Having been asked to write an Introduction to [The Pantomime Man], by the poet Richard Middleton, I hope I may be excused for informing, or reminding, my readers that, as Editor of The Academy in 1907, I was the first to give him recognition. I have been casting back in my mind for recollections of the man himself which, slight as they are, may have that interest which attaches to personal reminiscences of a dead poet.

Shortly after I became Editor of The Academy I was invited by a literary society called the "New Bohemians" to attend one of their dinners. I had never heard of the "New Bohemians," but I was young enough in those days to be gratified by the attention, and I attended their dinner, where I met for the first time, among a lot of charming and talented people, Arthur Machen and Richard Middleton, both of whom became contributors to The Academy.

Middleton must have been about twenty-four then, and in spite of his black beard, he produced the effect of boyishness and, whenever I saw him at any rate, of exuberant spirits. His moods of deep depression, so often revealed in this book, were never exhibited on the few occasions when we met. He was a witty and whimsical talker and he diffused an atmosphere of gaiety and laughter.

I liked him at once, and I am proud of the fact that The Academy accepted for publication several poems and stories by him, among them "A Poet's Holiday".

I take this opportunity of putting on record the fact that Richard Middleton was writing for me long before Frank Harris ever saw him. I mention this because Harris, who always helped himself with both hands to anything he could get hold of, either in the way of cash, credit or ideas, was given to boasting in later years that he had "discovered Richard Middleton"; as a matter of fact it was I that sent him to Harris, who gave him work on Vanity Fair.

Among the writers whom I met at "The New Bohemians" was the late Randal Charlton, a charming fellow, who also wrote for me on The Academy. Charlton did not like Middleton, and there was a sort of feud between them which broke out whenever they met. They were always girding at each other.

One day in the office of The Academy (round about 1909) Charlton said something deprecatory to me about Middleton, and I said, "You ought not to speak like that about him, because in the first place he is a poet, and in the second place he will not live much longer." Charlton was naturally much surprised at this dark saying, and asked me to explain what I meant by asserting that Middleton would not live much longer. I replied that I could not explain it, but that I knew it was true. I added, "He will be dead in two or three years."

I am utterly unable to account for this strange prescience on my part. Having made the remark, I forgot all about it; and if Charlton had not reminded me of it just after Middleton committed suicide, it would have entirely passed out of my mind. I saw no more of Middleton after the first year of our acquaintance. I ceased to be Editor of The Academy in 1910, and the last time I saw Middleton must have been about the end of 1908.

Although the present collection does not comprise any poetry, we must not forget that Middleton was, essentially and first of all, a poet; and it can, I maintain, be proved "out of the book" that all good poets also write good prose.

As a poet he belonged to the "traditional school" which, in my humble opinion, is the only school of poetry which either attracts or produces real poets. Middleton knew, and never forgot, that the art of poetry consists (as in all the arts) of putting ideas into form. The stricter and more difficult the form, the more sublime will be the result, provided always that an effect of ease and spontaneity is achieved. The finest poetry appears to be easy and inevitable, but this appearance of ease and inevitableness is the result of great art. It moves gracefully and beautifully, without apparent effort, in the strictest forms, and, though bound, it produces the illusion of perfect freedom.

Listen to this:

If when the brown earth covers
The bones of happy lovers,
The tired body's ending
Proves but the soul's amending,
They have but little faith
Who are afraid of Death.

For all that we inherit
Is love; and if our spirit,
Glad from the grave and stronger,
Clings to our dust no longer,
We shall not grieve who treasure
Love, beyond human measure.

Though now we may not vanquish
The joys the dead relinquish,
And passion troubles ever
Our unachieved endeavour,
Sweet! be it ours to cherish
The love that shall not perish.

There is a tremendous lot of art in this little lyric. In fact, in my opinion, it is well-nigh perfect. Even the weak rhymes, "faith" "death," "inherit" "spirit," "vanquish" "relinquish," are scarcely to be counted as blemishes. They are, I believe, deliberate ornaments of art. The poem might have been written by Swinburne at his best. Its apparent simplicity covers the skill of a master.

That anyone who could write so exquisitely (and Middleton wrote a lot of stuff on this level) should have been driven by sheer starvation and neglect to kill himself, as Middleton did, is no credit to the country of his birth.

From the beginning when was aught but stones
For English prophets? …

There is a curious mixture of the commonplace and the fantastic in some of Middleton's prose as distinct from his poetry. As one reads his laborious chroniclings in his "Journal" of everyday facts, one is occasionally inclined to wonder why he took the trouble to note all this down; but from time to time comes a flash of imagination or vision which justifies his method even in his less attractive work. At his best, as in "The Boy Errant" he produces a sense of fatality and poignancy. He seems to see something beyond the crude facts of life; and his art is to convey the sense of this vision to his readers. There is a phrase in "The Pantomime Man" which seems to me to throw a light on Middleton and to illustrate his quality as an artist. He says, "It was natural that two adults, marooned in a turbulent sea of children, should exchange confidences and criticisms." The words I have italicised are not only a brilliant example of "style," but they reveal something of Middleton's psychology. For Middleton was preoccupied with children, and he suffered that nostalgia of lost childhood which is shared by many poets who, at the back of their hearts, regret the fact that, against their will, they are obliged to "grow up."

This feeling has nothing in common with the arch sentimentalities of "Peter Pan." It is, on the contrary, a sad and wistful feeling. It reaches back on the one hand to the vanished kingdom of childhood, and on the other hand it makes a fierce spiritual effort towards another world "beyond the stars" where childhood may perhaps be recaptured. It is this spiritual effort which informs the art of Richard Middleton and lends magic to his written words.