The Early Punch Parodies of Sherlock Holmes

by Bill Peschel

  The Great Boer War I

  ACD’s support of the Boer War, and the British army in particular, was steadfast. In October 1900, he published an interim history of the conflict that suggested reforming the army from the lessons he observed in South Africa.

  It is difficult to read straight on through The Great Boer War (Smith, Elder) by reason of the tears that dim the eyes as the sorrowful story is told. Conan Doyle made his reputation as a novelist. Stranger far than fiction is the tale he has to tell of the campaign in South Africa. No romancist, with fear of the critics before his eyes, would venture to narrate in succession how Methuen tried to cross the Moddor, how were fought the battles of Magersfontoin of Colenso, and of Spion Kop. The terribleness of the tale is added to by the dispassionate manner in which Mr. Doyle handles his facts, and the judicial style of his summing up of the evidence. The conclusion arrived at is put in a sentence. “The slogging valour of the private, the careless dash of the regimental officer, these were our military assets; seldom the care and foresight of our commanders.” In brief, the victories slowly won, at immense cost, in face of apparently insuperable difficulties were due to Tommy’s dogged valour. As Mr. Doyle more than once modestly reminds the reader, he is only a civilian. He has, nevertheless, thoroughly mastered the plan and the details of the campaign, and presents them in a shape that can be understanded of the people. His description of the various engagements are masterpieces of graphic writing. He brings into clearer light than my Baronite has found it set out elsewhere how dire was the peril to the Empire through the first three months of the struggle. The Boers, patiently preparing for the campaign for more than two years before the Ultimatum was flashed forth, were, on the 9th of October, in last year, armed and ready at all points. They found the mighty British Empire represented by 12,000 men, to begin with hopelessly split into two detachments. We at home laughed at Oom Paul’s blatant demand that British troops in South Africa should leave the country, and those at sea, bound for the Cape, should be turned back. But these simple farmer folk knew what they were about. Had they passed Ladysmith by on the other side, marching straight to Durban and Capetown there was nothing to stand in their way. They let the chance slip through their hands, and the British soldier, splendidly helped by the Colonials, delivered the Empire from the pit dug for it by fatuous administration at home. As Mr. Conan Doyle truly says, “if we have something to deplore in this war, we have much, also, to be thankful for.” At best, it is a melancholy story of dauntless courage and demented direction.

  1901

  ‘No P’Lice Like Holmes!’

  For nearly two years, “Sherlock Holmes” had been playing to packed houses in the U.S., with William Gillette in the title role. The arrival in London of the U.S. production brought this unqualified rave.

  Sherlock Holmes, by Conan Doyle and William Gillette, as now being played at the Lyceum, is a first-rate melodrama. I make this reservation of “as now being played,” because it is possible to conceive that it might not have achieved so immediate and so great success had it been in less able hands than those of Mr. William Gillette, representing that master of logical deduction, the cool amateur detective Sherlock Holmes, and in those of Mr. W. L. Abingdon as Sherlock’s deadly enemy, the creepy-crawly spider-like king of criminals, Professor Moriarty. Not less excellent are Mr. Ralph Delmore, as the burly scoundrel James Larrabee, and Miss Granville in the most difficult part of the female villain, Madge Larrabee, while Miss Maude Fealy awakens our sympathy for the mildly vindictive, but much suffering and interesting heroine, Alice Faulkner. Nor from the cast must be omitted the light comedy scoundrel, Sidney Prince, as represented by Mr. Fuller Mellish, nor Master Henry McArdle’s Billy, whose racy, uncontrollable laughter, inspired by Mr. Gillette’s quiet chuckle, brings down the curtain on the final tableau of the second act to uproarious applause. But for the matter of that, every “curtain” is thus greeted, though the situation at the end of the third act, being the greatest surprise of all, is the one that “brings the house down,” and the house doesn’t recover its equanimity until “all concerned” have reappeared, grouped on the scene of Sherlock Holmes’ triumph, to receive so hearty and spontaneous a tribute of applause as the oldest playgoer with the best memory would find it difficult to parallel. It is a drama in which the lights and shades, not being confined to the situations and the dialogue (throughout good and individually characteristic), become, as it were, part and parcel (if such impalpable creations as light and shade can become, “parts and parcels”—but that’s another story) of the auditorium, where at one moment the audience is in a blaze of light, while the band, under the skilful direction of Mr. Raymond Roze, keeps everybody merry with appropriately brilliant music, till suddenly, at a signal for the curtain rising, all are in darkness! Gradually the stage-lights dawn upon the house, when “action” commences. The audience being for the greater part of the evening in the dark, few of them would come away with a clear and defined notion of the plot were it not for the “brief synopsis of the first act” given on the third page of the programme by a kindly and considerate management. Otherwise, many would be like “little Peterkin,” in the poem, whose inquiries as to what the Battle of Blenheim was all about the veteran Casper was unable to completely satisfy. To adapt his reply to the occasion:

