The Early Punch Parodies of Sherlock Holmes

by Bill Peschel

  There, Mr. Punch you have the French “Sherlock” on the stage. A wonderful man, is he not? Yours, as always, A Vagrant.

  Crime Briefs

  Newspapers and magazines have to fill the space on every page; a difficult task in the days of hand-set type. So editors would make sure material was always at hand to throw in at the bottom of a column that came up short.

  The two examples below, published in November, comment on the latest news and throw in lyrics by C.H.E. Brookfield (1857-1913) from “Under the Clock,” the first stage parody of Holmes. The first item refers to a gemstone dealer named Spyzer, who had been beaten, chloroformed and robbed of £20,000 in diamonds. The criminals were never caught. The “darksome murders” and East End horrors refer to the Jack the Ripper case (the final victim, Mary Kelly, was murdered eight days before this brief appeared). The Mayfair bomb refers to the Nov. 4 attack that damaged the front of the Tilney Street home belonging to Viscount Esher, a politician with close ties to the royal family. No arrests were made, but it was suspected that anarchists mistook the home for that owned by Sir Henry Hawkins, a judge who presided over several anarchist trials and who lived a few doors down.

  “Where is He?”—With diamond robberies and darksome murders, of which the perpetrators are still at large, we are all crying out for a real genuine “Sherlock Holmes.” We, Watsons, are waiting for him to step forward and drag various dark mysteries into the light of day. Cheerfully shall the coming Holmes be saluted with Mr. Brookfield’s refrain, “O Sherlock, you wonderful man!”

  On the List.—Without going back to the still undiscovered horrors in the East End, we have sufficient material in the two diamond robberies in the Holborn district and a bomb in Mayfair to warrant us in asking where is that much-wanted Sherlock Holmes?

  “Holmes, Holmes, Holmes, Sweet Holmes,

  Wherever we wonder is one chap like Holmes!”

  1895

  A Wellington (Street) Memorial

  One of ACD’s successes on the stage was “A Story of Waterloo.” The 54-year-old Henry Irving, the dominant actor of his time, played Corporal Gregory Brewster, the last survivor of his regiment, recalling his role in the battle to a visitor. The one-act play at the Lyceum Theater on Wellington Street was an extended death scene, and by the time Brewster shouted “The Guards need powder! The Guards need powder, and, by God, they shall have it!” before expiring, there wasn’t a dry eye in the house.

  Except, that is, for George Bernard Shaw. The critic for The Saturday Review called Irving’s acting “cheap and simple mimicry” and “the entire effect is contrived by the author, and is due to him alone.” Punch’s praise below would be followed weeks later by a knighthood for Irving.

  A WELLINGTON (STREET) MEMORIAL.

  General Opinion (Mr. Punch) presents the Medal of the Highest Order of Histronic Merit to Henry Irving in recognition of distinguished service as Corporal Gregory Brewster in the action of Conan Doyle’s “Story of Waterloo.”

  1897

  Our Colonial ‘Comrades’ at the Lyceum

  As part of the Jubilee year celebrations marking Queen Victoria’s 50th year on the throne, Henry Irving performed ACD’s “A Story of Waterloo” before Colonial troops in London. Punch praised the evening with a poem. Joseph Chamberlain (1836-1914) attended the performance as Secretary of State for the Colonies.

  [At the special invitation of Sir Henry Irving, the Colonial troops in London for the Jubilee attended a performance of The Bells and A Story of Waterloo at the Lyceum on June 26.]

  Well changed, Sir Henry! “Comrades” was the word.

  “Ladies and gentlemen” seemed too punctilious.

  Few things more striking have been seen or heard

  In all this jocund time of joy Jubilious,

  Than Corporal Brewster, drawn by Conan Doyle,

  And played by Henry Irving to “Our Boys”

  From over-sea. What charm it lends to toil

  When such an audience admires, enjoys

  A Story of Waterloo, told to a crowd

  Of such Colonial “Comrades,” was a thing

  To hear, see, and remember. Did one proud

  To mark those stalwart fellows rise and sing

  God save the Queen, together! Chamberlain

  Doubtless enjoyed his portion of the cheering,

  As did the moving actor. Scarce again

  To such a “house” will either be appearing.

  A grand occasion, met in style deserving

  Of Art, such “Comrades,” and Sir Henry Irving!

