Since the ghost was produced at the Polytechnic years ago, the author
has visited America, and seen not only the chief cities of the United
States of America, but also those of patriotic Canada; and about ten
years ago, paying a casual visit to Messrs. Walker, the eminent organ
builders, he enquired of Mr. James Walker what he had done with a model
shown him during the height of the popularity of the ghost, by which an
empty glass goblet, or one full of water, was gradually filled with, or
changed into, wine (or coloured water resembling it), thus unwittingly
and apparently embodying or putting into an illustrated form the
miracle of the conversion of water into wine.
I was too busy and too well paid at the time to think of a new
illusion, but I praised it much, and said if not confined to too small
stage limits, it was certainly as good, if not better, than the ghost
illusion.
The time had now arrived when the London world was ready for something
new (as commercial men would say) in the ghost line, and although Mr.
James Walker, with the modesty of a truly scientific man, disclaimed
the merit due to his invention, he did at last, at my request, throw
himself, with the author, heart and soul into the production of the
new illusion, which we called Metempsychosis. We now took out a patent
for the new optical wonder, and having thus secured the invention from
that piracy and robbery which too often dog the otherwise successful
steps of inventors, causing nearly every patent to be called by the
legal fraternity a _damnosa hereditas_, we looked about for a good
place—hall or theatre—where the illusion could be started. None better
could be thought of than the old Royal Polytechnic, where we offered
at a moderate sum per week to produce it, paying for every stick,
decoration, or engraved looking-glass ourselves. But it appeared that
the funds of the institution were so reduced—it was supposed, by the
immense expenditure on armies, warlike material, and ladies’ legs
required to produce a work emulating friend Barnum’s gigantic “Nero,”
and called, with an alarming stretch of imagination, the “Siege of
Troy,” or “Destruction of Troy”—that the directors were unable to
guarantee the weekly salary Mr. James Walker and myself demanded.
Luckily for us, a percentage on the gross receipts was suggested, and
brought in a great deal more money to our exchequer than the modest
weekly salary would have given us. The public came in goodly numbers
to see the new optical wonder, and all went well as long as the author
remained in London and could devote his time and energies to the daily
exhibition; but the time was now drawing rapidly near when, according
to contract, he must leave for Australia.
Professor Pepper has invariably told his numerous patrons that,
although obliged to keep secret for a reasonable time all optical
illusions that he produced, he would ultimately tell the public all
about it.
The metempsychosic era at the Polytechnic in 1879 was marked by the
production of various stories, which were nicely edited and corrected
by a lady of well-balanced, tasteful, and poetic mind—viz., by Miss
Walker, the sister of the author’s very able coadjutor.
The entertainment opened with a vacant stage, disclosing a sort of
inner apartment about twelve feet square, tastefully upholstered,
and closed by a curtain which could be lowered at pleasure, without
interfering with the great roller and white curtain upon which
Dissolving Views were shown. The author’s adopted son, for he never
had any children of his own, was now seen walking through the inner
apartment to the foot-lights, where he bowed and, addressing the
audience, had hardly got as far as the words, “Ladies and Gentlemen,—I
am sorry to inform you that something has detained Professor Pepper—”
when my voice was heard crying out: “Stop, stop; I am here!” and,
appearing out of nothing and without the aid of trap doors or descent
by the help of the copper wires, the author stood in the midst, and
bowed his acknowledgments for the hearty greeting kindly given him by
his audience. The entertainment now proceeded, and, after apologising
for the gloom he was about to cast upon the meeting by the harassing
story he was about to relate, finally stated that his subject would
be those “fearful bags of mystery” called “sausages,” remarking
incidentally that though, thanks to Government analysts, many persons
had heard of the examination and analyses of this dietetic refresher
of the inner man, no one probably had ever seen sausages put together
again, as it were, and formed into the very animal from which they
were originally educed. A large white dish of sausages was now
produced. They were placed in a wire basket, such as pot-plants are
suspended in from windows and verandahs, and hung up in the inner
chamber. About one minute elapsed; the sausages were gone, and out of
the basket came the author’s dear little sagacious white poodle, with
his blue ribbon and little bells, wagging his tail, barking at the
audience, and coming down to lick the hand of his master. The poor
little creature was accidentally poisoned by eating bits of meat the
rats had dropped whilst scuttling to their holes to die of the too
rapid poison prepared by the author for those pests of domesticated
people.
Then the metamorphoses proceeded. Oranges were changed into pots
of marmalade, and given away to the boys, and a chest of tea was
converted into a tray carrying a steaming teapot, sugar, milk, cups
of tea, and handed by the attendants to the ladies in the _reserved_
seats only—such is the blighting influence of cash, which caused the
one-shilling people to be neglected and the eighteenpenny-reserved-seat
folks to have their teas. The ghost of Banquo in “Macbeth,” and the
ditto in “Hamlet” followed, with the curious change of a deserted piano
into one at which played and sang a living member of the fair sex,
attended by a gentleman in faultless black coat and white tie, who
turned over her music; and this Part. I wound up with the change of a
gentleman into a lady, who walked down to the foot-lights, sang a song,
and then vanished into “thin air.”
But all these changes could only happen in the smaller inner apartment,
the actors might walk anywhere else at pleasure, and out of the charmed
circle Walker could not change to Pepper, or the latter refer to the
living beings when they faded out of sight as regular “Walkers.”
So much for what was done, and now the anxious reader is getting
impatient, and if a lady is doubtless curious (the poor men never are
so) to know how it was all done, and as the illusion has apparently
left the domain of optical science and is now relegated to the
conjuring profession, the author has no hesitation in fulfilling his
long-ago promise made to the public to let, as Mr. Cremer, jun., says
in his most amusing book on “Conjuring,” the cat out of the bag.
Before the illusion can please the eyes, the proper apparatus for
producing it must be constructed; and the key to the result consists in
the use, not of clear plate glass employed in the ghost illusion, but
of engraved silvered glass.
Ordinary looking-glass, such as is used for common mirrors or
looking-glasses, is usually made by attaching an amalgam of tin-foil
and quicksilver to one side of a clean sheet of plate or other glass.
Glass prepared in this way cannot be successfully engraved, and when
the chisel or other tool is drawn with pressure across it, is liable to
chip; and instead of clear, sharp engraved lines being obtained, they
are ragged, and, in most cases, large patches of the amalgam are torn
off.
This is not the case when glass really silvered by successful chemical
processes is used, and when pure metallic silver is precipitated on to
the surface of the best and flattest plate glass. When Mr. Walker and
myself commenced our experiments in March, 1879, the so-called “Patent
Silvered Glass” was expensive and confined to moderate-sized pieces
of plate glass. Our first care, therefore, was to construct a table
that could be brought by screws to a perfect level, and one that would
carry a plate of glass at least twelve feet six long by six feet eight
wide. Such a plate being most carefully cleaned, and quite free from
grease, was placed upon the table, and levelled by means of spirit
levels, just as a plate of glass used for the old collodion process
would be levelled, in order that the fluid should not run off at one
edge, leaving the other comparatively dry; and now came the knotty
point—Which was the best silvering process to use? On consulting the
best records of this art, we found valuable information in the _English
Mechanic_, Vol. xxi., No. 542.
The reader will find the following process very successful if minutely
carried out in all its technical details—