it is difficult to do so in the upright position he maintains. The third is a like impersonation, but the proposition is more definite, for the general aspect is that of morning twilight, and he is in the act of throwing off the mantle of night. It will be understood that these conceptions are rendered with a feeling more sculpturesque than pictorial, and where the argument is clear the narrative is charming. These, however, with other works to be mentioned, are not without the taint of what is known as “style,” a compromise between classic and ancient Florentine Art, in which we find that the yearning after exalted expression often leaves no expression at all. ... 'Until the Day break and the Shadows flee away’ (189), Simeon Solomon, is the text standing in the place of a title to a group of three heads, but the relation between the drawing and the text lies in the dim twilight of conjecture. If it point to the consummation of our present dispensation, the allusion is not sufficiently perspicuous.
Samuel, S. M. "Literature", The Jewish Chronicle, 14 April, 1871, 4-5.
Literature
A Vision of Love Revealed in Sleep. By Simeon Solomon. (F. S. Ellis, 33 King Street, Covent Garden).
We are so accustomed to consider it necessary to poetry that is should be written in some sort of measured form, that it is somewhat difficult for us to accept as a poem a composition which is without rhyme or metre. Instances are not very numerous of poems written in prose; and although the poetical compositions of the Hebrew Prophets, and the Psalms, would appear to the uninitiated to be non-metrical, yet Dr Hermann Adler has pointed out to us that their composition was guided by certain rhymical forms. That poetry is independent of such forms, is however, proved by the universal acceptance (to quote an instance) of the works of Ossian as poems.
Poetry, properly so called, is merely imaginative composition of the highest order – the adequate expression of those thoughts which lift us out of the every day world of work into a land of dreams and unreality. Coleridge tells us that “Poetry is the blossom and fragrance of all human knowledge, human thoughts, human passions, emotions.” Doubtless a mode of expression distinct from that which serves us for our every-day use, is more suitable for the exposition of such thoughts and hence rhythmical language is commonly associated with poetical ideas. But it should at the same time be remarked that verse and poetry are things independent of each other. For instance, the “Bab Ballads” of Mr Gilbert are quite perfect as regards rhyme and metre; but nobody would, on that account, dignify them with the title of poems. Granted, the, that excellent verse can be bad poetry, it may be allowed that good poetry can be written in prose. Mr Simeon Solomon’s new work although the author does not expressly claim for it poetical honours on the title page, may, therefore, be entitled a ‘prose poem’.
But while it is written throughout in prose, the language used in it is not by any means that of conventional life. It resembles in its clearness and admirable simplicity the style of the authorised Version of the bible, which has undoubtedly exercised an immense influence upon modern poetry. This influence is most strongly to be seen in the works of Mr Swinburne, and in a lesser degree in those of Mr D G Rossetti; while in fact the whole of the latest school of elevated poetical writing shows, more or less, traces of having been written under its inspiration. Whatever may the delicious quaintness of its verbiage, and, more than all, by our familiarity with it from our earliest childhood.
Both the plan and execution of Mr Solomon’s work are undoubtedly original, and in this respect he asserts the strongest right to the title of poet. Referring to the Greek derivation of the word, Dryden says: “A poet is a maker, as the word signifies; and he who cannot invent has his name for nothing.”
The appearance of a painter as a poet is by no means without precedent; for from Michael Angelo down to Mr Rossetti, numerous instances might be cited of this combination of two sister arts. That Mr Solomon possesses poetical feeling of a high order has frequently been observed by those who have seen his pictures; but, until now, he was not credited with the capacity of expressing that feeling by means of word-painting. There is always in his art-work a striving after some elevated ideal; and he never prostitutes his powers, as so many do, to the perfect delineation of pots and pans, picturesque poverty, and similar objects of domestic interest.
The present work is entitled “A Vision of Love Revealed in Sleep”, and is an account (with episodes) of a series of progressive manifestations of embodied love, seen through the medium of a trance. Like the “Banquet” of Plato, by which it has probably been inspired, it is devoted to the glorification of pure Love – Love unsensual, unselfish, and ethereal – Love – perfect, peaceful, and passionless.
