Sherlock Holmes Victorian Parodies and Pastiches: 1888-1899

Introduction: There’s Something About Sherlock

Fanfiction did not begin with Sherlock Holmes. Depending on how elastic your definition, you could say fanfiction—a story based on a real person or someone else’s fictional creation—has been around nearly as long as storytelling. Hercules, for example, was the original Superman, and his twelve labors the first anthology. Then there were the Bronte siblings, who used the sons of the Duke of Wellington as heroes in their Angrian Saga. Even Frankenstein inspired hundreds of stories.

But the meeting between the King of Bohemia and Sherlock over the recovery of certain indiscreet photographs inspired writers to kidnap the great detective for their own purposes. Some poked fun at the stories and its tropes, others placed Sherlock and Watson (or Blotsom, or Flotsam, or Potson) into stories of their own creation. Advertisers saw the value in appropriating him to use as a salesman. During the 1890s, more than 50 stories were published, and the number would only grow in years to come. Today, the Internet and the low cost of self-publishing—fueled by the popularity of Sherlock on TV and in the movies—have created an explosion of fan-driven stories, part of what once critic called the tsunami of swill that degrades the culture.

We’ll let others fight that battle. A more interesting question is: Why Sherlock? Why did he inspire the outburst of parodies and pastiches that continue to this day?

Looking at the historical record, there’s nothing else comparable to the flow of stories, artwork, and poetry centered around the inhabitants of 221B Baker Street. The Victorian era had popular detectives such as Max Carrados, Dr. John Thorndyke, and The Old Man in the Corner, not to mention Poe’s Dupin and Gaboriau’s Monsieur Lecoq. There were also popular characters that could have inspired writers, such as Dracula, Captain Nemo, even Conan Doyle’s Gerard and Professor Challenger.

With all that available, again, why choose Holmes?

Several reasons, I believe. First is the incredible popularity of the stories. Although Conan Doyle’s first two novels didn’t make much of a dent in the public consciousness, the short stories were popular from their first appearance. Issues of The Strand flew off the stands when Conan Doyle’s name was on the cover. When Sherlock vanished at Reichenbach Falls, more than 20,000 people cancelled their subscriptions.

Holmes also benefitted from being portrayed in the short stories. Unlike A Study in Scarlet and The Sign of Four, where whole chapters passed without him, the stories distilled Holmes’ highly original character and abilities. Patterns appeared. The curtain rising on the cozy rooms at Baker Street, the dramatic appearance of the victim with an unusual story, the ferreting out of information from the tiniest clues, the unmasking of the villain and the celebration afterwards with dinner and a concert.

It is in that concentrated form that he spread through the culture. Within two years after A Scandal in Bohemia, Sherlock’s name appeared in a Punch article as a candidate to investigate a mystery. The writer was confident that readers would understand the reference. But that was just the start. The distinctive personalities of Holmes and Watson—the highly intelligent, highly observant man of logic and science, paired with the emotional, physical, loyal friend—made them adaptable for any kind of story. In others’ hands, they could be treated seriously. Or, they could be portrayed as fools: the Holmes whose detailed observations are always wrong, and the doctor whose admiration knows no bounds.

Then there were the tropes that surrounded them. The gaslit and fog-shrouded streets of London, Holmes’ eccentric behavior (the drug abuse, the experiments, the target practice in the sitting room), the distraught stranger entering the room with a strange tale. These details performed the role of set dressing, and could be the source of jokes in their own right.

Familiarity, popularity and easily conveyed details. These created the conditions that encouraged Holmes and Watson to spread through the world’s cultures. It would be suitable to say that the medical man Conan Doyle had created a virus that infected literature, and caused an outbreak of fanfictionitis that continues to this day.

Bill Peschel

Hershey, Pa.

Acknowledgments

Writers are, by nature, unsociable and unclubbable (except at the hands of critics). But necessity is a mother, and when I needed help, I was fortunate to find allies who gave generously of their time and resources. These people mean a lot to me, not only for helping, but for being so darn much fun to work with.

It’s traditional for a writer to honor one’s spouse, but Teresa is more than a life partner. She edited the manuscript, provided suggestions I was smart enough to use, oversaw every aspect of production, and kept the household running with her budget smarts and guerilla shopping while writing her own books. I’m proud and grateful to have her in my life.

