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[Illustration: MIEUSEMENT, phot. à Blois LECESNE, éditeur
ROBERT-HOUDIN]
THE OLD AND THE NEW MAGIC
BY
HENRY
RIDGELY
EVANS
ILLUSTRATED
D’rum hab’
ich mich der
Magie ergeben!
INTRODUCTION
BY
DR. PAUL
CARUS
CHICAGO
THE OPEN COURT PUBLISHING CO.
KEGAN PAUL, TRENCH, TRÜBNER & CO., LIMITED. LONDON
1906
COPYRIGHT 1906
BY
THE OPEN COURT PUBLISHING CO.
CHICAGO
[Illustration]
SKETCH OF HENRY RIDGELY EVANS.
“Henry Ridgely Evans, journalist, author and librarian, was born in
Baltimore, Md., November 7, 1861. He is the son of Henry Cotheal and
Mary (Garrettson) Evans. Through his mother he is descended from the
old colonial families of Ridgely, Dorsey, Worthington and Greenberry,
which played such a prominent part in the annals of early Maryland.
Mr. Evans was educated at the preparatory department of Georgetown
(D. C.) College and at Columbian College, Washington, D. C. He
studied law at the University of Maryland, and began its practice
in Baltimore City; but abandoned the legal profession for the more
congenial avocation of journalism. He served for a number of years
as special reporter and dramatic critic on the ‘Baltimore News,’ and
subsequently became connected with the U. S. Bureau of Education, as
one of the assistant librarians. In 1891 he was married to Florence,
daughter of Alexander Kirkpatrick, of Philadelphia.”—National
Cyclopedia of American Biography.
Mr. Evans is an ardent student of folk-lore, masonic antiquities,
psychical research, and occultism. Many of his writings have been
contributed to the Monist and Open Court. He is the author of a work
on psychical research, entitled “Hours with the Ghosts,” published
in 1897, and many brochures on magic and mysticism, etc.
TABLE OF CONTENTS
PAGE
Introduction by Dr. Paul Carus ix
History of Natural Magic and Prestidigitation 1
The Chevalier Pinetti 23
Cagliostro: A Study in Charlatanism 42
Ghost-making Extraordinary 87
The Romance of Automata 107
Robert-Houdin: Conjurer, Author and Ambassador 123
Some Old-time Conjurers 160
The Secrets of Second Sight 188
The Confessions of an Amateur Conjurer 201
A Day with Alexander the Great 215
A Twentieth Century Thaumaturgist 237
A Gentleman of Thibet 254
Magicians I Have Met 271
The Riddle of the Sphinx 318
Treweyism 331
{ix}
THE OLD AND THE NEW MAGIC
INTRODUCTION.
BY DR. PAUL CARUS.
The very word magic has an alluring sound, and its practice as an art
will probably never lose its attractiveness for people’s minds. But
we must remember that there is a difference between the old magic
and the new, and that both are separated by a deep chasm, which is a
kind of color line, for though the latter develops from the former
in a gradual and natural course of evolution, they are radically
different in principle, and the new magic is irredeemably opposed to
the assumptions upon which the old magic rests.
Magic originally meant priestcraft. It is probable that the word is
very old, being handed down to us from the Greeks and Romans, who had
received it from the Persians. But they in their turn owe it to the
Babylonians, and the Babylonians to the Assyrians, and the Assyrians
to the Sumero-Akkadians.
_Imga_ in Akkad meant priest, and the Assyrians changed the word to
_maga_, calling their high-priest _Rab-mag_; and considering the
fact that the main business of priests in ancient times consisted in
exorcising, fortune-telling, miracle-working, and giving out oracles,
it seems justifiable to believe that the Persian term, which in
its Latin version is _magus_, is derived from the Chaldæan and is
practically the same; for the connotation of a wise man endowed with
supernatural powers has always been connected with the word _magus_,
and even to-day magician means wizard, sorcerer, or miracle-worker.
{x}
While the belief in, and practice of, magic are not entirely absent
in the civilization of Israel, we find that the leaders of orthodox
thought had set their faces against it, at least as it appeared in
its crudest form, and went so far as to persecute sorcerers with fire
and sword.
[Illustration: SAUL AND THE WITCH OF ENDOR. (After Schnorr von
Carolsfeld.)]
We read in the Bible that when the Lord “multiplied his signs”
in Egypt, he sent Moses and Aaron to Pharaoh to turn their rods
into serpents, that the Egyptian magicians vied with them in
the performance, but that Aaron’s rod swallowed up their rods,
demonstrating thus Aaron’s superiority. It is an interesting fact
that the snake charmers of Egypt perform to-day a similar feat, which
consists in paralyzing a snake so as to render it motionless. The
snake then looks like a stick, but is not rigid. {xi}
[Illustration: JESUS CASTING OUT DEVILS (After Schnorr von
Carolsfeld.)
Symbolizing Christ’s power even over demons, according to the view of
early Christianity.]
[Illustration: CHRIST WITH THE WAND.
From a Christian Sarcophagus.†
† Reproduced from Mrs. Jameson’s and Lady Eastlake’s _History of our
Lord_, London, 1872, Longmans, Green & Co., Vol. I., pp. 347 and 349.]
{xii}
How tenacious the idea is that religion is and must be magic, appears
from the fact that even Christianity shows traces of it. In fact,
the early Christians (who, we must remember, recruited their ranks
from the lowly in life) looked upon Christ as a kind of magician,
and all his older pictures show him with a magician’s wand in his
hand. The resurrection of Lazarus, the change of water into wine, the
miracle of the loaves and fishes, the healing of diseases by casting
out devils, and kindred miracles, according to the notions of those
centuries, are performed after the fashion of sorcerers.
[Illustration]
The adjoined illustration, one of the oldest representations of
Christ, has been reproduced from Rossi’s _Roma Sotterranea_ (II,
Table 14). It is a fresco of the catacombs, discovered in the St.
Callisto Chapel, and is dated by Franz Xaver Kraus (_Geschichte
der christlichen Kunst, I, p. 153_) at the beginning of the third
century. Jesus holds in his left hand the scriptures, while his right
hand grasps the wand with which he performs the miracle. Lazarus
is represented as a mummy, while one of his sisters kneels at the
Saviour’s feet.
Goethe introduces the belief in magic into the very plot of Faust. In
his despair at never finding the key to the world-problem in science,
which, as he thinks, does not offer what we need, but useless truisms
only, Faust hopes to find the royal road to knowledge by supernatural
methods. He says:
“Therefore, from Magic I seek assistance,
That many a secret perchance I reach
Through spirit-power and spirit-speech,
And thus the bitter task forego
Of saying the things I do not know,—
That I may detect the inmost force
Which binds the world, and guides its course;
Its germs, productive powers explore,
And rummage in empty words no more!”
{xiii}
[Illustration: MOSES AND AARON PERFORMING THE MIRACLE OF THE SERPENTS
BEFORE PHARAOH
(After Schnorr von Carolsfeld.)]
[Illustration: THE EGYPTIAN SNAKE NAJA HAJE MADE MOTIONLESS BY
PRESSURE UPON THE NECK
(Reproduced from Verworn after Photographs.)]
{xiv}
Faust follows the will o’ the wisp of pseudo-science, and so finds
his efforts to gain useful knowledge balked. He turns agnostic and
declares that we cannot know anything worth knowing. He exclaims:
“That which we do not know is dearly needed;
And what we need we do not know.”
And in another place:
“I see that nothing can be known.”
But, having acquired a rich store of experience, Faust, at the end
of his career, found out that the study of nature is not a useless
rummage in empty words, and became converted to science. His ideal is
a genuinely scientific view of nature. He says:
“Not yet have I my liberty made good:
So long as I can’t banish magic’s fell creations
And totally unlearn the incantations.
Stood I, O Nature, as a man in thee,
Then were it worth one’s while a man to be.
And such was I ere I with the occult conversed,
And ere so wickedly the world I cursed.”
To be a man in nature and to fight one’s way to liberty is a much
more dignified position than to go lobbying to the courts of the
celestials and to beg of them favors. Progress does not pursue a
straight line, but moves in spirals or epicycles. Periods of daylight
are followed by nights of superstition. So it happened that in the
first and second decades of the nineteenth century the rationalism
of the eighteenth century waned, not to make room for a higher
rationalism, but to suffer the old bugbears of ghosts and hobgoblins
to reappear in a reactionary movement. Faust (expressing here
Goethe’s own ideas) continues:
“Now fills the air so many a haunting shape,
That no one knows how best he may escape.
What though the day with rational splendor beams,
The night entangles us in webs of dreams.
By superstition constantly ensnared,
It spooks, gives warnings, is declared.
Intimidated thus we stand alone.
The portal jars, yet entrance is there none.”
{xv}
The aim of man is his liberty and independence. As soon as we
understand that there are no spooks that must be conciliated by
supplications and appeased, but that we stand in nature from which we
have grown in constant interaction between our own aspirations and
the natural forces regulated by law, we shall have confidence in our
own faculties, which can be increased by investigation and a proper
comprehension of conditions, and we shall no longer look beyond but
around. Faust says:
“A fool who to the Beyond his eyes directeth
And over the clouds a place of peers detecteth.
Firm must man stand and look around him well,
The world means something to the capable.”
This manhood of man, to be gained by science through the conquest
of all magic, is the ideal which the present age is striving to
attain, and the ideal has plainly been recognized by leaders of human
progress. The time has come for us “to put away childish things,” and
to relinquish the beliefs and practices of the medicine-man.
The old magic is sorcery, or, considering the impossibility of
genuine sorcery, the attempt to practise sorcery. It is based upon
the pre-scientific world-conception, which in its primitive stage is
called animism, imputing to nature a spiritual life analogous to our
own spirit, and peopling the world with individual personalities,
spirits, ghosts, goblins, gods, devils, ogres, gnomes and fairies.
The old magic stands in contrast to science; it endeavors to
transcend human knowledge by supernatural methods and is based
upon the hope of working miracles by the assistance of invisible
presences or intelligences, who, according to this belief, could
be forced or coaxed by magic into an alliance. The savage believes
that the evil influence of the powers of nature can be averted by
charms or talismans, and their aid procured by proper incantations,
conjurations and prayers.
The world-conception of the savage is long-lingering, and its
influence does not subside instantaneously with the first appearance
of science. The Middle Ages are full of magic, and the belief in it
has not died out to this day.
The old magic found a rival in science and has in all its aspects,
in religion as well as in occultism, in mysticism and obscurantism,
treated science as its hereditary enemy. It is now {xvi} succumbing
in the fight, but in the meantime a new magic has originated and
taken the place of the old, performing miracles as wonderful as those
of the best conjurers of former days, nay, more wonderful; yet these
miracles are accomplished with the help of science and without the
least pretense of supernatural power.
The new magic originated from the old magic when the belief in
sorcery began to break down in the eighteenth century, which is the
dawn of rationalism and marks the epoch since which mankind has been
systematically working out a scientific world-conception.
In primitive society religion is magic, and priests are magicians.
The savage would think that if the medicine-man could not work
miracles there would be no use for religion. Religion, however, does
not disappear with the faith in the medicine-man’s power. When magic
becomes discredited by science, religion is purified. We must know,
though, that religious reforms of this kind are not accomplished
at once, but come on gradually in slow process of evolution, first
by disappointment and then in exultation at the thought that the
actualities of science are higher, nobler and better than the dreams
of superstition, even if they were possible, and thus it appears that
science comes to fulfil, not to destroy.
Science has been pressed into the service of magic by ancient pagan
priests, who utilized mechanical contrivances in their temples to
impress the credulous with the supernatural power of their gods.
The magic lantern, commonly supposed to be an invention of the Jesuit
Kircher, in 1671, must have been secretly known among the few members
of the craft of scientific magic at least as early as the end of the
middle ages, for we have an old drawing, which is here reproduced,
showing that it was employed in warfare as a means of striking terror
in the ranks of the enemy. We have no information as to the success
of the stratagem, but we may assume that in the days of a common
belief in witchcraft and absolute ignorance of the natural sciences,
it must have been quite effective with superstitious soldiers {xvii}
[Illustration:
MAGIC LANTERN OF JOHANNES DE FONTANA, ABOUT 1420.
[The apparatus is quite crude in comparison with modern instruments
of the same kind. It possesses no lens, the picture being drawn in
an upright position upon cylindrical glass, presumably blackened
with the exception of the figure. So far as known this is the oldest
record of the use of the magic lantern.
Fontana’s lantern was used, as F. M. Feldhaus informs us
(Gartenlaube, 1905, Nov. 23, p. 848) by the _encignerius_ or _antwere
maister_, i. e., the master of siege and fortress defenses, who from
an appropriate hiding-place projected the image upon a convenient
wall in the outside works of a fort so as to let assailants
unexpectedly be confronted with the hideous form of a demon.]]
{xviii}
While magic as superstition and as fraud is doomed, magic as an art
will not die. Science will take hold of it and permeate it with its
own spirit, changing it into scientific magic which is destitute of
all mysticism, occultism and superstition, and comes to us as a witty
play for our recreation and diversion.
It is an extraordinary help to a man to be acquainted with the tricks
of prestidigitateurs, and we advise parents not to neglect this
phase in the education of their children. The present age is laying
the basis of a scientific world-conception, and it is, perhaps, not
without good reasons that it has produced quite a literature on the
subject of modern magic.
It might seem that if the public became familiar with the methods of
the magicians who give public entertainments, their business would
be gone. But this is not the case. As a peep behind the scenes and a
knowledge of the machinery of the stage only help us to appreciate
scenic effects, so an insight into the tricks of the prestidigitateur
will only serve to whet our appetite for seeing him perform his
tricks. The prestidigitateur will be forced to improve his tricks
before an intelligent audience; he will be obliged to invent new
methods, but not to abandon his art.
Moreover, it is not the trick alone that we admire, but the way in
which it is performed. Even those who know how things can be made to
disappear by sleight of hand, must confess that they always found
delight in seeing the late Alexander Herrmann, whenever he began a
soirée, take off his gloves, roll them up and make them vanish as if
into nothingness.
It is true that magic in the old sense is gone; but that need not
be lamented. The coarseness of Cagliostro’s frauds has given way to
the elegant display of scientific inventiveness and an adroit use
of human wit. Traces of the religion of magic are still prevalent
to-day, and it will take much patient work before the last remnants
of it are swept away. The notions of magic still hold in bondage
the minds of the uneducated and half-educated, and even the leaders
of progress feel themselves now and then hampered by ghosts and
superstitions.
We believe that the spread of modern magic and its proper
comprehension are an important sign of progress, and in this
{xix} sense the feats of our Kellars and Herrmanns are a work of
religious significance. They are instrumental in dispelling the fogs
of superstition by exhibiting to the public the astonishing but
natural miracles of the art of legerdemain; and while they amuse
and entertain they fortify the people in their conviction of the
reliability of science.
[Illustration: ZÖLLNER’S ILLUSION]
In speaking of modern magic, we refer to the art of the
prestidigitateur, and exclude from its domain the experiments of
hypnotism as well as the vulgar lies of fraud. There is no magic
in the psychosis of an hysterical subject, who at the hypnotizer’s
suggestion becomes the prey of hallucinations; nor is there any
art in the deceptions of the fortune-teller, whose business will
vanish when the public ceases to be credulous and superstitious.
The former is a disease, the latter mostly fraud. Magic proper (i.
e., the artifices of prestidigitation) is produced by a combination
of three factors: (1) legerdemain proper, or sleight of hand; (2)
psychological illusions, and (3) surprising feats of natural science
with clever concealment of their true causes. The success of almost
every trick depends upon the introduction of these three factors.
The throwing of cards is mere dexterity; Zöllner’s famous figures
of parallel lines having an apparent inclination toward {xx} one
another is a pure sense-illusion (see cut here reproduced); so is
the magical swing; while fire-eating (or better, fire-breathing) is
a purely physical experiment. But it goes without saying that there
is scarcely any performance of genuine prestidigitation which is not
a combination of all three elements. The production of a bowl of
water with living fishes in it is a combination of dexterity with
psychology.
The trick with the glass dial (which is now exhibited by both Mr.
Kellar and Mr. Herrmann, the nephew of the late Alexander Herrmann)
is purely physical. The machinery used by them is entirely different,
but in either case no sleight of hand nor any psychological diversion
is needed, except in letting the accomplice behind the stage know the
number to which he should point.
As an instance of a wonderful trick which is a mere sense-illusion we
mention the magic swing, which is explained by Albert A. Hopkins in
his comprehensive book on magic[1] as follows:
“Those who are to participate in the apparent gyrations
of the swing—and there may be quite a number who enjoy it
simultaneously—are ushered into a small room. From a bar crossing
the room, near the ceiling, hangs a large swing, which is provided
with seats for a number of people. After the people have taken their
places, the attendant pushes the car and it starts into oscillation
like any other swing. The room door is closed. Gradually those in
it feel after three or four movements that their swing is going
rather high, but this is not all. The apparent amplitude of the
oscillations increases more and more, until presently the whole
swing seems to whirl completely over, describing a full circle
about the bar on which it hangs. To make the thing more utterly
mysterious, the bar is bent crank fashion, the swing continues
apparently to go round and round this way, imparting a most weird
sensation to the occupants, until its movements begin gradually to
cease and the complete rotation is succeeded by the usual back and
forth swinging. The door of the room is opened, and the swinging
party leave. Those who have tried it say the sensation is most
peculiar.
“The illusion is based on the movements of the room proper. During
the entire exhibition the swing is practically stationary, while
the room rotates about the suspending bar. At the beginning of
operations the swing may be given a slight push; the operators
outside the room then begin to swing the room itself, which is
really a large box journaled on the swing bar, starting {xxi} it
off to correspond with the movements of the swing. They swing it
back and forth, increasing the arc through which it moves until it
goes so far as to make a complete rotation. The operatives do this
without special machinery, taking hold of the sides and corners of
the box or ‘room.’ At this time the people in the swing imagine that
the room is stationary while they are whirling through space. After
keeping this up for some time, the movement is brought gradually to
a stop, a sufficient number of back and forth swings being given at
the _finale_ to carry out the illusion to the end.
[1] MAGIC, STAGE ILLUSIONS, AND SCIENTIFIC DIVERSIONS,
INCLUDING TRICK PHOTOGRAPHY. Compiled and edited by Albert
A. Hopkins. With 400 illustrations. New York: Munn & Co.
1898.
[Illustration: ILLUSION PRODUCED BY A RIDE IN THE SWING]
{xxii}
[Illustration: TRUE POSITION OF THE SWING]
“The room is as completely furnished as possible, everything
being, of course, fastened in place. What is apparently a kerosene
lamp stands on a table, near at hand. It is securely fastened to the
table, which in its turn is fastened to the floor, and the light
is supplied by a small incandescent lamp within the chimney, but
concealed by the shade. The visitor never imagines that it is an
electric lamp, and naturally thinks that it would be impossible for
a kerosene lamp to be inverted without disaster, so that this adds
to the deception materially. The same is to be said of the pictures
hanging on the {xxiii} wall, of the cupboard full of chinaware, of
the chair with a hat on it, and of the baby carriage. All contribute
to the mystification. Even though one is informed of the secret
before entering the swing, the deception is said to be so complete
that passengers involuntarily seize the arms of the seats to avoid
being precipitated below.”
The illusion is purely an instance of misguided judgment, which is
commonly but erroneously called illusion of the senses, and belongs
to the same category as the well-known Zöllner figures mentioned
above and consisting of heavy lines crossed slantingly by lighter
lines. The heavy lines are parallel but appear to diverge in the
direction of the slant.
[Illustration: THE SWORD-TRICK.]
Another very ingenious trick consists in apparently stabbing a man to
death, the bloody end of the sword appearing at the back, yet leaving
the man uninjured. Since the audience naturally will suspect that
the point emerging from the back is not the true end of the sword,
the trick has been altered to the effect of replacing the sword with
a big needle (A), having tape threaded through its eye. When the
assassin’s needle has passed through the victim, it can be pulled
out at the other side, together with the tape, where it appears
reddened with blood. The stabbing, when performed quickly, before the
spectator begins to {xxiv} notice that the blade is somewhat reduced
in size, is most startling, and makes a deep impression on the
audience; but the artifice through which the manipulation is rendered
possible is very simple. The sword, or needle, used for the purpose,
is made of a very thin and flexible plate of steel, sufficiently
blunt to prevent it from doing any harm. The victim, as if trying to
ward off the dangerous weapon, takes hold of it and causes it to slip
into the opening of a concealed sheath (B), which he carries strapped
around his body, whereupon the assassin makes his thrust. The
interior of the sheath contains a red fluid, which dyes the blade and
helps to make the deception complete. The accompanying illustration
sufficiently explains the performance.
* * * * *
While the performance of magical tricks is an art, the observation
of them and also their description is a science, presupposing a
quick and critical eye, of which very few people are possessed; and
scientists by profession are sometimes the least fit persons to
detect the place and mode of the deception.
How differently different persons watch the same events becomes
apparent when we compare Professor Zöllner’s reports of
spiritualistic séances with those of other more critical witnesses.
Professor Zöllner, for instance, writes (_Wissenschaftliche
Abhandl._, Vol. III, p. 354) in his description of one of the
experiments with the famous American medium, Dr. Slade, that
Professor Fechner’s chair was lifted up about half a foot above the
ground, while Dr. Slade touched the back of it lightly with his
hand, and he emphasizes that his colleague, after hovering some
time in the air, was suddenly dropped with great noise. The event
as thus described is mystifying. However, when we carefully compare
Professor Fechner’s account, we come to the conclusion that the
whole proceeding is no longer miraculous, but could be repeated
by prestidigitateurs. Fechner writes that at the request of Dr.
Slade, he himself (Professor Fechner), who was slim and light, took
the place of Professor Braune. Dr. Slade turned round to Professor
Fechner and bore his chair upward in a way which is not at all
inexplicable by the methods of legerdemain. Professor Fechner does
not mention that he hovered for some time in the air, but it is
obvious that Dr. Slade {xxv} made the two professors change seats
because he would scarcely have had the strength to lift up the heavy
Professor Braune.
[Illustration: PROFESSOR ZÖLLNER AND DR. SLADE. (From Willmann.)]
Similarly, the accounts of the famous painter, Gabriel Max, who also
attended some of Slade’s séances with Zöllner, make the performances
of the medium appear in a less wonderful light. {xxvi}
Mr. Carl Willmann, a manufacturer of magical apparatus at Hamburg,
and the author of several books on modern magic, publishes a
circumstantial description of Professor Zöllner’s double slates
used in séances with Dr. Slade, which are now in possession of
Dr. Borcherdt of Hamburg, who bought them, with other objects of
interest, from the estate of the deceased Professor Zöllner. The
seals of these slates are by no means so intact as not to arouse
the suspicion that they have been tampered with. To a superficial
inspection they appear unbroken, but the sealing wax shows vestiges
of finger marks, and Mr. Willmann has not the slightest doubt that
the slates were opened underneath the seals with a thin heated wire,
and that the seals were afterwards replaced.
[Illustration: THE OPENING OF SLADE’S SLATE BY MEANS OF A HEATED WIRE.
(After Willmann.)]
Professor Zöllner, the most famous victim of the bold medium,
lacked entirely the necessary critical faculty, and became an easy
prey of fraud. One of his colleagues, a professor of surgery in
the University of Leipsic, had entered upon a bet with Professor
Zöllner that a slate carefully sealed and watched by himself could
not be written upon by spirits; he had left the slate in Professor
Zöllner’s hands in the confidence that the latter would use all
necessary precautions. Professor Zöllner, however, not finding Dr.
Slade at home, saw nothing wrong in leaving the sealed slate at the
medium’s residence and thus allowing it to pass for an indefinite
time out of his own control, thinking that the seals were a
sufficient protection. It goes without saying that his colleague at
once cancelled the bet and took no more interest in the experiment.
{xxvii}
The foot and hand prints which Dr. Slade produced were apparently
made from celluloid impressions, which could easily be carried about
and hidden in the pocket. This explains why these vestiges of the
spirit were not of the size of Dr. Slade’s hands or feet.
Mr. Willmann calls attention to the fact that the footprints, as
published by Professor Zöllner, were made from feet whose stockings
had been removed but a few moments before, for they still show the
meshes of the knitting which quickly disappear as soon as the skin
of the foot grows cold. Professor Zöllner did not see such trifles,
and yet they are important, even if it were for the mere purpose of
determining whether the spirits wear stockings made in Germany or
America.
* * * * *
The accounts of travelers are, as a rule, full of extravagant praise
of the accomplishments of foreign magicians; thus, the feats of our
American Indians are almost habitually greatly exaggerated. The same
is true in a greater measure of fakirs and Hindu magicians. Recent
accounts of a famous traveler are startling, but the problem is not
whether or not what he tells is true (for only a little dose of good
judgment is sufficient to recognize their impossibility), but whether
or not he believes his tales himself. The problem is neither physical
nor historical as to the reality of the events narrated; the problem
is purely psychological as to his own state of mind.
The primitive simplicity of the methods of the Hindu jugglers
and the openness of the theatre where they perform their tricks
cause wonderment to those who are not familiar with the methods of
legerdemain. Mr. Willmann, who had occasion to watch Hindu magicians,
says in his book, _Moderne Wunder_, page 3: “After a careful
investigation, it becomes apparent that the greatest miracles of
Indian conjurers are much more insignificant than they appear in the
latest reports of travelers. The descriptions which in our days men
of science have furnished about the wonderful tricks of fakirs, have
very little value in the shape in which they are rendered. If they,
for instance, speak with admiration about the invisible growth of a
flower before their very eyes, produced from the seed deposited by
a fakir in {xxviii} a flower-pot, they prove only that even men of
science can be duped by a little trick the practice of which lies
without the pale of their own experience.”
Eye-witnesses whose critical capacities are a safeguard against
imposition, relate more plausible stories. John T. McCutcheon
describes the famous trick of growing a mango tree, as follows:
“The further away from India one is the greater appears the skill of
these Hindu magicians. How often have we read the traveler’s tales
about the feats of Indian jugglers, and how eagerly we have looked
forward to the time when we might behold them and be spellbound
with amazement and surprise. When I first saw the Indian juggler
beginning the preparations for the mango trick I was half prepared
by the traveler’s tales to see a graceful tree spring quickly into
life and subsequently see somebody climb it and pick quantities of
nice, ripe mangoes. Nothing of the kind happened, as will be seen
by the following description of the mango trick as it is really
performed:
[Illustration: THE SINGALESE CONJURER BEN-KI-BEY.
(After Carl Willmann.)]
“The juggler, with a big bag of properties, arrived on the scene
and immediately began to talk excitedly, meanwhile unpacking
various receptacles taken from the bag. He squatted down, piped a
few notes on a wheezy reed whistle and the show began. From his
belongings he took a little tin can about the size of a cove oyster
can, filled it with dirt and saturated the dirt with water. Then
he held up a mango seed to show that there was nothing concealed
by his sleeves; counted ‘ek, do, tin, char,’ or ‘one, two, three,
four,’ and imbedded the seed in the moist earth. He spread a large
cloth over the can and several feet of circumjacent ground. Then
he played a few more notes on his reed instrument and allowed the
seed a few minutes in which to take root and develop into a glorious
shade tree. While he was waiting he {xxix} unfolded some snakes
from a small basket, took a mongoose from a bag and entertained his
audience with a combat between the mongoose and one of the snakes.
“ ‘Ek, do, tin, char; one, two, three, four—plenty fight—very good
mongoose—biga snake—four rupee mongoose—two rupee snake—mongoose
fight snake. Look—gentlymans—plenty big fight.’
[Illustration: MODERN SNAKE CHARMERS. (From Brehm.)]
“All this time the cloth remained peaceful and quiet, and there
were no uneasy movements of its folds to indicate that the mango
crop was flourishing. The juggler now turned his attention to it,
however, poked his hands under the cloth, and after a few seconds of
mysterious fumbling triumphantly threw off the cloth, and lo! there
was a little bunch of leaves about as big as a sprig of water cress
sticking up dejectedly from the damp earth. This was straightway
deluged with some water and the cloth again thrown over it.
“Once more there was a diversion. This time an exhibition of a shell
game, in which the juggler showed considerable dexterity in placing
the little ball where you didn’t think it would be. Still the cloth
revealed no disposition to bulge skyward, and a second time the
juggler fumbled under it, talking hurriedly in Hindustani and making
the occasion as interesting as possible. After much poking around he
finally threw off the cloth with a glad cry, and there was a mango
tree a foot high, with adult leaves which glistened with moisture.
When his spectators had gazed at it for awhile he pulled the little
tree up by the roots, and there was a mango seed attached, with the
little sprouts springing out from it.
“The trick was over, the juggler’s harvest of rupees and annas
began, and soon his crowd faded away. A few minutes later, from a
half-hidden seat {xxx} on the hotel veranda, I saw the wizard over
across the street, beneath the big shade trees, folding up the mango
tree and tucking it compactly into a small bag.”[2]
To conjure ghosts has always been the highest ambition of performers
of magical tricks, and we know that the magic lantern has been used
for this purpose since mediæval days, but modern necromancy has been
brought to perfection by Robertson and Pepper, through the invention
of a simple contrivance, known under the name of Pepper’s ghost, by
which impalpable specters become plainly visible to the astonished
eyes of the spectators.
For a description of these performances, as well as many other feats
in the same line, we refer to Mr. Evans’ fascinating explanations in
the body of the present volume.
Tricks performed by mediums are in one respect quite different from
the feats of prestidigitateurs; if they come up to the standards,
they are, or might be, based upon the psychic dispositions of people.