Mr Solomon strikes his keynotes upon three quotations from the “Song” of his great namesake. These quotations are, however, taken bodily out of the text, and without the slightest consideration for their context. They are: “I sleep, but my heart waketh”; “Many waters cannot quench love”; and “Until the day break and the shadows flee away”. This last is chosen as the motto of the work.
The first of these quotations is, of course, intended to convey the idea of the narrator’s condition at the time of the coming of the Vision; for in sleep the spirit is said to separate itself from the body, and to be thus rendered more susceptible of spiritual influence. The second is apparently intended to express the deathlessness of Love; and the third evidently embodies the spirit of the whole work – the longing for the light of peace shed by Love upon the soul of man.
The narrative commences by relating how the Narrator’s soul appeared to him in the form of a youth, unclothed, save for a fillet binding his head and a narrow vestment on his left shoulder; and bearing in his right hand a branch of blossomless foliage. Assuring him of support during the trials which he will have to undergo, the Soul promises to show him various manifestations of Love progressing towards perfection. Leading him forth by the sands of a grey sea at ebb, he vouchsafes to him a vision of Memory and of Innocent Pleasures that is Past. Stimulated by the sight of the latter, they set forward with renewed ardour in quest of Love, whole they find hiding in the cleft of a rock, surrounded by mocking spirits, in one of whom the Narrator recognises his own image. Love is next seen in pitiable plight, bound and wounded by the hands of men who have sought to alay and confine him. But even his wound sheds sweetness; for the blood from his heart changes into roses of divinest odour as it falls. This very beautiful metaphor is borrowed from the writings of one of the later Latin poets. It is, unfortunately, conveyed in a language which is somewhat faulty in construction (probably the result of too hasty revision), which, however, can easily be modified in a future edition. From the lips of Love proceed the words “Thou hast wounded my heart” (rendered in the Authorised Version of the Song of Solomon as “Thou hast ravished my heart”); and these words become engraven upon the heart of the seer.
The next episode is a symbolical description of Passion, or Lust, with an account of how she sought to slay love, “but was in her turn grievously wounded and tormented in strange self-devised ways”. Love is then seen as one dead; but, of course, being deathless, is not really so. Concerning this, there is a passage which may fairly be regarded as the gem of the whole work. It is a description of an embodiment of Death, and is so strikingly beautiful that we cannot refrain from quoting it in extensor:
“I looked forward and I beheld, slowly revealing himself in the heart of the thick darkness, one seated upon a dim and awful throne; he was wrapt about with sighs for raiment, and cypress heavy with the tears of ages was the crown upon his head; although his face was hidden in his potent hands when first he was manifested to my sight, yet I knew he wept, and his weeping was as the gathered-up lamentations of all time; how sore it fell upon my heart I may not say; and a great pity was begotten within me, which went forth upon my spirit, towards his throne. Anon he lifted his face, and the sadness and mourning which go forth of the hearts of all men seemed transfigured upon it, and I saw that it was overshadowed with the dark mystery of life; it appeared to me as the face of one who dwells for ever without the Holy Place, upon whose brow the highest radiance may never fall. Then I thought upon the words my Soul had spoken to me, before we entered herein, when he told me how mild of aspect was the face I should look upon. For I saw that his mien has in it an exceeding gentleness, as of a creature that desires to caress and to be caressed, but who dares not approach, lest he bring terror with him – as of one who throughout all eternity bears upon him a loveless burden, whereof he may not rid himself; his was the pallor of one who had wrestled with another strong as himself, and had prevailed, but whose own dominion was as gall to him, the knowledge of whose hateful might gnawed his own humiliation, whose strength his weakness. For a moment’s space I could not look upon him, for the memories of his prowess crowded within my heart, and surged up in a bitter stream into my eyes. Then I sought the face of my soul, and I saw upon its darkness the answer to my unuttered question, and I knew that I stood in the presence of him who had done battle with Love – Death, who would love us did he dare, whom we would love did we dare; for, when he folds us about with the chill white raiment, he sets the seal of his love upon us; and, as the bridegroom and the bride stand linked together, overshadowed by the mystic saffron-coloured veil, and one spirit makes them one; so, at that hour when time slips from us, are we wedded to him before whom I stood, and with the sacrament of his kiss he signs us unto himself, and makes us of one flesh with him”.