A spotlight of praise should also fall on Denise Phillips at Hershey Public Library’s Interlibrary Loan Department for tracking down the resources I needed. Special thanks must also be given to my researcher Scott Harkless for digging up many of the pieces. Sherlockian Charles Press has my gratitude for his encouragement and much-needed copies of rare stories he went to great trouble to secure for his Bedside Book of Early Sherlockian Parodies and Pastiches.

Historical research involves finding treasures others have dug up. There have been many researchers who have gone before me, and by combining the results of their work, I was able to compile, and, in a few cases, even add to their extensive bibliography. Without the following researchers and writers, this collection would have been far smaller:

*    Charles Press (again) for his Parodies and Pastiches Buzzing ‘Round Sir Arthur Conan Doyle which provided me with a shopping list.

*    Bill Blackbeard for Sherlock Holmes in America.

*    Frederic Dannay and Manfred Lee (Ellery Queen) for their ill-fated The Misadventures of Sherlock Holmes.

*    Philip K. Jones for his massive (10,000 entries!) database of Sherlockian pastiches, parodies and related fiction.

*    John Gibson and Richard Lancelyn Green for My Evening With Sherlock Holmes and The Uncollected Sherlock Holmes.

*    Paul D. Herbert for The Sincerest Form of Flattery.

*    Peter Ridgway Watt and Joseph Green for The Alternative Sherlock Holmes: Pastiches, Parodies and Copies.

*    The Sciolist Press, Donald K. Pollock, and the other editors behind The Baker Street Miscellanea.

*    Ian Schoenheer for finding several wonderful parodies and sharing his love for illustrators of the period, including Howard Pyle.

*    The Baker Street Irregulars, from whose magazine several stories were drawn for the 223B Casebook Series.

Every effort was made to determine the copyright status of these pieces and obtain permission to publish from the rightful copyright holders. If I have made a mistake, please contact me so that I may rectify the error.

Know a Good Parody?

If you have an uncollected Sherlock Holmes story that was published between 1888 and 1930, please let me know the title and author. If I don’t have it and you can share the story with me, you’ll earn a free trade paperback of the book it’ll appear in plus an acknowledgement inside! Email me at bpeschel@gmail.com or write to Peschel Press, P.O. Box 132, Hershey, PA 17033-0132.

1888

The son of an Irish couple who had resettled in Edinburgh, Scotland, Arthur Conan Doyle was born in 1859 into a family rich with the creative spark. His grandfather was a portrait painter and caricaturist. One uncle illustrated children’s books and drew for Punch magazine; another was an artist and historian and a third ran the National Gallery of Ireland. His mother, Mary, whom he called the Ma’am throughout his life, passed on her love of books and the ability to tell a captivating story. His father Charles showed promise as a designer until alcoholism undercut his abilities and set him on a path to an asylum where he would spend the rest of his life.

When Conan Doyle was nine, he was sent away to a Jesuit boarding school, where he chafed at the teaching methods and corporal punishment. But he excelled in sports and, more importantly, discovered he could hold his schoolmates’ attention by telling stories. He began writing stories and poems.

But when it came time to enter Edinburgh University, he chose medicine. His father had been diagnosed with epilepsy and institutionalized, and he needed to support his family. He alternated studying with summer work as a surgeon’s assistant, and continued to read and write when he found the time.

But he continued to mingle medicine and literature. In September 1879, he sold his first story (The Mystery of Sasassa Valley to Chambers’s Journal) and an article on a poison to the British Medical Journal. In 1880 and 1882, he supplemented his medical training and thirst for new experiences by serving as surgeon on ships to Greenland and West Africa.

In 1882, he joined a friend’s practice in Plymouth. But they parted after six weeks over what Conan Doyle considered unethical practices. He moved to Southsea, a residential suburb of Portsmouth on England’s southern coast and opened a solo practice. As he struggled to attract patients, he continued his freelance writing, selling articles to magazines as varied as Charles Dickens’ All the Year Round, The Lancet, and the British Journal of Photography. He also wrote stories such as The Captain of the Pole-Star (1883), based on his time at sea, and novels such as The Mystery of Cloomber (published in 1888), The Firm of Girdlestone (published 1890), and the Narrative of John Smith (the sole copy of the manuscript was lost in the mail).

Conan Doyle also found time for love. In 1885, he married Louisa Hawkins, the sister of a former patient.

