humorous finger to a spot upon the page.
“A fancy,” he responded, “to preserve so accurate a characterization of either of our friends. The line is a real jewel. See, the good Polonius says: ‘That he is mad, ’tis true; ’tis true ’tis pittie; and pittie ’tis ’tis true.’ There is as much sense in Master Will as in Hafiz or Confucius, and a greater felicity of expression….Here is London, and now, my dear Watson, if we hasten we shall be just in time for Zabriski’s matinee!”
The Stolen Cigar-Case
BRET HARTE
SEVERAL EXPERT READERS , including Ellery Queen, have described this oft-reprinted story as the best Sherlock Holmes parody (though I confess to a weakness for several of those by Robert L. Fish). There are, however, greater connections between the two hugely popular authors of the Victorian era than that they have both written about Holmes.
Bret Harte (1836–1902) established a reputation as one of the first and greatest chroniclers of life in the American West, specifically the gold rush years of California, in such stories as “The Outcasts of Poker Flat” (1869), which has been the basis for several films as well as multiple operas, and “The Luck of Roaring Camp” (1868), which brought him nationwide fame and wealth. His success did not last long, however, and though he continued to be published on a regular basis, his stories found little favor in America, often dismissed as derivative and sentimental. He moved to England in 1885, where his work enjoyed a large and enthusiastic following. Harte lived there for the rest of his life—an oddity, as he was then known as “the quintessential American writer.”
In his autobiography, Arthur Conan Doyle admitted that several of his early short stories, such as “The Mystery of Sasassa Valley” (1879) and “The American’s Tale” (1880), were “feeble echoes of Bret Harte.” Furthermore, the plot of Conan Doyle’s “The Adventure of the Noble Bachelor” (1892) appears to bear a striking resemblance to Harte’s narrative poem, “Her Letter.”
“The Stolen Cigar-Case” was first published in the December 1900 issue of
Pearson’s Magazine
; it was first published in book form in
Condensed Novels: New Burlesques
(Boston and New York, Houghton Mifflin, 1902).
THE STOLEN CIGAR-CASE
Bret Harte
I FOUND HEMLOCK Jones in the old Brook Street lodgings, musing before the fire. With the freedom of an old friend I at once threw myself in my old familiar attitude at his feet, and gently caressed his boot. I was induced to do this for two reasons; one that it enabled me to get a good look at his bent, concentrated face, and the other that it seemed to indicate my reverence for his superhuman insight. So absorbed was he, even then, in tracking some mysterious clue, that he did not seem to notice me. But therein I was wrong—as I always was in my attempt to understand that powerful intellect.
“It is raining,” he said, without lifting his head.
“You have been out then?” I said quickly.
“No. But I see that your umbrella is wet, and that your overcoat, which you threw off on entering, has drops of water on it.”
I sat aghast at his penetration. After a pause he said carelessly, as if dismissing the subject: “Besides, I hear the rain on the window. Listen.”
I listened. I could scarcely credit my ears, but there was the soft pattering of drops on the pane. It was evident, there was no deceiving this man!
“Have you been busy lately?” I asked, changing the subject. “What new problem—given up by Scotland Yard as inscrutable—has occupied that gigantic intellect?”
He drew back his foot slightly, and seemed to hesitate ere he returned it to its original position. Then he answered wearily: “Mere trifles—nothing to speak of. The Prince Kapoli has been here to get my advice regarding the disappearance of certain rubies from the Kremlin; the Rajah of Pootibad, after vainly beheading his entire bodyguard, has been
“A fancy,” he responded, “to preserve so accurate a characterization of either of our friends. The line is a real jewel. See, the good Polonius says: ‘That he is mad, ’tis true; ’tis true ’tis pittie; and pittie ’tis ’tis true.’ There is as much sense in Master Will as in Hafiz or Confucius, and a greater felicity of expression….Here is London, and now, my dear Watson, if we hasten we shall be just in time for Zabriski’s matinee!”
The Stolen Cigar-Case
BRET HARTE
SEVERAL EXPERT READERS , including Ellery Queen, have described this oft-reprinted story as the best Sherlock Holmes parody (though I confess to a weakness for several of those by Robert L. Fish). There are, however, greater connections between the two hugely popular authors of the Victorian era than that they have both written about Holmes.
Bret Harte (1836–1902) established a reputation as one of the first and greatest chroniclers of life in the American West, specifically the gold rush years of California, in such stories as “The Outcasts of Poker Flat” (1869), which has been the basis for several films as well as multiple operas, and “The Luck of Roaring Camp” (1868), which brought him nationwide fame and wealth. His success did not last long, however, and though he continued to be published on a regular basis, his stories found little favor in America, often dismissed as derivative and sentimental. He moved to England in 1885, where his work enjoyed a large and enthusiastic following. Harte lived there for the rest of his life—an oddity, as he was then known as “the quintessential American writer.”
In his autobiography, Arthur Conan Doyle admitted that several of his early short stories, such as “The Mystery of Sasassa Valley” (1879) and “The American’s Tale” (1880), were “feeble echoes of Bret Harte.” Furthermore, the plot of Conan Doyle’s “The Adventure of the Noble Bachelor” (1892) appears to bear a striking resemblance to Harte’s narrative poem, “Her Letter.”
“The Stolen Cigar-Case” was first published in the December 1900 issue of
Pearson’s Magazine
; it was first published in book form in
Condensed Novels: New Burlesques
(Boston and New York, Houghton Mifflin, 1902).
THE STOLEN CIGAR-CASE
Bret Harte
I FOUND HEMLOCK Jones in the old Brook Street lodgings, musing before the fire. With the freedom of an old friend I at once threw myself in my old familiar attitude at his feet, and gently caressed his boot. I was induced to do this for two reasons; one that it enabled me to get a good look at his bent, concentrated face, and the other that it seemed to indicate my reverence for his superhuman insight. So absorbed was he, even then, in tracking some mysterious clue, that he did not seem to notice me. But therein I was wrong—as I always was in my attempt to understand that powerful intellect.
“It is raining,” he said, without lifting his head.
“You have been out then?” I said quickly.
“No. But I see that your umbrella is wet, and that your overcoat, which you threw off on entering, has drops of water on it.”
I sat aghast at his penetration. After a pause he said carelessly, as if dismissing the subject: “Besides, I hear the rain on the window. Listen.”
I listened. I could scarcely credit my ears, but there was the soft pattering of drops on the pane. It was evident, there was no deceiving this man!
“Have you been busy lately?” I asked, changing the subject. “What new problem—given up by Scotland Yard as inscrutable—has occupied that gigantic intellect?”
He drew back his foot slightly, and seemed to hesitate ere he returned it to its original position. Then he answered wearily: “Mere trifles—nothing to speak of. The Prince Kapoli has been here to get my advice regarding the disappearance of certain rubies from the Kremlin; the Rajah of Pootibad, after vainly beheading his entire bodyguard, has been
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