  The Sign of Faure

  The shifts and intrigues in European politics made for an exciting and sometimes frightening spectator sport before World War I. In this item, Punch plays off the name of French President Felix Faure (1841-1899), who had released anarchists from exile under a general amnesty and recently concluded a pact with Tsarist Russia to counter Germany’s alliance with Austria-Hungary and Italy. Faure is more notorious for dying in office during a tryst with his mistress.

  With Apologies to Mr. Conan Doyle.—The G-rm-n Emp-r-r’s latest romance is said to be a startling Nihilist romance entitled “The Sign of Faure.” Orders from Siberia are rushing to Berlin. The Retreat from Moscow is treated with considerable humour, and the Fall of Sevastopol is described as an interesting episode leading up to the liberation of the Sultan of Turkey from the pressure of the Powers and the installation of Count Tolstoi as First President of the Muscovite Republic. But we have no Imperial authorization for making this statement, either from the Neva or the Spree.

  Letters to the Celebrated: No. III—To Mr. A. Conan Doyle

  “The Vagrant”

  Punch did not always poke. Sometimes, it praised. Such was this letter, part of a series that reinforced the culture’s values and verities.

  My dear Sir,—Your modesty will perhaps pardon me if I begin by stating that I consider it a privilege to write to you. We both follow the profession of literature, both of us know what it is not to spare the peritura chart, both understand by what hieroglyphic marks the mistakes in proof-sheets may be corrected, and both of us, I suppose, receive with due gratitude the honorarium to which our labours entitle us. But there the resemblance ends. You have fought your way up to the magic Castle of Romance, you have struck the shield that hangs upon the outer wall, and have blown a loud, clear blast upon the mighty horn. I—But why should I speak of myself? All I need do is to tell you again that I am proud to have the chance of talking to you for a few moments on paper.

  Many are the pleasant hours I have spent with the men you have created, men with deep chests and broad backs and untiring limbs and dauntless courage. That is the company (White or otherwise) that I like. I can step into the street at this moment and see hundreds of the spindle-shanked and pigeon-breasted in their top-hats and black coats and dingy trousers—all very worthy, very respectable, and perfectly punctual. They pay their rates and eat their roast mutton, and support their families; they catch their morning trains, and crackle the topics of the day with one another as they fare city-wards, but when I say that for interest they cannot vie with Micah Clarke and Hordle John, or many another of the stout and valiant fellows whose honest, swashing blows resound in your stories, that Sherlock Holmes, too (never an arch favourite of mine—but let that pass), outweighs them all—when I say this I am stating a truth mildly and, I trust, without offence. And as for problem novels, analytical novels, sex novels, and all the rest of the Gadarene class, I fancy we have got through any craze we may have had for them. Have we not all problems enough of our own without resorting to novels? How shall we fashion our lives, even in such small matters as the daily arrangement of dinner, or the ordering of new clothes, or the making and keeping of friends, or the acquisition in marriage of the beloved one? These matters are, in all conscience, perplexing enough for us. And as for sex novels, great heaven, we may be degenerate and anemic, but most of us have not yet sunk so low as to bother our heads about the stale questions that
occupy the minds of the epicene purveyors of dirt and balderdash. No, penned in as we are by convention and circumstance, we sigh for the lusty and rejoicing manhood of past ages. We commit ourselves to you, and under your guidance we press onward into the mountain passes, we are with the White Company in their last glorious stand, we hear the trumpets’ sound and the clamorous battle-cries re-echo from host to host, the arrows hurtle through the air, the great swords rise and gleam and fall, and the tide of conflict rolls backward and forward till the night descends. And then—why, then we come back with fresher hearts to the dull routine of our inglorious lives. And it may chance, too, that after such a companionship with you we shall feel our breasts thrill with a higher emotion and a more generous admiration when we hear of the deeds that our fellow subjects are even now performing far away amid the crags and precipices of the Indian frontier.

  But softly, good friend—it is a carper who speaks—softly: all that Mr. Doyle does has been done before. Scott has done it, Dumas has done it. Granted, I answer; but what then? Scott, whom we love, and Dumas, whom we love, need not exclude a later affection for you. I make no comparisons; I have before my eyes the fear of Mr. Christie Murray; nor, in any case, is it necessary either to exclude or to include a modern by comparing him with the ancient masters. Let a man stand on his own sturdy legs and be judged. Thus I place you, and salute and thank you. And, I may add, that not so long ago I took from the shelf Le Batard de Mauleon, by Dumas, and read it with a breathless interest. The period is that of your White Company, and there is magnificent fighting in it, but the mail-clad warriors fight on the side opposed to yours, and Bertrand du Guesclin is their hero. But my enjoyment of the Bertrand of Dumas did not in the least impair my delight in your Black Prince and all the rest of your Hampshire heroes. Why should it not be so with all of us? Why should we read Scott or Dumas, and say, “We end there; no other and later romancer shall ever give us pleasure”?