In 1886, he began writing A Study in Scarlet, featuring the self-described consulting detective Sherlock Holmes. He based his character on Dr. Joseph Bell, under whom he had studied in Edinburgh. Dr. Bell was an effective lecturer and power diagnostician and teacher. He emphasized to his students the power of observation. He was capable of identifying a patient’s occupation by the calluses on his hands and the wear on his clothing. His influence on Conan Doyle cannot be underestimated.

He would sit in the patients’ waiting-room, with a face like a Red Indian, Doyle recalled, and diagnose the people as they came in, before even they opened their mouths. He would tell them their symptoms, and would even give them details of their past life, and he would hardly ever make a mistake.

The year 1887 marked two milestones in Conan Doyle’s life. In June, he attended a séance in Portsmouth. In the midst of the table rapping and levitation, he was passed a note from the medium. He correctly identified Conan Doyle as a healer—a fact easy to obtain—but also advised him not to read Leigh Hunt’s book. Conan Doyle had not told anyone that he had been thinking of it. Telling the story years later, he wrote, This message mark[ed] in my spiritual career the change of ‘I believe’ into ‘I know.’

In November, A Study in Scarlet, introduced Sherlock Holmes to the world. With a successful practice, a growing family, and a proven ability to sell his stories, Conan Doyle had laid the foundation on which he would build his life.

Publications: A Study in Scarlet (Beeton’s Christmas Annual, Nov. 1887; Ward, Lock edition, July 1888); The Mystery of Cloomber (Dec. 1888).

Hampshire On Stilts

‘Donan Coyle’

It wasn’t his Sherlock Holmes who was the first target of a parody, but another product of Conan Doyle’s pen. In August 1888, The Nineteenth Century magazine published On the Geographical Distribution of British Intellect. Conan Doyle analyzed the birthplaces of 1,150 notable people in Men of the Time, A Dictionary of Contemporaries, and a biographical dictionary and concluded that the county of Hampshire led the nation in the production of brilliant men. One has to admire the tedious effort needed to research and produce this 11-page article. When a Portsmouth newspaper pointed to the article with pride and said that Hampshire people should be walking taller as a result, an anonymous wag in the local satire magazine responded with Hampshire on Stilts. The article has been broken into paragraphs for readability.

That Hampshire always was, is now, and ever will be, the chief of British counties, and the centre round which the civilised world revolves, is a proposition which no sane native of the shire would think of disputing. I am rather surprised, however, that Dr. Conan Doyle, in calling the attention of the world at large to this remarkable fact, has mentioned only one of the numerous points of superiority which give our native county its proud pre-eminence.

The instance given, moreover, is of doubtful value, for it is by no means certain that Hampshire, specially favoured as it is in other ways, outshines the other shires in point of intellect. It has undoubtedly produced, in the person of the illustrious Burrows—popularly known as Nosey—the only poet who is fit to be named in the same breath with the bard of Avon. But one swallow does not make a Spring, and one poet, however brilliant the coruscations of his genius, will not raise the intellectual character of a whole county.

In other points, however, the superiority of Hampshire over all the other counties of the kingdom is conspicuous and undoubted.

The donkeys of Hampshire, for instance, have longer ears, and bray when beaten, with a nearer approach to the eloquence of Balaam’s ass than any other donkeys.

The lunatics of Hampshire have stranger hallucinations and indulge in more fantastic freaks than the lunatics of any other county.

The journalists of Hampshire are the pink of journalists, they surpass all other journalists in their solemn reverence for Mrs. Grundy, and their soulless worship of conventionality; in their facile powers of making mountains out of molehills, and their marvellous skill in giving form and substance to airy nothings.

The mashers of Hampshire are the cream of mashers: they are flyer, and spryer, and artfuller, and awfuller, mash more madly, slang more fluently, swagger more insolently, and generally go to the dogs with more headlong rapidity than any other mashers.

The maidens of Hampshire are the flower of maidens: they are crummier, and prettier, and naughtier, and wittier, flirt more freely, wink more wickedly, kiss more warmly, and dispense their favours with a more bountiful generosity than any other maidens in the kingdom.

The soot of Hampshire is smuttier than any other soot, and the grass of Hampshire is greener than jealousy itself.