Believers will gladly be caught in the traps set for them and are, as
a rule, grateful for the deception, while determined unbelievers will
either prove altogether hopeless or will become so bewildered as to
be likely to become believers. Sleight of hand is always a valuable
aid to the medium; but, as tricks pure and simple, mediumistic
séances are not different from the performances of prestidigitateurs,
and differ only in this, that they claim to be done with the
assistance of spirits. Mediums must be on the lookout and use
different methods as the occasion may require. They produce rappings
with their hands or their feet,[3] or with mechanical devices hidden
in their shoes; neither do they scorn the use of rapping tables with
concealed batteries and electric wires.
[2] Chicago Record, April 22, 1899.
[3] One of the Fox sisters could produce rappings through
a peculiar construction of the bones of her foot, and
Cumberland’s big toe was blessed with a tendon of its own,
enabling him to rap the floor quite vigorously without
being detected.
The instances here adduced are sufficient to show that even the most
complete deceptions admit of explanations which, in many instances,
are much simpler than the spectators think. {xxxi} Neither the
marvelous feats of prestidigitateurs nor the surprising revelations
of mediums should shake our confidence in science or make us slaves
of superstition. The success of modern magic, which accomplishes more
than the old magic or sorcery ever did, is a sufficient guarantee of
the reliability of reason, and even where “now we see through a glass
darkly,” we must remain confident that when we grow in wisdom and
comprehension we shall learn to see “face to face.”
[Illustration: THE CONJURER. (By Prof. W. Zimmer.)]
For all these reasons, knowledge of magic and its history, the false
pretenses of the old magic and the brilliant success of modern magic
should have a place in our educational program. I do not advocate
its introduction into schools, but would recommend parents to let
their children become acquainted with the remarkable performances
of the best and greatest among modern magicians. We all should know
something of the general methods of magic, and some time in our lives
witness the {xxxii} extraordinary feats, bordering on miracles,
with which a prestidigitateur can dazzle our eyes and misguide our
judgment.
Modern magic is not merely a diversion or a recreation, but may
become possessed of a deeper worth when it broadens our insight
into the rich possibilities of mystification, while a peep behind
the scenes will keep us sober and prevent us from falling a prey to
superstition.
{1}
HISTORY OF NATURAL MAGIC AND PRESTIDIGITATION.
“Therefore made I a decree to bring in all the wise men of Babylon
before me. . . . Then came in the magicians, the astrologers, the
Chaldeans, and the soothsayers.”—_Dan. iv._, 6–7.
“What, Sir! you dare to make so free,
And play your hocus-pocus on us!”
—GOETHE: _Faust_, Scene V.
I.
The art of natural magic dates back to the remotest antiquity. There
is an Egyptian papyrus[4] in the British Museum which chronicles a
magical seance given by a certain Tchatcha-em-ankh before King Khufu,
B. C. 3766. The manuscript says of the wizard: “He knoweth how to
bind on a head which hath been cut off; he knoweth how to make a lion
follow him as if led by a rope; and he knoweth the number of the
stars of the house (constellation) of Thoth.” It will be seen from
this that the decapitation trick was in vogue ages ago, while the
experiment with the lion, which is unquestionably a hypnotic feat,
shows hypnotism to be very ancient indeed. Ennemoser, in his _History
of Magic_, devotes considerable space to Egyptian thaumaturgy,
especially to the wonders wrought by animal magnetism, which in the
hands of the priestly hierarchy must have been miracles indeed to the
uninitiated. All that was known of science was in {2} possession of
the guardians of the temples, who frequently used their knowledge of
natural phenomena to gain ascendancy over the ignorant multitude.
[4] Westcar papyrus, XVIII dynasty; about B. C. 1550. In
this ancient manuscript are stories which date from the
early empire. “They are as old,” says Budge (_Egyptian
Magic_, London, 1899), “as the Great Pyramid.”
An acquaintance with stage machinery and the science of optics and
acoustics was necessary to the production of the many marvelous
effects exhibited. Every temple in Egypt and Greece was a veritable
storehouse of natural magic. Thanks to ancient writers like Heron
of Alexandria, Philo of Byzantium, and the Fathers of the early
Christian Church, we are able to fathom some of the secrets of the
old thaumaturgists. The magi of the temples were adepts in the art
of phantasmagoria. In the ancient temple of Hercules at Tyre, Pliny
states that there was a seat of consecrated stone “from which the
gods easily rose.”
In the temple at Tarsus, Esculapius showed himself to the devout.
Damascius says: “In a manifestation, which ought not to be revealed,
. . . there appeared on the wall of a temple a mass of light, which
at first seemed to be very remote; it transformed itself, in coming
nearer, into a face evidently divine and supernatural, of severe
aspect, but mixed with gentleness and extremely beautiful. According
to the institutions of a mysterious religion the Alexandrians honored
it as Osiris and Adonis.”
By means of concave mirrors, made of highly polished metal, the
priests were able to project images upon walls, in the air, or upon
the smoke arising from burning incense. In speaking of the art of
casting specula of persons upon smoke, the ingenious Salverte says:
“The Theurgists caused the appearance of the gods in the air in the
midst of gaseous vapors disengaged from fire. Porphyrus admires this
secret; Iamblichus censures the employment of it, but he confesses
its existence and grants it to be worthy the attention of the
inquirer after truth. The Theurgist Maximus undoubtedly made use of a
secret analogous to this, when, in the fumes of the incense which he
burned before the statute of Hecate, the image was seen to laugh so
naturally as to fill the spectators with terror.”
A. Rich, in his _Dictionary of Roman and Greek Antiquities_, relates,
under the heading of the word “Adytum,” that many of the ancient
temples possessed chambers the existence of which was known only
to the priests, and which served for the {3} production of their
illusions. He visited one at Alba, upon the lake of Fucius. It was
located amid the ruins of a temple, and was in a perfect state
of preservation. This chamber of mysteries was formed under the
apsis—that is to say, under the large semi-circular niche which
usually sheltered the image of the god, at the far extremity of
the edifice. “One part of this chamber,” says he, “is sunk beneath
the pavement of the principal part of the temple (_cella_) and the
other rises above it. The latter, then, must have appeared to the
worshipers gathered together in the temple merely like a base that
occupied the lower portion of the apsis, and that was designed to
hold in an elevated position the statue of the god or goddess whose
name was borne by the edifice. This sanctuary, moreover, had no door
or visible communication that opened into the body of the building.
Entrance therein was effected through a secret door in an enclosure
of walls at the rear of the temple. It was through this that the
priests introduced themselves and their machinery without being
observed by the _hoi polloi_. But there is one remarkable fact that
proves beyond the shadow of a doubt the purpose of the adytum. One
discovers here a number of tubes or pipes which pierce the walls
between the hiding-place and the interior of the temple. These tubes
debouch at different places in the partitions of the cella, and thus
permit a voice to be heard in any part of the building, while the
person and place from which the sound issues remain unknown to the
auditors.”
Sometimes the adytum was simply a chamber situated behind the
apsis, as in a small temple which was still in existence at Rome in
the sixteenth century. An architect named Labbacco has left us a
description of the edifice. Travelers who have visited the remains
of the temple of Ceres, at Eleusis, have observed a curious fact.
The pavement of the cella is rough and unpolished, and much lower
than the level of the adjacent porch, thereby indicating that a
wooden floor, on a level with the portico, covered the present floor,
and hid from view a secret vault designed to operate the machinery
that moved the flooring. This view is confirmed by vertical and
horizontal grooves, and the holes constructed in the side walls.
Similar contrivances existed in India. Philostratus, in his _Life
of Apollonius_ (1, III, {4} Ch. v), says: “The Indian sages
conducted Apollonius toward the temple of their god, marching in
solemn procession and singing sacred hymns. Occasionally they would
strike the earth in cadence with their staves, whereupon the ground
moved like a sea in turmoil, now rising with them to the height of
almost two feet, then subsiding to its regular level.” The blows
from the wands were evidently the cue for the concealed assistants
to operate the machinery that moved the soil. Says Brown, in his
_Stellar Theology_: “Among the buildings uncovered at Pompeii is a
temple of Isis, which is a telltale of the mysteries of the Egyptian
deity, for the secret stair which conducted the priests unseen to an
opening back of the statue of the goddess, through whose marble lips
pretended oracles were given and warnings uttered, now lies open to
the day, and reveals the whole imposition.”
The Bible has preserved to us the story of the struggle of Daniel
with the priests of Bel, in which the secret door played its part.
The Hebrew prophet refused to worship the idol Bel, whereupon the
King said to him: “Doth not Bel seem to thee to be a living god?
Seest thou not how much he eateth and drinketh every day?” Then
Daniel smiled and said: “O King, be not deceived; for this is but
clay within and brass without, neither hath he eaten at any time.”
The King sent for his priests and demanded the truth of them,
declaring his intention of putting them to the sword should they fail
to demonstrate the fact that the god really consumed the offerings of
meat and wine. And the priests of Bel said: “Behold, we go out; and
do thou, O King, set on the meats, and make ready the wine, and shut
the door fast, and seal it with thy own ring. And when thou comest in
the morning, if thou findest not that Bel hath eaten up all, we will
suffer death, or else Daniel that hath lied against us.” And they
“little regarded it, because they had made under the table a secret
entrance, and they always came in by it, and consumed those things.”
Daniel detected the imposture in a very original manner. He caused
ashes to be sifted upon the floor of the temple, whereby the
footsteps of the false priests were made manifest to the enraged
King of Babylon. {5}
One reads in Pausanias (_Arcadia_, 1 VIII, Ch. xvi) that at Jerusalem
the sepulcher of a woman of that country, named Helena, had a door
which was of marble like the rest of the monument, and that this door
opened of itself on a certain day of the year, and at a certain hour,
by means of concealed machinery, thus antedating our time-locks.
Eventually it closed itself. “At any other time,” adds the author,
“if you had desired to open it, you would have more easily broken it.”
When Aeneas went to consult the Cumæan Sibyl, the hundred doors of
the sanctuary opened of themselves, in order that the oracle might be
heard.
“Ostia jamque domus patuere ingentia centum
Sponte sua, vatisque ferunt responsa per auras.”
[Illustration: APPARATUS FOR BLOWING A TRUMPET ON OPENING A DOOR.]
According to Pliny, the doors of the labyrinth of Thebes were
constructed in such a manner that when they were opened a sound
resembling that of thunder greeted the astonished worshipers.
Heron, in his _Pneumatics_, describes an apparatus for blowing a
trumpet on opening the door of a temple, the effect of which must
have been awe inspiring to the uninitiated common people.
It is hardly necessary to give a detailed translation of the text
of the Greek engineer, as the _modus operandi_ of the experiment is
sufficiently explained by reference to the descriptive {6} picture.
It will suffice to add: One sees that when the door of the temple is
opened, a system of cords, rods and pulleys causes a hemispherical
cap, to the upper part of which the trumpet is attached, to sink into
a vase full of water. The air compressed by the water escapes through
the instrument, causing it to sound.
[Illustration: MECHANISM WHICH CAUSED THE TEMPLE DOORS TO OPEN WHEN A
FIRE WAS LIGHTED ON THE ALTAR.]
Another remarkable device is described in the _Pneumatics_ of Heron,
and consists of an apparatus which is entitled: “_Construction of a
chapel wherein, when fire is lighted upon the altar, the doors open,
and when it is extinguished, they close_.” {7}
The altar is hollow, and when a fire is lighted thereon, the air
contained in the interior expands and begins to press upon the water
with which the globe situated beneath is filled. The water then rises
through a bent tube which leads to a species of pot, into which it
falls. The pot is suspended upon a cord which passes along a pulley,
doubling immediately, in order to enroll itself about two cylinders,
which turn upon pivots, said cylinders forming the prolongation of
the axes upon which the doors above turn. Around the same cylinders
are enrolled in a contrary manner, two other cords, which also unite
into one before passing along a pulley, and then hanging vertically
for the support of a counterpoise.
[Illustration: EGYPTIAN ALTAR]
It is clear that when the water from the globe enters the pot, the
weight of the latter will be augmented and it will sink, pulling upon
the cord which has been wound about the cylinders {8} in such a way
as to cause the doors to open, when it is drawn in this direction.
The doors close themselves in the following manner: The bent tube,
which places in communication the globe and the pot, forms a siphon,
the longest branch of which plunges into the globe. When the fire
is extinguished upon the altar, the air contained in the latter and
in the globe, cools, and diminishes in volume. The water in the pot
is then drawn into the globe, and the siphon, being thus naturally
influenced, operates until the water in the pot has passed over
into the globe. In measure as the pot lightens, it remounts under
the constraint of the counterpoise, and the latter, in its descent,
closes the doors through the intermedium of the cords wound around
the cylinders.
[Illustration: HOW THE STATUES WERE MADE TO POUR LIBATIONS WHEN A
FIRE WAS KINDLED ON THE ALTAR.]
Heron says that mercury was sometimes used in place of water, by
reason of its superior weight. {9}
Certain altars were provided with such mechanism as to afford to the
faithful even more astonishing spectacles. Here is another experiment
from the learned Heron:
“_To construct an altar so that when one kindles the fire thereon,
the statues which are at the sides shall pour out libations_.”
There should be a pedestal, upon which are placed the statues, and
an altar closed on all sides. The pedestal should communicate with
the altar through a central tube, also with the statues by means
of tubes, the ends of the latter terminating in cups held by the
statues. Water is poured into the pedestal through a hole, which is
stopped up immediately afterward.
If, then, a fire be kindled upon the altar, the air within expanding,
will penetrate the pedestal and force out the water; but the latter,
having no other outlet than the tubes, mounts into the cups and the
statues thus perform libations, which last as long as the fire does.
Upon the fire being extinguished, the libations cease, and recommence
as many times as it is rekindled.
The tube through which the heat is conveyed should be larger at
the middle than at the extremities, to allow the heat, or more
especially, the draft, which it produces, to accumulate in an
inflation, in order to be most effectual.
The priests of the temples of old were truly masters of the arts of
mechanics and pneumatics.
According to Father Kircher (_Oed. Aegypt._, Vol. II), an author,
whom he calls Bitho, states that there was at Saïs a temple of
Minerva containing an altar upon which, when a fire was kindled,
Dionysos and Artemis (Bacchus and Diana) poured out milk and wine,
while a dragon hissed. The use of steam is indicated here.
[Illustration: THE MIRACULOUS STATUE OF CYBELE.]
The Jesuit savant possessed in his museum an apparatus which probably
came from some ancient Egyptian temple. It consisted of a hollow
hemispherical dome supported by four columns, and placed over the
image of the goddess of the numerous breasts. To two of the columns
were adjusted movable holders, upon which lamps were fixed. The
hemisphere was hermetically closed beneath by a metallic plate. The
small altar, into which the milk was poured, communicated with the
interior {10} of the statue by a tube reaching nearly to the bottom;
it was also connected with the hollow dome by a tube having a double
bend. At the moment of sacrifice, the two lamps, which were turned
by means of movable holders directly beneath the lower plate of the
dome, were lighted, thereby causing the air inclosed in the dome to
expand. This expanded air, passing through the tube, pressed upon
the milk shut within the altar, forcing it to ascend the straight
tube into the interior of the statue and up to the height of the
breasts of the goddess. A series of little ducts, branching off from
the principal tube, conveyed the liquid into the breasts. From these
mammary glands of bronze the {11} lacteal fluid streamed out, to
the great admiration of the spectators, who believed that a miracle
had taken place. When the sacrifice was finished, the lamps were
extinguished by the attendant priest of the shrine, and the milk
ceased to flow.
There were many other mechanical devices of great interest, such
as the miraculous vessels used in the temples of Egypt and Greece,
and the apparatus that formed part of the Grecian puppet-shows and
other theatrical performances; but these hardly come within the
scope of this chapter. Philo of Byzantium and Heron of Alexandria
both left exhaustive treatises on the mechanic arts as understood by
the ancients. Philo’s work has unfortunately been lost, but Heron’s
treatise has a world of interest to anyone who is attracted to the
subject.
[Illustration: A RECENTLY PATENTED SLOT MACHINE ALMOST IDENTICAL WITH
HERON’S WATER-VESSEL]
[Illustration: LUSTRAL WATER-VESSEL DESCRIBED BY HERON ABOUT 100 B.C.]
[Illustration: ORIENTAL CONJURER PERFORMING THE CUP-AND-BALL TRICK,
WITH SNAKE EFFECT INTRODUCED.
From an old and rare book called _The Universal Conjurer or the Whole
Art as Practised by the Famous Breslaw, Katerfelto, Jonas, Flockton,
Conus, and by the Greatest Adepts in London and Paris, etc._ London.
(From the Ellison Collection, New York.)]
Besides the miracle-mongers of antiquity there were also cup-and-ball
conjurers, who were called “acetabularii,” from the Latin word
_acetabulum_, which means a cup, and professors of natural magic in
general who laid no claim to supernatural powers. They wandered from
place to place, giving their shows. The grammarian, Athenæus, in his
_Deipnosophists_, or “Banquet of the Learned” (A. D. 228), mentions
a number of famous conjurers and jugglers of Greece. He says: “The
people of Histiæa and of Oreum erected in their theatre a brazen
statue holding a die in its hand to Theodorus the juggler.” Xenophon,
the conjurer, was very popular at Athens. He left behind him a pupil
named Cratisthenes, “a citizen of Phlias; a man who {12} used to
make fire spout up of its own accord, and who contrived many other
extraordinary sights, so as almost to make men discredit the evidence
of their own senses. And Nymphodorus, the conjurer, was another such
man. . . . And Diopeithes, the Locrian, according to the account of
Phanodemus, when he came to Thebes, fastened round his waist bladders
full of wine and milk, and then, squeezing them, pretended that he
was drawing up those liquids out of his mouth. And Noëmon gained a
great reputation for the same sort of tricks. . . . There were also,
at Alexander’s court, the following jugglers who had a great name:
Scymnus of Tarentum, and Philistides of Syracuse, and Heraclitus of
Mitylene.” (_Deipn._ Epit., B. 1, c. 34, 35.)
[Illustration: CONJUROR PULLING A TOOTH BY PISTOL.
From a rare book called _The Whole Art of Hocus Pocus, Containing
the Most Dexterous Feats of Sleight-of-hand Performed by Katerfelto,
Breslaw, Boas, etc._ London, 1812. (From the Ellison Collection, New
York.)]
{13}
II.
In the Middle Ages the art of magic was ardently cultivated, in
spite of the denunciations of the Church. Many pretenders to
necromancy made use of the secrets of optics and acoustics, and
gained thereby a wonderful reputation as genuine sorcerers. Benvenuto
Cellini, sculptor, goldsmith and man-at-arms, in that greatest of
autobiographies,[5] records a magical seance which reads like a
chapter from the Arabian Nights.
[5] _Memoirs of Cellini_, Book I, Chapter LXIV.
He says: “It happened through a variety of singular accidents that
I became intimate with a Sicilian priest, who was a man of very
elevated genius and well instructed in both Latin and Greek letters.
In the course of conversation one day, we were led to talk about the
art of necromancy, _à propos_ of which I said: ‘Throughout my whole
life I have had the most intense desire to see or learn something of
this art.’ Thereto the priest replied: ‘A stout soul and a steadfast
must the man have who sets himself to such an enterprise.’ I answered
that of strength and steadfastness of soul I should have enough and
to spare, provided I found the opportunity. Then the priest said: ‘If
you have the heart to dare it, I will amply satisfy your curiosity.’
Accordingly we agreed upon attempting the adventure.
“The priest one evening made his preparations, and bade me find
a comrade, or not more than two. I invited Vincenzio Romoli, a
very dear friend of mine, and the priest took with him a native
of Pistoja, who also cultivated the black art. We went together
to the Colosseum; and there the priest, having arrayed himself in
necromancers’ robes, began to describe circles on the earth with the
finest ceremonies that can be imagined. I must say that he had made
us bring precious perfumes and fire, and also drugs of fetid odor.
When the preliminaries were completed, he made the entrance into the
circle; and taking us by the hand, introduced us one by one inside
of it. Then he assigned our several functions; to the necromancer,
his comrade, he gave the pentacle to hold; the other two of us had
to look after the fire and the perfumes; and then he began his
incantations. This {14} lasted more than an hour and a half, when
several legions appeared and the Colosseum was all full of devils.
I was occupied with the precious perfumes, and when the priest
perceived in what numbers they were present, he turned to me and
said: ‘Benvenuto, ask them something.’ I called on them to reunite me
with my Sicilian Angelica.”
It seems the spirits did not respond. The magic spells were found
inoperative, whereupon the priest dismissed the demons, observing
that the presence of a pure boy was requisite to the successful
accomplishment of the séance.
Another night Cellini and the sorcerer repaired to the ruins of the
Colosseum. The artist was accompanied by a boy of twelve years of
age, who was in his employ, and by two friends, Agnolino Gaddi and
the before-mentioned Romoli. The necromancer, after describing the
usual magic circle and building a fire, “began to utter those awful
invocations, calling by name on multitudes of demons who are captains
of their legions . . . ; insomuch that in a short space of time the
whole Colosseum was full of a hundredfold as many as had appeared
upon the first occasion.” At the advice of the wizard, Cellini again
asked to be reunited with his mistress. The sorcerer turned to him
and said: “Hear you what they have replied; that in the space of one
month you will be where she is.” The company within the magic circle
were now confronted by a great company of demons. The boy declared
that he saw four armed giants of immense stature who were endeavoring
to get within the circle. They trembled with fear. The necromancer,
to calm the fright of the boy, assured him that what they beheld
was but _smoke and shadows_, and that the spirits were under his
power. As the smoke died out, the demons faded away, and Cellini and
his friends left the place fully satisfied of the reality of the
conjurations. As they left the Colosseum, the boy declared that he
saw two of the demons leaping and skipping before them, and often
upon the roofs of the houses. The priest paid no attention to them,
but endeavored to persuade the goldsmith to renew the attempt on some
future occasion, in order to discover the secret treasures of the
earth. But Cellini did not care to meddle more in the black art. {15}
What are we to believe about this magic invocation? Was Cellini
romancing? Though a vainglorious, egotistical man, he was truthful,
and his memoirs may be relied on.
John Addington Symonds, one of the translators of Cellini’s
autobiography, remarks: “Imagination and the awe-inspiring influences
of the place, even if we eliminate a possible magic lantern among the
conjurer’s appurtenances, are enough to account for what Cellini saw.
He was credulous; he was superstitious.”
Sir David Brewster, who quotes Cellini’s narrative in his _Natural
Magic_, explains that the demons seen in the Colosseum “were not
produced by any influence upon the imaginations of the spectators,
but were actual optical phantasms, or the images of pictures or
objects produced by one or more concave mirrors or lenses. A fire
is lighted and perfumes and incense are burnt, in order to create a
ground for the images, and the beholders are rigidly confined within
the pale of the magic circle. The concave mirror and the objects
presented to it having been so placed that the persons within the
circle could not see the aerial image of the objects by the rays
directly reflected from the mirror, the work of deception was ready
to begin. The attendance of the magician upon his mirror was by no
means necessary. He took his place along with the spectators within
the magic circle. The images of the devils were all distinctly formed
in the air immediately above the fire, but none of them could be seen
by those within the circle.
“The moment, however, the perfumes were thrown into the fire to
produce smoke, the first wreath of smoke that rose through the place
of one or more of the images would reflect them to the eyes of the
spectators, and they would again disappear if the wreath was not
followed by another. More and more images would be rendered visible
as new wreaths of smoke arose, and the whole group would appear at
once when the smoke was uniformly diffused over the place occupied by
the images.”
Again, the magician may have been aided by a confederate amid the
ruins, who manipulated a magic lantern, or some device of the kind.
The magician himself may have been provided with a box fitted up with
a concave mirror, the lights and figures of {16} the demons. The
assertion of the boy that he saw demons skipping in front of him,
etc., would be accounted for by the magic box being carried with them.
Says the _Encyclopaedia Britannica_, in speaking of Cellini’s
adventure: “The existence of a camera at this latter date (middle
of sixteenth century) is a fact, for the instrument is described by
Baptista Porta, the Neapolitan philosopher, in the _Magia Naturalis_
(1558). And the doubt how magic lantern effects could have been
produced in the fourteenth century, when the lantern itself is
alleged to have been invented by Athanasius Kircher in the middle of
the seventeenth century, is set at rest by the fact that glass lenses
were constructed at the earlier of these dates,—Roger Bacon, in his
_Discovery of the Miracles of Art, Nature and Magic_ (about 1260),
writing of glass lenses and perspectives so well made as to give good
telescopic and microscopic effects, and to be useful to old men and
those who have weak eyes.”
Chaucer, in the _House of Fame_, Book III, speaks of “appearances
such as the subtil tregetours perform at feasts”—images of hunting,
falconry and knights jousting, with the persons and objects
instantaneously disappearing.
Later on Nostradamus conjured up a vision of the future king of
France in a magic mirror, for the benefit of Marie de Medeci. This
illusion was effected by mirrors adroitly concealed amid hanging
draperies.
In the sixteenth century conjurers wandered from place to place,
exhibiting their tricks at fairs, in barns, and at the castles of
noblemen. They were little more than strolling gypsies or vagabonds.
Reginald Scott, in his _Discoverie of Witchcraft_ (1584), enumerates
some of the stock feats of these mountebanks. The list includes,
“swallowing a knife; burning a card and reproducing it from the
pocket of a spectator; passing a coin from one pocket to another;
converting money into counters, or counters into money; conveying
money into the hand of another person; making a coin pass through a
table or vanish from a handkerchief; tying a knot and undoing it ‘by
the power of words’; taking beads from a string, the ends of which
are held fast by another person; making a coin to pass from one box
to another; turning wheat into flour ‘by the power of {17} words’;
burning a thread and making it whole again; pulling ribbons from
the mouth; thrusting a knife into the head of a man; putting a ring
through the cheek, and cutting off a person’s head and restoring it
to its former position.”
Conjuring with cups and balls belongs to this list.
[Illustration: EIGHTEENTH CENTURY CONJURER PERFORMING THE
CUP-AND-BALL TRICK.
(From an Old Print, Ellison Collection.)]
The conjurer of the sixteenth century, and even of later date,
wore about his waist a sort of bag, called _gibécière_, from its
resemblance to a game bag, ostensibly to hold his paraphernalia.
While delving into this bag for various articles to be used in his
tricks, the magician succeeded in making substitutions and secretly
getting possession of eggs, coins, balls, etc. It was a very
clumsy device, but indispensable for an open-air {18} performer,
who usually stood encircled by the spectators. Finally, the
suspicious-looking _gibécière_ was abandoned by all save strolling
mountebanks, and a table with a long cloth substituted. This table
concealed an assistant, who made the necessary transformations
required in the act, by means of traps and other devices. Comus,
the elder, in the eighteenth century, abandoned the long table
covers and the concealed assistant for the _servante_. But his
immediate competitors still adhered to the draped tables, and a whole
generation of later conjurers, among whom may be mentioned Comte,
Bosco and Phillippe, followed their example. Robert-Houdin struck the
keynote of reform in 1844. He sarcastically called the suspiciously
draped table a _boite à compère_ (wooden confederate).
Conjurers in the seventeenth century were frequently known as _Hocus
Pocus_. These curious words first occur in a pamphlet printed in
1641, in which the author, speaking of the sights of Bartholomew
fair, mentions “_Hocus Pocus_, with three yards of tape or ribbon in
his hand, showing his art of legerdemain.” The seventeenth century is
the age of the strolling mountebank, who performed wherever he could
get an audience—in the stable, barnyard, street or fair. From him to
the prestidigitateur of the theatre is a long step, but no longer
than from the barnstorming actor to the artist of the well-appointed
playhouse. There is evolution in everything. It was not until the
eighteenth century that conjuring became a legitimate profession.
This was largely owing to the fact that men of gentle birth, well
versed in the science of the age, took up the magic wand, and gave
the art dignity and respectability.
It was not until the eighteenth century that natural magic was
shorn of charlatanism, but even then the great Pinetti pretended
to the occult in his exhibition of so-called “second sight.” He
always avoided the Papal States, taking warning from the fate of
Cagliostro. Magic and spiritism were in bad odor in the dominions
of the Pope. Towards the middle of the century we hear of Jonas,
Carlotti, Katerfelto, Androletti, Philadelphia, Rollin, Comus I and
II. Comus II was famous for coining hard words. He advertised in
London, “various uncommon experiments with his Enchanted Horologium,
Pyxidees Literarum, {19} and many curious operations in Rhabdology,
Steganography and Phylacteria, with many wonderful performances on
the grand Dodecahedron, also Chartomantic Deceptions and Kharamatic
Operations. To conclude with the performance of the Teretopaest
Figure and Magical House; the like never seen in this kingdom before;
and will astonish every beholder.” These magical experiments were
doubtless very simple. What puzzled the spectators must have been the
names of the tricks.
Rollin, a Frenchman, after accumulating a fortune, purchased the
chateau of Fontenoy-aux-Roses, in the department of the Seine. He was
denounced under the Red Terror, and suffered death by the guillotine,
in 1793. When the warrant for his execution was read to him, he
remarked, with a smile, “That is the first paper I cannot conjure
away.”
III.
I now come to the Count Edmond de Grisy, Pinetti’s great rival in the
field of conjuring.
The duel for supremacy between these eminent magicians is told in the
chapter on Pinetti. The father of De Grisy, the Count de Grisy, was
killed at the storming of the Tuilleries, while defending the person
of his king, Louis XVI, from the mob. Young De Grisy was in Paris at
the time, and, profiting by the disorders in the capital, was enabled
to pass the barriers and reach the small family domain in Languedoc.
