by Bill Peschel
Oliver Wells, 1921 passport photo.
Sherlock Holmes and Certain Critics
Ellis G. Roberts
Conan Doyle’s conversion to Spiritualism left him open to attacks by skeptics, humorists, and church officials. Light magazine, which published his articles on the subject, supported him with this parody. Ellis G. Roberts (1859-1947) was an unusual defender. The Oxford-educated Welsh clergyman had served in several parishes, including a stint as a missionary in India, before retiring to Devon, where in the 1930s, he became an outspoken supporter of British fascist Oswald Mosley (1896-1980).
Part 1 – The Happy Family
Sherlock Holmes looked up in abstracted fashion as I entered the room. Two slight gestures directed me in succession to his cigar-box, and to an armchair by the fire. I sat down and watched him curiously. His desk was crowded with slips of paper, and he was glancing from one to another with an air of profound attention. Before him lay an open volume to which he referred from time to time. I recognised it at a glance. It was my own magnum opus, my “Disclosures in re Desmond.”
He closed the book at length, and took the armchair on the opposite side of the hearth.
“Come up for judgment, I fancy, Watson,” he remarked. “Why this long absence? I have seen nothing of you since your debut as an authority on the occult.”
“I have been extremely busy. My correspondence alone has been overwhelming.”
“It is the penalty of greatness. You have been winning golden opinions from all kinds of people. The lion and the lamb, if I may say so, have blended their voices in singing anthems to your praise. I observe among these cuttings an enthusiastic encomium from the Archbishop of Wroxeter, and a glowing eulogy from Mr. Frederick Turfey, the champion of Rationalism. Sir Roland has certainly succeeded in dividing his friends and uniting his foes. His Grace is a prelate of the mediaeval school, Mr. Turfey is one of the noisiest opponents of Christianity, and you yourself were, I fancy, Churchwarden to the famous Protestant, Canon Arbuster.”
“Vicar’s Warden for fourteen years,” I replied with dignity.
“This new-made alliance, I perceive, is of the most cordial nature. Mr. Turfey, for instance, calls Sir Roland to account for lowering the ‘lofty conceptions of a future state’ which have been the solace of humanity. Now as conceptions of a future state form no part of Mr. Turfey’s own philosophy, he is evidently pleading for those of the Archbishop and others against whom he has been warring for fifty years. This is indeed a token of grace. And in return the Archbishop extols the ‘robust common-sense of the veteran thinker’ whom hitherto he has regarded as a rank blasphemer. By the way, Watson, what makes His Grace suspect Mr. Turfey of being a thinker?”
“Surely, Holmes, you must be aware of his literary reputation?”
“I have derived much harmless merriment of late, my dear doctor, from applying a little logical analysis to the productions of the gentlemen who, on the strength of a literary reputation, have kindly volunteered their services to the world as Dictators of Public Opinion. It is a slight variation of the role in which I have so often benefited by your assistance. Shall we imagine ourselves back in Baker-street with some simple problem before us?”
“By all means,” I replied.
“Then, what do you make of the sentence I have underlined?”
“It is certainly a rather flamboyant piece of rhetoric.”
“Excellent, Watson, that is the very first point to observe. It is rhetoric, not logic, though the author elsewhere assures us that the verdict must be given to those who apply the principles of Scientific Research. It is as much out of place in a serious argument as a comic song would be if interpolated into the Pons Asinorum. Now what do you deduce as to the writer?”
I had recently been glancing through my records of Holmes’ achievements, and fell in the humour for an experiment. “On the face of it,” I ventured to suggest, “the author appears to be an Irishman.”
“Not bad,” he replied. “You are impressed by the seeming bull which forms the climax. But dullness may often produce the same effect as flightiness of imagination. The author may equally well be a Teuton. Anything more?”
“He is plebeian in tastes and sympathies. ‘His manners have not that repose’…”
“You are coruscating, Watson, positively coruscating. I shall have to look to my laurels. And the next characteristic?”
But I was not inclined to mar the effect I had already produced. “I shall leave you to continue, Holmes,” I replied.
“You have left me but little to supply. Additional points are the intolerance, the amusing air of moral superiority and lofty indignation, the offence against humour, and a certain oratorical roll in the arrangement of the sentence. Dullness, pomposity, and a certain facility in turning out sonorous and empty phrases. These are our data. The problem is to classify the author—to find him a place in some category of intellectual, or non-intellectual beings. I will find you a twin-specimen at once. Come, doctor, I shall try an interesting psychological experiment. Sit back in your chair, look as wise as you can, and think of nothing at all.”
I assumed a comfortable attitude, and allowed my thoughts to drift. It was a drowsy evening, and I seemed gently wafted away to the somnolent atmosphere of St Simeon-the-less. I was back in the old Parish Hall—I was taking the chair on the familiar platform, and a well-known voice rolled on my ear:—
“All, all is nauseating, frivolous, mischievous, spurious drivel.” And a thump on the table made me spring almost out of my seat.
“Great heavens!” I exclaimed, “that is old Arbuster rolling up a Rationalist.”
My friend’s great powers as actor and mimic had never been more admirably displayed. It was Arbuster to the life.