The words “who would love us did he dare, whom we would love did we dare” appear to us thoroughly to express the longing which many feel for death, a feeling which is checked by the fear of what lies beyond the grave.
By the throne of Death stands Eternal silence – the embodiment of the knowledge of the Mystery of Eternity. This is also described with great power; and the reflections to which the sight of these Beings gives rise in the mind of the narrator bear evidences of deep thought on the part of the author.
Passing out of the Temple of Death the Angel of Divine Charity bearing in his arms his charge, Sleep, is next seen. After this Time appears, bearing Love from his apparent death-place, comforting him as he carries him along. The meaning of this episode is sufficiently obvious.
A beautiful description next occurs of the death of Day in all-embracing arms of Night, leading to a vision of Love finding shelter in a ruined Temple near Sleep. A light is emanating from Love’s heart as a symbol of the first symptom of his recovery. He is next seen upon a lowly throne, as Love in Oblivion, with a poppy branch (the emblem of sleep) mingled with the myrtle (the plant sacred to Venus) in his hand. It may be remarked that the mention of poppies pervades this portion of the narrative to a somewhat monotonous extent; but this is probably intended to convey the idea of the state of somnolence through which Love is passing.
A description of the passing away of Night and the coming of Dawn now follows, the symbolism of which is again admirable. The “shadows” (the visions of Love in distress) now commence to “flee away”, and at dawn the Narrator meets those whom he has known and loved, and upon whose faces the light of Love has rested. A certain delicacy is conferred upon this passage by the omission of all mention of the sex of these persons. The next vision shows Love rising from the waters, restored to his pristine youth and beauty, and with his myrtle crown blossoming with golden stars. The “many waters” have “not quenched love”. A very beautiful episode here occurs (which, by the way, is based upon a Talmudical idea) of the instantaneous begetting of Charity by the embrace of two six-winged seraphim. Charity (a theological virtue) being an emanation of Love, this episode is in keeping with the former manifestation.
The meaning of the episode next in order lies less upon the surface than that of the foregoing. It describes the appearance of a Being imbued with the essence of Love, from the ground touched by whose feet spring flowers, and who bears a rod which blossoms spontaneously, around which play flames that do not consume it. From this Being emanates an essence which prepares the Seer to receive the last and greatest Vision of the Very, or, Perfect Love, while he bears a Lamp to light them to Love’s Temple. A somewhat ingenious turn of expression is to be found in the query of the Soul; “Wouldst thou learn who is this thus leading us?” the word thus which seems rather out of place, resembling Ovos, the Greek equivalent for “ “. The remainder of the book is devoted to a very charming episodical narration of the Birth of Love, and to the description of the final and crowning manifestation of the Perfect, or, as the Author terms it – the Very Love, which is no less remarkable than the previous portion of the work.
The poem concludes thus:-
“Then all this wondrous vision was fulfilled, and looking upon the sky I saw the stars had set and the dawn had spread his wings over the world; and again the words of the sage King, “Until the day break and the shadows flee away, came into my mind”.
In the foregoing analysis we have merely given the outline of the chief incidents of the poem, and have conveyed but a very faint idea of the wealth of symbolism and metaphor which it contains. It is emphatically a work to be carefully and thoughtfully read; for it is clearly the product of a thoroughly original mind. The language is happily chosen, and exceedingly flowing, sustaining throughout the dreamy, languid character of the composition, although (perhaps with this intention) it appears occasionally to lack vigour.
One passage, however, strikes us as being unmusical. This occurs at page 8, in the description of Passion when, after using the past tense for ten lines, the author suddenly concludes in the future. Force is thus gained at the expense of continuity.