Here he dug up a hundred louis, which his father had concealed for
any unforseen accident; to this money he added some jewels left
by his mother. With this modest sum, he proceeded to Florence,
where he studied medicine, graduating as a physician at the age of
twenty-seven. He became a professional magician, and had an adventure
at Rome which is well worth relating. He was requested to perform
before Pius VII, and ransacked his brains to devise a trick worthy of
a Pope. On the day before the mystic séance he happened to be in the
shop of a prominent watchmaker, when a lackey came in to ask if His
Eminence the Cardinal de ⸺’s watch was repaired. {20}
“It will not be ready until this evening,” answered the watchmaker.
“I will do myself the honor of personally carrying it to your master.”
The lackey retired.
“That is a handsome watch you have there,” said De Grisy.
“Yes,” replied the jeweler, “it is valued at more than ten thousand
francs. It was made by the celebrated Bréguet. Strangely enough, the
other day I was offered a similar timepiece, by the same artist, for
one thousand francs.”
“Who was he?” asked the Count.
“A young prodigal and gambler, belonging to a noble family, who is
now reduced to selling his family jewels.”
Like a flash of lightning, a scheme for working a splendid
mystification passed through De Grisy’s mind. He nonchalantly said:
“Where is this young rake to be found?”
“In a gaming house, which he never quits.”
“Well, then, I will buy this masterpiece of Bréguet’s. Have the
kindness to purchase it for me, and engrave upon it the Cardinal’s
coat-of-arms, so that it will be a replica of His Eminence’s
chronometer.”
The jeweler, assured of De Grisy’s discretion and honor, though
probably suspecting the use to which the timepiece would be
subjected, immediately left his shop, and returned after a little
while with the gambler’s watch.
“Here it is,” he cried. “To-night I shall have it ready for you.”
At the appointed hour he brought the two watches for De Grisy’s
inspection. They were facsimiles. The conjurer took his purchase,
and the next day appeared at the pontifical palace, where a most
distinguished audience greeted him. The Pope sat on a raised dais;
near him were the cardinals in their brilliant robes of crimson.
After performing a series of magical feats, De Grisy came to his
_pièce de résistance_. The difficulty was to obtain the loan of the
Cardinal’s watch, and that without asking him directly for it. To
succeed the conjurer had recourse to a ruse. At his {21} request
several watches were offered to him, but he returned them as not
suited to the experiment.
“I desire a timepiece that will be easily identified. I should prefer
one of rather large size,” said De Grisy.
“Cardinal,” said His Holiness, “oblige me by lending your watch to M.
de Grisy.”
With great reluctance the Cardinal de ⸺ handed his precious
chronometer to the conjurer. It seems he set great value on its
exaggerated size, alleging, with considerable show of reason, that
the works acted better in a large case.
In order to prove the solidity and excellence of the chronometer, De
Grisy let it fall to the ground. A cry of alarm arose on all sides.
The Cardinal, pale with rage, bounded from his chair, exclaiming:
“This is a sorry jest, sir!”
“Do not be alarmed, monsignor,” said De Grisy, “the watch will escape
scathless from its many trials.” He handed the broken timepiece to
the Cardinal. “Do you recognize this as your watch?”
The prelate gazed anxiously at the coat-of-arms engraved inside of
the case, and replied, with a profound sigh:
“Yes, that is my watch.”
“You are certain of it?”
“Quite certain! But I seriously doubt your power to restore it.”
“We shall see!” said the conjurer.
De Grisy’s assistant now brought in a brass mortar and pestle. The
watch was cast into the mortar and pounded to atoms. Some magic
powder was poured into the receptacle and a torch applied. There
was a detonation, followed by a cloud of smoke. The spectators
were invited to examine the ingot of gold—all that remained of the
precious chronometer. Pius VII peered curiously into the mortar.
De Grisy, seizing the opportunity, adroitly popped the duplicate
timepiece into a pocket of the Pope’s robe. At the proper moment
he pretended to pass the ingot into the pontiff’s pocket, which
resulted in the discovery of the Cardinal’s watch, made whole again.
This clever trick created a great sensation in Rome, and drew crowds
to De Grisy’s performances. Poor De Grisy seemed doomed to {22}
misfortune. His young son was killed accidentally by a spectator,
during an exhibition of the pistol trick at Strasburg. A real bullet
got mixed up with the false bullets, and was loaded into the weapon.
De Grisy was tried and convicted of “homicide through imprudence,”
and sentenced to six months’ imprisonment, during which time his
wife died. On his release, he assumed the name of Torrini, which was
that of his brother-in-law and faithful assistant. He retired to the
provinces of France, and never appeared again in the large cities. He
died a brokenhearted man at Lyons.
Torrini was a skillful performer with cards, as Robert-Houdin
testifies. He invented a trick which he called “The Blind Man’s
Game of Piquet.” While blindfolded he would play piquet and defeat
adepts at the game. This trick was one of the features of his
entertainments, and always gained him great applause. The secret
consisted in substituting a prepared pack for the ordinary pack
used. After the spectator had shuffled the cards and handed them to
Torrini to cut, the conjurer would rest his hand momentarily upon
the pack, while he made some observation to his opponent. Then it
was that the substitution was artfully effected by means of a “magic
box,” which the prestidigitateur had concealed in the sleeve of his
coat. Pressure upon the table caused a spring in the box to shoot
out a prepared pack of cards, while a pair of pincers at the same
time seized the recently shuffled pack and drew it up into the hidden
receptacle. This ingenious piece of apparatus Torrini had obtained
from a gambler named Zilbermann.
While attempting to cheat an opponent, the apparatus had hung fire,
and Zilbermann was detected _in flagrante delicto_. A duel was the
result, and Zilbermann was mortally wounded. He sent for Torrini,
whose conjuring abilities he greatly admired, and presented him with
the box. Soon afterwards he died.
Torrini never used the apparatus except in his conjuring
performances. He was a man of honor and not a _chevalier d’industrie_.
{23}
THE CHEVALIER PINETTI.
“The Age of Romance has not ceased; it never ceases; it does not, if
we will think of it, so much as very sensibly decline.”—CARLYLE: The
_Diamond Necklace_.
I.
Paris! Time—the latter half of the eighteenth century!
Louis XVI is on the throne of France, relieving the ennui of court
etiquette by working at locksmithing. His beautiful consort, Marie
Antoinette, amuses herself playing at dairy-farming, _à̱ la_ Watteau,
in the gardens of the little Trianon. Dr. Guillotin, as yet, has
not even dreamed of that terrible machine of wood and steel to
be called by his name. Danton, Marat and Robespierre—the “bloody
triumvirate”—are unknown to fame.
It is the age of powder and patches, enormous hoop-skirts,
embroidered coats, lace ruffles, cocked hats, silk stockings and
swords. Gentlemen meet and exchange snuff boxes; fight duels at
times, despite the royal edict; indulge in grandiose gallantries.
Noblemen in their coaches-and-four, on their way to Versailles (which
to them is heaven on earth), drive recklessly through the narrow
streets of the capital, splashing the pedestrians with mud from the
kennels, and knocking down citizens with impunity. The aristocracy
live to be amused.
_Vive la bagatelle!_ is the watchword of the gentle born, and when
the Chevalier Pinetti, knight of the German Order of Merit of St.
Philippe, comes to town, there is a grand rush for seats at the
theatre to see him perform. The Chevalier is the greatest conjurer
of the age, also a learned student of physics and member of various
scientific bodies in France, England and Germany. {24}
I have in my possession an old print, picked up in Paris, a portrait
of the Chevalier. This picture is an allegorical affair. Two winged
cupids are depicted placing the bust of Pinetti in the Temple of
Arts. Strewn about the place are various instruments used in physics
and mathematics. The motto appended to this curious print is as
follows: _Des genies placent le buste de M. le Professeur Pinetti
dans le temple des arts, au milieu des instruments de physique et de
mathematique_. {25}
[Illustration: PINETTI]
At Versailles the Chevalier is received with acclaim. His “shirt
trick” produces a great sensation. Imagine whisking the shirt off a
gentleman’s back without disturbing the rest of his clothing. But of
that, anon! The “second-sight” of the Chevalier’s spouse savors of
the supernatural; and his “ring and fish” feat is just too wonderful
for anything. In short, the conjurer is voted to be very amusing;
therefore, he should be patronized.
Pinetti was the prince of prestidigitateurs of the eighteenth
century. His life reads like a romance. After a brilliant,
pyrotechnic career, he faded out into darkness. I have gathered my
facts concerning him from old French and German brochures. Little or
nothing is known about his ancestry, his youth and early experiences.
He may have purposely guarded the secret of his origin, being
inordinately boastful. He thoroughly understood how to avail himself
of all the arts of the toilet to appear much younger than, according
to his contemporaries, he must have been in reality.
It is believed that he first saw the light of day in 1750,
in Orbitello, a small fortified town of about three thousand
inhabitants, lying in the foothills of what was then the Grand Duchy
of Tuscany.
He is first heard of while traveling through the provinces of
Germany, in 1783. In 1784 he appeared in Paris, where he gave a
series of performances, and exhibited several times before the
court of Louis XVI with distinguished success. At this time the
public showed a marked predilection for all kinds of mystical and
inexplicable exhibitions, which had been awakened by the performances
of various adventurers, like Cagliostro, St. Germain and Mesmer.
Pinetti thoroughly understood how to make the most of this bent of
the public mind, and succeeded in setting Paris in ecstasy, as well
as becoming himself a model for all contemporary and succeeding
necromancers, for a long time. Though without fine or regular
features, his physiognomy possessed much distinction; while his
manners were excellent. It is probable, however, that the latter were
acquired rather than innate; for extremely bad taste is betrayed
by his frequently wearing on the stage the uniform of a general,
decorated with {26} numerous orders. This is an oddity with a fatal
suggestion of charlatanism. He was given to vaunting, and was in no
wise careful to adhere to the truth in communications regarding his
magical art. A vicious trait of his character was his readiness to
adopt the most contemptible measures to free himself of the rivalry
of another; and this unworthy characteristic undoubtedly led to his
ultimate downfall.
II.
Pinetti’s repertory was very extended. However interesting it might
be to pass in review the whole series of his feats, I must here limit
myself to a few, which appear typical of him and of his public.
There was first the wonderful automaton known as “The Grand Sultan,”
also called “The clever little Turk,” which was about forty
centimeters in height, and which struck a bell with a hammer, or
nodded and shook his head, in answer to questions propounded. “The
golden head and the rings” was as follows: In a glass, the bottom of
which was covered with coins, a previously shown, massive head was
placed. A cover was then placed on the glass. The head answered yes
or no to inquiries, or counted numbers by leaping in the glass. In
a second glass borrowed rings were laid, which moved in unison with
the head, as though by sympathy. The “Clever Swan” was put into a
vessel of water, and varied its course according to the will of the
onlooker. Moreover, when a spectator had drawn a card from a pack
of inscribed cards, it spelled the word written thereon, by moving
toward the appropriate letters, which were printed on strips of
cardboard hung about the vessel.
A kind of sympathetic action is shown in the following experiment.
A lighted lamp was deposited on a table. As soon as a spectator,
stationed at a considerable distance, blew through a reed, the lamp
was immediately extinguished. Another: a live dove was fastened, by
means of two ribbons about its neck, to two opposite columns. On
the instant when a picture of the dove, or even the shadow of the
suspended bird, was pierced by a sword, the dove itself was beheaded,
although it had not been disturbed, and the severed and still
bleeding head, and the rest {27} of the body, fell separately to the
ground. This experiment, called “Theophrastus Paracelsus,” recalls an
old superstition, namely, that evil can be wrought upon a person by
injury to a picture of him, accompanied by a spoken incantation. It
is the so-called “Picture charm.”
Fettering and binding experiments were shown, but of a simpler nature
than modern ones. To each leg of the magician was fastened a ring,
and through each ring an iron chain was passed, its ends locked on a
pillar. “The Prisoner” seemed aided by some external power to release
himself, for in a very short time he was free from his bonds. More
difficult was another experiment, wherein a chain was fastened by a
strip of cloth directly about the leg, and secured to the pillar; but
here also, a half minute sufficed the “Galley Slave” to free himself
of the shackles. The most pleasing was the following trick: Pinetti
allowed both thumbs to be tied together with a cord, and his hands,
so bound, to be covered with a hat; hardly was this done than he
stretched out his right hand, seized a flask of wine and drank to the
health of the person who had tied him, and tossed the emptied glass
to the ceiling, whence it fell as a ball of finely-cut paper. At the
same instant, he allowed the hat to fall, and displayed his hands,
still as closely bound as at the beginning of the experiment.[6]
Also, the well-known trick, in which several borrowed rings are
passed over two ribbon bands, the ends of which are knotted together
and held by some of the spectators; nevertheless the rings can be
drawn off without severing the ribbons. This was hardly new, but
merely a variation of a trick described in 1690, in a work by Ozanam,
in his _Récréations Mathematiques_, and exhibited by the jugglers
of that time under the name of “My Grandmother’s Rose Wreath.” They
made use of small balls, strung on two cords, from which they were
withdrawn, notwithstanding that the cords were held by strangers.
To-day this trick is explained in most books of games and amusements,
which fact does not hinder the public from being quite as much
astounded when the feat is performed _à̱ la_ Pinetti, with rings or a
watch, accompanied by clever patter. {28}
[6] There is nothing new under the sun. A Japanese
conjurer, named Ten-Ichi, at the present writing, is
creating a sensation in our vaudeville theatres with this
same thumb-tying trick.
[Illustration: PINETTI AND THE DOVE. (From an Old Print.)]
Pinetti’s magical bouquet was a very pretty trick. In a vase were
placed the dry, leafless stems of a bunch of flowers, tied together.
At the magician’s command, leaves, flowers and fruit appeared,
transforming the bouquet into a thing of beauty; but all its splendor
disappeared again at the command of the performer. His feat of the
“recovered ring” was as follows: A ring was borrowed from a lady and
fired from a pistol into a casket, which had been previously shown
empty and devoid of preparation. When the casket was opened, after
the shot was fired, a dove was seen within, holding in its bill the
ring. But, in addition, the pretty bird knew precisely the possessor
of the ring, for it shook its head in rotation at each lady to whom
the trinket did not belong. When the owner appeared, the dove {29}
voluntarily presented the ring to her in its beak. In Naples, where
Pinetti’s theatre was situated directly on the sea shore, he varied
the trick by firing the pistol loaded with the ring out of the
window. On opening the casket a large fish was seen, bearing the ring
in its mouth.
Another clever experiment was the mechanical bird, which, when set
upon a flask, fluttered its wings and whistled any favorite melody
called for by the audience, also blowing out a lighted candle and
immediately relighting it. It would accomplish these feats just as
well when removed from the flask to a table, or when held in the
performer’s hand upon any part of the stage. The sounds were produced
by a “confederate who imitated song birds after Rossignol’s method,
by aid of the inner skin of an onion in the mouth, and speaking
trumpets directed the sounds to whatever position was occupied by the
bird.” Though the two last described feats were the most celebrated
of Pinetti’s masterpieces, the most remarkable, without doubt, was
the one he called “The stolen shirt.” In spite of its somewhat
unseemly appearance, it was shown before the king and his family,
and consisted of this: A gentleman from the audience, not in league
with the performer, came upon the stage and, at Pinetti’s request,
unfastened the buttons of his shirt at the neck and cuffs, and
Pinetti, with only a few movements of his hand drew the shirt from
his body, though the gentleman had not removed a single article of
his clothing.
[Illustration: PINETTI’S CARD TRICK.]
Pinetti eventually revealed the process by which this surprising
result was obtained. He was moved to do so, because all those who
saw the trick performed in the Theatre des Menus-Plaisirs held the
conviction that the other party to it was in collusion with him. The
public was not to be blamed for this erroneous conclusion, for not
only at that time, but much later, many of the astonishing feats
of the magician were effected through the complicity of assistants
seated among the audience. Such confederates were called by the
French, _Compères_ and _Commères_, which translated into the vulgar
vernacular, stand for “pals,” “cronies.” These gentlemen brought
articles, of which the magician possessed duplicates, and loaned
them—apparently as unrelated spectators—when such articles were asked
for in {30} the course of the experiments. Robert-Houdin ended this
régime of confederacy. When he asked for the loan of an article, he
genuinely borrowed it, and exchanged it for a substitute by sleight
of hand. This is the modern method. The following is Pinetti’s
explanation of the shirt trick: “The means of performing this trick
are the following—only observing that the clothes of the person
whose shirt is to be pulled off be wide and easy: Begin by making
him pull off his stock and unbuttonning his {31} shirt at the neck
and sleeves, afterwards tie a little string in the buttonhole of the
left sleeve; then, passing your hand behind his back, pull the shirt
out of his breeches and slip it over his head; then, pulling it out
before in the same manner, you will leave it on his stomach; after
that, go to the right hand and pull the sleeve down, so as to have it
all out of the arm; the shirt being then all of a heap, as well in
the right sleeve as before the stomach, you are to make use of this
little string fastened to the buttonhole of the left sleeve to get
back the sleeve that must have slipt up, and to pull the whole shirt
out that way. To hide your way of operating from the person whom you
unshift, and from the assembly, you may cover his head with a lady’s
cloak, holding a corner of it in your teeth. In order to be more at
your ease, you may mount on a chair and do the whole operation under
the cloak.”
III.
Pinetti’s explanation of the shirt trick was contained in a work
entitled _Amusements Physiques, Paris, 1784_. An edition in English
of this book was published in London in the same year. It was called:
“Amusements in physics, and various entertaining experiments,
invented and executed at Paris and the various courts of Europe by
the Chevalier M. Jean-Joseph Pinetti Willedale de Merci, Knight of
the German Order of Merit of St. Philip, professor of mathematics and
natural philosophy, pensioned by the Court of Prussia, patronized
by all the Royal Family of France, aggregate of the Royal Academy
of Sciences and Belle-Lettres of Bordeaux, etc.” As an exposé of
conjuring feats in general this work was an imposition on the public.
It was intended to mislead the reader. In spite of the high-sounding
title of the work, it contained nothing outside of the solution
of the “stolen shirt” mystery. There was no explanation of any
trick upon which Pinetti set value, but merely experiments already
published in preceding books on the juggler’s art, and which belonged
to a long-past time, consisting mostly of chemical experiments and
childish diversions. {32}
This unworthy publication, and Pinetti’s custom of speaking of
himself as endowed with preternatural powers, aroused an adversary
in the person of M. Henri Decremps, of the Museum of Paris, an
accomplished and enthusiastic lover of the art of magic. From him
appeared a book entitled, _La Magie blanche dévoilée_, Paris, 1784,
addressed, as he declares in the preface, not to the great public,
since “the world loves to be deceived, and would rather believe
the fairy tales of the imposter than the unvarnished truth of his
opponent,” but to the real lovers of an entertaining art. As this
work set forth the real explanation of Pinetti’s wonders, one may
imagine what reception it met with from him and his admiring public.
Characteristic of Pinetti is the manner in which he sought revenge
on Decremps. In one of his performances he deplored the fact that an
ignorant imposter, solely with the intent of injuring him (Pinetti),
sought to reveal mysteries which his intelligence was insufficient to
grasp. All knew to whom he referred, who had the slightest knowledge
of Decremps. And what now ensued? Hardly had Pinetti finished
speaking, when a shabbily-dressed and unprepossessing individual
arose, assailed Pinetti with abuse and bade him take care, he would
be fully exposed. The audience, indignant at the disturbance of an
amusing performance, jeered the man from whom it proceeded, and
made preparation to expel the poor devil. Here intervened, however,
the “good” Pinetti. In conciliatory, kindly fashion, he accompanied
his assailant to the door, ostentatiously presenting him also with
several louis d’or as indemnification for the harshness shown him.
[Illustration:
_L’Art de faire les Portraits à la Silhouette en Miniature à la
manière angloise, à l’aide de la Chambre obscure._
Chap. VIII, pag. 55.
H. DECREMPS, Né à Beduer en Querci, le 15. Avril. 1746.
Il a su démasquer, dans ses heureux Écrits,
Du grand art de jongler les trop nombreux Apôtres.
Il eut des envieux, mais encor plus d’amis,
Et mérita d’avoir & les uns & les autres.
_Par M. Sal_ * * *.
M. DECREMPS]
Needless to explain, the expelled intruder was not the author of
the book in question, but genuinely a “poor devil” who played his
part in the comedy, for a money consideration. However, Decremps was
an able man, who could act with as much shrewdness as energy. In
1785 he followed his first book with a second, explaining Pinetti’s
newest tricks, the self-playing organ, artificial snakes and birds,
chess-playing automatons, ascending balloons in human shape,
perpetual motion, learned animals, automatic flute playing, etc.
The handling of the topic is much more thorough than in the first
volume, and the matter interestingly set forth. It is in the form of
letters of travel; the author {34} in company with a Mr. Hill, an
Englishman, traverses distant lands, where remarkable and astonishing
things are met with, and the causes and construction which bring
about their wonderful results, are ascertained and explained.
They reach the Cape of Good Hope, where, amid a savage population,
with many arts of refined civilization, they encounter a wizard,
who, in a bombastic declaration, extols his own wonder-working
powers. In the course of the narrative these feats are described and
their operation explained. The behavior of the wizard is amusingly
depicted. How strenuously he denies the truth of the solution of his
wonders found by the strangers; how he endeavors, by means of every
artifice, to hoodwink the public; how he first strives, through
cunning and bribery, then through abuse and injury, to rid himself
of his dangerous adversaries—in all this is Pinetti’s character so
intimately pictured that we cannot err in supposing this entire
portion of the book directed solely against him. And what name does
he give the wizard? He calls him “Pilferer.” Decidedly, Decremps
could be severe.
These books were translated into English in 1785, and published as a
single volume, under the title of _The Conjurer Unmasked_, etc.
Pinetti, who was an original genius, sought to overcome the effects
of Decremps’ revelations in other ways besides chicanery. He
invented new illusions, performed his old tricks with greater dash
and brilliancy, and added new appointments to his _mise en scène_,
to dazzle and overcome the spectators. His patter was unceasing and
convincing. But now was heard the distant thunder of the approaching
social upheaval—the French Revolution. The political horizon was full
of black clouds. The people of Paris began to desert the theatres for
clubs and cafés, there to enter upon political discussions. Pinetti,
seeing the audiences of his Temple of Magic dwindling away, packed up
his apparatus and went to England, which is the immediate aim of all
fugitives from France.
During his stay in London he made the following announcement in the
newspapers: “The Chevalier Pinetti and his consort will exhibit most
wonderful, stupendous and absolutely {35} inimitable, mechanical,
physical and philosophical pieces, which his recent deep scrutiny in
these sciences, and assiduous exertion, have enabled him to invent
and construct; among which Chevalier Pinetti will have the special
honor and satisfaction of exhibiting various experiments, of new
discovery, no less curious than seemingly incredulous, particularly
that of Mme. Pinetti being seated in one of the front boxes with a
handkerchief over her eyes and guessing at everything imagined and
proposed to her by any person in the company.” Here we have the first
mention of the “Second-Sight” trick, which Robert-Houdin re-invented
sixty-one years later, and which Robert Heller, not many years ago,
by using electricity combined with verbal signals, made into such an
astonishing feat of magic. The teachings of Mesmer and the so-called
sorcery of Cagliostro, evidently suggested the idea of this pretended
clairvoyance to Pinetti. Truly was the Chevalier an original and
creative genius. His repertoire consisted almost entirely of his
own inventions, and eclipsed those of contemporary conjurers. His
rope-tying experiments were the prototypes for the cabinet evolutions
of modern mediums.
IV.
Late in the year 1769, Pinetti appeared in Hamburg and exhibited with
great success in the “Drillhause,” where Degabriel and Philadelphia
had played previously. From there he went to the principal cities of
Germany and arrived at Berlin, where, in the then “Doebbelin’schen
Theatre,” in the Behrenstrasse, he produced his “Amusements
Physiques,” and soon became the avowed idol of the public.
In August, 1796, he appeared in Hamburg, at the French Theatre, on
the Drehbahn, where his receipts were considerable. Such was not
the case, however, in Altona, whose inhabitants were distinguished
by lack of interest in any manifestation of his art. He gave there
three exhibitions, which terminated with two empty houses. In Bremen,
whither he next turned, the public was even more indifferent than
in Altona, so that he abandoned the intention of performing there,
returned to Berlin and there remained for some time. {36}
Pinetti derived large profits from his entertainments. His entrance
fee was by no means low. In Hamburg and Berlin, for instance, the
price of the best places was a thaler—equivalent at present values
to about ten marks, $2.50. Pinetti saw carefully to the comfort and
pleasure of his patrons, and heightened the effect of his skill by
every available means. The eye was gratified by the splendor of
the scenic accessories. In the middle of the stage, upon a superb
carpet, stood two massive tables, which served in performance of the
experiments. They were covered with scarlet cloths, bordered with
broad stripes of dark velvet, richly embroidered in gold and silver.
Further in the background stood a larger and a smaller table, with
the same decorations, and with relatively slender and elaborately
carved legs. Close to the rear of the stage, with a cover extending
to the carpet, was a very long table which was set forth with
magnificent candelabra and brilliant apparatus. The above-mentioned
tables were not moved from their places. In the middle of the
stage, hung from the ceiling an immense chandelier of crystal, with
countless candles. The artist made his entrance and exit through
silken hangings.
As in Paris, so also in Berlin, Pinetti found an adversary, in the
person of Kosmann, professor of physics, who in daily and periodical
publications sought to explain Pinetti’s experiments. These
elucidations were collected, bound together and published in Berlin
in the year 1797. The English translation of the title is as follows:
_Chevalier Pinetti’s Recreations in Physics, or Explanation of His
Tricks_. As with Decremps, so fared it with Kosmann. His explanations
did not meet with public accord, and the contemporary press
denominated the two authors “who sought to belittle Pinetti’s skill,”
as mere apprentices compared with the latter, and their expositions
“shallow and unsatisfactory.” Naturally! The laity invariably form
a false conception of the nature of the art of magic. They suppose
the most complicated mechanism in the apparatus which the artist
uses, and overestimate the manual skill of the performer; and when
their ability is insufficient to explain matters after their own
fashion, they prefer to endow the performer with preternatural power
rather than accept the “shallow” elucidations of {37} “ignorant”
expounders. They do not realize that every trick is only what the
artist is able to make it, and that the simplest illusion may take
an imposing aspect through the accessories thrown about it and the
manner in which it is presented.
Whatever opinion the laity might have of these works, their value
was in no wise lessened for the instructed. Robert-Houdin, an
incontestable connoisseur, as well as a “classical” witness, calls
the work of M. Decremps, _White Magic Unveiled_—the first edition
of which could not have been unknown to the Berlin professor—“an
excellent work.”
V.
At the beginning of the carnival of 1798, Pinetti appeared in Naples,
and saw the whole city crowding to his performances.
Among the constant visitors to his theatre (on the strand) was
numbered a young French nobleman, Count de Grisy, who had settled
in Naples as a physician, and was a welcome guest in the most
distinguished circles of the town. A passionate lover of the art
of magic, he succeeded in finding the key to a large portion of
Pinetti’s experiments, and amused himself in the closest circles of
his intimates, by repeating them. His ability became generally known,
and gained for him a kind of celebrity; he was invited to perform in
the most aristocratic salons, but through modesty seldom accepted.
Finally his fame came to the ears of Pinetti, who was so much the
more chagrined because of the fact that people of fashion, who had
at first thronged his theatre, now were deserting him. Nevertheless,
he listened with apparent pleasure to the reports given him of De
Grisy’s skill, and sought to gain the acquaintance of the young
physician. He frankly proffered his friendship, initiated De Grisy
into his mysteries, and showed him the arrangement of his stage. The
familiarity which Pinetti openly and intentionally displayed towards
him might have displeased the young man under other circumstances,
but his passion for magic and the persuasive eloquence which Pinetti
employed to arouse his ambition, made him blind to conduct, which,
{38} in the mind of one more versed in men, might have awakened
suspicion.
So Pinetti succeeded, finally, in overcoming De Grisy’s timidity
in regard to a public appearance. He repeated the most flattering
assurances of the latter’s skill, and urged him to give a performance
for the benefit of the poor of Naples. He would, declared Pinetti,
attract a more distinguished audience than he himself could hope to
do; and so, De Grisy, who had already earned the gratitude of the
poor, would become their greatest benefactor in all the city. Pinetti
would himself make all previous arrangements most carefully, and
would, moreover, hold himself in readiness, behind the scenes, to
come to the young performer’s assistance, if required. De Grisy at
last gave reluctant consent. Fortune seemed to favor him, moreover,
for the King signified his intention to attend in company with his
entire court.
August 20, 1798, this extraordinary exhibition took place. The house
was packed. The royal family received the young French emigrant
with tokens of favor and sympathy. De Grisy, confident of success,
was in the happiest mood, but in his very first experiment a bitter
disillusion awaited him. A secret confederate, posted by Pinetti,
had loaned a ring to carry out the already-described trick, “The
Recovered Ring,” which was properly found in the mouth of the great
fish. Conscious of the success of this loudly-applauded feat, De
Grisy bowed his thanks, when an angry remonstrance was heard from
the person who had loaned the ring. This man declared that in lieu
of his costly gold ring, set with diamonds, there had been returned
to him a trumpery imitation set with ordinary glass stones. A long
and painful discussion ensued, and De Grisy owed it only to his tact
that he finally extricated himself from the affair. He was not clear
himself as to whether the ring had somehow been changed, or whether
the assistant played a role from some secret motive.