The cats of Hampshire are paragons of cats: they catch more mice, bone more bloaters, breed more kittens, purr more softly, and wail in a more wildering variety of discordant notes than any other cats in creation.

The fleas of Hampshire are the finest of the species: they are more bloodthirsty, have greater powers of suction, skip more nimbly, are caught less easily, love life better and retain it longer than any other fleas in any other county in Britain.

The babies of Hampshire are born much earlier than any other babies, and the children of Hampshire reach their majority six months sooner than any other children in any other portion of the globe.

The cockroaches of Hampshire—but there is no need to pursue the subject any farther.

The examples given prove, I think, in a far more conclusive manner than the single fact adduced by Dr. Doyle that our blessed county is in all conscience a veritable marvel, and deserves to be added as an eighth item to the Seven Wonders of the World.

1891

‘Conan Doyle at his desk.’ Newspaper illustration, 1894.

The year 1889 started promisingly for Conan Doyle with the birth of his first child, Mary Louise. She was followed the next month by the birth of Micah Clark, a historical novel set during the 1665 Monmouth Rebellion when a bastard son of Charles II attempted to overthrow James II. Conan Doyle felt his third published novel was the first solid corner-stone laid for some sort of literary reputation.

His good opinion of his abilities was confirmed in August when he joined Oscar Wilde to dine with Joseph Stoddart, editor of the U.S. magazine Lippincott’s. Thanks to literary pirates, Conan Doyle’s stories were building a large audience in America. Stoddart commissioned Conan Doyle to write a novella for his magazine. The terms were generous: £100 for just the serial rights, four times what he received for all rights to A Study in Scarlet. He began work on The Sign of Four. Conan Doyle also was pleased to discover that Wilde—who would contribute The Picture of Dorian Gray under the same deal—admired his work, particularly Micah Clark. To an ambitious young writer, the dinner was a smashing success.

The good news continued into 1890. Conan Doyle entered into a friendly correspondence with Robert Louis Stevenson. They exchanged letters for several years, and the idea was even floated of visiting Stevenson at his home in Samoa. But Stevenson’s health was failing, and nothing came of it.

Conan Doyle spent the middle part of the year finishing The White Company, a novel he had been working on for two years. Set during the Hundred Years’ War, his tale of a company of archers’ adventures in France and Spain gave him the opportunity to present an idealized view of the nobility of England’s warriors. He spent several weeks in a cottage in the New Forest, Hampshire, surrounded by the hundreds of books he acquired for research. After writing The End, he threw his pen at the wall, saying, Well, I’ll never beat that.

The summer was also a time of personal growth on the medical front. Reading that scientist Robert Koch had discovered a treatment for tuberculosis, Conan Doyle decided to cover the official announcement in Berlin. Despite the lack of an invitation and a rudimentary grasp of German, he traveled to the city and tried to talk his way into the hall, only to be turned back. Undeterred, he found someone to tell him the details and concluded in his article that the cure probably wouldn’t work. It was a bold act for an unknown general practitioner to stand against the opinions of eminent scientists. But Conan Doyle was right, and the encounter made him realize that I had spread my wings and had felt something of the powers within me.

After spending eight years in Southsea, Conan Doyle felt the need for a change. He wanted to stay in medicine, but he enjoyed writing. He had even received two fan letters in October praising the Holmes novels. They were from unexpected sources: Dr. Lawson Tait, who innovated new ways to perform abdominal surgery, and Baron Coleridge, the poet’s nephew and Lord Chief Justice of England. They were not the sort of men one would expect to read ‘shilling shockers,’ let alone write a fan letter, Conan Doyle observed.

In November, he set his course for medicine. He closed his Southsea practice in favor of studying eye surgery in Vienna. It is a measure of Conan Doyle’s optimism that he did not see his limited knowledge of German as an obstacle. But it was, and he abandoned his studies and moved his family back to England. In March 1891, after finding rooms on Montague Place near the British Museum, he opened a practice on Upper Wimpole Street specializing in eye diseases.

But London was full of accomplished eye surgeons. Conan Doyle found himself paying rent and expenses with no income to support his practice and his family except from his writing.

Time again to rethink matters. He looked at the huge market for short fiction in the magazines and wondered how a writer could stand out. He concluded that a series of stories about a hero could build a demand for more stories from that writer. From his published work, he cast Sherlock for the role. He quickly wrote A Scandal in Bohemia and The Red-Headed League and mailed them to Greenhough Smith at The Strand magazine.