  “Why, that I cannot tell, quoth he,

  But ‘twas a famous mystery!”

  And that’s just it. The action carries it triumphantly; it is a game of hunt the slipper in the shape of a packet of compromising letters inexpressibly valuable to “a very exalted foreign personage”—whose name is never even breathed, and who remains invisible and unmentionable to ears polite from the rise to the fall of the curtain. Personally, I should have liked Messrs. Doyle and Gillett to have given us a fifth act, and to have shown, on the glaciers of the Alps, or in any other equally mysterious locality, the realisation of Professor Moriarty’s prophetic threat of vengeance; only, of course, such a catastrophe is bound to happen during Sherlock’s happy honeymoon with “sweet Alice,” and the bride’s sudden unexpected appearance on the scene would have saved her husband just at the critical moment when it had become a question as to whether Sherlock, or his old enemy Moriarty, should go over the precipice. “Ce que la femme vent”—and over would have rolled Moriarty, smash, crash, bang! while the ever-faithful “Do-you-follow-me” would have been seen climbing up with the guides as his friend Sherlock would once more have fervently embraced his wife in the gradually expiring lime-light, and the house would have risen, for the last time that evening, to enthusiastically applaud a grand and thrilling climax.

  But perhaps, Sherlock’s adventures being endless, another drama may be up the collaborateurs’ sleeves, with this fifth act as a finish. It is a good suggestion, as it brings in not only the principals up to the very latest moment of interest, but it satisfies the audience by showing that latest edition of “Charles, his Friend,” in the person of “Dr. Do-you-follow-me-Watson,” alive and well, to whom, as the confidant of the great Sherlock, the audience primarily owe a deep debt of gratitude, since, without “Do-you-follow-me-Watson,” cleverly played by Mr. Percy Lyndal, what would anyone have known of Sherlock Holmes? For how long Mr. Gillette may be in possession of the Lyceum is uncertain, but this piece has certainly come to stay, and at this house our American artistic cousins have made their Holmes.

  Sherlock Holmes Adapted.—No. 1

  A highlight of the “Sherlock Holmes” play comes in the second act, when Moriarty barges into Baker Street for a confrontation with Holmes. As the Second Boer War raged in South Africa, artist E.T. Reed recast the scene, with Paul Kruger (1825-1904), president of the South African Republic, playing the professor and Prime Minister Joseph Chamberlain (1836-1914) playing Holmes.

  SHERLOCK HOLMES ADAPTED.-No. 1.

  1899. – Professor Moriarty Kruger has a little interview with Joseph Sherlock Holmes.

  1902

  Our Holmes

  “Sherlock Hol
mes” had been running for nearly five months at the Lyceum Theatre when Punch published this review that asks some interesting questions about the characters.

  “Hence! to your ‘Holmes’ be gone!”—Coriolanus, Act 2. Sc. 1.

  As a somewhat blasé play-goer I may say it is very rare that the desire to see a piece twice is so strong within me as to be quenchable only by yielding to it, and by taking others to share my pleasure. Then there is a certain feeling of nervousness lest the great actor should be unequal and not up either to his own standard or to my report of him.

  But such qualms as these need not trouble anyone who, having once seen William Gillette as Sherlock Holmes in the capital melodrama of that name, now in the course of an immensely and deservedly successful run at the Lyceum, wishes to renew his acquaintance with the performance, freshen up his experience, and enjoy the genuine delight and excitement of his friends.