He proceeded to the performance of his next experiment with less
concern, in that no secret confederate was needed. He approached the
King’s box and asked him to do him the honor of drawing a card from
a pack he tendered. The King complied with much graciousness; but
scarcely had he looked at it than {39} he flung it to the ground
with every mark of his displeasure. De Grisy, confounded, picked
up the card, and read on it a scandalous insult to the king, in
Pinetti’s handwriting! An attempt to explain and clear himself was
checked by an imperative gesture from the King. The betrayed man, who
now understood the situation, distracted with rage, rushed behind the
scenes with the intent to kill his deceitful friend. Like a maniac he
traversed every portion of the house, but the Chevalier Pinetti had
disappeared, as though the earth had swallowed him! Wherever De Grisy
now showed himself, he was received with jeers, hisses and insults
from his audience, until he fell senseless and was borne by servants
to his house. After his rival’s removal, Pinetti appeared as though
by chance; whereupon several persons in the secret called on him to
continue the performance, to which he courteously acceded, and gained
enthusiastic plaudits.
During a violent fever which ensued, De Grisy constantly called
in his delirium for revenge on Pinetti; but the latter quitted
Naples soon after the occurrence. Poor De Grisy was socially and
professionally tabooed by the aristocracy of Naples. Pinetti’s
revenge seemed complete.
Though De Grisy thoroughly comprehended the contemptible ruse of his
opponent, he was long in uncertainty how to punish him. His first
impulse was to challenge the magician to fight a duel, but that idea
he rejected. Pinetti was not worthy of such an honor. For the purpose
of completing his restoration to health, De Grisy passed some time
in the quiet of the country, and here the thought occurred to him
to fight his betrayer with his own weapons, and, in this contest,
to either conquer or wholly abandon all ideas of revenge. He set
himself for half a year to the most assiduous study, in order to
attain perfection in the art of magic, not merely equal to Pinetti’s,
but superior to it. He improved on many of his rival’s experiments,
invented new ones, and expended his entire fortune in providing
apparatus and decorations which should cast into the shade Pinetti’s
superb appointments.
And now issued De Grisy forth to a duel, bloodless, it is true, but
none the less a struggle to the death. {40}
He learned that Pinetti had, in the meantime, visited the principal
cities of central Italy, and had just left Lucca with the view of
visiting Bologna next; later Modena, Parma, Piacenza, etc. Without
loss of time, De Grisy took his way to Modena, in order to forestall
his rival there, and debar him from any further performances. The
latter had already caused the announcement of his forthcoming
entertainments to be spread over the city, and the Modena journals
had widely advertised the speedy coming of the wonder worker,
when suddenly the exhibitions of the “Count de Grisy, the French
escamoteur,” were announced. The people crowded the house from top to
bottom. De Grisy’s success was unparalleled. Then, as the date for
Pinetti’s appearance drew near, he left the town and went to Parma.
Pinetti had no faith in De Grisy’s success, and installed himself in
the same theatre which the latter had lately quitted, in reliance
on his own celebrity. But here began that humiliating experience
which was henceforth to be his lot. The town was sated with this
species of entertainment, and the Chevalier’s house was empty.
Still, accustomed to take the highest place, he would not yield to a
“novice.” Accordingly, he directed his steps to Parma immediately,
and established himself in a theatre just opposite to De Grisy’s. In
vain! He had the mortification of seeing his house deserted, while
his rival’s was constantly filled. Nevertheless, Pinetti would not
yield, but wheresoever De Grisy went he followed.
Thus were visited, one after another, Piacenza, Cremona, Mantua,
Vicenza, Padua, and Venice, whose walls witnessed the embittered
strife of the two rivals, until Pinetti, whose most zealous
supporters were turning recreant, could blind himself no longer to
the fact that he had lost the game which he and De Grisy had been
playing. He closed his theatre and betook himself to Russia.
For a short time it seemed as though Fortune would indemnify him for
his ill luck. But, after having for so long showered her favors on
him, it now appeared that she had finally and definitely turned her
back upon him. Long and severe illness exhausted not only his vigor,
but the slender means he had saved from shipwreck. Pinetti fell into
the most abject want. A {41} nobleman in the village of Bartitschoff
in Volhynien took him in from pity. And thus, at the turn of the
century, ended the life of this richly gifted artist, who was so
wanting in nobility of spirit.
The extraordinary story of Pinetti’s downfall was told to
Robert-Houdin by De Grisy himself, and is given at length in Houdin’s
memoirs. Pinetti had married a Russian girl, the daughter of a
carriage-maker. By her he had two children. He was hardly fifty when
he died. Etienne-Gaspard Robertson when traveling in Russia met the
widow Pinetti at Bialistock. She showed him her husband’s cabinet of
physics and endeavored to sell it to him, but he did not purchase it.
However, he bought a medallion, set with diamonds, and a ring which
the Czar had presented to Pinetti. Says Robertson, in his memoirs:
“Pinetti had the audacity to ask the Russian Emperor to stand
god-father for his children at the baptismal font, and the Emperor
actually consented.”
To me this seems nothing wonderful.
Why should not the greatest conjurer of the age ask a favor of the
greatest autocrat? Both were sovereigns in their particular domain.
{42}
CAGLIOSTRO—A STUDY IN CHARLATANISM.
“Mundus vult decipi, ergo decipiatur.”—_Latin Proverb._
“The pseudo-mystic, who deceives the world because he knows that
the world wishes to be deceived, becomes an attractive subject for
psychological analysis.”—HUGO MÜNSTERBERG: _Psychology and Life_.
“Unparalleled Cagliostro! Looking at thy so attractively decorated
private theatre, wherein thou actedst and livedst, what hand
but itches to draw aside thy curtain; overhaul thy pasteboards,
paint-pots, paper-mantles, stage-lamps, and turning the whole inside
out, find _thee_ in the middle thereof!”—CARLYLE: _Miscellaneous
Essays_.
I.
In the summer of 1893, I was in Paris, partly on business, partly
on pleasure. In the _Figaro_ one day, shortly after my arrival, I
read about the marvelous exhibitions of magic of M. Caroly, who
was attracting crowds to his _séances diaboliques_ at the Capucine
Theatre of the Isola Brothers. I went to see the nineteenth-century
necromancer exhibit his marvels. I saw some very clever illusions
performed during the evening, but nothing that excited my especial
interest as a devotee of the weird and wonderful, until the
prestidigitateur came to his _pièce de résistance_—the Mask of
Balsamo. That aroused my flagging attention. M. Caroly brought
forward a small table, undraped, which he placed in the center aisle
of the theatre; and then passed around for examination the mask of
a man, very much resembling a death-mask, but unlike that ghastly
_memento mori_ in the particulars that it was exquisitely modeled in
wax and artistically colored.
“Messieurs et mesdames,” said the professor of magic and mystery,
“this mask is a perfect likeness of Joseph Balsamo, Count de
Cagliostro, the famous sorcerer of the eighteenth {43} century. It
is a reproduction of a death-mask which is contained in the secret
museum of the Vatican at Rome. Behold! I lay the mask upon this table
in your midst. Ask any question you please and it will respond.”
The mask rocked to and fro with weird effect at the bidding of
the conjurer, rapping out frequent answers to queries put by the
spectators. It was an ingenious electrical trick.[7] Being already
acquainted with the secret of the surprising experiment in natural
magic, I evinced no emotion at the extraordinary behavior of the
mask. But I was intensely interested in the mask itself. Was it
indeed a true likeness of the great Cagliostro, the prince of
charlatans? I repaired to the manager’s office at the close of the
_soirée magique_, and sought an introduction to M. Caroly.
“Is monsieur an aspiring amateur who wishes to take lessons in
legerdemain?”
“No!” I replied.
“Pardon! Then monsieur is desirous of purchasing the secrets of some
of the little _jeux_?”
I replied as before in the negative. The manager shrugged his
shoulders, toyed with his ponderous watch-chain, and elevated his
eyebrows inquiringly.
“I simply wish to ascertain whether the mask of Balsamo was really
modeled from a genuine death-mask of the old-world wizard.”
“Monsieur, I can answer that question,” said the theatrical man,
“without an appeal to the artist who performed this evening. It was
taken from a likeness of the eighteenth-century sorcerer, not a
death-mask as stated, but a rare old medallion cast in the year 1785.
Unfortunately this is not in our possession.” {44}
[7] “The secret of the trick is as follows: That part of
the wood which forms the chin is replaced by a small strip
of iron, which is painted the same color as the mask, so
that it cannot be seen; an electro-magnet is let into the
top of the table, so that the cores shall be opposite the
strip of iron when the mask is laid upon the table. Contact
is made by means of a push-button somewhere in the side
scenes; the wires run under the stage, and connection is
made through the legs of the table when the legs are set on
the foreordained place.”—Hopkins’ _Magic_, etc.
I thanked the manager for his information. The story about the
death-mask in the possession of the Vatican was simply a part of
the prestidigitateur’s patter, but everything is permissible in a
conjuring séance.
I went home to the little hotel where I lodged in the historic Rue
de Beaune, a stone’s throw from the house where Voltaire died. In my
bedroom, over the carved oak mantel, was a curious old mirror set
in a tarnished gilt frame, a relic of the eighteenth century. Said
I to myself: “Would this were a ghost-glass, a veritable mirror of
Nostradamus, wherein I might conjure up a phantasmagoria of that
vanished Paris of long ago.” Possessed with this fantastic idea,
I retired to rest, closed in the crimson curtains of the antique
four-poster, and was soon wafted into the land of dreams. Strange
visions filled my brain. In the mirror I seemed to see Cagliostro
searching for the “elixir of life,” in the laboratory of the Hotel de
Strasbourg, while near him stood the Cardinal de Rohan, breathlessly
awaiting the results of the mystic operation. The red glow from the
alchemist’s furnace illumined the great necromancer with a coppery
splendor.
Cagliostro! Cagliostro! I was pursued all the next day, and for
weeks afterward, with visions of the enchanter. “Ah, wretched mask
of Balsamo,” I said to myself, “why have you bewitched me thus with
your false oleaginous smile?” I took to haunting the book-stalls and
antiquarian shops of the Quai Voltaire, in the hope of picking up
some old medallion or rare print of the arch-quack. The second-hand
literature of the world may be found here. Amid the flotsam and
jetsam of old books tossed upon this inhospitable shore of literary
endeavor many a precious Elzevir or Aldus has been picked up. My
labors were not in vain. I was fortunate in discovering a quaint
little volume, the life of Cagliostro, translated from the Italian
work printed under the auspices of the Apostolic Chamber, Rome, 1790.
It was entitled _Vie de Joseph Balsamo, Connu Sous le Nom de Comte
Cagliostro. Traduite d’après l’original italien, imprimé à la Chambre
Apostolique; enrichie de Notes curieuses, et ornée de son Portrait.
Paris et Strasbourg, 1791._ The frontispiece was an engraved portrait
of Cagliostro. Yes, here {45} was the great magician staring at me
from out the musty, faded pages of a quaint old chronicle. A world of
cunning lay revealed in the depths of his bold, gleaming eyes. His
thick lips wore a smile of Luciferian subtlety. Here, indeed, was a
study for Lavater. Here was the biography of the famous sorcerer of
the old régime, the prince of charlatans, who foretold the fall of
the Bastille, the bosom friend of the Cardinal de Rohan, and founder
of the Egyptian Rite of Freemasonry. Fascinated with the subject of
magic and magicians, I visited the Bibliothèque Nationale and dipped
into the literature on Cagliostro. Subsequently, at the British
Museum, I examined the rare brochures and old files of the Courrier
de l’Europe for information concerning the incomparable necromancer,
who made use of hypnotism, and, like Mesmer, performed many strange
feats of pseudo-magic, and made numerous cures of diseases which
baffled the medicos of the time.[8]
Goethe[9] and Catharine II. wrote plays about him; George Sand
introduced him into her novel, “The Countess of Rudolstadt;”
Alexander Dumas made him the hero of several romances; Scribe, St.
Georges, and Adam in the year 1844 brought out “Cagliostro,” a comic
opera in three acts, which was successfully performed at the Opéra
Comique, Paris; Alexander Dumas _fils_ wrote a drama in five acts
called “Joseph Balsamo” which was produced at the Odéon, March 18,
1878; and Thomas Carlyle philosophized concerning him.
[8] “Der Gros-Cophta” (a comedy in five acts). _Goethe’s
Werke_, vol. 18, Stuttgart, 1868.
[9] A superb bibliography of Cagliostro is to be found
in “Börsenblatt fürden deutschen Buchhandel,” 1904, Nos.
210–212, and 214 (Sept. 9–12, 14), pp. 7488–92, 7524–30,
7573–75. This publication is to be found in the Library of
Congress, Washington, D. C.
To understand Cagliostro, one must understand the period in which
he lived and acted his strange world-drama, its philosophical and
religious background. The arch-enchanter appeared on this mortal
scene when the times were “out of joint.” It was the latter part
of that strange, romantic eighteenth century of scepticism and
credulity. The old world like a huge Cheshire cheese was being
nibbled away from within, until little but the {46} rind was left to
tell the tale. The rotten fabric of French society, in particular,
was about to tumble down in the sulphurous flames of the Revolution,
and the very people who were to suffer most in the calamity were
doing their best to assist in the process of social and political
disintegration. The dogmas of the Church were bitterly assailed by
learned men. But the more sceptical the age, the more credulity
extant. Man begins by denying, and then doubts his doubts. Charles
Kingsley says: “And so it befell, that this eighteenth century, which
is usually held to be the most ‘materialistic’ of epochs, was in fact
a most ‘spiritualistic’ one.” The soil was well fertilized for the
coming of Cagliostro, the sower of superstition. Every variety of
mysticism appealed to the imaginative mind. There were societies of
Illuminati, Rosicrucians, and Alchemists.
[Illustration:
From a painting in the Versailles Historical Gallery
After an engraving which served as a frontis piece of Balsamo’s Life,
published in 1781
Joseph Balsamo, Known as Count Cagliostro.]
[Illustration:
MEMOIRE POUR LE COMTE DE CAGLIOSTRO, ACCUSE;
CONTRE
M. LE PROCUREUR-GENÉRAL, ACCUSATEUR;
En présence de M. le Cardinal DE ROHAN, de la Comtesse DE LA MOTTE,
et autres Co-Accusés.
M. DE CAGLIOSTRO NE DEMANDE QUE TRANQUILLITÉ ET SURETÉ; L’HOSPITALITÉ
LES LUI ASSURE. EXTRAIT _d’une Lettre écrite per M. le Comte de_
VERGENNES, _Ministre des Affaires Etrangères, à_ M. GÉRARD, _Préteur
de Strasbourg, le 13 Mars 1783_.
1786.
TITLE-PAGE OF THE DEFENSE OF CAGLIOSTRO.]
[Illustration:
VIE DE JOSEPH BALSAMO, CONNU SOUS LE NOM DE COMTE CAGLIOSTRO,
_Extraite de la Procédure instruite contre lui à Rome, en 1790_,
Traduite d’après l’original italien, imprimé à la Chambre
Apostolique; enrichie de Notes curieuses, et ornée de son Portrait.
A PARIS, Chez ONFROY, libraire, rue Saint-Victor, n^o. 11.
ET A STRASBOURG, Chez JEAN-GEORGE TREUTTEL, libraire.
1791.
TITLE-PAGE OF THE LIFE OF CAGLIOSTRO.]
Speaking of the great charlatan, the Anglo-Indian essayist Greeven
in an article published a few years ago in the {47} _Calcutta
Review_ writes: “It is not enough to say that Cagliostro posed as a
magician, or stood forth as the apostle of a mystic religion. After
all, in its mild way, our own generation puts on its evening dress
to worship at the feet of mediums, whose familiar spirits enable
them to wriggle out of ropes in cupboards, or to project cigarette
papers from the ceiling [_à la_ Madame Blavatsky]. We ride our hobby,
however, only when the whim seizes us, and, as soon as it wearies, we
break it in pieces and fling it aside with a laugh. But Cagliostro
impressed himself deeply on the history of his time. He flashed on
the world like a meteor. He carried it by storm. Princes and nobles
thronged to his ‘magic operations.’ They prostrated themselves before
him for hours. His horses and his coaches and his liveries rivaled a
king’s in magnificence. He was offered, and refused, a ducal throne.
No less illustrious a writer than the Empress of Russia deemed
him a worthy subject of her plays. Goethe made him the hero of a
famous drama. A French Cardinal and an English Lord were his bosom
companions. In an age which arrogated {48} to itself the title of
_the philosophic_, the charm of his eloquence drew thousands to his
lodges, in which he preached the mysteries of his _Egyptian ritual_,
as revealed to him by the Grand Kophta under the shadow of the
pyramids.”
II.
And now for a brief review of his life. Joseph Balsamo, the son of
Peter Balsamo and Felicia Braconieri, both of humble extraction, was
born at Palermo, on the eighth day of June, 1743. He received the
rudiments of an education at the Seminary of St. Roche, Palermo. At
the age of thirteen, according to the Inquisition biographer, he was
intrusted to the care of the Father-General of the Benfratelli, who
carried him to the Convent of that Order at Cartagirone. There he
put on the habit of a novice, and, being placed under the tuition
of the apothecary, he learned from him the first principles of
chemistry and medicine. He proved incorrigible, and was expelled
from the monastery in disgrace. Then began a life of dissipation
in the city of Palermo. He was accused of forging theatre-tickets
and a will. Finally he had to flee the city for having duped a
goldsmith named Marano of sixty pieces of gold, by promising to
assist him in unearthing a buried treasure by magical means. The
superstitious Marano entered a cavern situated in the environs of
Palermo, according to instructions given to him by the enchanter,
and discovered, not a chest full of gold, but a crowd of Balsamo’s
confederates, who, disguised as infernal spirits, administered to him
a terrible castigation. Furious at the deception, the goldsmith vowed
to assassinate the pretended sorcerer. Balsamo, however, took wing to
Messina, where he fell in with a strolling mountebank and alchemist
named Althotas, or Altotas, who spoke a variety of languages. They
traveled to Alexandria in Egypt, and finally brought up at the island
of Malta. Pinto, the Grand Master of the Knights of Malta, was a
searcher after the philosopher’s stone, an enthusiastic alchemist.
He extended a warm reception to the two adventurers, and took them
under his patronage. They remained for some time at Malta, working in
the laboratory of the deluded {49} Pinto. Eventually Althotas died,
and Balsamo went to Naples, afterwards to Rome, where he married a
beautiful girdle-maker, named Lorenza Feliciani. Together with a
swindler calling himself the Marchese d’Agliata, he had a series of
disreputable adventures in Italy, Spain, and Portugal. Unmasked at
one place, he fled in hot haste to another.
In 1776 he arrived in London. He had assumed various aliases during
the course of his life, but now he called himself the “Conte di
Cagliostro.” The title of nobility was assumed, but the name of
Cagliostro was borrowed from an uncle on his mother’s side of the
house, Joseph Cagliostro, of Messina, who was an agent or factor
of the Prince of Villafranca. His beautiful wife called herself
the “Countess Serafina Feliciani.” Cagliostro announced himself as
a worker of wonders, especially in medicine. He carried about two
mysterious substances—a red powder, known as his “Materia Prima,”
with which he transmuted baser metals into gold, and his “Egyptian
Wine,” with which he prolonged life.
He dropped hints that he was the son of the Grand-Master Pinto of
Malta and the Princess of Trebizonde. He foretold the lucky numbers
in a lottery and got into difficulty with a gang of swindlers,
which caused him to flee from England to avoid being imprisoned.
While in London he picked up, at a second-hand book-stall, the
mystic writings of an obscure spiritist, one George Coston, “which
suggested to him the idea of the Egyptian ritual”; and he got himself
initiated into a masonic lodge. Henri d’Alméras (_Cagliostro: la
Franc-Maçonnerie et l’Occultisme au XVIII siècle, Paris, 1904_)
states authoritatively that the famous charlatan received the
masonic degrees in the Esperance Lodge, April 12, 1777. This lodge,
composed mainly of French and Italian residents in London, held its
sessions at the King’s Head Tavern (Gerard Street). It was attached
to the Continental Masonic order of the Higher Observance, which
was supposed to be a continuation and perfection of the ancient
association of the Knights Templars. According to Alméras, Cagliostro
was initiated under the name of Joseph Cagliostro, Colonel of the 3d
regiment of Brandenburg. On June 2, the Grand Lodge of London gave
him his masonic patent, which is to {50} be found in the collection
of autographs of the Marquis de Chateaugiron, V. Catalogue, Paris,
1851. Cagliostro is regarded as the greatest masonic imposter of
the world. His pretentions were bitterly repudiated by the English
members of the fraternity, and many of the Continental lodges. But
the fact remains that he made thousands of dupes. As Grand Master
of the Egyptian Rite he leaped at once into fame. His swindling
operations were now conducted on a gigantic scale. He had the entrée
into the best society. According to him, freemasonry was founded
by Enoch and Elias. It was open to both sexes. Its present form,
especially with regard to the exclusion of women, is a corruption.
The true form was preserved only by the Grand Kophta, or High Priest
of the Egyptians. By him it was revealed to Cagliostro. The votaries
of any religion are admissible, subject to these conditions, (1) that
they believe in the existence of a God; (2) that they believe in the
immortality of the soul; and (3) that they have been initiated into
common Masonry. The candidate must swear an oath of secrecy, and
obedience to the Secret Superiors. It is divided into the usual three
grades of Apprentice, Fellowcraft, and Mastermason.
In this system he promised his followers “to conduct them to
_perfection_, by means of a _physical and moral regeneration_; to
enable them by the former (or physical) to find the _prime matter_,
or Philosopher’s Stone, and the _acacia_, which consolidates in man
the forces of the most vigorous youth and renders him immortal; and
by the latter (or moral) to procure them a Pantagon, which should
restore man to his primitive state of innocence, lost by original
sin.”
Cagliostro declared Moses, Elias and Christ to be the Secret
Superiors of the Order, because having “attained to such perfection
in masonry that, exalted into higher spheres, they are able to create
fresh worlds for the glory of the Lord. Each is still the head of a
secret community.”
No wonder the Egyptian Rite became popular among lovers of the
marvelous, because it promised its votaries, who should attain to
perfection, or adeptship, the power of transmuting baser metals into
gold; prolonging life indefinitely by means of {51} an elixir;
communing with the spirits of the dead; and many other necromantic
feats and experiments.
The meetings of the Egyptian Lodges were in reality spiritualistic
séances. The medium was a young boy (_pupille_) or young girl
(_colombe_) in the state of virgin innocence, “to whom power was
given over the seven spirits that surround the throne of the
divinity, and preside over the seven planets.” The Colombe would
kneel in front of a globe of clarified water which was placed upon
a table covered with a black cloth, and Cagliostro would summon the
angels of the spheres to enter the globe, whereupon the youthful
clairvoyant would behold the visions presented to view, and describe
events transpiring in distant places. “It would be hard,” says Count
Beugnot, “to believe that such scenes could have taken place in
France at the end of the eighteenth century; yet they aroused great
interest among people of importance in the Court and the town.”
In the mysticism of the twentieth century the above-mentioned form of
divination is known as “crystal gazing,” though the medium employed
is usually a ball of rock crystal, and not a globe of water such as
Cagliostro generally used. Occultism classes all such experiments
under the head of _magic mirrors_. The practice is very ancient.
The Regent d’Orléans of France experimented with the magic mirror,
as Saint Simon records. The great traveler, Lane, speaks of such
divination among the modern Egyptians by means of ink held in the
palm of the hand. Mirrors of ivory, metal, and wood coated with
gypsum have been used. As Andrew Lang puts it: “There is, in short,
a chain of examples, from the Greece of the fourth century B. C.,
to the cases observed by Dr. Mayo and Dr. Gregory in the middle of
the nineteenth century, and to those which Mrs. De Morgan wished
to explain by ‘spiritualism.’ ” In the opera “Parsifal” by Richard
Wagner, the necromancer, Klingsor, sees the approach of the young
knight in a magic mirror. In the Middle Ages the use of these mirrors
was well known. Deeply imbued with the spirit of mediævalism, Wagner
properly equipped the magician of his sublime opera with the mirror.
Max Dessoir, the German psychologist, writes as follows concerning
the magic mirror (_Monist_, Vol. I, No. 1): {52}
“The phenomena produced by the agency of the magic mirror with regard
to their contents proceed from the realm of the subconsciousness;
and that with regard to their _form_ they belong to the category
of hallucinations. . . . Hallucinations, the production of which are
facilitated by the fixation of shining surfaces, do not occur with
all persons; and there may be a kernel of truth in the tradition
which designates women and children as endowed with especial
capacities in this respect. The investigations of Fechner upon the
varying vividness of after-images; the statistics of Galton upon
hallucinatory phantasms in artists; and the extensive statistical
work of the Society for Psychical Research, appear to point to a
connection of this character. . . . Along with the inner process the
outward form of the hallucination requires a brief explanation.
The circumstance, namely, which lends magic-mirror phenomena their
salient feature, is the sensory reproduction of the images that have
sprung up from the subconsciousness. The subterranean ideas produced
do not reach the surface as thoughts, but as pseudo-perceptions.”
Cagliostro sometimes made use of a metallic mirror. This fact we have
on the authority of the Countess du Barry, the frail favorite of
Louis XV. When the “Well Beloved” went the way of dusty death, the
charming Countess divided her years of banishment from the glories
of the Court at her Chateau of Luciennes and her houses in Paris and
Versailles. She relates that on one occasion the Cardinal de Rohan
paid her a visit. During the conversation the subject of Mesmer and
magnetism was discussed.
“My dear Countess,” said the Cardinal, “the magnetic séances of
Mesmer are not to be compared with the magic of my friend the Count
de Cagliostro. He is a genuine Rosicrucian, who holds communion with
the elemental spirits. He is able to pierce the veil of the future by
his necromantic power. Permit me to introduce him to you.”
The curiosity of the Countess was excited, and she consented
to receive the illustrious sorcerer at her home. The next day
the Cardinal came, accompanied by Cagliostro. The magician was
magnificently dressed, but not altogether in good taste. Diamonds
sparkled on his breast and upon his fingers. The {53} knob of his
walking-stick was incrusted with precious stones. Madame du Barry,
however, was much struck with the power of his bold, gleaming eyes.
She realized that he was no ordinary charlatan. After discussing the
question of sorcery, Cagliostro took from the breast pocket of his
coat a leather case which he handed to the Countess, saying that it
contained a magic mirror wherein she might read the events of the
past and future. “If the vision be not to your liking,” he remarked,
impressively, “do not blame me. You use the mirror at your own risk.”
She opened the case and saw a “metallic glass in an ebony frame,
ornamented with a variety of magical characters in gold and silver.”
Cagliostro recited some cabalistic words, and bade her gaze intently
into the glass. She did so, and in a few minutes was overcome with
fright and fainted away.
Such is the story as related by Du Barry in her memoirs, which
have been recently edited by Prof. Leon Vallée, librarian of the
Bibliothèque Nationale, Paris.
She gives us no clew as to the vision witnessed by her in the magic
glass. She says she afterwards refused to receive Cagliostro under
any circumstances.
What are we to believe concerning this remarkable story? We might
possibly conjecture that she saw in the mirror a phantasmagoria of
the guillotine, and beheld her blonde head “sneeze into the basket,”
and held up to public execration. Coming events cast their shadows
before.
But all this is mere fancy, “midsummer madness,” as the Bard of Avon
has it.
God alone knows the future. Wisely has it been veiled to us.
Possibly Madame la Comtesse from her subliminal consciousness
conjured up an hallucination of the loathsome death by smallpox of
her royal lover, at whose corpse even the “night men” of Versailles
recoiled with horror. Telepathy from Cagliostro may have played a
part in inducing the vision. Ah, who knows! We leave the problem to
the psychologists for solution. {54}
III.
From England Cagliostro went to the Hague, where he inaugurated
a lodge of female masons, over which his wife presided as Grand
Mistress. Throughout Holland he was received by the lodges with
masonic honors—beneath “arches of steel.” He discoursed volubly
upon magic and masonry to enraptured thousands. In March, 1779, he
made his appearance at Mitau,[10] in the Baltic Provinces, which he
regarded as the stepping-stone to St. Petersburg. He placed great
hope in Catherine II of Russia—“the avowed champion of advanced
thought.” He hoped to promulgate widely his new and mysterious
religious cult in the land of the Czars, with all the pomp and
glamour of the East. The nobility of Kurland received him with open
arms. Some of them offered to place him on the ducal throne, so he
claimed. He wisely refused the offer. Cagliostro eventually made a
fiasco at Mitau and left in hot haste. In St. Petersburg his stay
was as short. Catherine II was too clever a woman to be his dupe.
She ordered the charlatan to leave Russia, which he forthwith did.
Prospects of Siberia doubtless hastened his departure. In May, 1780,
he turned up at Warsaw. A leading prince lodged him in his palace.
Here Cagliostro “paraded himself in the white shoes and red heels
of a noble.” His spirit séances were not a success. He chose as his
clairvoyant a little girl, eight years of age. After pouring oil into
her hands, he closed her in a room, the door of which was hung with
a black curtain. The spectators sat outside. He interrogated the
child concerning the visions that appeared to her. Among other tests,
he requested the spectators to inscribe their names on a piece of
paper which he appeared to burn before their very eyes. Calling to
the child that a note would flutter down at her feet, he requested
her to pass it to him through the door. He passed his hand through
the opening of the door to receive the note. In the next instant he
produced a note closed with a freemason’s seal, which contained the
signatures of the spectators. This was nothing more than the trick
of a prestidigitateur, such {55} as was performed by Philadelphia
and Pinetti, the two great sleight of hand artists of the period. The
next day the clairvoyant confessed the fact that she had been tutored
by the magician, and that the visions were but figments of the
imagination. Cagliostro secured a new subject, a girl of sixteen, but
had the folly to fall in love with his accomplice. In exasperation
she repeated the confession of her predecessor. The Polish nobles now
insisted that Cagliostro invoke the spirit of the Grand Kophta (the
Egyptian High Priest). This séance took place “in a dark room, on a
sort of stage, lit with two candles only, and filled with clouds of
incense.” The Grand Kophta appeared. Through the uncertain light the
spectators beheld an imposing figure in white robes and turban. A
snowy beard fell upon its breast.