Smith read the stories and was impressed. What a God-send to an editor jaded with wading through reams of impossible stuff! . . . I realized at once that here was the greatest short story writer since Edgar Allan Poe. He bought the stories and cut a deal for four more, paying £35 each. Drawing on current events and his prodigious memory, Conan Doyle found it easy to come up with stories.

In May, Conan Doyle came down with influenza. During his slow recovery, he took a hard look at his future. His practice wasn’t drawing patients; he was more in demand as a writer than as a doctor. He closed his practice and moved to a villa in South Norwood, where he would spend his mornings writing, and his afternoons indulging in tricycling, photography, tennis, soccer, and cricket.

The period of July to December of 1891 represented a watershed in Conan Doyle’s life. Each month, The Strand printed a new Sherlock Holmes story. Each month, sales rose. Smith realized that he had a moneymaker on his hands, and he returned to Conan Doyle for more stories. Already tired of Holmes, he raised his price, demanding £50 each for six stories. To his surprise, he got it. By November, he had written five of them, and told his mother that he was planning to slay Holmes in the sixth and winding him up for good and all. He takes my mind from better things. The Ma’am, however, wouldn’t hear of it. Bowing to her vehement objections, he wrote The Copper Breeches instead. For now, Holmes had escaped his executioner.

Publications: Holmes in Lippincott’s: The Sign of Four (Feb. 1890). Holmes in The Strand: A Scandal in Bohemia (July 1891); The Red-Headed League (Aug. 1891); A Case of Identity (Sept. 1891); The Boscome Valley Mystery (Oct. 1891); The Five Orange Pips (Nov. 1891); The Man with the Twisted Lip (Dec. 1891). Other Holmes: The Sign of Four (Oct. 1890). Also: Micah Clark (Feb. 1889); Mysteries and Adventures (pirated short story collection, March 1890); The Captain of the Pole-Star and Other Tales (March 1890); The Firm of Girdlestone (April 1890); The White Company (Oct, 1891).

My Evening with Sherlock Holmes

J.M. Barrie

Although Conan Doyle began Sherlock Holmes’ career with two novels, it wasn’t until the first short stories appeared that he captured the public’s imagination. This is reflected in the timing of the parodies; the first one appeared four months after The Strand published A Scandal in Bohemia. Published anonymously in the Nov. 28 issue of The Speaker, its author was identified by Sherlockian Charles Press as Conan Doyle’s future friend, Peter Pan creator James M. Barrie.

I am the sort of man whose amusement it is to do everything better than any other body. Hence my evening with Mr. Holmes. Sherlock Holmes is the private detective whose adventures Mr. Conan Doyle is now editing in The Strand Magazine. To my annoyance (for I hate to hear anyone praised except myself) Holmes’s cleverness in, for instance, knowing by glancing at you what you had for dinner last Thursday, has delighted press and public, and so I felt that it was time to take him down a peg. I therefore introduced myself to Mr. Conan Doyle and persuaded him to ask me to his house to meet Sherlock Holmes. For poor Mr. Holmes it proved an eventful evening. I had determined to overthrow him with his own weapons, and accordingly when he began, with well-affected carelessness, I perceive, Mr. Anon, from the condition of your cigar-cutter, that you are not fond of music, I replied blandly—Yes, that is obvious.

Mr. Holmes, who had been in his favourite attitude in an easy chair (curled up in it), started violently and looked with indignation at our host, who was also much put out.

How on earth can you tell from looking at his cigar-cutter that Mr. Anon is not fond of music? asked Mr. Conan Doyle with well-simulated astonishment.

It is very simple, said Mr. Holmes, still eyeing me sharply.

The easiest thing in the world, I agreed.

Then I need not explain? said Mr. Holmes haughtily.

Quite unnecessary, said I.

I filled my pipe afresh to give the detective and his biographer an opportunity of exchanging glances unobserved, and then pointing to Mr. Holmes’s silk hat (which stood on the table) I said blandly, So you have been in the country recently, Mr. Holmes?

He bit his cigar, so that the lighted end was jerked against his brow.

You saw me there? he replied almost fiercely.

No, I said, but a glance at your hat told me that you had been out of town.

Ha! said he triumphantly, then yours was but a guess, for as a matter of fact I—

Did not have that hat in the country with you, I interposed.

