THE TRAGEDY OF RICHARD MIDDLETON.

Otago Daily Times, Issue 18898, 26 June 1923, Page 9

THE TRAGEDY OF RICHARD MIDDLETON.

By A. H. Bremner The more I read of the poetry of Richard. Middleton, the more I fail to understand his neglect at the hands of lovers of verse. 'This neglect is probably the result of that inclination, common to most of us, to ba content with writers of old and established repute, and to view with suspicion the work of a contemporary, then, again. Middleton’s output was small, and was not, like that of some writers of lesser merit, thrust ■before the notice of the reading publio merely by its bulk. Never otherwise than tardily has genius been recognised, and in no case has this been more so than in Richard Middleton’s.: Any departure from the stereotyped style in art, whether it be in literature or in any other branch, is always viewed with suspicion and distrust. We are an oldfashioned lot of mortals, and neither invite nor relish too prominent or daring an originality. And that Middleton’s verse had that is exemplified by the objections of (he old school. No lack of merit was it that caused his work to be rejected by the publications, but a dread as to bow the, public would accept him. It was a venture that only a daring and fearless editor would undertake. And in Frank Harris that individual was found. that time Harris was editor of Vanity Fair, and in the columns of that paper appeared much of Middleton’s verse. Other papers with which Harris had considerable influence, notably the Academy and the Jinglish Review, also accepted several of his poems. His whole output was small, consisting of some five volumes, three of prose and two of verse. Harris, writing of the first book of verse, says; “The unique distinction of this book of Middleton’s is that there 13 n °t a bad, hardly a weak poem in the whole volume.” And all this may be; just as truthfully said of the second book' of poems and songs. The author complained, rather bitterly, that there was no “demand** for verse, which he would rather write than prose, but was forced to turn to the latter,' on account of itg more ready sale. In ail his poems Middleton was invariably a singer, now gushing with joy in soma subume paean, now weeping with infinite pathos. Taken all round, his song was more frequently a dirge than a carol, and Gerald Cumberland wrote of John Masefield is equally true of Middleton. “(I think he is a poet who cannot refrain, from excerhatmg hi a own soul, who must at all costs place his mind in danger and escape bmy at the last moment.” Frequently, he mentioned death familiarly, as though it held some strange fascination for him—referred to it as the end of all things—a resting place from the disap. pointments of life; a haven whose door could at any moment be opened by the key of suicide.

Come, Death, and free me from these earthly That heaven may hold our Anal festivals The white stars trembling under. ; I am too small to keep this passionate wonder Within my human frame: I would be dead That God may be our bed. And again, ; Sing on, oh birds, and thou, oh moon,, Bewitch _ my woods to greet my queen. Death waits upon my life, and soon I shall ie but by having been.

The idea of self-destruction seeing to have been never very far remote from the mind of the p'oet, and viewed in the _ light of subsequent events, much of his vers© seems strangely and sadly prophetic. Harris mentions that he had already made an attempt on his life;; that his conversation often lay in that 1 direotion. But when he spoke thus, his friend had never taken him seriously, for' the matter had always been referred to in V light-hearted manner, which would almost give denial to any serious intentions Under* lying the threat. In almost all his love poems there is strange sadness, and the deeper the passion, the deeper the sorrow. It is doubtful, indeed, if any of his poems is free entirely from this persistent melancholy. No matter what the theme, the sombre tone creeps in. For instance, in on© of his most passionate love songs In desert' nights and leafy forest days I have .‘’iscororel yon. and where the lips Of drowned Bailors eings faint roundelays Along the deck? of overwhelmed ships Your name is sung, and echoing overhead The sea-birds cry it to the patient deeds And this dirge:— Under the arch of summer Hie te reat black ship* go by: The sun is like a bead of blood Upon the wounded sky, The girls are dancing, dancing, And night foils terderly. Would I were on a pr*at ship With the wind upon my face, And the water’s music in my cart, And the rigging’s song of grace,, Woud I wore on a great ship Bound to a new place. Where trees are and flowers are And breakers on the shore, Where a child might And all the dreams That he had known before. Where I should bo at peace at last And the girls would dance no more* Under the arch of summer The great black ships go by. There is a madness in the wind, A woudor in tin* sky And the girls are dancing, dancing— So peace, no peace have I. I" over y "ay there was a bigness about Middleton that thrilled and compelled admiration; a bigness and a complete indifference to conventionality that could not but clash with the narrow-minded, oonyen-tion-bound civilisation against which hi* pagan spirit revolted. Towards the, close of liis short life, he realised the uselessness of such rebellion, and become somewhat reconciled, at least outwardly, and might, have been able ere long, as his friend Henry Savage suggests, to have “suffered fools gladly. Still, ever in his verse sings the spirit of the rebel. And at the age of twenty-nine, just as he reached his prime, unable longer to suffer the neglect and Jack of appreciation which he knew his work merited, he put an end to it all. In a dingy bedroom m Brussels, with the aid of a bottle, of chloroform, he went out into the Unknown which had always such a fascination for him. So here’s an end, I ask forgetfulness ‘ • how that my little store of hours is spent. And heart to laugh upon my punishment— Dear God, what means a poet inore or less? Readers in England were shocked ai' the news. And with its insatiable appetite for morbid detail freshly whetted, the publio with the grappling-irons of its curiosity dragged hither and thither for the why and wherefore of the act. And what did it find? Only this, that Middleton had wearied of waiting for the recognition of is genius, and flung the taunt of their ignorance in their faces.