An Australian farewell to Sherlock, Register 1927

On Sherlock's purported birthday, January 6, I thought I'd post this delightful article written in 1927 by an Adelaide (Australia) columnist. It provides a delightful, and very Sherlockian, overview of the final stories written by Doyle.

The article touches on a lot of points we still discuss, but gets a few things wrong.

The author laments the loss of Holmes: "In some humble corner of such a Valhalla Sherlock and his Watson may find a place." Funnily enough, the journalist also discusses Doyle's lament that he is not better known for his literary works, but concludes "It is safe to say that 'The White Company,'' "Sir Nigel," and Brigadier Gerard will be remembered when the scientific Holmes will be famous only as the forerunner of the detective novel." Remarkable!

Enjoy!

The Register (Adelaide, SA : 1901 - 1929) 

Sat 6 Aug 1927

MEN, WOMEN, AND BOOKS,
BY AULDANA.

VALE SHERLOCK HOLMES.
Sir Arthur Conan Doyle so dexterously snatched Sherlock Holmes from the jaws of death which had apparently seized him in "The Memoirs" that it would be a brave coroner who would pronounce on his remains; but in his latest volume of short stories, 'The Case Book of Sherlock Holmes" (John Murray, London), Sir Arthur has relieved the coroner of his task by giving us the last glimpse of the hero in a setting of triumph, with all flags flying and marvelous faculties unimpaired. With the certainty of a theatrical advertisement, Sir Arthur assures us that this is positively the final appearance of Mr. Holmes, who must go the way of all flesh. He likes to think that there is some fantastic limbo for the children of imagination; some strange impossible place where the Beaux of Fielding may still make love to the belles of Richardson. Where Scott's heroes may strut, and Thackeray's worldlings continue to carry on their reprehensible careers. In some humble corner of such a Valhalla Sherlock and his Watson may find a place.

Holmes began his long career in the very heart of the later Victorian era, marched brilliantly through the short reign of Edward VII., and still leads the growing company of valiant super men who have rallied to defeat the ends of crime in fiction. It must be with a tear that Sir Arthur says good-bye to his hero, who has not, after all, prevented his creator from pursuing, with his customary vigour, such varied branches of literature as history, poetry, the drama, and psychic research, although he fears that Holmes may perhaps have stood a little in the way of the recognition of his more serious work. Alas for the vanity of human wishes. Southey has been doomed to posterity as the author of the Battle of Blenheim, and Sir Arthur, who would be known as poet, historian, and play wright must rest on the laurels of Sherlock Holmes. But Sir Arthur is pessimistic. It is safe to say that 'The White Company,'' "Sir Nigel," and Brigadier Gerard will be remembered when the scientific Holmes will be famous only as the forerunner of the detective novel.

THE FAITHFUL WATSON.
In bidding adieu to the inimitable detective it is only fitting to give the faithful Watson his due. The last rites would not be complete without a tribute to the helpful doctor, and it is only fitting that Holmes himself should be chosen for the task. In "The Adventure of the Blanched Soldier" he tells his own story, in the absence of his 'dear Watson.' Speaking of his old friend and biographer, he might be Johnson talking of Boswell — 

"I would take this opportunity to remark that if I burden myself with a companion in my various little inquiries it is not done out of slentiment or caprice, but it is that Watson has some remarkable characteristics of his own, to which his modesty he has given small attention amid his exaggerated estimate of my own performances. A confederate who foresees your conclusions and course of action is always dangerous, but one to whom each development comes as a perpetual surprise and to whom the future is always a closed book, is, indeed, an ideal helpmate."

But Holmes is more human when, in "The Three Garridebs," Watson is wounded by a desperate criminal. Watson, indeed, feels that the years of single-minded service to his idol culminate in the moment of revelation when Holmeg cries: "You're not hurt, Watson? For God's sake, say that you are not hurt! The clear, hard eyes were dimmed for a moment, and the firm lips were shaking." 

Watson's own view of himself in relation to Holmes is that he is one of the great man's habits.

''As an institution I was like the violin, the shag tobacco, the old black pipe, the index book, and others perhaps less excusable. I was a whetstone for his mind. I stimulated him. He liked to think aloud in my presence. His remarks would hardly be said to be made to me — many of them would have been appropriately addressed to his bedstead— but none the less, having formed one habit, it had become in some way helpful that I should register and interject. If I irritated him by a certain methodical slowness in my mentality, that irritation served only to make his own flame-like intuitions and impressions flash up the more vividly and swiftly."

LAST GLIMPSES.
Bulldog Drummond may set his jaw, Nelson Lee wrack his brains, Arsene Lupin juggle under the eyes of the police, but it takes Sherlock Holmes to deduce everything from nothing. For 40 years we have found him ''huddled up in his armchair with updrawn knees, his pipe in his mouth, and his brow furrowed with thought, clearly in the throes of some vexatious problem.  Coming with a start from the familiar reverie, he still greets Watson with a simple question that astounds the obliging doctor.

"A dog, my dear Watson," he says, "reflects the family life. Whoever saw a frisky dog in a gloomy family, or a sad dog in a happy one? Snarling people have snarling dogs, dangerous people have dangerous ones. And their passing moods may reflect the passing moods of others." "Surely a little far-fetched,'' says Watson, for —

A primrose of the river's brim,
A yellow primrose is to him,
And it is nothing more.

But "The Creeping Man," the story of a dog suddenly alienated from his master, whose nature has inexplicably changed, inexplicably, that is, until Holmes comes on the scene, proves the scientist's contention, and through the behaviour of the dog he disentangles another knotty thread.

THE LAST POST
We meet old friends in Professor Moriarty, Col. Sebastian Moran, and the redoubtable Austrian murderer Baron Gruner, whom Holmes tackles with no weapon but his wits, and the denouement comes with as complete a surprise to us as it does to Watson. In "The Lion's Mane," a mystery which baff1es the leading men of Scotland Yard, Holmes, through his amazing memory, picks up a tiny clue which would have meant nothing to the ordinary man, saves an innocent man from probable execution, and many lives from possible death. It is with a touching note of generosity that the great man makes his final appearance on the printed page, and it is with as much, if not more, regret than Sir Arthur, whose word we must take, that we shall see no more of his hero, that we say good-bye to the Holmes Saga.