  Mr. William Gillette’s impersonation of Sherlock Holmes is simply perfect: not a flaw can be detected in this highly-finished work. The scene in the “Stepney gas cellar” is as exciting as ever, and to those who argue that the three hired cut-throats would not have hesitated, but would have “rushed” Sherlock and settled him in less than five minutes, we would be inclined to quote the instances of the paid professional “murderers” in Shakespeare’s plays, among whom there is generally one with a tender conscience and, like Macbeth himself, “infirm of purpose,” especially when confronted with a man whom each cut-throat personally regards with a kind of superstitious awe. Mr. W. L. Abingdon’s Professor Moriarty is a terribly haunting personality, and a better contrast to both Mr. Gillette’s Holmes and Mr. Abingdon’s Moriarty than burly Mr. Ralph Delmore’s savage scoundrel, James Larrabee, it would be difficult to imagine. As Sidney Prince, Harry Paulton, Jun., does credit to his name. Miss Charlotte Granville, as Madge, the handsome professional female partner in crime of James Larrabee, is another admirable performance; and Miss Claire Pauncefort, looking as though one powerful grasp from James Larrabee’s hand on her delicate throat would settle her for ever, still enlists everybody’s sympathy, in spite of her harbouring a very unchristian sprit of revenge, which indeed is the chief cause of most of her suffering. That Sherlock Holmes, played as it is, should keep the boards for another year would be no matter to surprise us—only, when Sir Henry returns from his present unprecedentedly successful tour, what is to become of the Gillette Co. that at present “holds the fort”?

  A curious question. “Why does Dr. A. Conan Doyle bestow Irish names on the murderous villains in this piece? First there is “Professor Moriarty,” who is the very king of scoundrels. “Larrabee” sounds Irish and Mr. Ralph Delmore’s pronunciation is surely Hibernian. The names of the three hired assassins “Craigin, Leary and McTeague,” are without doubt Irish, though the “Mc” smacks of Scotch. Of course, Dr. A. Conan Doyle is himself an Irishman, and there is the ancient proverb that “when an Irishman has to be roasted, another Irishman will always be found to turn the spit.” The proof of the proverb is in this play; but let us hope it was a mere accident.

  In these days, when burlesque is not regarded favourably, although not altogether considered as a lost art, a signal tribute to the exceptional success of Sherlock Holmes is the fairly successful attempt made at travestying it at Terry’s Theatre. One of its authors is Mr. Watson, whom his collaborateur, Mr. La Serre, must often have asked, “Do you follow me, Watson?” Miss Lee’s caricature of the style and make-up of the Lyceum heroine is very good, and the same may be said of Mr. Clarence Blakiston who cleverly reproduces some of the mannerisms of Mr. Gillette as the great detective, but who fails in the facial make-up, which is just à peu près. Nothing could be better than the caricature of Forman by Mr. Egerton Hubbard; and Mr. J. Willes, representing the Lyceum Professor Moriarty, plays the part with such real burlesque humour as to atone for the dissimilarity in appearance between him and Mr. Abingdon. The slamming of the doors, the banging on the floor, the rattling noises “heard without,” the perpetual pistols of the original, are turned to good account, while very little is made out of the incident of “following the cigar.” Indeed, several evident points have been lost by these burlesque-writers. With the aid of so clever a musical director as Mr. Buccalossi the authors ought to have introduced some real good “numbers” and eccentric dances, without which, coming in as surprises, it is very difficult for any burlesque to achieve genuine success. What a hit might have been made by Sherlock Holmes revealing his knowledge of the principal villain’s real character in a song commencing “I’ll sing thee songs of Larrabee!” The burlesque is good as far as it goes, but it does not go far enough.

  The Hound of the Baskervilles

  Eight years after leaving Holmes at the bottom of Reichenbach Falls, ACD bowed to public pressure and published “The Hound of the Baskervilles.” Holmes is still dead—“Baskervilles” is set before “The Final Problem”—but both fans and Punch were elated to see him back.