One of the most meritorious characteristics of the work is its perfect purity. There is not a sentence in it which could raise a blush to the cheek of the often quoted “young person”, for whose moral welfare reviewers are so solicitous. This is the more remarkable from the nature of the subject, which might naturally have been made the vehicle for much suggestive writing, especially as poetry of the new school is not as a rule, remarkable for its reticence.
It may further be pointed out, as a special feature of interest to the readers of this journal, that allusions to, and quotations from, our sacred writings are very frequent in this poem. It is quite refreshing, par le temps qui court, to peruse a new poetical work which is not thoroughly Pagan. Mr Solomon’s book is imbued throughout with the spirit of religious belief and reverence.
The author has given us a specimen of his art-work in the photograph from an original drawing which serves as a frontispiece, representing the Narrator and his Soul. The latter is pointing onward, and the former, bearing his pilgrim’s staff, is setting our upon the quest. While preserving a resemblance in the faces of both, the artist has cleverly managed to impress the spectator with the distinction between the human and supernatural beings. The model chosen is classical and of great beauty, and the drawing is masterly. The work, however, hardly shows to so much advantage in the photograph, as in the original drawing, which was exhibited not long since at the London Institution.
Some of our readers may probably remember having seen various incidents of the poem, portrayed by the hand of the author, in the Academy, the Dudley Gallery, and elsewhere. We would suggest to Mr Solomon that should he publish a new edition of this work, further photographs of these pictures would be acceptable not only as embellishments, but as illustrations of his meaning.
Artistic taste is shown even in the cover of the book, which is dark blue, adorned with two symbols; the one consisting of a starred myrtle and a sun – apparently intended to convey the idea of the blossoming of love and the fullness of the light of its Day; the other representing half closed poppies and a ring encircling stars; evidently meant to symbolise night and sleep. Both of the devices seem to be designed as illustrations of the motto which is printed between them. “Until the day break and shadows flee away”.
We have devoted more space to reviewing this work than its dimensions would seem to call for; but the publication by a coreligionist of a work of imagination of such high literary aim and merit is so rare an event, that it requires special attention at our hands. In conclusion, we trust that Mr Solomon will find frequent occasion for the exercise of the dual facility which he possesses of conveying to us his poetical thoughts clothed in colour as well as imaged in metaphor.
"The Royal Academy. The One Hundred and Fourth Exhibition [continued]." The Art-Journal, 1 July 1872: 184.
Mr. S. Solomon’s group, ‘Judith and her Attendant going to the Assyrian Camp’ (665), refers very distinctly to the situation proposed.
"The Dudley Gallery. Egyptian Hall." The Art-Journal, 1 December 1872: 309.
So entirely now does painting take its themes from domestic sources, that mythology, and even poetry, are but little referred to. There is, however, another mythological conceit, ‘Autumn Love’ (96), Simeon Solomon, but so enigmatical as to leave us in doubt as to its reading. The Cupid of the piece is not the chubby child commonly pictured by painters and sung by poets, but a well-grown youth passing through a thicket, subject to the inconveniences of a cold wind which whirls aloft the now sere and yellow leaves. It may, or may not, be the solution of life the riddle that love is cold in the autumn of life: under any circumstances the question is scarcely worth propounding as a riddle. ... On the two screens are some small pictures ... are a few paintings of merit, by ... Miss Solomon, ...
Temple, A. G. The Art of Painting in the Queen's Reign. London: Chapman & Hall, Ltd., 1897, 334-336.