[10] _Nachricht von des berüchtigten Cagliostro’s
Aufenthalt in Mithau im Jahre, 1779, und von dessen
dortigen magischen Operationen._—Charlotte Elisabeth von
der Recke. Berlin und Stettin, 1787. 8vo.
“What see ye?” cried in a hoarse voice the sage of the pyramids.
“I see,” replied a sceptical gentleman from the audience, “that
Monsieur le Comte de Cagliostro has disguised himself with a mask and
a white beard.”
Everybody recognized the portly figure of the vision. A rush seemed
imminent. Quick as thought, the Grand Kophta, by a wave of his hands,
extinguished the two candles. A sound followed as the slipping off
of a mantle. The tapers were relit. Cagliostro was observed sitting
where the sage had disappeared.
At Wola, in a private laboratory, he pretended to transmute mercury
into silver. The scene must have been an impressive one. Girt with
a freemason’s apron, and standing on a black floor marked with
cabalistic symbols in chalk, Cagliostro worked at the furnace. In the
gloom of twilight the proceedings were held. By a clever substitution
of crucibles, Cagliostro apparently accomplished the feat of
transmutation, but the fraud was detected the next morning, when
one of the servants of the house discovered the original crucible
containing the mercury, which had been cast upon a pile of rubbish by
the pretended alchemist, or one of his confederates.
In September, 1780, Cagliostro arrived in Strasburg. Here he was
received with unbounded enthusiasm. He lavished money right and left,
cured the poor without pay, and treated the great with haughtiness.
Just outside of the city he erected a {56} country villa in Chinese
architecture, wherein to hold his Egyptian lodges. This place was
long pointed out as the Cagliostræum. The peasants are said to
have passed it with uncovered heads, such was their admiration and
awe of the great wonder-worker. At Strasburg resided at that time
the Cardinal Louis de Rohan, who was anxious to meet the magician.
Cagliostro, to whom the fact was reported, said: “If the Cardinal is
sick, he may come to me and I will cure him; if he is well, he has no
further need of me, nor I of him.” Cardinal de Rohan, Grand Almoner
of France, Commander of the order of the Holy Ghost, enormously rich,
and an amateur dabbler in alchemy and the occult sciences, was now
more anxious than ever to become acquainted with the charlatan. Such
disdain on the part of a layman was a new experience to the haughty
churchman. His imagination, too, was fired by the stories told of
the enchanter. The upshot of it was that Cagliostro and the Cardinal
became bosom friends. The prelate invited the juggler and his wife to
live at his episcopal palace.
The Baroness d’Oberkirch, who saw him there, says in her memoirs:[11]
“No one can ever form the faintest idea of the fervor with which
everybody pursued Cagliostro. He was surrounded, besieged; every one
trying to win a glance or a word. . . . A dozen ladies of rank and
two actresses had followed him in order to continue their treatment.
. . . If I had not seen it, I should never have imagined that a
Prince of the Roman Church, a man in other respects intelligent and
honorable, could so far let himself be imposed upon as to renounce
his dignity, his free will, at the bidding of a sharper.”
Cagliostro said to the Cardinal one day: “Your soul is worthy of
mine, and you deserve to be the confidant of all my secrets.” He
presented the Cardinal with a diamond worth 20,000 francs which
he pretended to have made, the churchman claiming to have been an
eye-witness of the operation. The Cardinal said to the Baroness:
“But that is not all; he makes gold; he has made five or six thousand
francs worth before me, up there in the top of the palace. I am to
have more; I am to have a great deal; he will make me the richest
prince in Europe {57} These are not dreams, madame; they are proofs.
And his prophecies that have come true! And the miraculous cures that
he has wrought! [_He really cured the Cardinal of the asthma._] I
tell you, he is the most extraordinary man, the sublimest man in the
world.”[12]
[11] _Mémoires de la Baronne d’Oberkirche, I._
[12] It is an interesting fact to note that Cagliostro
was recommended as a physician to our Benjamin Franklin,
at that time residing in Paris. See Hale’s _Franklin in
France_, vol. 2, p. 226.
From Strasburg Cagliostro went to Naples, and from thence to
Bordeaux. After residing at Bordeaux for eleven months, he proceeded
to Lyons in great pomp, with lackeys, grooms, guards armed with
battle-axes, and heralds garbed in cloth of gold, blowing trumpets.
In the year 1785 he founded at Lyons the Lodge of Triumphant Wisdom,
and made many converts to his mystical doctrines. The fame of his
Egyptian masonry reached Paris and created quite a stir among the
lodges. The chiefs of a masonic convocation assembled in Paris
wrote to him for information concerning his new rite. He scornfully
refused to have anything to do with them, unless they burned all
their masonic books and implements as useless trash and acknowledged
their futility, claiming that his Egyptian Rite was the only true
freemasonry and worthy of cultivation among men of learning. His
next move was to the French capital. Behold him on his travels with
coach-and-four, flunkies and outriders in gorgeous liveries of red
and gold; vehicles filled with baggage and paraphernalia. Best of
all, he carries with him an iron coffer which contains the silver,
gold, and jewels reaped from his dupes.
IV.
Cagliostro’s greatest triumph was achieved in Paris. A gay and
frivolous aristocracy, mad after new sensations, welcomed the
magician with open arms. The way had been paved for him by St.
Germain and Mesmer. He made his appearance in the French capital,
January 30, 1785. Fantastic stories were circulated about him. The
Cardinal de Rohan selected and furnished a house for him, and visited
him three or four times a week, arriving at dinner time and remaining
until an advanced {58} hour in the night. It was said that the great
Cardinal assisted the sorcerer in his labors, and many persons spoke
of the mysterious laboratory where gold bubbled and diamonds sparkled
in crucibles brought to a white heat. But nobody except Cagliostro,
and perhaps the Cardinal, ever entered that mysterious laboratory.
All that was known for a certainty was that the apartments were
furnished with Oriental splendor, and that Count Cagliostro in a
dazzling costume received his guests with kingly dignity, and gave
them his hand to kiss. Upon a black marble slab in the antechamber
carved in golden letters was the universal prayer of Alexander Pope.
“Father of all! in every age,” etc., the parody of which ten years
later Paris sang as a hymn to the Supreme Being.
Says Funck-Brentano:[13] “At Paris Cagliostro showed himself what
he had been at Strasburg, dignified and reserved. He refused with
haughtiness the invitations to dinner sent to him by the Count of
Artois, brother of the king, and the Duke of Chartres, prince of the
blood. He proclaimed himself chief of the Rosicrucians, who regarded
themselves as chosen beings placed above the rest of mankind, and
he gave to his adepts the rarest pleasure. . . . To all who pressed
him with questions as to who he was, he replied in a grave voice,
knitting his eyebrows and pointing his forefinger towards the sky,
‘I am he who is’; and as it was difficult to make out that he was
‘he who is not,’ the only thing was to bow with an air of profound
deference.
“He possessed the science of the ancient priests of Egypt. His
conversation turned generally on three points: (1) Universal
Medicine, of which the secrets were known to him. (2) Egyptian
Freemasonry, which he wished to restore, and of which he had just
established a parent lodge at Lyons, for Scotch masonry, then
predominant in France, was in his eyes only an inferior, degenerate
form. (3) The Philosopher’s Stone, which was to ensure the
transmutation of all the imperfect metals into fine gold.” {59}
[13] _The Diamond Necklace. Being the true Story of
Marie Antoinette and the Cardinal de Rohan. From the
new documents recently discovered in Paris._ By Frantz
Funck-Brentano. Translated from the French by H. S.
Edwards. Philadelphia, 1901. 8vo.
“He thus gave to humanity, by his universal medicine, bodily health;
by Egyptian masonry, spiritual health; and by the philosopher’s
stone, infinite wealth.” These were his principal secrets, but
he had a host of others, that of predicting the winning numbers
in lotteries; prophesying as to the future; softening marble and
restoring it to its pristine hardness; of giving to cotton the lustre
and softness of silk, which has been re-invented in our day by a
chemical process.
Many writers on magic have fancied that the art of making gold was
the secret that lay hid under the forms of Egyptian theology. Says
the Benedictine monk, Pernetz: “The hermetic science was the source
of all the riches of the Egyptian kings, and the object of these
mysteries so hidden under the veil of their pretended religion.” In
a subterranean chamber beneath the Great Pyramid of Gizeh, Hermes
Trismegistus is supposed, according to mediæval alchemists, to have
placed his Table of Emerald, upon which he engraved the secret of
transmuting metals into gold.
Among the many stories told of Cagliostro, that of the supper in
the hotel of the Rue Saint Claude, where the ghosts made merry, is
the most extraordinary. Six guests and the host took their places
at a round table upon which there were thirteen covers. Each guest
pronounced the name of the dead man whose spirit he desired to appear
at the banquet table. Cagliostro, concentrating his mysterious
forces, gave the invitation in a solemn and commanding tone. One
after another the six guests appeared. They were the Duc de Choiseul,
Voltaire, d’Alembert, Diderot, the Abbé de Voisenon, and Montesquieu.
The story of this spirit séance created a sensation in Paris. It
reached the court, and one evening, when the conversation turned
upon the banquet of the ghosts, Louis XVI frowned, shrugged his
shoulders, and resumed his game of cards. The queen became indignant,
and forbade the mention of the name of the charlatan in her presence.
Nevertheless, some of the light-headed ladies of the court burned
for an introduction to the superb sorcerer. They begged Lorenza
Feliciani to get him to give them a course of lectures or lessons in
magic to which no gentlemen were to be admitted. Lorenza replied that
he would consent, provided there were thirty-six pupils. The list
was made {60} up in a day, and a week afterward the fair dames got
their first lesson. But they gossiped about it. This caused another
scandal, and consequently the first lesson was the last.
Cagliostro’s Egyptian Rite of Masonry was well received in Paris,
especially the lodge for ladies, which was presided over by the
beautiful Lorenza, his wife. It was appropriately called _Isis_.
Among the members of this female lodge were the Countesses
de Brienne, Dessalles, de Polignac, de Brassac, de Choiseul,
d’Espinchal, the Marchioness d’Avrincourt, and Mmes. de Loménie, de
Genlis, de Bercy, de Trevières, de Baussan, de Monteil, d’Ailly, etc.
Cagliostro lived like a lord, thanks to the revenues obtained
from the initiates into his masonic rite, and the money which he
unquestionably received from his dupe, the Cardinal de Rohan, who was
magic mad.
“His wife,” says a gossipy writer, “was rarely seen, but by all
accounts she was a woman of bewildering beauty, realizing the
Greek lines in all their antique purity and enhanced by an Italian
expression. The most enthusiastic of her so-called admirers were
precisely those who had never seen her face. There were many duels
to decide the question as to the color of her eyes, some contending
that they were black, and others that they were blue. Duels were also
fought over the dimple which some admirers insisted was on the right
cheek, while others said that the honor belonged to the left cheek.
She appeared to be no more than twenty years old, but she spoke
sometimes of her eldest son, who was for some years a captain in the
Dutch army.”
The magician’s sojourn in Paris caused the greatest excitement. His
portrait and that of his wife were to be seen everywhere, on fans, on
rings, on snuff-boxes, and on medallions. His bust was cut in marble
by the famous sculptor, Houdon, cast in bronze, and placed in the
mansions of the nobility. He was called by his admirers “the divine
Cagliostro.” To one of the old portraits was appended the following
verse:
“De l’Ami des Humains reconnaissez les traits:
Tous ses jours sont marqués par de nouveaux bienfaits,
Il prolonge la Vie, il secourt l’indigence;
Le plaisir d’être utile est seul sa recompense.”
{61}
[Illustration: BUST OF CAGLIOSTRO.
After Houdon.
(In the possession of M. Storelli.)]
[Illustration: CAGLIOSTRO.
From _Vie de Joseph Balsamo, etc._
Paris, 1791.]
Hats and neckties were named after him. In Paris as in Strasburg, he
gave away large sums of money to the poor and cured them of their
ailments free of charge. His mansion was always crowded with noble
guests. The idle aristocracy could find nothing better to do than
attend the spirit séances of the charlatan. The shades of Voltaire,
Rousseau, and other dead celebrities were summoned from the “vasty
deep,” impersonated doubtless by clever confederates in the pay of
Cagliostro, often aided by mechanical and optical accessories. The
art of phantasmagoria, in which the concave mirror plays a part,
was well known to the enchanter. The Count de Beugnot gives in
detail, in his interesting autobiography, an account of Cagliostro’s
performances at the residences of Madame de la Motte and the Cardinal
de Rohan. The niece of Count de la Motte, a Mlle. de {62} la Tour,
a charming girl of fifteen, frequently acted as clairvoyant in
the mystical séances. She is reported to have possessed all the
requisites of a seeress: angelic purity, delicate nerves, and blue
eyes, also to have been born under the constellation Capricorn. “Her
mother nearly died of joy.”
Says Count Beugnot: “When she learned that her child fulfilled all
these conditions of Egyptian thaumaturgy, she thought the treasures
of Memphis and of that large city in the interior of Africa were
about to fall upon her family, which was badly in need of them.” In
the report of the necklace trial (Arch. Nat. X2, B‐1417), the young
girl confesses to have aided the charlatan in his magical operations
at the house of the Cardinal, by pretending to see visions of Marie
Antoinette and others in a globe of water, which was surrounded by
lighted tapers and figures of Isis and Apis. He had decked her out
in a freemason’s apron embroidered with cabalistic characters. She
aided him because “she did not want to be bothered,” and answered
his leading questions, etc. But there was perhaps another reason
for her acquiescence in the fraud. Cagliostro had declared to her,
in the presence of the prelate, her aunt and mother, when she
first attempted to play the part of pythoness and failed, that her
inability to see anything in the globe was evidence that she was not
innocent. Stung by his inuendos, she immediately yielded and saw all
she was desired to see, thereby becoming his confederate to deceive
De Rohan.
An interesting pen portrait of Cagliostro is contained in Beugnot’s
memoirs. The Count met the enchanter for the first time at the house
of Madame de la Motte:
“Cagliostro was of medium height, rather stout, with an olive
complexion, a very short neck, round face, two large eyes on a level
with the cheeks, and a broad, turned-up nose. . . . His hair was
dressed in a way new to France, being divided into several small
tresses that united behind the head, and were twisted up into what
was then called a club.
“He wore on that day an iron gray coat of French make, with gold
lace, a scarlet waistcoat trimmed with broad Spanish lace, red
breeches, his sword looped to the skirt of his coat, and a laced hat
with a white feather, the latter a decoration still {63} required
of mountebanks, tooth-drawers and other medical practitioners,
who proclaim and retail their drugs in the open air. Cagliostro
set off this costume by lace ruffles, several valuable rings, and
shoe-buckles which were, it is true, of antique design, but bright
enough to be taken for real diamonds. . . . The face, attire, and
the whole man made an impression on me that I could not prevent.
I listened to the talk. He spoke some sort of medley, half French
and half Italian, and made many quotations which might be Arabic,
but which he did not trouble himself to translate. I could not
remember any more of [his conversation] than that the hero had spoken
of heaven, of the stars, of the Great Secret, of Memphis, of the
high-priest, of transcendental chemistry, of giants and monstrous
beasts, of a city ten times as large as Paris, in the middle of
Africa, where he had correspondents.”[14]
Cagliostro often boasted of his great age.
One day in Strasburg, he stopped before a huge crucifix of carved
wood, and contemplated it with melancholy countenance.
“The likeness is excellent,” he remarked to one of his votaries, “but
I cannot understand how the artist, who certainly never saw Christ,
could have secured such a perfect portrait.”
“You knew Christ, then?” inquired the neophyte, breathlessly.
“We were on the most intimate terms.”
“My dear Count!—”
“I mean what I say. How often we strolled together on the sandy shore
of the Lake of Tiberias. How infinitely sweet his voice. But, alas,
he would not heed my advice. He loved to walk on the seashore, where
he picked up a band of _lazzaroni_—of fishermen and beggars. This and
his preaching brought him to a bitter end.”
Turning to his servant, Cagliostro added: “Do you remember that
evening at Jerusalem when they crucified Christ?”
“No, Monsieur le Comte,” replied the well-tutored lackey, bowing low,
“you forget that I have only been in your employ for the last fifteen
hundred years.”
Baron Munchausen is not to be compared to Cagliostro. {64}
[14] Beugnot, Comte de. _Mémoires._ Paris, 1866.
V.
Cagliostro was at the height of his fame, when suddenly he was
arrested and thrown into the Bastille. He was charged with complicity
in the affair of the diamond necklace. Here is his own account of the
arrest: “On the 22d of August, 1785, a commissaire, an exempt, and
eight policemen entered my home. The pillage began in my presence.
They compelled me to open my secretary. Elixirs, balms, and precious
liquors all became the prey of the officers who came to arrest me. I
begged the commissaire to permit me to use my carriage. He refused!
The agent took me by the collar. He had pistols, the stocks of which
appeared from the pockets of his coat. They hustled me into the
street and scandalously dragged me along the boulevard all the way to
the rue Notre Dame du Nazareth. There a carriage appeared which I was
permitted to enter to take the road to the Bastille.”
What was this mysterious affair of the diamond necklace which led to
his incarceration in a state prison? In brief the story is as follows:
The court jewelers, Böhmer and Bassange, had in their possession a
magnificent diamond necklace, valued at 1,800,000 livres, originally
designed for the ivory neck of the fair but frail Madame du Barry,
mistress of Louis XV. But Louis—“the well beloved”—died before the
necklace was completed; the Sultana went into exile, and the unlucky
jewelers found themselves with the diamond collar on their hands,
instead of on the neck of Du Barry. They were obliged to dispose of
it, or become bankrupt. Twice Böhmer offered it to Marie Antoinette,
but she refused to purchase it, or permit her husband, Louis XVI., to
do so, alleging that France had more urgent need of war ships than
jewels. Poor Böhmer, distracted at her refusal to buy the necklace,
threatened to commit suicide. The matter became food for gossip among
the _quid nuncs_ of the Court. Unfortunate necklace! it led to one
of the most romantic intrigues of history, involving in its jeweled
toils a Queen, a cardinal, a courtesan and a conjurer. Living at
the village of Versailles at the time was the Countess de la Motte,
an ex-mantua maker and {65} a descendant of an illegitimate scion
of the Valois family who had committed a forgery under Louis XIII.
Her husband was a sort of gentleman-soldier in the gendarmerie, a
gambler, and a rake. Madame de la Motte-Valois, boasting of the royal
blood that flowed in her veins, had many times petitioned the King
to assist her. A small pension had been granted, but it was totally
inadequate to supply her wants. She wished also to gain a foothold at
Versailles and flutter amidst the butterfly-countesses of the _Salle
de l’Oeil-de-Boeuf_. Looking about for a noble protector, some one
who could advance her claims, she pitched upon the Cardinal de Rohan,
who was the Grand Almoner of the King. He supplied her with money,
but accomplished very little else for her. Though Grand Almoner and
a Cardinal, Louis de Rohan was _persona non grata_ at the court. He
was cordially detested by Marie Antoinette not only because of his
dissolute habits, but on account of slanderous letters he had written
about her when she was still a Dauphiness. This coldness on the part
of the Queen caused the Cardinal great anguish, as he longed to be
Prime Minister, and sway the destinies of France through the Queen
like a second Richelieu, Fleury or Mazarin. More than that, he loved
the haughty Antoinette. All these things he confided to Madame de la
Motte. When the story of Böhmer and the diamond necklace was noised
abroad, Madame de la Motte conceived a plot of wonderful audacity.
She determined to possess the priceless collar and make the Cardinal
the medium of obtaining it. She deluded the Cardinal into the belief
that she was in the Queen’s confidence. She asserted that Marie
Antoinette had at last yielded to her pleadings for recognition as
a descendant of the Valois and granted her social interviews. She
confided to him that the Queen secretly desired to be reconciled
to him. She became the pretended “go-between” between the Cardinal
and the Queen, and delivered numerous little notes to him, signed
“Antoinette de France.” Finally she arranged an interview for him,
at night, in the park of Versailles, ostensibly with the Queen, but
in reality with a young girl named d’Oliva who bore a remarkable
resemblance to Marie Antoinette. The d’Oliva saw him only for a
few moments and presented him with a rose. {66} The Cardinal was
completely duped. “Madame de la Motte persuaded him,” says Greeven,
“into the belief that the Queen was yearning for the necklace, but,
as she could not afford it, he could assure himself of her favor by
becoming security for the payment. She produced a forged instrument,
which purported to have been executed by the Queen, and upon which
he bound himself as security.” The necklace was delivered to the
Cardinal, who handed it over to Madame de la Motte, to be given to
Marie Antoinette. Thus it was, as Carlyle says, the _collier de la
reine_ vanished through “the horn-gate of dreams.”
But, asks the curious reader, what has all this to do with
Cagliostro? What part had he to play in the drama? This: When the
Countess de la Motte was arrested, she attempted to throw the blame
of the affair upon the Cardinal and Cagliostro. She alleged that they
had summoned her into one of their mystic séances. “After the usual
hocus-pocus, the Cardinal made over to her a casket containing the
diamonds without their setting and directed her to deliver them to
her husband, with instructions to dispose of them at once in London.
Upon this information Cagliostro and his wife were arrested. He was
detained without hearing, from the 22d of August, 1785, until the
30th of January, 1786, when he was first examined by the Judges, and
he was not set at liberty till the 1st of June, 1786.”
The trial was the most famous in the annals of the Parliament.
Cagliostro and the Cardinal were acquitted with honor. The Countess
de la Motte was sentenced to be exposed naked, with a rope around
her neck, in front of the Conciergerie, and to be publicly whipped
and branded by the hangman with the letter V (_Voleuse—thief_) on
each shoulder. She was further sentenced to life imprisonment in
the prison for abandoned women. She escaped from the latter place,
however, to London, where she was killed on the 23d day of August,
1791, by a fall from a window. The Count de la Motte was sentenced
_in contumacium_. He was safe in London at the time and had disposed
of the diamonds to various dealers. The d’Oliva was set free without
punishment. The man who forged the letter for Madame de la Motte,
her secretary, Villette, was banished for life. The Countess de
Cagliostro was honorably discharged. {67}
The Cardinal was unquestionably innocent, as was fully established
at the trial. His overweening ambition and his mad love for Marie
Antoinette had rendered him an easy dupe to the machinations of the
band of sharpers. But how about Cagliostro? The essayist Greeven
seems to think that the alchemist was more or less mixed up in
the swindle. He sums up the suspicions as follows: “_First_, his
[Cagliostro’s] immense influence over the Cardinal, and his intimate
relations with him render it impossible that so gigantic a fraud
could have been practiced without his knowledge. _Second_, he was in
league with the Countess for the purpose of deceiving the Cardinal,
in connection with the Queen.”
[Illustration: MADAME DE LA MOTTE’S ESCAPE. (After an English print
of 1790.)]
M. Frantz Funck-Brentano writes: “The idea of implicating Cagliostro
in the intrigue had been conceived, as Georgel says, with diabolical
cunning. If Jeanne de Valois had in the first instance made a direct
accusation against Cardinal de Rohan, no one would have believed
in it. But there was something mysterious and suspicious about
Cagliostro, and it was known what influence he exercised on the mind
of the Cardinal. ‘The alchemist,’ she suggested, ‘took the necklace
to pieces in order to increase by means of it the occult treasures of
an unheard-of fortune.’ ‘To conceal his theft,’ says Doillot [Madame
de la {68} Motte’s lawyer], ‘he ordered M. de Rohan, in virtue of the
influence he had established over him, to sell some of the diamonds
and to get a few of them mounted at Paris through the Countess de
la Motte, and to get more considerable quantities mounted and sold
in England by her husband.’ . . . Cagliostro had one unanswerable
argument: the Cardinal had made his agreement with the jewelers on
the 29th of January, 1785, and he, Cagliostro, had only arrived in
Paris at nine in the evening of the 30th.”
Cagliostro refuted the charges with wonderful _sang froid_. He
appeared in court “proud and triumphant in his coat of green silk
embroidered with gold.” “Who are you? and whence do you come?” asked
the attorney for the crown.
“I am an illustrious traveler,” he answered bombastically. Everyone
present laughed. He then harangued the judges in theatrical style.
He told the most impossible stories of his adventures in Arabia and
Egypt. He informed the judges that he was unacquainted with the place
of his birth and the name of his parents, but that he spent his
infancy in Medina, Arabia, and was brought up under the cognomen of
Acharat. He resided in the palace of the Great Muphti, and always had
the servants to attend his wants, besides his tutor, named Althotas,
who was very fond of him. Althotas told him that his (Cagliostro’s)
father and mother were Christians and nobles, who died when he was
three months old, leaving him in the care of the Muphti. On one
occasion, he asked his preceptor to tell him the name of his parents.
Althotas replied that it would be dangerous for him to know, but some
incautious expressions dropped by the tutor led him to believe that
they were from Malta. When twelve years of age he began his travels,
and learned the languages of the Orient. He remained three years in
the sacred city of Mecca. The Sherif or Governor of that place showed
him such unusual attention and kindness, that he oftentimes thought
that personage was his father. He quitted this good man with tears in
his eyes, and never saw him again.
“Adieu, nature’s unfortunate child, adieu!” cried the Sherif of Mecca
to him, as he took his departure. {69}
Whenever he arrived in any city, either of Europe, Asia, or Africa,
he found an account opened for him at the leading banker’s or
merchant’s. Like the Count of Monte Cristo, his credit was unlimited.
He had only to whisper the word “Acharat,” and his wants were
immediately supplied. He really believed that the Sherif was the
friend to whom all was owing. This was the secret of his wealth. He
denied all complicity in the necklace swindle, and scornfully refuted
the charge of Madame de la Motte, that he was “an empiric, a mean
alchemist, a dreamer on the Philosopher’s Stone, a false prophet, a
profaner of true worship, the self-dubbed Count de Cagliostro.”
“As to my being a false prophet,” he exclaimed grandiloquently, “I
have not always been so; for I once prophesied to the Cardinal de
Rohan, that Madame de la Motte would prove a dangerous woman, and the
result has verified my prediction.”
In conclusion he said that every charge that Madame de la Motte
had preferred against him was false, and that she was _mentiris
impudentissime_, which two words he requested her lawyers to
translate for her, as it was not polite to tell her so in French.
The Inquisition biographer, regarding the subject of the necklace,
says: “It is difficult to decide whether, in this celebrated affair,
Madame de la Motte or the Count Cagliostro had the greatest share of
glory. It is certain, however, that both of them acquired uncommon
_éclat_, and indeed attempted to surpass each other. We cannot
affirm that they acted in concert on this memorable occasion; we
can, however, with safety assert that Cagliostro was well acquainted
with the designs of this woman, so wonderfully formed for intrigue,
and that he always kept his eye steadily fixed upon the famous
necklace. He certainly perceived, and has indeed _confessed in his
interrogatories_ [the italics are mine], _that he was acquainted
with all the manoeuvres which she put in practice to accomplish her
criminal designs_.
“The whole affair was at length discovered. He had foreseen this;
and wished to have evaded the inevitable consequences attendant
on detection; but it was now too late. The officers of the police
were persuaded that without his aid this piece of {70} roguery and
deception could never have been carried on; and he was arrested
and imprisoned in the Bastille. He, however, did not lose courage;
he even found means to corrupt his guards, and to establish a
correspondence with the other prisoners who were confined along with
him. It was owing to this that they were enabled to be uniform in the
answers which they gave in to the various interrogatories to which
they were obliged to reply.
“Cagliostro, who has recounted the whole of the circumstances to us,
has added, of his own accord, that he denied everything to his judges
with the utmost intrepidity; and exhibited such a sameness in his
replies, that, on Madame de la Motte’s being confronted with him, and
finding herself unable to quash his evidence, she became so furious,
that she threw a candlestick at his head in the presence of all his
judges. By this means he was declared innocent.”
So much for the Inquisition biography. The incident of the
candlestick has been verified by the archives of the Parliament.
Cagliostro was acquitted.
He drove in triumph from the Bastille to his residence, after hearing
his order of discharge. His coach was preceded by “a fantastic
cripple, who distributed medicines and presents among the crowd.” He
found the Rue Saint Claude thronged with friends and sympathizers,
anxious to welcome him home. At this period revolutionary sentiments
were openly vented by the people of France. The throne was being
undermined by the philosophers and politicians. Any excuse was
made to revile Louis XVI and his queen. Scurrilous pamphlets were
published declaring that Marie Antoinette was equally guilty with
the de la Mottes in the necklace swindle. Cagliostro consequently
was regarded as a martyr to the liberties of man. His arrest under
the detested _lettre de cachet_, upon mere suspicion, and long
incarceration in the Bastille without trial, were indeed flagrant
abuses of justice and gave his sympathizers a whip with which to lash
the King and Court.