Holmes chuckled and rubbed his hands. “Right, Mr. Church-warden,” he replied. “We have secured our twin-specimens, and we shall place the two in their proper category. Arbuster and Turfey are brothers in intellect, however far they may be sundered in belief. Neither of the two are thinkers at all. They are, on the contrary, past masters of frothy eloquence and cheap rhetoric, and such powers as they display cannot possibly be combined with the well-balanced mind of the thinker. Turfey and Arbuster are neither more nor less than glorified tub-thumpers.
“Canon Arbuster,” I replied, recovering myself, “may not be a genius, but he is actuated by a sense of duty. He is deeply impressed with the moral evils he detects in Spiritualism.”
“He had better look first to his own house, Watson,” replied my friend. “There are others. You remember the matter which we investigated for the Dean and Chapter of Southminster?”
I nodded gravely. The case is one on which neither of us cares to dwell.
“Now shall we examine your own contribution to the controversy?”
“I shall be delighted to consider any points you may bring forward.”
“This is a two-pipe problem,” he remarked, as he glanced over his notes, and he burrowed in the toe of the Persian slipper.
“Good gracious, Holmes, whatever are you smoking?” I gasped as the first whiff of the mephitic vapour assailed my nostrils.
“Plutonic mixture,” he responded complacently, “a basis of shag flavoured with an essence of my own compounding. Would you care to try it?”
“No, indeed,” I answered brusquely, “my constitution has not got over the gas I swallowed on the Somme.”
He smiled at my vehemence. “I may have slightly overdone the percentage of cacodyl,” he observed. “I prepared this packet when examining Dr. Le Mesurier’s ‘Anti-blast to Desmond’. I declare to you, Watson, that the insolence of these camp-followers of Science towards one of its greatest captains, together with the fusty odour of the rag-and-bone merchandise they foist on their customers, produces in me a moral and intellectual nausea. I find the Plutonic mixture an excellent counter-agent. The tantalus is beside you, Watson.”
He had been arranging some notes as he spoke, and now laid them down on the boo
k-rest at his side.
“There is just one point,” he remarked, “on which I wish to concentrate my mind before pronouncing judgment. Meanwhile you may find food for thought in another direction. If you will turn to the fifth page of this admirable little publication you will find there my matured Opinion on a problem which has gravely exercised the most powerful intellects of an invaluable section of the community. There is no department of our national life in which the refinement of applied ethics are better appreciated than they are by the devotees of the Prize Ring. I beg that you will now remain silent for exactly seventeen minutes and a quarter.”
He threw me the current number of “Boxing,” coiled his long legs into his chair, and gazed steadily into space, while I, somewhat unsuccessfully, endeavoured to fix my attention on “The Moral Aspects of the Kidney Punch.”
Part 2 – “Disclosures in re Desmond”
Punctually to the moment Sherlock Holmes laid down his pipe, and his voice broke through the canopy of smoke.
“You have your merits, doctor,” he said, “most decidedly you have your merits. You are refreshingly free from rancour, and you submit an alternative hypothesis for criticism. You do not assume that telepathy is the master-key to all mysteries, and you do not babble of the unconscious mind as is the wont of many who show no sign that they possess a conscious one. For once admit the existence of telepathy and unconscious mind, and the noisiest of the opponents of Spiritualism will soon be out of the fray. He may still come up to the scratch for a round or two, but the other man has the fight in hand.
“Now for your own hypothesis, which certainly merits due consideration with regard to a considerable part of the field of enquiry. You suggest the existence of a Secret Society or Guild for the promotion of Spiritualism. By means of a widespread system of espionage it has amassed an enormous store of information which is at the disposal of its agents. This they employ, as occasion arises, with remarkable tactfulness and skill. At the head of such a Society there must obviously be some leader of pre-eminent ability. For the sake of distinctiveness we shall give him the name of our old acquaintance, Professor Moriarty. Am I right so far?”
“That is a very fair outline of my idea.”
“It is,” said Holmes, pensively, “the counterpart of another and a very popular interpretation of the facts much favoured by His Grace of Wroxeter. Do you follow me?”
“No,” I replied, “I imagined that my theory was quite original.”
“For Moriarty substitute Satan, and for human agents substitute diabolical ones, and the two hypotheses are identical. And as such they have a fault, and a very grave fault, in common. Cannot you see it?”
I had to confess my inability.
“The total absence of any adequate motive. What has Satan to gain by subverting Materialism? Or, to come to commonplace matters, what do you suppose to be the object of Professor Moriarty?”
“To make money, I presume.”
Holmes smiled indulgently. “Have you ever tried to calculate the working expenses of such a league? An eminent authority on finance has reckoned them at about £200 a day. Your guild would be operating for an indefinite period at a dead loss. It must already have expended several millions of capital, and the profits are nil. You must find some other motive for the existence of this extraordinary guild. Motive, Watson, motive is one of the first things to look for in an investigation. Human beings do not moil and toil without a motive. This is a commonplace even with Gregson and Lestrade.”