  In The Hound of the Baskervilles (George Newnes) Mr. Conan Doyle revives in modern fashion the touch of a vanished hand, the scratching of a pen that has long been still. Consciously or unconsciously, probably the latter, he produces for us effects analogous to those achieved by Mrs. Radcliffe. He wields the spell of her weird imagination, and, with the assistance of a modern detective, everything is in due time unraveled and the supernatural becomes the commonplace. As in the Mysteries of Udolpho, in The Hound of the Baskervilles the candle goes out at the critical moment. Trust Sherlock Holmes for carrying about with him a supply of matches that will strike on the box or anywhere else. The highest compliment my Baronite can pay the romancer is to admit that the chapter of explanation is the most disappointing in the book. The trail is so cleverly laid, incident so generously supplied, and the thing kept going at such breathless pace, that when the enchanted reader is, as necessarily he must be, dumped down on the common asphalted unsympathetic earth, a feeling of dissatisfaction steals o’er the mind. With my Baronite it takes the definite form of strongly objecting to the phosphorus. It is a cheap device unworthy the art of the creator of Sherlock Holmes. But that is a detail. The story is a masterpiece of ingenuity, its narration a model of graphic power.

  The Great Boer War II

  Feeling that Britain’s side of the story wasn’t being told, ACD took a week in January 1902 to write “The War in South Africa: Its Causes and Conduct,” and with the help of influential friends, including a secret donation from King Edward VII, managed to get millions of copies distributed worldwide. Although his suggestions were resisted by the establishment, it led to his knighthood in October. Meanwhile, with the war over, he completed the final volume of “The Great Boer War.”

  The war being now really over, Sir Arthur (why not Sir Conan?) Doyle has wound up his story of its progress. Messrs. Smith, Elder publish it with elucidation of an excellent map, and the assistance of a carefully compiled index. My Baronite has on earlier editions written of the special features of this masterpiece of vivid, condensed, yet comprehensive narrative, which need not shrink from comparison with Kinglake’s laborious and massive masterpiece. He notes, in proof of the completeness of the final chapters, that the chronicler records one of the finest—if one of the saddest—episodes of the war, when the son of the chairman of the P. & O., young Sutherland, fresh from Eton, still blushing with pride over his commission to a lieutenancy in the Scaforths, separated from his men and his horse, scorning to surrender, fought his way on foot a mile along the veld before he was shot down by the encircling and admiring Boers. Sir Arthur does not add the pathetic incident that the news reached the young hero’s mother on the very day the bells in London were clanging the joyful news of peace.

  1903

  Authors at Bow Street

  C.L. Graves and E.V. Lucas

  This is an example of a typical Punch article. It sets up the premise in the first paragraph, then creates a string of jokes by running several high-profile people through it. Joining ACD i
n the “dock” were Stephen Phillips (1864-1915), the popular poet and dramatist, and Archibald Philip Primrose (1847-1929), a former prime minister and 6th Earl of Rosebery.

  When he wasn’t writing for Punch, humorist Edward Verrall Lucas (1868-1938) specialized in everything: writing essays, plays, biographies, short stories and novels. He also was a longtime reader for the book publisher Methuen and Co., becoming its chairman in 1924. Charles Larcum Graves (1856-1944) was another prolific writer for Punch. Among his works are “The War of the Wenuses” (1898), a parody of H.G. Wells’ “War of the Worlds” with Lucas, “Mr. Punch’s History of the Great War” (1919), and the four-volume “Mr. Punch’s History of Modern England” (1921).

  The first sitting of the newly constituted Literary Bench was held on February 29, 1902. The Court was crowded. The Magistrates present were Mr. Watts-Dunton, J.P., Mr. Edmund Gosse, J.P., and Dr. Robertson Nicoll, J.P. Mr. C. K. Shorter acted as Magistrate’s Clerk. The principal cases are reported below:—

  Arthur Conan Doyle, 42, surgeon, and William Gillette, 44, actor, two able-bodied men, were flung into the dock charged with the exhumation of Sherlock Holmes for purposes of gain.

  Mr. James Welch, K.C., prosecuting for the Crown, said that not since the days of Burke and Hare had so flagrant a case been heard of. Long after the death of Mr. Holmes, who had been in his day a detective of some skill, though not attached to Scotland Yard (sensation), the prisoners had exhumed him, and were charging, at the Lyceum Theatre, considerable sums to persons who wished to view the body. Sir George Newnes, proprietor of the Strand Magazine, gave evidence of Sherlock Holmes’s death.