His wife had been liberated some time before him. She met him at the
door of the temple of magic, and he swooned in her arms. Whether
this was a genuine swoon or not, it is {71} impossible to say, for
Cagliostro was ever a _poseur_ and never neglected an opportunity for
theatrical effect and self-advertisement. He accused the Marquis de
Launay, Governor of the Bastille—he who had his head chopped off and
elevated upon a pike a few years later—of criminal misappropriation
of his effects, money, medicines, alchemical powders, elixirs, etc.,
etc., which he valued at a high sum. The Commissioner of Police who
arrested him was also included in this accusation. He appealed to his
judges, who referred him to the Civil Courts. But the case never came
to trial. The day after his acquittal he was banished from France by
order of the King. At St. Denis “his carriage drove between two dense
and silent lines of well-wishers, while, as his vessel cleared from
the port of Boulogne, five thousand persons knelt down on the shore
to receive his blessing.” He went direct to London. No sooner there,
than he filed his suit against the Marquis de Launay, “appealing,
of course, to the hearts of all Frenchmen as a lonely and hunted
exile.” The French Government, through its ambassador, granted him
leave to come in person to Paris to prosecute his suit, assuring him
of safe conduct and immunity from all prosecution, legal as well
as social. But Cagliostro refused this offer, hinting that it was
merely a stratagem to decoy him to Paris and reincarcerate him in a
dungeon. No clear-headed, impartial person believed that the Marquis
de Launay was guilty of the charge laid at his door. Whatever else he
may have been, tyrannical, cold, unsympathetic, the Governor of the
Bastille was a man of honor and above committing a theft. In fact,
Cagliostro’s accusation was a trumped-up affair, designed to annoy
and keep open “a running sore in the side of the French authorities.”
Notoriety is the life of charlatanry. Cagliostro was no common
quack, as his history shows. He next published a pamphlet, dated
June 20th, 1786, prophesying that the Bastille would be demolished
and converted into a public promenade; and, that a ruler should
arise in France, who should abolish _lettres de cachet_ and convoke
the Estates-General. In a few years the prediction was fulfilled.
Poor De Launay lost his life, whereupon Cagliostro issued a pamphlet
exulting over the butchery of his enemy. In London, Cagliostro became
the {72} bosom friend of the eccentric Lord George Gordon, the hero
of the “no-popery” riots. Eventually he became deeply involved in
debt, and was obliged to pawn his effects. He was unable to impress
the common-sense, practical English with his pretensions to animal
magnetism, transcendental medicine, and occultism. One of his vaunted
schemes was to light up the streets of London with sea-water, which
by his magic power he proposed to change into oil. The newspapers
ridiculed him, {73} especially the _Courrier de l’Europe_, published
and edited by M. Morande, who had “picked up some ugly facts about
the swindler’s early career.” The freemasons repudiated him with
scorn, and would have nothing to do with his Egyptian Rite. There
is a rare old print, a copy of which may be seen in the Scottish
Rite Library, Washington, D. C., which depicts the unmasking of the
famous imposter at the Lodge of Antiquity, published Nov. 21, 1786,
at London. It was engraved by an eye-witness of the scene. In company
with some French gentlemen, Cagliostro visited the lodge one evening.
At the banquet which followed the working of the degree, a certain
worthy brother named Mash, an optician, was called upon to sing.
Instead of a post-prandial ditty, he gave a clever imitation of a
quack doctor selling nostrums, and dilating bombastically upon the
virtues of his elixirs, balsams (Balsamos), and cordials. Cagliostro
was not slow in perceiving that he was the target for Brother Mash’s
shafts of ridicule. His “front of brass,” as Carlyle has it, was
beaten in, his pachyderm was penetrated by the barbed arrows of the
ingenious optician’s wit. He left the hall in high dudgeon, followed
by the jeers of the assembled masons. Alas, for the Grand Kophta, no
“vaults of steel,” no masonic honors for him in London.
[Illustration: CAGLIOSTRO UNMASKED AT THE LODGE OF ANTIQUITY, LONDON.
From a Rare Print in the Possession of the Supreme Council, A. A. S.
R., Washington, D. C.]
The verse appended to the engraving of Cagliostro and the English
lodge is as follows:
“Born, God knows where, supported, God knows how,
From whom descended, difficult to know.
_Lord Crop_[15] adopts him as a bosom friend,
And manly dares his character defend.
This self-dubb’d Count, some few years since became
A Brother Mason in a borrow’d name;
For names like _Semple_ numerous he bears,
And Proteus like, in fifty forms appears.
‘Behold in me (he says) Dame Nature’s child,
‘Of Soul benevolent, and Manners mild;
‘In me the guiltless Acharat behold,
‘Who knows the mystery of making Gold;
‘A feeling heart I boast, a conscience pure,
‘I boast a Balsam every ill to cure;
‘My Pills and Powders, all disease remove,
‘Renew your vigor, and your health improve.’ {74}
This cunning part the arch impostor acts,
And thus the weak and credulous attracts,
But now, his history is rendered clear,
The arrant hypocrite, and quack appear.
First as _Balsams_, he to paint essay’d,
But only daubing, he renounc’d the trade.
Then, as a Mountebank, abroad he stroll’d
And many a name on Death’s black list enroll’d.
Three times he visited the British shore,
And every time a different name he bore.
The brave Alsatians he with ease cajol’d
By boasting of Egyptian forms of old.
The self-same trick he practis’d at Bourdeaux,
At Strasburg, Lyons, and at Paris too.
But fate for _Brother Mash_ reserv’d the task
To strip the vile impostor of his mask,
May all true Masons his plain tale attend
And Satire’s lash to fraud shall put an end.”
[15] Lord George Gordon.
VI.
To escape the harpies of the law, who threatened him with a debtor’s
prison, Cagliostro fled to his old hunting-ground, the Continent,
leaving _la petite Comtesse_ to follow him as best she could. But
the game was played out. The police had by this time become fully
cognizant of his impostures. He was forbidden to practice his
peculiar system of medicine and masonry in Austria, Germany, Russia,
and Spain. Drawn like a needle to the lodestone rock, he went to
Rome. Foolish Grand Kophta! Freemasonry was a capital offence in the
dominions of the Pope. One lodge, however, existed. Says Greeven:
“There is reason to suppose that it was tolerated only because it
enabled the Holy Church to spy out the movements of freemasons in
general.” Cagliostro attempted to found one of his Egyptian lodges,
but met with no success. His exchequer became depleted. He appealed
to the National Assembly of France to revoke the order of banishment,
on the ground of “his services to the liberty of France.” Suddenly
on the evening of Dec. 27, 1789, he and his wife were arrested
and incarcerated in the fortress of San Angelo. His highly-prized
manuscript of Egyptian masonry was seized, together with all his
papers and correspondence. He was tried by the Holy Inquisition. It
must have been an impressive scene—that gloomy council {75} chamber
with the cowled inquisitors. Cagliostro’s wife appeared against him
and lifted the veil of Isis that hid the mysteries of the charlatan’s
career. The Egyptian manuscript of George Coston, the seals, the
masonic regalia and paraphernalia were mute and damning evidences
of his guilt. He was indeed a freemason, even though he were not
an alchemist, a soothsayer, the Grand Kophta of the Pyramids.
Cagliostro’s line of defense was that “he had labored throughout
to lead back freemasons, through the Egyptian ritual, to Catholic
orthodoxy.” He appeared at first to be contrite. But it availed him
nothing. Finding his appeals for mercy useless, he adopted another
tack, and told impossible stories of his adventures. He harangued
the Holy Fathers for hours, despite their threats and protests.
Nothing could stop his loquacious tongue from wagging. Finally, he
was condemned to death as a heretic, sorcerer, and freemason, but
Pope Pius VI., on the 21st of March, 1791, commuted his sentence to
life imprisonment. His manuscript was declared to be “superstitious,
blasphemous, wicked, and heretical,” and was ordered to be burnt by
the common hangman, together with his masonic implements.
After the sentence of the Inquisition, Cagliostro was taken back
to the Castle of San Angelo and immured in a gloomy dungeon, where
no one but the jailer came near him. But still his indomitable
spirit was unconquered. He conceived a plan of escape. Expressing
the greatest contrition for his crimes, he begged the Governor of
the prison to send him a confessor. The request was granted, and a
Capuchin monk was detailed to listen to the condemned man’s catalogue
of sins. During the confession, the charlatan suddenly sprang upon
the monk and endeavored to throttle him. His object was to escape
from the Castle in the Capuchin’s robe. But the Father Confessor
proved to be a member of the church militant, and vigorously defended
himself. Cagliostro’s attempt proved futile. This anecdote was
related by S. A. S. the Prince Bernard of Saxe-Weimar to the French
masonic historian, Thory (_Acta Latamorum_, I, 68). The Prince
declared it to be authentic.
Soon after the above-mentioned event, the Pontifical Government
ordered Cagliostro to be conducted in the night time to {76} the
Fortress of San Leon, in the Duchy of Urbino. Here in a subterranean
dungeon, it is said, he was literally swallowed up alive, like the
victims of mediæval days in the stone _in pace_. From this epoch we
lose all traces of the great necromancer. It is said that he died
in the month of August, 1795, the rigor of his punishment having
somewhat abated. The following item will prove of interest: “News
comes from Rome that the famous Cagliostro is dead in the fortress
of San Leon.” (_Moniteur universel_, 6 Octobre, 1795. Correspondence
dated from Genoa, August 25th.) Everything concerning that death
is shrouded in mystery. The stone walls of San Leon have told no
tales. No one knows where the magician is buried. In all likelihood
in some ignoble prison grave. One can readily picture the obsequies:
A flash of flambeaux in the night; a coarse winding-sheet; a wooden
coffin; an indifferent priest to mumble a few Latin prayers; the
callous grave diggers with their spades—and all is over! No masonic
honors here; no arches of steel; no mystic lights and regalia.
Farewell forever, Balsamo! I confess a weakness for you, despite your
charlatanry. Doubtless you were welcomed with open arms to the Shades
by your brethren—the Chaldeans, the sorcerers and the soothsayers.
Alfred de Caston, in his _Marchands de Miracles_, Paris 1864, remarks
that Cagliostro “rendered up his soul to God” just one hundred
years after the death of his predecessor in the _art magique_, the
brilliant charlatan Joseph Francis Borri of Milan, who was condemned
to perpetual imprisonment in the Castle of St. Angelo by the Holy
Inquisition, as a heretic, alchemist, and sorcerer. A curious
coincidence, says Castro.
The beautiful “Flower of Vesuvius,” Lorenza Feliciani, escaped severe
punishment by immuring herself in the convent of St. Appolonia at
Rome, where she died in 1794. She was more sinned against than
sinning.
There lived in 1858, an old woman known by the name of Madeline,
who inhabited a miserable attic in Paris, the ceiling of which was
covered with cabalistic and astrological emblems. She pretended
to divine the future and tell fortunes. She was the daughter of
Cagliostro and a Jewess of Lyons. (_Le Figaro_, 13 mai, 1858.) {77}
In the Inquisition biography some curious letters to Cagliostro from
his masonic correspondents in France are published. They evidence the
profound respect, one might almost say blind worship, with which he
was regarded by his disciples.
The masonic lodge at Rome was disrupted shortly after Cagliostro’s
arrest. The Sbirri of the Holy Office pounced down upon it, but the
birds had flown, taking with them their most important papers. Father
Marcellus says that among the members of this Roman lodge were an
Englishman and an American.
And so endeth the career of Cagliostro, one of the most romantic of
history. His condemnation as a sorcerer and freemason has invested
him with “the halo of a religious martyr, of which perhaps no one was
less deserving.”
Among his effects the Inquisition found a peculiar seal, upon which
the mysterious letters “L. P. D.” were engraved. These letters were
supposed to stand for the Latin sentence, _Lilia pedibus destrue_,
which rendered into the vulgar tongue signifies, “Tread the lilies
under foot.” The fleur-de-lys was the heraldic device of the Bourbon
Kings of France, hence this trampling upon the lily alluded to the
stamping out of the French monarchy by the freemasons. However, it is
more than probable that the initials, arranged as follows, L. D. P.,
stood for _Libertè de Penser_—“Freedom of thought”—which is a motto
of Scottish Rite Masonry. This was the opinion of General Albert
Pike, 33d degree, than whom no greater masonic student ever lived.
Many theosophical writers have placed implicit belief in the
mission of Cagliostro. They have regarded him as a genuine adept
in magic and alchemy, and not a _chevalier d’industrie_ preying
upon a credulous world. Totally ignoring the evidence contained
in the police archives[16] of Paris and the numerous brochures by
eminent men and women who personally knew Cagliostro, they point
to the Inquisition biography as a mass of false evidence compiled
by religious bigots, and consequently unreliable, as if no other
testimony regarding Cagliostro’s character existed. Father Marcellus
had an ecclesiastical axe to grind, {78} it is true, to prove
Cagliostro a freemason and heretic (heinous crimes in the eyes of the
Roman Church, but absurd charges in the eyes of all tolerant men),
nevertheless he showed conclusively that Joseph Balsamo of Palermo,
the man of many aliases, was also a charlatan, impostor and evil
liver. All impartial contemporary biographers corroborate the facts
adduced by the Inquisition in this respect. The Cardinal de Rohan is
not a competent witness for Cagliostro, for he was blinded by his
superstitious belief in magic and alchemy. _Populus vult decipi,
decipiatur_—people who wish to be deceived are deceived.
[16] See _Documents manuscrits_ in the French archives at
Paris (Cartons: X2 B 1417—F7, 4445 B—Y, 11514—Y, 13125.)
Some writers have asserted that Cagliostro was the agent of the
Templars, and therefore wrote to the freemasons of London that the
time had arrived to begin the work of rebuilding the Temple of the
Eternal. With the heads of the Order he had vowed to overturn the
Throne and the Altar upon the tomb of the martyred Grand Master of
Templars, Jacques de Molai. Learned in the esoteric doctrines of
the Orient, the Knights Templars, or Poor Fellow Soldiery of the
Holy House of the Temple, were accused of sorcery and witchcraft,
hence their persecution by the Church, and Philippe le Bel of
France. De Molai, before he was burned to death in Paris, organized
and instituted what afterwards became in the eighteenth century
occult, hermetic or Scottish Masonry. And thus the freemasons
traced their order to the Templars of the Middle Ages, from whom
they inherited the theosophical doctrines of Egypt and India. Such
is the romantic but improbable legend. Color is lent to the story
by Cagliostro himself. Among other Munchausen tales related by him
to his Inquisitors, he told how he had visited the Illuminati of
Frankfurt, when on his way to Strasburg. In an underground cavern
the secret Grand Master of Templars “showed him his signature under
a horrible form of oath, traced in blood, and pledged him to destroy
all despots, especially in Rome.”
Taking this idea for a theme, Alexander the Great—he of the pen,
not of the sword—has built up a series of improbable though highly
romantic novels about the personality of Cagliostro, entitled _The
Memoirs of a Physician_ and _The Diamond Necklace_. He makes him the
Grand Kophta of a Society of {79} Illuminati, or exalted freemasons,
which extends throughout the world. Pledged to the propagation of
liberty, equality, and fraternity among men, the mystic brotherhood
seeks to overthrow the thrones of Europe and the Papacy, symbols of
oppression and persecution.
_The Memoirs of a Physician_ opens with a remarkable prologue,
descriptive of a solemn conclave of the secret superiors of the
Order. The meeting takes place at night in a ruined chateau located
in a mountainous region near the old city of Strasburg. Cagliostro
reveals his identity as the Arch-master of the Fraternity, the Grand
Kophta, who is in possession of the secrets of the pyramids. He takes
upon himself the important task of “treading the lilies under foot”
and bringing about the destruction of the monarchy in France, the
storm-centre of Europe. He departs on his mission. Like Torrini, the
conjurer, he has a miniature house on wheels drawn by two Flemish
horses. One part of the vehicle is fitted up as an alchemical
laboratory, wherein the sage Althotas makes researches for the
elixir of life. Arriving at the chateau of a nobleman of the _ancien
régime_, Cagliostro meets the young dauphiness Marie Antoinette, on
her way to Paris, accompanied by a brilliant cortège. He causes her
to see in a carafe of water her death by the guillotine. Aided by the
freemasons of Paris, Cagliostro sets to work to encompass the ruin
of the throne and to bring on the great Revolution. Dumas in this
remarkable series of novels passes in review before us Jean Jacques
Rousseau, Cardinal de Rohan, Louis XV and XVI, Marie Antoinette,
Countess du Barry, Madame de la Motte, Danton, Marat, and a host of
people famous in the annals of history. Cagliostro is exalted from
a charlatan into an apostle of liberty, endowed with many noble
qualities. He is represented as possessing occult powers, and his
séances are depicted as realities. Dumas himself was a firm believer
in spiritualism, and hobnobbed with the American medium Daniel D.
Home.
VII.
Cagliostro’s house in the Marais quarter, Paris, still remains—a
memorial in stone of its former master. In the summer {80} of 1899
the _Courrier des Etats-Unis_, New York, contained an interesting
article on this mansion. I quote as follows:
“Cagliostro’s house still stands in Paris. Few alterations have been
made in it since the days of its glories and mysteries; and one may
easily imagine the effect which it produced in the night upon those
who gazed upon its strange pavilions and wide terraces when the
lurid lights of the alchemist’s furnaces streamed through the outer
window blinds. The building preserves its noble lines in spite of
modern additions and at the same time has a weird appearance which
produces an almost depressing effect. But this doubtless comes from
the imagination, because the house was not built by Cagliostro; he
simply rented it. When he took up his quarters in it, it was the
property of the Marquise d’Orvillers. Cagliostro made no changes
in it, except perhaps a few temporary interior additions for the
machines which he used in his séances in magic.
[Illustration: COURTYARD OF CAGLIOSTRO’S HOUSE IN PARIS (PRESENT
CONDITION).]
“The plan of the building may well be said to be abnormal. The outer
gate opens upon the Rue Saint Claude at the angle of the Boulevard
Beaumarchais. The courtyard has a morose and solemn aspect. At
the end under a flagged porch there is a stone staircase worn by
time, but it still preserves its old iron railing. On looking at
that staircase, one cannot help thinking of the hosts of beautiful
women, attracted by curiosity to the den of the sorcerer, and
terrified at what they imagined they were about to see, who placed
their trembling hands upon that old railing. Here we can evoke {81}
the shade of Mme. de la Motte running up the steps, with her head
covered with a cloak, and the ghosts of the valets of Cardinal de
Rohan sleeping in the driver’s seat of the carriage with a lantern
at their feet, while their master, in company with the Great Kophta,
is occupied with necromancy, metallurgy, cabala, or oneirocritics,
which, as everybody knows, constitute the four elementary divisions
of Cagliostro’s art.
“A secret stairway now walled up ran near the large one to the
second story, where its traces are found; and a third stairway,
narrow and tortuous, still exists at the other end of the building
on the boulevard side. It is in the center of the wall, in complete
darkness, and leads to the old salons now cut into apartments,
the windows of which look out upon a terrace. Below, with their
mouldering doors, are the carriage house and the stable,—the stable
of Djerid, the splendid black horse of Lorenza Feliciani.”
To verify the above statement, I wrote to M. Alfred de Ricaudy (an
authority on archæological matters and editor of _L’Echo du Public_,
Paris), who responded as follows, Jan. 13, 1900:
“The house still exists just as it was in the time of Cagliostro
[the exterior]. Upon the boulevard, contiguous to the mansion,
there was formerly the shop of one Camerlingue, a bookseller, now
occupied by an upholsterer. On January 30, 1785, Cagliostro took up
his residence in this quaint old house. It was then No. 30 Rue St.
Claude, at the corner of the Boulevard Saint Antoine, afterwards
the Boulevard Beaumarchais. The Marquise d’Orvillers was the owner
of the premises occupied by the thaumaturgist of the eighteenth
century. Her father, M. de Chavigny, captain in the royal navy, had
built this house on ground acquired in 1719 from Mme. de Harlay,
who had inherited it from her father, le Chevalier Boucherat.
(See Lefeuve, _Old Houses of Paris_, Vol. IV., issue 51, page 24,
published by Achille Faure, Paris, 1863.)”
Cagliostro’s house is now No. 1, the numbering of the street having
been altered during the reign of Louis Philippe. Says M. de Ricaudy:
“The numbering originally began at the Rue Saint Louis, now Rue
de Turenne, in which is situated the church of Saint Denis du
Sacrement. When the houses were re-numbered with reference to the
direction of the current of the Seine (under Louis Philippe), the
numbers of the Rue St. Claude, which is parallel to the river, began
at the corner of the boulevard, and in that way the former number 30
became number 1.”
The sombre old mansion has had a peculiar history. Cagliostro locked
the doors of the laboratories and séance-chambre some time in June,
1786, on the occasion of his exile from France. All during the great
Revolution the house remained closed and intact. Twenty-four years
of undisturbed repose passed away. The {82} dust settled thick upon
everything; spiders built their webs upon the gilded ceilings of the
salons. Finally, in the Napoleonic year 1810, the doors of the temple
of magic and mystery were unfastened, and the furniture and rare
curios, the retorts and crucibles, belonging to the dead conjurer,
were auctioned off. An idle crowd of curious _quid nuncs_ gathered to
witness the sale and pry about. Says Ricaudy:
“The household furniture, belongings, etc., of the illustrious
adventure were not sold until five years after his death. The sale
took place in the apartment which he had occupied, and was by
order of the municipal government. An examination revealed many
curious acoustical and optical arrangements constructed in the
building by Cagliostro. By the aid of these contrivances and that of
well-trained confederates, he perpetrated many supposedly magical
effects, summoned the shades of the dead,” etc. (_See Dictionnaire
de la France_. By A. G. de St. Fargeau, Vol. III., page 245. Paris,
1851.)
Says Lenôtre:
“Since the auctioning of Cagliostro’s effects the gloomy house of
the Rue St. Claude has had no history. Ah, but I am mistaken. In
1855 some repairs were made. The old carriage door was removed, and
the one that took its place was taken from the ruins of the Temple.
There it stands today with its great bolts and immense locks. The
door of the prison of Louis XVI. closes the house of Cagliostro.”
M. de Ricaudy verifies this statement about the door of the mansion.
The student of Parisian archæology will do well to consult M. de
Ricaudy, as well as M. Labreton, 93 Boulevard Beaumarchais, who
possesses forty volumes relating to the history of the Marais
Quarter. Last but not least is the indefatigable student of ancient
landmarks of Paris, M. G. Lenôtre, author of _Paris révolutionnaire,
vieilles maisons, vieux papiers, 1re série_.
My friend, M. Félicien Trewey, who visited the place in the summer
of 1901, at my request, reported to me that it had been converted
into a commercial establishment. The salons were cut up into small
apartments. The laboratories and the _chambre égyptienne_ where the
great sorcerer held his séances were no more. A grocer, a feather
curler, and a manufacturer of cardboard boxes occupied the building,
oblivious of the fact that the world-renowned Cagliostro once lived
there, plying his trade of sorcerer, mesmerist, physician, and mason,
like a true _chevalier d’industrie_. Alas! the history of these
old mansions! They {83} have their days of splendid prosperity,
followed by shabby gentility and finally by sordid decay,—battered,
blear-eyed, and repulsive looking.
According to Henri d’Almeras (_Cagliostro, et la franc-maconnerie et
l’occultisme au XVIIIe siècle_), Cagliostro’s apartment on the second
floor of the house was occupied in the year 1904 by a watchmaker.
Two famous watchmakers became conjurers, one after having read an
old book on natural magic, the other after having seen a performance
of the Davenport Brothers. I allude to Robert-Houdin and Jno. Nevil
Maskelyne. Watchmaking leads naturally to the construction of
automata and magical illusions. The young horologist of the Rue Saint
Claude has every excuse to become a prestidigitateur. He works in an
atmosphere of necromancy in that old house haunted by its memories of
the past. If this does not influence him to enter the magic circle,
nothing else will.
People pass and repass this ghost-house of the Rue Saint Claude every
day, but not one in a hundred knows that the great enchanter once
resided there and held high court. If those dumb walls could but
speak, what fascinating stories of superstition and folly they might
unfold to our wondering ears! Yes, in this ancient house, dating back
to pre-Revolutionary Paris, to the old régime, the great necromancer
known as Cagliostro lived in the zenith of his fame. In these golden
years of his life, was he never haunted by disturbing visions of the
dungeons of the Holy Inquisition, yawning to receive him? Ah, who can
tell? Thanks to the gossipy memoir writers of the period, I am able
to give a pen portrait, composite, if you will, of some of the scenes
that were enacted in the antiquated mansion.
It is night. The lanterns swung in the streets of old Paris glimmer
fitfully. Silence broods over the city with shadowy wings. No
sound is heard save the clank of the patrol on its rounds. The
Rue Saint Claude, however, is all bustle and confusion. A grand
“soirée magique” is being held at the house of Monsieur le Comte de
Cagliostro. Heavy old-fashioned carriages stand in front of the door,
with coachmen lolling sleepily on the boxes, and linkboys playing
rude games with each other in the kennel. A rumble in the street—ha,
there, lackeys! out of {84} the way! Here comes the coach of my
Lord Cardinal, Prince Louis de Rohan. There is a flash of torches.
Servants in gorgeous liveries of red and gold, with powdered wigs,
open the door of the vehicle, and let down the steps with a crash.
Monseigneur le Cardinal, celebrant of the mass in the royal palace at
Versailles, man of pleasure and alchemist, descends. He is enveloped
in a dark cloak, as if to court disguise, but it is only a polite
pretense. He enters the mansion of his bosom friend, Cagliostro the
magician. Within, all is a blaze of light. A life-size bust of the
divine Cagliostro ornaments the foyer. Visitors are received in a
handsomely furnished apartment on the second floor. Beyond that is
the séance-room, a mysterious chamber hung with somber drapery. Wax
candles in tall silver sconces, arranged about the place in mystic
pentagons and triangles, illuminate the scene.
In the center of the room is a table with a black cloth, on which
are embroidered in red the symbols of the highest degree of the
Rosicrucians. Upon this strange shekinah is placed the cabalistic
apparatus of the necromancer—odd little Egyptian figures of Isis,
Osiris, vials of lustral waters, and a large globe full of clarified
water. It is all very uncanny. Presently the guests are seated in
a circle about the altar, and form a magnetic chain. As the old
chroniclers phrase it, to them enters Cagliostro, the Grand Kophta,
the man who has lived thousands of years, habited in gorgeous
robes like the arch-hierophant of an ancient Egyptian temple. The
clairvoyant is now brought in, a child of angelic purity, who was
born under a certain constellation, of delicate nerves, great
sensitiveness, and, withal, blue eyes. She is bidden to kneel before
the globe, and relate what she sees therein. Cagliostro makes passes
over her, and commands the genii to enter the water. The very soul of
the seeress is penetrated with the magnetic aura emanating from the
magician. She becomes convulsed, and declares that she sees events
taking place that very moment at the court of Versailles, at Vienna,
at Rome.
Every one present is transported with joy. Monseigneur le Cardinal
de Rohan is charmed, delighted, and lauds the necromancer to the
skies. How weird and wonderful! Albertus {85} Magnus, Nostradamus
and Appolonius of Tyana are not to be compared with the all-powerful
Cagliostro. Truly he is the descendant of the Egyptian thaumaturgists.
The séance is followed by a banquet. Rose-leaves are showered over
the guests from the gilded ceiling, perfumed water plashes in the
fountains, and a hidden orchestra of violins, flutes and harps
plays soft melodies. The scene reminds one of the splendid feasts
of the Roman voluptuaries in the decadent days of the empire.
The lovely Lorenza Feliciani, wife of the enchanter, discourses
learnedly of sylphs, salamanders and gnomes, in the jargon of
the Rosicrucians. The Cardinal, his veins on fire with love and
champagne, gazes amorously at her. But he is thinking all the while
of the aristocratic Marie Antoinette, who treats him with such cruel
disdain. But Cagliostro has promised to win the Queen for him, to
melt her icy heart with love-philters and magical talismans. Let him
but possess his soul in patience a little while. All will be well.
Aye, indeed, well enough to land the haughty prelate in the Bastille,
and start the magician on that downward path to the Inquisition at
Rome.
The night wanes. The lights of the banqueting-hall burn lower and
lower. Finally the _grandes dames_ and the _seigneurs_ take their
departure. When the last carriage has rolled away into the darkness,
Cagliostro and his wife yawn wearily, and retire to their respective
sleeping-apartments. The augurs of Rome, says a Latin poet, could
not look at each other without laughing. Cagliostro and Lorenza in
bidding each other goodnight exchange smiles of incalculable cunning.
The sphinx masks have dropped from their faces, and they know each
other to be—charlatans and impostors, preying upon a superstitious
society. The magician is alone. He places his wax light upon an
escritoire, and throws himself into an arm-chair before the great
fireplace, carved and gilded with many a grotesque image. The flames
of the blazing logs weave all sorts of fantastic forms on floor and
ceiling. The wind without howls in the chimney like a lost spirit.
The figures embroidered on the tapestry assume monstrous shapes of
evil portent—alguazils, cowled inquisitors, and jailers with rusty
keys and chains. {86}
But the magician sees nothing of it all, hears not the warning cry
of the wind: he is thinking of his newly hatched lodges of Egyptian
occultism, and the golden louis d’or to be conjured out of the
strong-boxes of his Parisian dupes.
{87}
GHOST-MAKING EXTRAORDINARY.
“Stay illusion!
If thou hast any sound, or use of voice,
Speak to me.”—SHAKESPEARE: _Hamlet_.
I.
The French Revolution drew crowds of adventurers to Paris, their
brains buzzing with the wildest schemes—political, social, and
scientific—which they endeavored to exploit. Among the inventors was
a Belgian optician, Etienne-Gaspard Robertson, born at Liège, in
1763, where for many years he had been a professor of physics. He
addressed a memorial in the year 1794 to the Government proposing to
construct gigantic burning glasses _à la_ Archimedes, to set fire to
the English fleets, at that period blockading the French seaports. A
commission composed of Monge, Lefevre, Gineau and Guyton de Morveau
was appointed to investigate the matter, but nothing came of it.