Freer in his handling, and perhaps more intense in poetic feeling, but setting not so great a regard upon finish, is Simeon Solomon, from whose hand it is to be regretted so few examples comparatively have come. Between 1860 and [page 334] 1870 appears to have been the time his best work was produced. Mr. William Coltart has several, most of them of that period. "Love in Winter" (33 x 26), painted in Florence in 1866, gives the effect of the rude winds, whose chill breath scatters the dead leaves and roughly handles the crimson wings and raiment of the figure of Love as, forlorn of aspect, he passes on his way. This is in oil, but most of his work has been in water-colour. Unquestionably among the finest of these "A Greek High Priest" must be ranked (17 x 13), painted in Rome in 1867. It is a superb piece of water-colour art, strong and brilliant, the handsome bronzed face standing out from the rich vestments in its dark manly beauty, the tall candlesticks on the altar behind him serving well to relieve the shadowed background. "The Elevation of the Host," painted in 1870, shows a younger priest in white gold-embroidered robe. The painter's power of expression, weak as the drawing may sometimes be, is exceptional. In a small work entitled "He shall give His Angels charge over Thee" this power is particularly instanced. It was formerly in the collection of the late Mr. James Anderson Rose, and shows, in a room carpeted with dark green, an aureoled angel, with red wings and habited in green, receiving with infinite tenderness a frail white-robed figure that hurries in dire distress towards it. All the works that have been mentioned hitherto are in Mr. Coltart's collection. Mrs. Salaman, of Mill Hill, also has several, but none of them in very mature condition; and the late Mr. Craven, of Bakewell, had one of the best examples, "The Sleepers and the One that Waketh" (14 x 18), showing three almost [page 335] life-sized heads, but painted with much feeling, although the hands are a little wanting in their modelling. [page 336]
"Inquest." The Times, 18 August 1905: 9.
Mr. Walter Schroder held an inquest at St. Giles's Coroner's Court yesterday regarding the death of Simeon Solomon, aged 63, bachelor, an oil-painter, who was described as of the pre-Raphaelite school and at one time an associate of Rossetti and Burne-Jones. Solomon, according to his cousin, Mr. G. J. Nathan, of late years had led an intemperate and irregular life. The witness last saw him alive in May, when he gave him an outfit of clothes and money. He also gave him a commission for a drawing which was never executed. People highly placed in society would have liked him to paint pictures for them, but he could not be relied on to execute any commission. Other evidence showed that Solomon had been "off and on" an inmate of St. Giles's Workhouse during the past five years. On Wednesday, May 24 last, after the visit to his cousin, he was found lying on the footpath in Great Turnstile, High Holborn. He complained of illness and was conveyed to King's College Hospital, whence he was transferred to St. Giles's Workhouse. He was then suffering from bronchitis and alcoholism. He remained in the house, and on Monday morning last suddenly expired in the dining hall from, as Dr. A. C. Allen, the medical officer testified, heart failure consequent on aortic disease of that organ and other ailments. The jury returned a verdict accordingly. It was stated that a picture by the deceased recently sold at Christie's realised 250 guineas and that in former days several of his paintings were exhibited at the Royal Academy.
M., W. "Art Notes." The Illustrated London News, 26 August 1905: 312.
Mr. Simeon Solomon's death in St. Giles's Workhouse leads us to say that although his art was essentially uncommercial, it would have been well able to give the means of livelihood to the artist had he been of normal temperament and reasonable habits. But this great artist did not possess the art of living. For twenty years life had been a struggle, and it is even doubtful if the attempt at its alleviation by friends and admirers made it easier for Mr. Solomon to meet or to endure his doom. His work was charged with the suggestion of an overstrained emotional capacity; and certainly in life Simeon Solomon was without that comfortable insensitiveness which leads along the happy middle way. The tragedy is not exhausted in the language of the daily paper which sorrows over the fact that one who exhibited at the Royal Academy should die in a workhouse.
A friend of Burne-Jones and Rossetti, Simeon Solomon was watched by the interested eyes of many great men during the earlier days of his career and during the 'sixties. Lady Burne-Jones has recorded her husband's admiration for his work: "I remember his telling me before we were married about a book filled with Solomon's designs, which he said were as imaginative as anything he had ever seen--here was the rising genius--to which I listened with a jealous pang! This artist afterwards became a friend of mine, as well as Edward's, and the tragedy of his broken career is one before which I am dumb; but all the more do I cling to recollections of hope and promise, surely not false, though unfulfilled in this world." The sweetness and sanity that never fails the biographer of Burne-Jones is apparent in the little sentence which best suffices for his obituary record. (page 312, columns 1 and 2)