My countenance must have exhibited some of the disappointment I felt, for I had reckoned on his approbation, and the warm sunshine of approval in which I had basked for many weeks had ill fitted me to endure such a cold douche of criticism. With his wonted quickness Holmes sensed the feelings which I did not express. “But I bore you, doctor,” he remarked suavely, “let us discontinue the discussion. Let me play you—” and he spoke rather eagerly “—just a little trifle of my own composition. The motif came to me when I was sitting out the last air-raid. It is, I fear, caviare to the general, but I have found you an appreciative listener. Shall we abandon logic for the violin?”
But Holmes’ improvisations are sometimes as formidable as his tobacco. “My greatest pleasure has always been the study of your analytical methods,” I replied diplomatically.
“Oh, by all means, if you really prefer the criticism,” said Holmes, rather grimly. “Then how came you to imagine such monstrosities as your mediums? It is all very well for His Grace and Mr. Turfey, who are out of all touch with humanity, to wage war against creatures of their own imagination, but our common adventures should have taught you something of human nature. Where is the flesh and blood beneath the buckram of your adversaries, Watson?”
“Sorry, Holmes, but I am quite unable to comprehend your indictment.”
“Apparently you fail to see the glaring contradictions involved in your account of the delinquents. As individuals—to quote your description—they are ‘neurotic, hysterical, of a low type of intellect, and the victims of inordinate personal vanity.’ Yet in combination they make up an exceedingly formidable Society which has kept its very existence a secret for more than fifty years, and is extending its influence every day. A league composed of such persons as you describe would not hold together for six months.
“And not only so,” he went on, “but you combine the most contradictory qualities in the same individual. Far from being of a low type of intellect they must, according to your hypothesis, possess mental and moral capacity quite above the average. Their memories for trifling details must be encyclopedic, and they must be able to apply their ill-gotten knowledge at a moment’s notice in exactly the right quarter. Their loyalty to the Common cause must be of the highest order. Why has this league never been betrayed by one of the victims of inordinate personal vanity? Clearly, Watson, its members must be individuals of quite exceptional character as well as superlative ability.”
“But Holmes,” I broke in, “just think of the nonsense they chatter. Think of that whisky and soda incident, the silly names of what they call their ‘Controls’, and the broken English they talk.”
Holmes smiled his masterly smile. “The same old Watson,” he remarked indulgently. “You have been at considerable pains to select precisely the items which are most irreconcilable with the theory you advocate. Still, you have hit on some significant facts though as yet you have not perceived their import. Concentrate on the bizarre and outre if you wish to get at the solution of a problem. The details you mention are proof almost positive that the persons who supply them are not, at any rate, conscious and deliberate imposters.”
“Really, Holmes,” I replied in my most dignified tones, “you impose an excessive strain on my credulity.”
“The voice,” he replied, “is the voice of Watson, but the language is the language of Turfey. We’ll stick to English if you don’t mind, doctor. Can you imagine any conceivable reason why clever imposters should chatter of whiskies and sodas in heavenly places, or declare themselves inspired by Greyfeather or Red Jacket? Come now, doctor, what was the effect of this kind of chatter upon yourself?”
“I was absolutely disgusted.”
“Exactly so, and the fact that you would be disgusted could have been foreseen by the veriest dullard in creation. Such details were totally irreconcilable with your cherished conceptions of a future state. Now, conceptions of a future state, as Mr. Turfey touchingly pleads, should be respected by everyone except Mr. Turfey himself. Yet these clever imposters, who are anxious to conciliate you, and have taken your mental and moral measurements to a hair, deliberately wound your most sacred feelings, and drive you in disgust from their doors. Now, Watson, honestly, can you find any motive for such conduct?”
“No,” I replied, after a considerable pause, “I cannot imagine why Spiritualists should invent anything so repugnant to the feelings of decent people.”
“It is certainly not the way to conciliate public opinion and work up a payin
g practice. Now let us think what Moriarty would actually do if he were dictating to his agents the revelations they were to retail to their customers.”
“I presume,” I responded thoughtfully, “that he would provide the customers with something to suit their tastes.”
“Bravo, Watson,” cried Holmes encouragingly, “of course he would. Now you are applying your sturdy commonsense to the study of a commonsense problem and we shall soon gain a step in advance. It is perfectly easy to imagine what Moriarty would do. A few hours pleasantly spent over Hymns Ancient and Modern and the compilation of Messrs. Moody and Sankey would furnish him with his theological basis, to which would be added some mystical and scientific jargon which he could readily supply. With this material he would prime his emissaries, who would of course vary their communications slightly to suit individual tastes. But there would be a general uniformity, and most decidedly anything calculated to give offence would be carefully avoided. Do you follow me?”
“Yes,” I replied, “that certainly seems a commonsense way of getting to business.”
“Precisely so,” he answered, “and if we apply our own commonsense we shall find our difficulties vanish one by one. We must be true to commonsense and human nature. Orthodox and free-thinker have combined to confuse a perfectly simple issue by appeals to sentiment and prejudice, and the use of pseudoscientific and sonorous jargon. They have involved the whole subject in an artificial fog in which human nature vanishes altogether. Have you noticed the attitude of the critics towards the experiments now being conducted by a prominent member of an Irish university?”