Failing to accomplish his scheme, Robertson turned his attention
to other methods of money-making. Four years passed away. Having
a decided _penchant_ for magic illusions, etc., he set about
constructing a ghost-making apparatus. The “Red Terror” was a thing
of the past, and people had begun to pluck up courage and seek
amusements. Rid to a great extent, of his rival, La Guillotine—the
most famous of “ghost-making machines”—Robertson set up his
phantasmagoria at the Pavilion de l’Echiquier, and flooded the city
with circulars describing his exhibition. Poultier, a journalist and
one of the Representatives of the People, wrote an amusing account of
the entertainment in the _L’Ami des Lois_, 1798.[17] He says: {88}
[Illustration: ROBERTSON’S GHOST SHOW.]
“A decemvir of the Republic has said that the dead return no more,
but go to Robertson’s exhibition and you will soon be convinced of
the contrary, for you will see the dead returning to life in crowds.
Robertson calls forth phantoms, and commands legions of spectres. In
a well-lighted apartment in the Pavilion l’Echiquier I found myself
seated a few evenings since, with sixty or seventy people. At seven
o’clock a pale, thin man entered the room where we were sitting, and
having extinguished the candles he said: ‘Citizens, I am not one of
those adventurers and impudent swindlers who promise more than they
can perform. I have assured the public in the _Journal de Paris_ that
I can bring the dead to life, and I shall do so. Those of the company
who desire to see the apparitions of those who were dear to them, but
who have passed away from this life by sickness or otherwise, have
only to speak; and I shall obey their commands.’ There was a moment’s
silence, and a haggard-looking man, with dishevelled hair and
sorrowful eyes, rose in the midst of the assemblage and exclaimed,
‘As I have been unable in an official journal to re-establish the
worship of Marat, I should at least be glad to see his shadow.’
Robertson immediately threw upon {89} a brazier containing lighted
coals, two glasses of blood, a bottle of vitriol, a few drops of
aquafortis, and two numbers of the _Journal des Hommes Libres_, and
there instantly appeared in the midst of the smoke caused by the
burning of these substances, a hideous livid phantom armed with a
dagger and wearing a red cap of liberty. The man at whose wish the
phantom had been evoked seemed to recognize Marat, and rushed forward
to embrace the vision, but the ghost made a frightful grimace and
disappeared. A young man next asked to see the phantom of a young
lady whom he had tenderly loved, and whose portrait he {90} showed
to the worker of all these marvels. Robertson threw upon the brazier
a few sparrow’s feathers, a grain or two of phosphorus, and a dozen
butterflies. A beautiful woman with her bosom uncovered and her hair
floating about her, soon appeared, and smiled on the young man with
most tender regard and sorrow. A grave looking individual sitting
close by me suddenly exclaimed, ‘Heavens! it’s my wife come to life
again,’ and he rushed from the room, apparently fearing that what he
saw was not a phantom.”
[Illustration: ROBERTSON’S ILLUSION ON A SMALL SCALE.
(From a French Print.)]
[17] Du 8 germinal au VI—28 Mars, 1798.
One evening one of the audience, avowing himself to be a Royalist,
called for the shade of the martyred king, Louis XVI. Here was a
dilemma for citizen Robertson. Had he complied with the request and
evoked the royal ghost, prison and possibly the guillotine would have
been his fate.
But the magician was foxy. He suspected a trap on the part of a
police agent in disguise, who had a spite against him. He replied
as follows: “Citizens, I once had a recipe for bringing dead kings
to life, but that was before the 18th Fructidor, when the Republic
declared royalty abolished forever. On that glorious day I lost my
magic formula, and fear that I shall never recover it again.”
In spite of Robertson’s clever retort, the affair created such a
sensation that on the following day, the police prohibited the
exhibitions, and placed seals on the optician’s boxes and papers.
However, the ban was soon lifted, and the performances allowed to
continue. Lucky Robertson! The advertisement filled his coffers to
overflowing. People struggled to gain admission to the wonderful
phantasmagoria.
Finding the Pavilion too small to accommodate the crowds, the
magician moved his show to an abandoned chapel of the Capuchin
Convent, near the Place Vendôme. This ancient place of worship was
located in the middle of a vast cloister crowded with tombs and
funeral tablets.
A more gruesome spot could not have been selected. The Chapel was
draped in black. From the ceiling was suspended a sepulchral lamp,
in which alcohol and salt were burned, giving forth a ghastly
light which made the faces of the spectators {91} resemble those
of corpses. Robertson, habited in black, made his appearance, and
harangued his audience on ghosts, witches, sorcery, and magic.
Finally the lamp was extinguished and the apartment plunged in
Plutonian darkness. A storm of wind and rain, thunder and lightning,
interspersed with the tolling of a church bell, followed, and
after this the solemn strains of a far-off organ were heard. At
the evocation of the conjurer, phantoms of Voltaire, Mirabeau,
Jean-Jacques Rousseau, Robespierre, Danton, and Marat appeared and
faded away again “into thin air.” The ghost of Robespierre was shown
rising from a tomb. A flash of lightning, vivid and terrible, would
strike the phantom, whereupon it would sink down into the ground and
vanish.
People were often carried away fainting from the exhibition. It was
truly awe inspiring and perfect in _mise en scène_.
At the conclusion of the séance, Robertson used to remark: “I have
shown you, citizens, every species of phantom, and there is but
one more truly terrible spectre—the fate which is reserved for us
all. Behold!” In an instant there stood in the center of the room
a skeleton armed with a scythe. It grew to a colossal height and
gradually faded away.[18]
[18] For a romance embracing the subject of phantasmagoria
see the poet Schiller’s _Ghost-Seer_. (Bohn Library.)
Sir David Brewster, in his work on natural magic, has the following
to say about concave mirrors and the art of phantasmagoria: “Concave
mirrors are distinguished by their property of forming in front of
them, and in the air, inverted images of erect objects, or erect
images of inverted objects, placed at some distance beyond their
principal focus. If a fine transparent cloud of blue smoke is raised,
by means of a chafing dish, around the focus of a large concave
mirror, the image of any highly illuminated object will be depicted
in the middle of it, with great beauty. A skull concealed from the
observer is sometimes used to surprise the ignorant; and when a
dish of fruit has been depicted in a similar manner, a spectator,
stretching out his hand to seize it, is met with the image of a drawn
dagger which has been quickly substituted for the fruit at the other
conjugate focus of the mirror.” {92}
Thoroughly conversant with the science of optics, it is more than
probable that Robertson made use of large concave mirrors to project
inverted phantoms of living persons in the air, with convex lenses
to restore the ghosts to an upright position. If he merely used
painted images, which is the more likely, then he had resort to the
phantasmagoric magic lantern, rolling upon a small track. Pushing
this contrivance backwards and forwards caused the images to lessen
or increase, to recede or advance.
Robertson realized quite a snug fortune out of his ghost exhibition
and other inventions. His automaton speaking figure, called _le
phonorganon_, uttered two hundred words of the French language.
Another interesting piece of mechanism was his Trumpeter. These two
machines formed part of a beautiful _Cabinet de Physique_ in his
house, the Hotel d’ Yorck, Boulevard Montmartre, No. 12 Paris. He
has left some entertaining memoirs, entitled _Mémoires récréatifs et
anecdotifs_ (1830–1834), copies of which are exceedingly rare. He was
a great aeronaut and invented the parachute which has been wrongly
attributed to Garnerin.
Robertson, as _Commandant des Aerostiers_, served in the French army,
and rendered valuable service with his balloons in observing the
movements of the enemy in the campaigns in Belgium and Holland, under
General Jourdain. In the year 1804 he wrote a treatise on ballooning,
entitled, _La Minerve, vaisseau Aérien destiné aux découvertes, et
proposé, à toutes les Académies de l’Europe_, published at Vienna. He
died at Batignolles (Paris) in 1837.
In his memoirs, Robertson describes a species of optical toy called
the Phantascope, for producing illusions on a small scale. This may
give a clue to his spectres of the Capuchin Convent. He also offers
an explanation of Nostradamus’ famous feat of conjuring up the
likeness of Francis I. in a magic mirror, for the edification of the
beautiful Marie de Médici.
II.
We now come to the greatest of all ghost-shows, that of the
Polytechnic Institute, London. In the year 1863 letters patent {93}
were granted to Professor John Henry Pepper, professor of chemistry
in the London Polytechnic Institute, and Henry Dircks, civil
engineer, for a device “for projecting images of living persons in
the air.” Here were no concave mirrors, no magic lanterns, simply
a large sheet of unsilvered glass. The effect is founded on a
well-known optical illusion. “In the evening carry a lighted candle
to the window and you will see reflected in the pane, not only the
image of the candle, but that of your hand and face as well. A sheet
of glass, inclined at a certain angle, is placed on a stage between
the actors and spectators. Beneath the stage and just in front of the
glass, is a person robed in a white shroud, and illuminated by the
brilliant rays of the electric or the oxy-hydrogen light. The image
of the actor who plays the part of spectre, being reflected by the
glass, becomes visible to the spectators, and stands, apparently,
just as far behind the glass as its prototype is placed in front of
it. This image is only visible to the audience. The actor who is on
the stage sees nothing of it, and in order that he may not strike
at random in his attacks on the spectre, it is necessary to mark
beforehand on the boards the particular spot at which, to the eyes of
the audience, the phantom will appear. Care must be taken to have the
theatre darkened and the stage very dimly lighted.”
At the Polytechnic Institute the ghost was admirably produced. The
stage represented the room of a mediaeval student who was engaged in
burning the midnight oil. Looking up from his black-letter tome he
beheld the apparition of a skeleton. Resenting the intrusion he arose
from his chair, seized a sword which was ready to his hand, and aimed
a blow at the figure, which vanished, only to return again and again.
The assistant who manipulated the spectre wore a cover of black
velvet. He held the real skeleton in his arms, and made the fleshless
bones assume the most grotesque attitudes. He had evidently studied
Holbein’s “Dance of Death.” The lower part of the skeleton, from the
pelvis downward, was dressed in white linen, presumably a shroud. To
the audience the figure seemed to vanish and reappear through the
floor. {94}
This ghost-making apparatus has been used with splendid success in
the dramatizations of Dickens’ _Christmas Carol_ and _Haunted Man_;
Bulwer’s _Strange Story_; and Alexander Dumas’ _Corsican Brothers_.
“In the course of the same year (1863),” says Robert-Houdin in his
_Les Secrets de la prestidigitation et de la magie_, “M. Hostein,
manager of the Imperial Châtelet Theatre, purchased[19] from M.
Pepper the secret of the ‘Ghost,’ in order to introduce it into a
drama entitled _Le Secret de Miss Aurore_ [a French adaptation of
“Aurora Floyd”]. M. Hostein spared no expense in order to ensure the
success of the illusion. Three enormous sheets of unsilvered glass,
each five yards square, were placed side by side, and presented
an ample surface for the reflection of the ghost-actor and his
movements. Two Drummond lights (oxy-hydrogen) were used for the
purpose of the trick.
[19] He paid 20,000 francs for the invention.
“But before the trick was in working order at its new destination,
several of the Parisian theatres, in the face of letters patent duly
granted to M. Pepper, had already advertised performances wherein it
was included.
“M. Hostein had no means of preventing the piracy; unluckily for
himself, and still more so for the inventor, the plagiarists had
discovered among the French official records a patent taken out,
ten years before, by a person named Séguin for a toy called the
_Polyoscope_, which was founded on the same principle as the ghost
illusion.”
Professor Pepper claims to have been totally unaware of the existence
of M. Séguin’s Polyoscope. In his _True History of the Ghost_, Pepper
describes the toy as follows:
“It consisted of a box with a small sheet of glass placed at an angle
of forty-five degrees, and it reflected a concealed table, with
plastic figures, the spectres of which appeared behind the glass, and
which young people who possessed the toy invited their companions
to take out of the box, when they melted away, as it were, in their
hands and disappeared.”
In France, at that time, all improvements on a patent fell to the
original patentee, and Pepper found himself out-of-court. {95}
The conjurer Robin claims, on very good authority, to have been the
original inventor of the ghost illusion. He writes as follows:
“I first had the idea of producing the apparitions in 1845. Meeting
innumerable difficulties in carrying out my invention I was obliged
to wait until 1847 before reaching a satisfactory result. In that
year I was able to exhibit the ‘spectres’ to the public in the
theatres of Lyons and Saint Etienne under the name of ‘The living
phantasmagoria.’ To my great astonishment I produced little effect.
The apparitions still were in want of certain improvements which I
have since added. After succeeding in perfecting them I met with
great success in exhibiting them in Venice, Rome, Munich, Vienna and
Brussels, but as my experiments were very costly I was obliged to lay
them aside for some time.”
He further declares that M. Séguin, who had been employed by him to
paint phantasmagoric figures, had based his toy, the Polyoscope,
upon the principle of his (Robin’s) spectres. Robin was one of the
managers who brought out the illusion in Paris, despite the protests
of M. Hostein. He opposed Hostein with the patent of the Polyoscope
and some of his old theatre posters of the year 1847, advertising the
“living phantasmagoria.”
Houdin is rather severe on M. Robin when he classes him among the
plagiarists and pirates. But the two conjurers were great rivals.
M. Caroly, editor of the _Illusioniste_, in an article on Robin,
suggests that perhaps Pepper had seen and examined a Polyoscope,
and built upon it the theatrical illusion of the ghost. My personal
belief is that Professor Pepper was ignorant of the existence of the
toy as well as of Robin’s former exhibitions of phantasmagoria, and
independently thought out the ghost illusion. This frequently happens
among inventors, as every one knows, who has dealings with the U. S.
Patent Office.
In the year 1868, there was exhibited in Paris, at the Ambigu
Theatre, the melodrama of “La Czarine,” founded on Robert-Houdin’s
story of Kempelen’s Automaton Chess Player. In this play was a
remarkable use of the “ghost illusion,” arranged by Houdin, as well
as a chess-playing automaton. I quote as {96} follows from Houdin’s
_Les Secrets de la prestidigitation et de la magie_, Chapter VI:
“My collaborators, Messrs. Adenis and Gastineau, had asked me to
arrange a ‘ghost effect’ for the last act. I had recourse to the
‘ghost illusion’, but I presented it in such guise as to give it a
completely novel character, as the reader will be enabled to judge
from the following description: The scene is laid in Russia, in
the reign of Catherine II. In the last act, an individual named
Pougatcheff, who, on the strength of a personal likeness to Peter
III, attempts to pass himself off as the deceased monarch, is
endeavoring to incite the Russian populace to dethrone Catherine. A
learned man, M. de Kempelen, who is devoted to the Czarina, succeeds,
by the aid of scientific expedients, in neutralizing the villainous
designs of the sham prince.
“The scene is a savage glen, behind which is seen a background of
rugged rocks. Pougatcheff appears, surrounded by a crowd of noisy
adherents. M. de Kempelen comes forward, denounces the impostor, and
declares that, to complete his confusion, he will call up the spirit
of the genuine Peter III. At his command a sarcophagus appears from
the solid rock; it stands upright on end. The lid opens, and exhibits
a corpse covered with a winding sheet. The tomb falls to the ground,
but the phantom remains erect. The sham Czar, though a good deal
frightened, makes a pretence of defying the apparition, which he
treats as a mere illusion. But the upper part of the winding sheet
falls aside, and reveals the livid and moulding features of the late
sovereign. Pougatcheff, thinking that he can hardly be worsted in
a fight with a corpse, draws his sword, and with one blow cuts off
its head, which falls noisily to the ground; but at the very same
moment the living head of Peter III appears on the ghostly shoulders.
Pougatcheff, driven to frenzy by these successive apparitions,
makes at the figure, seizes it by its garments, and thrusts it
violently back into the tomb. But the head remains suspended in
space, rolling its eyes in a threatening manner, and appearing to
offer defiance to its persecutor. The frenzy of Pougatcheff reaches
its culminating point. Grasping his sword with both hands, he tries
to cleave in twain the {97} head of his mysterious adversary; but
his blade only passes through a shadowy being, who laughs to scorn
his impotent rage. Again he raises his sword, but at the same moment
the body of Peter III, in full imperial costume, and adorned with
all the insignia of his rank, becomes visible beneath the head.
The re-animate Czar hurls the impostor violently back, exclaiming,
in a voice of thunder. ‘Hold sacrilegious wretch!’ Pougatcheff,
terror-stricken, and overwhelmed with confusion, confesses his
imposture, and the phantom vanishes.
“The stage arrangements to produce these effects are as follows:
An actor, robed in the brilliant costume of Peter III, reclines
against the sloped support beneath the stage. His body is covered
with a wrapper of black velvet, which is designed to prevent, until
the proper moment, any reflection in the glass. His head alone is
uncovered, and ready to be reflected in the glass so soon as the rays
of the electric light shall be directed upon it.
“The phantom which originally comes out of the sarcophagus is a
dummy, whose head is modeled from that of the actor who plays the
part of Czar. This head is made readily detachable from the body.
“Everything is placed and arranged in such manner that the dummy
image of Peter III shall precisely correspond in position with the
person of the actor who plays the part of ghost.
“At the same moment that the head of the former falls to the ground,
the electric light is gradually made to shine on the head of the
actor who plays the part of Peter III, which being reflected in the
glass, appears to shape itself on the body of the dummy ghost. After
this latter is hurled to the ground, the veil which hides the body of
the actor Czar is quickly and completely drawn away, and the sudden
flood of the electric light reflects his whole body where his head
alone was previously visible.”
As a clever producer of the living and impalpable spectres, Robin
had no equal. I will describe two of his effects. The curtain rose,
showing a cemetery with tombstones and cenotaphs. It was midnight. A
lover entered and stood weeping over the tomb of his dead fiancée.
Suddenly she appeared before him {98} arrayed in a winding sheet
which she threw aside, revealing herself in the dress of a bride.
He endeavored to embrace her. His arms passed unimpeded through the
spectre. Gradually the vision melted away, leaving him grieving and
desolate.
The impression produced by this illusion was profound and terrifying.
Amid cries of astonishment and fright resounding through the hall,
many women fainted or made their escape.
[Illustration: ROBIN’S GHOST-ILLUSION.]
Robin devised another scene which he called “The Demon of Paganini.”
An actor made up to resemble the famous violin virtuoso, Paganini,
tall, gaunt, with flowing locks, and dressed in shabby black, was
seen reclining upon a couch. A devil, habited in green and red, and
armed with a violin, made its appearance and clambered upon the
sleeper, installing himself comfortably on the violinist’s stomach.
Then the demon gave himself up to a violin solo which was not in the
least interrupted by the frantic gestures of the nightmare ridden
sufferer, whose hands attempted in vain to seize the weird violin and
bow. The demon, {99} sometimes sitting, sometimes kneeling on the
body of his victim, continued his musical selection.
The Demon of Paganini was mounted on a special support by which he
could be elevated and depressed at pleasure. The violinist, who was
the real player, stood below the stage, but in the shade, at one side
of the electric lamp which illuminated the demon. The sound issued
from the opening in front of the glass. The glass used by Robin
measured 5 by 4 meters, in a single piece. It was placed with great
care, for the least deviation would be followed by a displacement of
the image.
[Illustration: Fig. 81.—Les spectres de Robin; explication théorique.
EXPLANATION OF ROBIN’S GHOST-ILLUSION.]
It should be remarked that Robin’s auditorium comprised only a
sloping parterre surrounded by a range of small boxes. There was no
gallery. The spectators, consequently, were not elevated sufficiently
to perceive the opening in the stage.
When, in 1866, Robin’s Spectres were taken to a large theatre
in Paris, the Châtelet, he was obliged to devise a different
arrangement, for the spectators in the galleries above were able
{100} to see, at the same time, both the actor and his reflection.
Robin had been obliged to place his actor on a lower level because
he had no room at the side of his little stage. At the Châtelet,
however, space permitted a much more convenient arrangement, for
it allowed the actor, who furnished the reflection, to move about
freely on a horizontal plane. The glass was placed vertically and
formed, on the plane, an angle of about 45° with the longitudinal
axis of the theatre. The actor was hidden behind a wing; his
reflection appeared in the center of the stage toward the back-drop;
visible, nevertheless, to all the spectators. His field of movement,
necessarily restricted, was marked out in advance upon the floor.
Robin was able to preserve for a considerable time the secret of the
ghost illusion; just enough to pique the curiosity of the public.
It was guessed at last that he made use of unsilvered glass. The
fact became known and several wags proved the presence of the glass
by throwing inoffensive paper balls which struck the obstacle and
fell, arrested in their flight. Robin was greatly vexed at these
occurrences but the trick was none the less exposed.
III.
Pepper eventually brought out a new illusion called “Metempsychosis,”
the joint invention of himself and a Mr. Walker. It is a very
startling optical effect, and is thus described by me in my American
edition of Stanyon’s _Magic_: “One of the cleverest illusions
performed with the aid of mirrors is that known as the ‘Blue Room’,
which has been exhibited in this country by Kellar. It was patented
in the United States by the inventors. The object of the apparatus
is to render an actor, or some inanimate thing, such as a chair,
table, suit of armor, etc., visible or invisible at will. ‘It is
also designed,’ says the specification in the patent office, ‘to
substitute for an object in sight of the audience the image of
another similar object hidden from direct vision without the audience
being aware that any such substitution has been made.’ For this
purpose employ a large mirror—either an ordinary mirror or for some
purposes, by preference, a large sheet {101} of plate-glass—which is
transparent at one end and more and more densely silvered in passing
from this toward the other end. Mount this mirror or plate so that it
can, at pleasure, be placed diagonally across the stage or platform.
As it advances, the glass obscures the view of the actor or object in
front of which it passes, and substitutes the reflection of an object
in front of the glass, but suitably concealed from the direct view of
the audience.
[Illustration:
FIG. 1. APPARATUS.
FIG. 2. ARMOR SCENE.
DIAGRAM OF BLUE ROOM.]
“When the two objects or sets of objects thus successively presented
to the view are properly placed and sufficiently alike, the audience
will be unaware that any change has been made. In some cases, in
place of a single sheet of glass, two or more sheets may be employed.”
By consulting Fig. 1, the reader will understand the construction
of the illusion, one of the best in the repertoire of the {102}
conjurer. The shaded drawing in the left upper part, represents a
portion of the mirror, designed to show its graduated opacity.
“_a_ is a stage. It may be in a lecture-room or theatre. _bb_,
the seats for the audience in front of the stage. _cc_ is a
small room—eight or ten feet square and eight high will often be
sufficiently large; but it may be of any size. It may advantageously
be raised and approached by two or three steps from the stage _a_.
“_d_ is a vertical mirror, passing diagonally across the chamber
_c_ and dividing it into two parts, which are exact counterparts
the one of the other. The mirror _d_ is so mounted that it can be
rapidly and noiselessly moved diagonally across the chamber in the
path represented by the dotted line _d_^1, and be withdrawn whenever
desired. This can conveniently be done by running it in guides and
upon rollers to and from a position where it is hidden by a screen,
_e_, which limits the view of the audience in this direction.
“In consequence of the exact correspondence of the two parts of the
chamber _c_, that in front and that behind the mirror, the audience
will observe no change in appearance when the mirror is passed across.
“The front of the chamber is partially closed at _cx_ by a shield or
short partition-wall, either permanently or whenever required. This
is done in order to hide from direct view any object which may be at
or about the position _c_^1.
“The illusions may be performed in various ways—as, for example, an
object may, in the sight of the audience, be passed from the stage to
the position _c_^2, near the rear short wall or counterpart shield
_f_, diagonally opposite to and corresponding with the front corner
shield _cx_, and there be changed for some other. This is done by
providing beforehand a dummy at _c_^1, closely resembling the object
at _c_^2. Then when the object is in its place, the mirror is passed
across without causing any apparent change. The object, when hidden,
is changed for another object externally resembling the first, the
mirror is withdrawn, and the audience may then be shown in any
convenient way that the object now before them differs from that
which their eyesight would lead them to suppose it to be. {103}
“We prefer, in many cases, not to use an ordinary mirror, _d_, but
one of graduated opacity. This may be produced by removing the
silvering from the glass in lines; or, if the glass be silvered
by chemical deposition, causing the silver to be deposited upon
it in lines, somewhat as represented in Fig. 1. Near one side of
the glass the lines are made fine and open, and progressively in
passing toward the other side they become bolder and closer until a
completely-silvered surface is reached. Other means for obtaining a
graduated opacity and reflecting power may be resorted to.
“By passing such a graduated mirror between the object at _c_^2 and
the audience, the object may be made to fade from the sight, or
gradually to resolve itself into another form.”
Hopkins in his fine work on _Magic, stage illusions, etc._, to which
I contributed the Introduction and other chapters, thus describes one
of the many effects which can be produced by the Blue Room apparatus.
The curtain rises, showing “the stage set as an artist’s studio.
Through the centre of the rear drop scene is seen a small chamber
in which is a suit of armor standing upright. The floor of this
apartment is raised above the level of the stage and is approached
by a short flight of steps. When the curtain is raised a servant
makes his appearance and begins to dust and clean the apartments.
He finally comes to the suit of armor, taking it apart, cleans and
dusts it, and finally reunites it. No sooner is the armor perfectly
articulated than the soulless mailed figure deals the servant a blow.
The domestic, with a cry of fear, drops his duster, flies down the
steps into the large room, the suit of armor pursuing him, wrestling
with him, and kicking him all over the stage. When the armor
considers that it has punished the servant sufficiently, it returns
to its original position in the small chamber, just as the master
of the house enters, brought there by the noise and cries of the
servant, from whom he demands an explanation of the commotion. Upon
being told, he derides the servant’s fear, and, to prove that he was
mistaken, takes the suit of armor apart, throwing it piece by piece
upon the floor.”
It is needless, perhaps, to explain that the armor which becomes
endowed with life has a man inside of it. When the {104} curtain
rises a suit of armor is seen in the Blue Room, at H, (Fig. 2).
At I is a second suit, concealed behind the proscenium. It is the
duplicate of the visible one. When the mirror is shoved diagonally
across the room, the armor at H becomes invisible, but the mirror
reflects the armor concealed at I, making it appear to the spectators
that the suit at H is still in position. An actor dressed in armor
now enters behind the mirror, removes the suit of armor at H, and
assumes its place. When the mirror is again withdrawn, the armor at
H becomes endowed with life. Again the mirror is shoved across the
apartment, and the actor replaces the original suit of armor at H.
It is this latter suit which the master of the house takes to pieces
and casts upon the floor, in order to quiet the fears of the servant.
This most ingenious apparatus is capable of many novel effects. Those
who have witnessed Professor Kellar’s performance will bear witness
to the statement. When the illusion was first produced in England a
sketch entitled Curried Prawns was written for it by the famous comic
author, Burnand, editor of _Punch_.
An old gentleman, after having partaken freely of a dish of curried
prawns, washed down by copious libations of wine, retires to bed, and
very naturally “sees things.” Who would not under such circumstances?
He has a dreadful nightmare, during which ghosts, goblins, vampires
and witches visit him. The effects are produced by the mirror.
IV.
When I was searching among the books of the Bibliothèque Nationale,
Paris, for material concerning Robertson and others, a very
remarkable ghost show was all the rage in the Montmartre Quarter of
the city, based on the Pepper illusion. I will endeavor to describe
it. It was held at the _Cabaret du Néant_, or Tavern of the Dead.
“Anything for a new sensation” is the motto of the Boulevardier.
Death is no laughing matter, but the gay Parisian is ready to mock
even at the Grim Tyrant, hence the vogue of the Tavern of the Dead.
I went to this lugubrious cabaret in company with a student of
medicine. He seemed to {105} think the whole affair a huge joke, but
then he was a hair-brained, thoughtless young fellow.
The Inn of Death was located in the Rue Cujas, near by the Rue
Champollion. Over its grim black-painted portal burned an ashy blue
and brimstone flame. It seemed like entering a charnel house. My
student friend led the way down a gloomy passage into a room hung
with funeral cloth. Coffins served as tables, and upon each was
placed a lighted taper. From the ceiling hung a grewsome-looking
chandelier, known as “Robert Macaire’s chandelier.” It was formed of
skulls and bones. In the skulls were placed lights. The waiters of
the cabaret were garbed like _croque-morts_ (undertaker’s men). In
sepulchral tones one of these gloomy-looking garçons, a trifle more
cadaverous than his confrères, sidled up to us like a huge black
raven and croaked out, “Name your poison, gentlemen. We have on tap
distilled grave-worms, deadly microbes, the bacteria of all diseases
under the sun,” etc. Whatever one called for in this undertaking
establishment, the result was the same—beer of doubtful quality.
After drinking a bock we descended a flight of grimy stairs to
another apartment which was hung with black cloth, ornamented with
white tears, like the decorations furnished by the _Pompes Funèbres_
(Undertakers’ Trust) of Paris, on state occasions. Here we were
solemnly greeted by a couple of quasi Capuchin monks with the words:
“_Voilà des Machabées!_” We seated ourselves on a wooden bench and
waited for the séance to begin. Among the spectators were several
students and their grisettes, a little piou-piou (soldier), and a
fat gentleman with a waxed moustache and imperial, who might have
been a _chef de cuisine_ in disguise or a member of the _Académie
Française_. A curtain at one end of the room was pulled aside,
revealing a stage set to represent a mouldy crypt, in the center
of which stood upright an empty coffin. A volunteer being called
for, my medical friend agreed to stand in the grim box for the
dead. One of the monks wrapped about the young man’s body a winding
sheet. A strong light was turned on him. Presently a deathly pallor
overcame the ruddy hue of health on his cheeks. His face assumed
the waxen color of death. His eyes resolved themselves {106} into
cavernous sockets; his nose disappeared; and presently his visage was
metamorphosed into a grinning skull. The illusion was perfect. During
this ghastly transformation the monks intoned: “_Voilà Machabæus!_ He
dies! He wastes away! Dust to dust! The eternal worm awaits you all!”