Quite true, he said smiling.

But how— began Mr. Conan Doyle.

Pooh, said I coolly, this may seem remarkable to you two who are not accustomed to drawing deductions from circumstances trivial in themselves (Holmes winced), but it is nothing to one who keeps his eyes open. Now as soon as I saw that Mr. Holmes’s hat was dented in the front, as if it had received a sharp blow, I knew that he had been in the country lately.

For a long or a short time? Holmes snarled. (His cool manner had quite deserted him.)

For at least a week, I said.

True, he replied dejectedly.

Your hat also tells me, I continued, that you came to this house in a four-wheeler—no, in a hansom.

——, said Sherlock Holmes.

Would you mind explaining? asked our host.

Not at all, I said. When I saw the dent in Mr. Holmes’s hat, I knew at once that it had come unexpectedly against some hard object. What object? Probably the roof of a conveyance, which he struck against when stepping in. Those accidents often happen at such a time to hats. Then though this conveyance might have been a four-wheeler, it was more probable that Mr. Holmes would travel in a hansom.

How did you know I had been in the country?

"I am coming to that. Your practice is, of course, to wear a silk hat always in London, but those who are in the habit of doing so acquire, without knowing it, a habit of guarding their hats. I, therefore, saw that you had recently been wearing a pot-hat and had forgotten to allow for the extra height of the silk hat. But you are not the sort of man who would wear a little hat in London. Obviously, then, you had been in the country, where pot-hats are the rule rather than the exception."

Mr. Holmes, who was evidently losing ground every moment with our host, tried to change the subject.

I was lunching in an Italian restaurant today, he said, addressing Mr. Conan Doyle, and the waiter’s manner of adding up my bill convinced me that his father had once—

Speaking of that, I interposed, do you remember that as you were leaving the restaurant you and another person nearly had a quarrel at the door?

Was it you? he asked.

If you think that possible, I said blandly, you have a poor memory for faces.

He growled to himself.

It was this way, Mr. Doyle, I said. The door of this restaurant is in two halves, the one of which is marked ‘Push’ and the other ‘Pull.’ Now Mr. Holmes and the stranger were on different sides of the door, and both pulled. As a consequence the door would not open, until one of them gave way. Then they glared at each other and parted.

You must have been a spectator, said our host.

No, I replied, but I knew this as soon as I heard that Mr. Holmes had been lunching in one of those small restaurants. They all have double doors, which are marked ‘Push’ and ‘Pull’ respectively. Now, nineteen times in twenty, mankind pushes when it ought to pull, and pulls when it should push. Again, when you are leaving a restaurant there is usually some one entering it. Hence the scene at the door. And, in conclusion, the very fact of having made such a silly mistake rouses ill-temper, which we vent on the other man, to imply that the fault was all his.

Hum! said Holmes savagely. Mr. Doyle, the leaf of this cigar is unwinding.

Try anoth— our host was beginning, when I interposed with—

I observe from your remark, Mr. Holmes, that you came straight here from a hairdresser’s.

This time he gaped.

You let him wax your moustache, I continued (for of late Mr. Holmes has been growing a moustache).

He did it before I knew what he was about, Mr. Holmes replied.

Exactly, I said, and in your hansom you tried to undo his handiwork with your fingers.

To which, our host said with sudden enlightenment, some of the wax stuck, and is now tearing the leaf of the cigar!

Precisely, I said. I knew that he had come from a hairdresser’s the moment I shook hands with him.

Good-night, said Mr. Holmes, seizing his hat. (He is not so tall as I thought him at first.) Good-night, I have an appointment at ten with a banker who—

So I have been observing, I said. I knew it from the way you—

But he was gone.

1892

With Sherlock’s help, Conan Doyle’s literary career took off. For the first time, he began fielding offers for his fiction. Instead of accepting whatever fee was offered, he could name his price. With medicine behind him, he devoted all of his energies to his pen. Before the year was out, he would finish two historical novels, about the Huguenots and Napoleon, as well as a one-act play about a veteran’s experiences at the battle of Waterloo.

Conan Doyle also branched out socially. At a dinner for the staff of The Idler magazine, he met Jerome K. Jerome, the magazine’s co-founder and author of Three Men in a Boat. He was befriended by J. M. Barrie, with whom he