  Farewell, Sir. You are yourself a strong, broad-shouldered man, and you take a natural delight in deeds of strength and courage. Soon, I cannot doubt, you will array yourself in armour and gird on your sword again. Are there not vast regions open to you where adventures may be had for the asking? Proceed and conquer them, and lay your spoils once more before your faithful readers. Affectionately yours, The Vagrant.

  1898

  Mr. Punch’s Animal Land, the Coneydoil or Shurlacombs

  E.T. Reed’s subjects in “Mr. Punch’s Animal Land” poked fun at individuals as well as familiar figures in society.

  This big friendly creature is very shrood and saggacious. If he finds a footprint, he can tell you what colored hair it has and whether it is a libbral or a conservetive—which is very clever I think. He plays all games and always makes a hundred. He likes to run through the ‘Strand’ with his tail in parts—all of them strong and healthy—then he collects it all together and it runs for a long time by itself.

  1900

  The Debut of Bimbashi Joyce

  Arthur Conan Doyle

  ACD’s sole contribution to Punch was this short story of British army life in Egypt. It was reprinted in his 1922 book “Tales of Adventure and Medical Life.” A bimbashi, by the way, was a military rank in the Egyptian army at the time that was the equivalent of a major.

  It was in the days when the tide of Mahdism, which had swept in such a flood from the great Lakes and Darfur to the confines of Egypt, had at last come to its full, and even begun, as some hoped, to show signs of a turn. At its outset it had been terrible. It had engulfed Hicks’s army, swept over Gordon and Khartoum, rolled behind the British forces as they retired down the river, and finally cast up a spray of raiding parties as far north as Assouan. Then it found other channels to east and to west, to Central Africa and to Abyssinia, and retired a little on the side of Egypt. For ten years there ensued a lull, during which the frontier garrisons looked out upon those distant, blue hills of Dongola. Behind the violet mists which draped them, lay a land of blood and horror. From time to time some adventurer went south towards those haze-girt mountains, tempted by stories of gum and ivory, but none ever returned. Once a mutilated Egyptian and once a Greek woman, mad with thirst and fear, made their way to the lines. They were the only exports of that country of darkness. Sometimes the sunset would turn those distant mists into a bank of crimson, and the dark mountains would rise from that sinister reek like islands in a sea of blood. It seemed a grim symbol in the southern heaven when seen from the fort-capped hills by Wady Halfa.

  Ten years of lust in Khartoum, ten years of silent work in Cairo, and then all was ready, and it was time for civilisation to take a trip south once more, travelling, as her wont is, in an armoured train. Everything was ready, down to the last pack-saddle of the last camel, and yet no one suspected it, for an unconstitutional Government has its advantages. A great administrator had argued, and managed, and cajoled; a great soldier had organised and planned, and made piastres do the work of pounds. And then one night these two master spirits met and clasped hands, and the soldier vanished away upon some business of his own. And just at that very time Bimbashi Hilary Joyce, seconded from the Royal Mallow Fusiliers, and temporarily attached to the Ninth Soudanese, made his first appearance in Cairo.

  Napoleon had said, and Hilary Joyce had noted, that great reputations are only to be made in the East. Here he was in the East with four tin cases of baggage, a Wilkinson sword, a Bond’s slug-throwing pistol, and a copy of “Green’s Introduction to the Study of Arabic.” With such a start, and the blood of youth running hot in his veins, everything seemed easy. He was a little frightened of the General, he had heard stories of his sternness to young officers, but with tact and suavity he hoped for the best. So, leaving his effects at Shepheard’s Hotel, he reported himself at headquarters.

  It was not the General, but the head of the Intelligence Department who received him, the Chief being still absent upon that business which had called him. Hilary Joyce found himself in the presence of a short, thick-set officer, with a gentle voice and a placid expression which covered a remarkably acute and energetic spirit. With that quiet smile and guileless manner he had undercut and outwitted the most cunning of Orientals. He stood, a cigarette between his fingers, looking at the new-comer.