A church bell was solemnly tolled and an organ played. The scene
would have delighted that stern genius, Hans Holbein, whose Dance
of Death has chilled many a human heart. We looked again, and the
skeleton in the coffin vanished. “He has risen to Heaven!” cried the
Capuchins.
In a little while the figure reappeared. The fleshless skull was
merged into the face of my friend. He stepped out of the box,
throwing aside the shroud, and greeted me with a merry laugh. Other
people volunteered to undergo the death scene. After the exhibition
was over one of the Capuchins passed around a skull for penny
contributions, and we left the place.
Now for an explanation of the illusion.
A sheet of glass is placed obliquely across the stage in front of
the coffin. At the side of this stage, hidden by the proscenium,
is another coffin containing a skeleton robed in white. When the
electric lights surrounding the first coffin are turned off and the
casket containing the skeleton highly illuminated, the spectators see
the reflection of the latter in the glass and imagine that it is the
coffin in which the volunteer has been placed. To resurrect the man
the lights are reversed.
{107}
THE ROMANCE OF AUTOMATA.
“ ‘What!’ I said to myself, ‘can it be possible that the marvelous
science which raised Vaucanson’s name so high—the science
whose ingenious combinations can animate inert matter, and
impart to it a species of existence—is the only one without its
archives?’ ”—ROBERT-HOUDIN.
I.
Automata have played an important part in the magic of ancient
temples, and in the séances of mediæval sorcerers. Who has not
read of the famous “Brazen Head,” constructed by Friar Bacon, and
the wonderful machines of Albertus Magnus? Modern conjurers have
introduced automata into their entertainments with great effect, as
witness Pinetti’s “Wise Little Turk,” Kempelen’s “Chess Player,”
Houdin’s “Pastry Cook of the Palais Royal,” Kellar’s “Hindoo Clock,”
Maskelyne’s “Psycho,” etc. But these automata have been such in name
only, the motive power usually being furnished by the conjurer’s
_alter ego_, or concealed assistant.
The so-called automaton Chess Player is enveloped with a halo of
romance. It had a remarkable history. It was constructed in the year
1769 by the Baron von Kempelen, a Hungarian nobleman and mechanician,
and exhibited by him at the leading courts of Europe. The Empress
Maria Theresa of Austria played a game with it. In 1783 it was
brought to Paris and shown at the Café de la Regence, the rendezvous
of chess lovers and experts, after which it was taken to London.
Kempelen died on the 26th of March, 1804, and his son sold the Chess
Player to J. N. Maelzel, musician, inventor and mechanician, who
was born at Ratisbon, Bavaria, in 1772. His father was a celebrated
organ-builder. {108}
Maelzel was the inventor of the Metronome (1815), a piece of
mechanism known to all instructors of music: the automaton
_Trumpeter_ (1808), and the _Pan-Harmonicum_ (1805). He had a strange
career as the exhibitor of the Chess Player. After showing the
automaton in various cities of Europe, Maelzel sold it to Napoleon’s
step-son, Eugène Beauharnais, the Viceroy of the Kingdom of Italy.
But the old love of “adventurous travel with the Turbaned Turk” took
possession of him, and he succeeded in buying back the Chess Player
from its royal owner. He went to Paris with it in 1817 and 1818,
afterwards to London, meeting everywhere with success. In 1826 he
brought it to America. The Chess Player excited the greatest interest
throughout the United States. Noted chess experts did their best to
defeat it, but rarely succeeded.
[Illustration: THE AUTOMATON CHESS PLAYER.]
Now for a description of the automaton.
The audience was introduced into a large room, at one end of which
hung crimson curtains. These curtains being drawn aside, Maelzel
rolled forward a box on castors. Behind the box or {109} table,
which was two feet and a half high, three feet and a half long, and
two feet wide, was seated cross-legged, the figure of a Turk. The
chair on which the figure was affixed was permanently attached to the
box. At the top of the box was a chess-board. The figure had its eyes
fixed intently upon this board, its right hand and arm being extended
towards the board, its left, which was somewhat raised, holding a
long pipe.
Four doors, two in front, and two in the rear of the box, were
opened, and a lighted candle thrust into the cavities. Nothing was to
be seen except cog wheels, levers, and intricate machinery. A long
drawer, which contained the chessmen and a cushion, was pulled out.
Two doors in the Turk’s body were thrown open, and the candle held
inside, to satisfy the spectators that nothing but machinery was
contained therein.
Maelzel wound up the automaton with a large key, took away the pipe,
and placed the cushion under the arm of the figure. Curious to relate
the automaton played with its left hand. In Von Kempelen’s day, the
person selected to play with the figure, sat at the same chess-board
with it, but Maelzel altered this. A rope separated the machine from
the audience, and the player sat at a small table, provided with a
chess-board, some ten or twelve feet away from the Turk.
The automaton invariably chose the white chess-men, and made the
first move, its fingers opening as the hand was extended towards the
board, and the piece picked up and removed to its proper square.
When his antagonist had made his move, the automaton paused and
appeared to study the game, before proceeding further. It nodded its
head to indicate check to the king. If a false move was made by its
opponent, it rapped on the table, and replaced the piece, claiming
the move for itself. Maelzel, acting for the human player, repeated
his move on the chess-board of the Turk, and when the latter moved,
made the corresponding move on the board of the challenger. The
whirring of machinery was heard during the progress of the game,
but this was simply a blind. It subserved two purposes: _first_,
to induce the spectators to believe that the automaton was really
operated by ingenious mechanism, {110} _second_, to disguise the
noise made by the concealed confederate as he shifted himself from
one compartment to the other, as the various doors were opened and
shut in succession. No machine could possibly be constructed to
imitate the human mind when engaged in playing chess, or any other
mental operation where the indeterminate enters and which requires
knowledge and reflection. But the majority of people who saw the
automaton did not realize this fact, and pronounced it a _pure
machine_.
Signor Blitz, the conjurer, who was intimate with Maelzel, having
frequently given entertainments in conjunction with him, was
possessed of the secret of the Turk. In his memoirs, he says: “The
Chess Player was ingeniously constructed—a perfect counterpart of a
magician’s trick-table with a variety of partitions and doors, which,
while they removed every possible appearance of deception, only
produced greater mystery, and provided more security to the invisible
player. The drawers and closets were so arranged as to enable him
to change his position according to circumstances: at one moment he
would be in this compartment; the next in that; then in the body of
the Turk.”
He says this concealed assistant was named Schlumberger.
This explanation is verified by Professor Allen,[20] who was very
intimate with Maelzel.
[20] Fiske’s _Book of the First American Chess Congress_,
New York, 1859. Pp. 420–484.
William Schlumberger was a native of Alsace, a remarkable chess
expert and linguist. Maelzel picked him up in the Café de la Regence,
Paris, where he eked out a meagre living as a teacher of chess.
Occasionally, Schlumberger would over-indulge in wine, and as a
result would be beaten, while acting as the motive power of the
Turk. “On one occasion,” says Professor Allen, “just as Maelzel was
bringing the Turk out from behind the curtain, a strange noise was
heard to proceed from his interior organization, something between
a rattle, a cough, and a sneeze. Maelzel pushed back his ally in
evident alarm, but presently brought him forward again, and went on
with the exhibition as if nothing had happened.” {111}
Schlumberger not only acted as confederate, but served his employer
as secretary and clerk.
Edgar Allen Poe, who wrote an exposé of the automaton when it
visited Richmond, remarked: “There is a man, Schlumberger, who
attends him (Maelzel) wherever he goes, but who has no ostensible
occupation other than that of assisting in packing and unpacking of
the automaton. Whether he professes to play chess or not, we are
not informed. It is quite certain, however, that he is never to be
seen during the exhibition of the Chess Player, although frequently
visible just before and after the exhibition. Moreover, some years
ago Maelzel visited Richmond with his automaton. Schlumberger was
suddenly taken ill, and during his illness there was no exhibition of
the Chess Player. These facts are well known to many of our citizens.
The reason assigned for the suspension of the Chess Player’s
performances was _not_ the illness of _Schlumberger_. The inferences
from all this we leave, without further comment, to the reader.”
Edgar Allen Poe, the apostle of mystery, certainly hit the nail on
the head here, and solved the problem of the automaton.
The Chess Player had the honor of defeating Napoleon the Great—“the
Victor in a hundred battles.” This was in the year 1809, when
Maelzel, by virtue of his office as Mechanician to the Court of
Austria, was occupying some portion of the Palace of Schönbrunn,
“when Napoleon chose to make the same building his headquarters
during the Wagram campaign.” A man by the name of Allgaier was the
concealed assistant on this occasion. Napoleon was better versed in
the art of manœuvring human kings, queens, prelates and pawns on the
great chess-boards of diplomacy and battle than moving ivory chessmen
on a painted table-top.
Maelzel, in addition to the Chess Player, exhibited his own
inventions, which were really automatons, also the famous panorama,
“The Burning of Moscow.” After a splendid tour throughout the States,
he went to Havana, Cuba, where poor Schlumberger died of yellow
fever. On the return trip Maelzel himself died, and was buried at
sea. This was in 1838.
The famous Turk, with other of Maelzel’s effects, was sold {112}
at public auction in Philadelphia. The automaton was bought by
Dr. J. K. Mitchell, reconstructed, and privately exhibited by him
for the amusement of his friends. Finally it was deposited in the
Chinese Museum, where it remained for fourteen years, with the dust
accumulating upon it. Here the Chess Player rested from his labors,
a superannuated, broken down pensioner, dreaming, if automatons can
dream, of his past adventures, until the year 1854. On July 5 of
that year a great fire destroyed the Museum, and the Turbaned Turk
was burnt to ashes. Better such a fate than rotting to pieces in the
cellar of some old warehouse, forgotten and abandoned.
Robert-Houdin, in his autobiography, tells a most romantic story
about the Chess Player, the accuracy of which has been seriously
doubted. He also makes several errors concerning its career and
that of Maelzel. R. Shelton Mackenzie, who translated Houdin’s life
(1859), calls attention to these mistakes, in his preface to that
work. “This remarkable piece of mechanism was constructed in 1769,
and not in 1796; it was the Empress Maria-Theresa of Austria who
played with it, and not Catherine II of Russia. M. Maelzel’s death
was in 1838, on the voyage from Cuba to the United States, and not,
as M. Houdin says, on his return to France; and the automaton,
so far from being taken back to France, was sold at auction here
[Philadelphia], where it was consumed in the great fire of July 5,
1854.”
I believe that the true history of the Chess Player is related by
Prof. George Allen, of the University of Pennsylvania, in Fiske’s
_Book of the first American Chess Congress_, N. Y., 1859, pp. 420–484.
II.
Now for Houdin’s entertaining story of the Chess Player. In the year
1796, a revolt broke out in a half-Russian, half-Polish regiment
stationed at Riga, capital of Livonia, Russia. At the head of the
rebels was an officer named Worousky, a man of talent and energy.
He was of short stature, but well built. The revolutionists were
defeated in a pitched battle and put to flight {113} by the
Russians. Worousky had both thighs shattered by a cannon ball and
fell on the battle field. However, he escaped from the general
massacre of his comrades by casting himself into a ditch near a
hedge, not far from the house of a doctor named Osloff. At nightfall
he dragged himself with great difficulty to the house, and was taken
in by the benevolent physician, who promised to conceal him. Osloff
eventually had to amputate both of Worousky’s legs, close to the
body. The operation was successful. During this time, the famous
Baron von Kempelen came to Russia, and paid Dr. Osloff a visit. He
also took compassion upon the crippled Polish officer. It seems
that Worousky was a master of the game of chess, and repeatedly
defeated Osloff and Kempelen. Kempelen then conceived the idea of the
automaton chess player, as a means of assisting Worousky to escape
from Russia, and immediately set about building it. It was completed
in June, 1796. In order to avert suspicion Osloff and Kempelen
determined to play at several of the smaller towns and cities before
reaching the frontier.
The first performance was given at Toula. Says Houdin: “I possess a
copy of the original bill, which was given me by M. Hessler, nephew
of Dr. Osloff, who also supplied me with all these details. Worousky
won every game he played at Toula, and the papers were full of
praises of the automaton. Assured of success by the brilliancy of
their début, M. de Kempelen and his companion proceeded towards the
frontier.”
Worousky was concealed from sight, while traveling, in the enormous
chest which held the Chess Player. Air holes were made in the sides
of the chest to enable him to breathe. They arrived without adventure
at Vitebsk, on the road to the Prussian frontier, when a letter came
summoning them to the imperial palace at St. Petersburg. The Empress
Catherine II, having heard of the automaton’s wonderful talent,
desired to play a game with it. They dared not refuse this demand.
Worousky, who had a price set on his head, was the coolest of the
three, and seemed delighted at the idea of playing with the Empress.
After fifteen days travel they reached St. Petersburg. Kempelen had
the automaton carried to the palace in the same chest in which {114}
it traveled, thereby secretly conveying Worousky thither. The Chess
Player was set up in the library, and at the appointed hour Catherine
II, followed by a numerous suite, entered and took her place at the
chess-board. The members of the Court took their places behind the
Empress. Kempelen never allowed anyone to pass behind the automaton,
and would not consent to begin the game till all the spectators were
in front of the board.
“The chest and the Turk’s body were then examined, and when all were
perfectly convinced they contained nothing but clockwork, the game
began. It proceeded for some time in perfect silence, but Catherine’s
frowning brow speedily revealed that the automaton was not very
gallant towards her, and fully deserved the reputation it had gained.
The skillful Mussulman captured a bishop and a knight, and the game
was turning much to the disadvantage of the lady, when the Turk,
suddenly forgetting his dignified gravity, gave a violent blow on his
cushion, and pushed back a piece his adversary had just moved.
“Catherine II had attempted to cheat; perhaps to try the skill of
the automaton, or for some other reason. At any rate the haughty
empress, unwilling to confess her weakness, replaced the piece on
the same square, and regarded the automaton with an air of imperious
authority. The result was most unexpected—the Turk upset all the
pieces with a blow of his hand, and immediately the clock work, which
had been heard during the whole game, stopped. It seemed as if the
machinery had got out of repair. Pale and trembling, M. de Kempelen,
recognizing in this Worousky’s impetuous temper, awaited the issue of
this conflict between the insurgent and his sovereign.
“ ‘Ah, ah! my good automaton! your manners are rather rough,’ the
Empress said, good humoredly, not sorry to see a game she had small
chance of winning end thus. ‘Oh! you are a famous player, I grant;
but you were afraid of losing the game, and so prudently upset the
pieces. Well, I am now quite convinced of your skill and your violent
character.’
“M. de Kempelen began to breathe again, and regaining courage, tried
to remove the unfavorable impression which the little {115} respect
shown by the automaton must have produced. Hence he said, humbly:
“ ‘Will your majesty allow me to offer an explanation of what has
just happened?’
“ ‘By no means, M. de Kempelen,’ Catherine said, heartily,—‘by no
means; on the contrary, I find it most amusing, and your automaton
pleases me so much that I wish to purchase it. I shall thus always
have near me a player, somewhat quick perhaps, but yet able to hold
his own. You can leave it here tonight, and come tomorrow morning to
arrange the price.’
“There is strong reason to believe that Catherine wished to commit
an indiscretion when she evinced a desire that the figure should
remain at the palace till next morning. Fortunately, the skillful
mechanician managed to baffle her feminine curiosity by carrying
Worousky off in the big chest. The automaton remained in the library,
but the player was no longer there.
“The next day Catherine renewed her proposition to purchase the Chess
Player, but Kempelen made her understand that, as the figure could
not perform without him, he could not possibly sell it. The empress
allowed the justice of these arguments; and, while complimenting the
mechanician on his invention, made him a handsome present.
“Three months after the automaton was in England, under the
management of Mr. Anthon, to whom Kempelen had sold it. I know not
if Worousky was still attached to it, but I fancy so, owing to the
immense success the Chess Player met with. Mr. Anthon visited the
whole of Europe, always meeting with the same success; but, at
his death, the celebrated automaton was purchased by Maelzel, who
embarked with it for New York. It was then, probably, Worousky took
leave of his hospitable Turk, for the automaton was not nearly so
successful in America. After exhibiting his mechanical trumpeter and
Chess Player for some time, Maelzel set out again for France, but
died on the passage, of an attack of indigestion. His heirs sold his
apparatus, and thus Cronier obtained his precious relic.” The Chess
Player caused the greatest amount of discussion in its time. At the
solicitation of a leading theatrical manager of Paris, Houdin {116}
arranged the trick for a melodrama, in which Catherine II of Russia
was one of the characters.
III.
I now come to the celebrated inventions of Maskelyne which were
exhibited at Egyptian Hall, London. First on the list comes the
automaton whist player, “Psycho,” which far exceeds the Chess Player
of Von Kempelen in ingenious construction. Its secret has never been
divulged.
[Illustration: J. N. MASKELYNE]
Says the _Encyclopedia Britannica_: “In 1875 Maskelyne and Cooke
produced at the Egyptian Hall, in London, an automaton whist player,
‘Psycho,’ which from the manner in which it is placed upon the
stage, appears to be perfectly isolated from any {117} mechanical
communication from without . . . The arm has all the complicated
movements necessary for chess or draught playing; and ‘Psycho’
calculates any sum up to a total of 99,000,000. . . . ‘Psycho’, an
Oriental figure, sitting cross-legged on a box, is supported by a
single large cylinder of clear glass, which as originally exhibited,
stood upon the carpet of the stage, but was afterwards set loose
upon a small stool, having solid wood feet; moreover, this automaton
may be placed in almost any number of different ways. . . . It may
be mentioned that in the same year in which ‘Psycho’ appeared,
the joint inventors patented a method of controlling the speed of
clockwork mechanism by compressed air or gas stored in the pedestal
of an automaton, this compressed air acting upon a piston in a
cylinder and also upon a rotating fan when a valve is opened by ‘an
electrical or other connection worked by the foot of the performer or
an assistant.’ But it is not known whether the principle obscurely
described in the specification was applicable in any way to the
invisible agency employed in ‘Psycho,’ or whether it had reference to
some other invention which has never been realized.”
A very clever exposé of “Psycho” was published in an English
newspaper, November, 1877. That it is the correct one, I am by
no means certain. But an ingenious mechanic by carrying out its
provisions would be enabled to construct an excellent imitation of
the Maskelyne so-called automaton.
[Illustration: FIGS. 1A, 1B.]
[Illustration: FIG. 2.]
[Illustration: FIG. 3.]
[Illustration: FIG. 4.]
“In Figs. _1a_ and _1b_ (elevation and plan), the wheels E and M
have each a train of clockwork (left out for the sake of clearness),
which would cause them to spin round if unchecked. M, however, has
two pins, _p p_, which catch on a projection on the lever, N. E is
a crown-wheel escapement—like that in a bottle roasting-jack—which
turns A alternately to the left and right, thus causing the hand to
traverse the thirteen cards. A little higher up on A will be seen
a quadrant, B (see plan), near the edge of which are set thirteen
little pins. The end of the lever, N, drops between any two of them,
thus causing the hand to stop at any desired card. The lever being
pivoted at _c_, it is obvious that by depressing the end, N, B will
be set at liberty, {118} and the hand will move along the cards; by
slightly raising it this motion will be arrested; by raising it still
more the pin, _p_, is released, and M commences to revolve, and by
again depressing N this wheel will, in its turn, be stopped. Near
the bottom of the apparatus is a bellows, O, which contains a spring
tending to keep the lever, N, with which it is connected by a rod, X,
in the position shown. This is connected with the tubular support,
which may be connected by a tube through the leg of the stool, and
another tube beneath the stage, with an assistant behind the scenes.
By compressing or exhausting air through this tube it is obvious that
the lever, N, will be raised or depressed, and the clockwork set
going accordingly. _a_ is a crank-pin set in M, and connected with
the head by catgut, T, and with the thumb by S. At R and R are two
pulleys connected by gut. Thus if the {119} hand moves round, the
head appears to follow its motions, and when raised by pulling S,
the head rises also by means of T. Further explanation seems almost
unnecessary; _l_ is a stop to prevent the elbow moving too far, and
_b b_ spiral springs, to keep the thumb open and the head forward
respectively. When N is raised, M pulls T and S, the latter closing
the thumb, and then raising the arm by pulley H. If the lever is
allowed to drop, _p_ will catch and keep the arm up. On again raising
N, the arm will descend.
“In addition to the above contrivance, we have in Figs. 2 and 3
another and simpler arrangement, in which only one train of clockwork
is used. On the same axle as H is fixed a lever and weight, W, to
balance the arm. A vertical rod, X, having a projection, Z, slides
up and down in guides, Y Y, and carries the catgut, S and T. The
quadrant, B, has cogs cut, between which Z slides and stops the
motion of A, which is moved, as before, by clockwork. The lower part
of X is connected directly with O. When X is slightly raised, as
shown, A is free to move, but on exhausting the air and drawing X
down, Z enters the cogs and stops the hand over a card; continuing
to exhaust, the thumb closes and the card is lifted up.” The details
of the clockwork the originator of this solution omits to give. He
says there should be a fan on each train to regulate the speed. The
figure should be so placed that an assistant can see the cards in the
semi-circular rack Fig. 4.
One of Maskelyne’s best mechanical tricks is the “Spirit Music-Box,”
for an exposé of which I am indebted to my friend Mr. Henry V.
A. Parsell, of New York City, a lover of the art of magic. The
construction of this novel piece of apparatus will afford a clue
to many alleged mediumistic performances. Professor Parsons, of
New Haven, Conn., is the owner of the box, reproduced in the
illustration. Says Mr. Parsell:
“A sheet of plate glass is exhibited freely to the audience and
proved to contain no electric wires or mechanism. This glass plate is
then suspended horizontally in the center of the stage by four cords
hooked to its corners. An ordinary looking music-box is then brought
in by the assistant. It is opened, so that {120} the audience can
see the usual mechanism within. The music-box is now placed on the
glass plate and the performer comes down among the spectators.
Notwithstanding the isolation of the box the command of the performer
suffices to cause it to play, or cease, in obedience to his will.
It matters not in what part of the room the conjurer goes—his word
is enough to make silence or harmony issue from the box, always
beginning where it left off and never skipping a note. The simple
cause of this marvelous effect lies in the mechanism of the box and
in its mode of suspension.
[Illustration:
Fig. 5.
Fig. 6.
THE SPIRIT MUSIC BOX.]
“A small music box of this kind is shown in Fig. 5. The box is seen
with its mechanism removed and resting upon it. In addition to the
usual cylinder, comb and wheel-work, there is a device for starting
and stopping the box when it is tilted slightly endwise. This
consists of a light shaft delicately pivoted and carrying at one end
a lead weight (seen just in front of the cylinder), and at the other
end an arm of light wire whose far end is bent down so as to engage
the fly of the wheel-work. In Fig. 5 the mechanism is tilted so that
the wire arm is raised; the fly is now free to revolve and the box
plays.
“A front view of the mechanism is shown in Fig. 6. Here the arm is
down, arresting the motion of the fly and producing {121} silence.
When the box is resting on the glass plate an assistant behind the
scenes causes the plate to tilt slightly up or down by raising or
lowering the cords which support one end. The mechanism of the box is
so delicately adjusted that an imperceptible motion of the plate is
sufficient to control its playing.”
IV.
John Nevil Maskelyne, a descendant of Nevil Maskelyne, the eminent
astronomer and physicist, was born in Cheltenham, England, and
like Houdin was apprenticed to a watchmaker. At an early age, he
manifested a wonderful aptitude for mechanics. He employed most of
his spare time while working at the trade of horology in devising
and building optical and mechanical apparatus for show purposes. In
this respect his career exactly parallels that of Robert-Houdin. He
was likewise interested in sleight of hand tricks, but never carried
the art to perfection like the French magician. Later in life he
abandoned legerdemain entirely and devoted himself exclusively to the
construction of mechanical illusions. In this line, he has no equal.
Most of the really clever and original illusions brought out within
the past twenty years have emanated from his fertile brain. Houdin,
Maskelyne, and Buatier de Kolta are the three great inventors of
magic tricks and illusions. One day the Davenport Brothers came to
Cheltenham and gave an exhibition of their alleged mediumistic powers
at the town hall. Young Maskelyne was selected as one of a committee
to tie the Brothers and examine their mystic cabinet. The falling of
a piece of drugget, used to exclude light from one of the windows
of the hall, enabled Maskelyne to see Ira Davenport eject some of
the musical instruments from the cabinet, and re-secure himself with
the ropes. Delighted at discovering the trick, the young watchmaker
soon devised an imitation of the Davenport exhibition. Aided by a
Mr. Cooke, afterwards his partner in the show business, he gave an
exposé of the Davenport business, first at Cheltenham, and afterwards
throughout England. Subsequently he located at St. James Hall, and
afterwards at Egyptian Hall, London. Mr. {122} Maskelyne was called
as an expert witness in the trial of the impostor, Dr. Henry Slade,
and performed in the witness-box all of the medium’s “slate tests,”
to the great astonishment of the Court. As a consequence of these
revelations, Dr. Slade was sentenced to three months in jail, but he
escaped imprisonment owing to legal technicalities interposed by his
attorneys, and fled to the Continent. Mr. Maskelyne has written a
clever exposé of gambling devices, entitled, _Sharps and Flats_, and
various magazine articles on conjuring.
In the year 1904, he and Mr. Cooke moved their show to St. George’s
Hall, having outgrown the old quarters at Egyptian Hall. Since that
time Mr. Cooke died at an advanced age. Associated with Mr. Maskelyne
and his son is David Devant, a good sleight of hand performer.
{123}
ROBERT-HOUDIN—CONJURER, AUTHOR AND AMBASSADOR.
“Robert-Houdin was a man of remarkable ingenuity and insight. His
autobiography is throughout interesting and psychologically valuable,
and his conjuring precepts abound in points of importance to the
psychologist.”—JOSEPH JASTROW: “_Fact and Fable in Psychology_.”
“To Robert-Houdin I feel I owe a double debt; first, for the great
satisfaction I have had in such slight skill as I have acquired in
his art, and, secondly, for such an insight into its underlying
principles as to keep me clear of all danger from evanescent
delusions which follow one another in fashion.”—BRANDER MATTHEWS:
“_Books that have helped me_.”
I.
Nostradamus is said to have constructed a magic mirror of great
power. In its shining surface, he conjured up many remarkable
visions. But I know of a more wonderful wizard’s glass than that of
the French necromancer. It is the “mirror of the mind”—that mystery
of mysteries. I am able, at will, to evoke in it a phantasmagoria
of the past. I need no aid from cabalistic spells, no burning of
incense. Presto!—a picture appears radiant with light and life. I
see a wainscoted room in a quaint old mansion. Logs are ablaze on
the hearthstone. A boy is ensconced in the deep embrasure of the
window. He is immersed in a book, and entirely oblivious of the scene
without, where the Snow King is busy laying a white pall upon the
frozen earth. Snow flakes like white butterflies skim hither and
thither. The wind rumbles mournfully in the chimneys like a lost
spirit. It is the witching Christmas Tide, when of old the Magi led
by the burning star (the weird pentagram of the Initiates) came
from afar to visit the lowly cradle of the Nazarene {124} child.
Beautiful old legend! It still haunts these later years of mine,
breathing joy and peace ineffable; for is it not an allegory of the
search for, and the discovery of, the Lost Word of the Adepts of the
Temples—the word that signifies eternal life?
Let us take a peep over the reader’s shoulder, at the volume in his
hand. It is the autobiography of “Robert-Houdin, conjurer, author,
and ambassador.” And the reader is myself. O vanished years of
boyhood: you still live in the magic mirror of memory! And intimately
associated with those years is the mystic book of Robert-Houdin. Can
I ever forget the enjoyment I had in poring over the faded yellow
leaves of that fascinating work? Happy the youth who early dips
into its golden pages. The Arabian Nights forms a fitting prologue
to it. I followed Houdin in the Conjurer’s Caravan; rejoiced in his
successes at the Palais Royal; and in far-off Algeria, watched him
exhibiting his magic feats before the Marabouts.
Speaking of this autobiography, Professor Brander Matthews of
Columbia College, New York, says: “These _Confidences of a
Prestidigitateur_ are worthy of comparison with all but the very best
autobiographies—if not with Cellini’s and Franklin’s, at least with
Cibber’s and Goldoni’s. Robert-Houdin’s life of himself, quite as
well as any of the others, would justify Longfellow’s assertion that
‘autobiography is what biography ought to be.’ ”
In my humble opinion Houdin’s autobiography is worthy to be classed
with the best, even that of Cellini and Franklin; yes, even with
Chateaubriand’s superb _Memories beyond the Tomb_. It is replete with
interesting information about old time necromancers; constructors of
automata; good stories of contemporary magicians; exposés of Marabout
miracles; and last, but not least, the fascinating adventures of
Houdin himself,—the archmaster of modern magic. It bears the stamp
of truth on every page, and should be placed in the hands of all
students of psychology and pedagogy. His _Trickeries of the Greeks_,
an exposé of gambling devices, is also an interesting work and should
be read in conjunction with his _Stage Magic_ and _Conjuring and
Magic_.
The Confidences end with Houdin’s retirement from the stage to his
villa at St. Gervais, near Blois. The book on {125} _Conjuring and
Magic_ gives us a slight sketch of his villa and the ingenious
contrivances arranged therein for the amusement and mystification
of visitors. The curtain, alas, then rings down on the scene. The
theatre is left dark and cold. We are told nothing more concerning
the great conjurer’s life, or the manner of his death. All is a
blank. Through my own efforts, however, and those of my friends made
in recent years, at my instigation, I have been able to supply the
missing data. It is very entertaining indeed. But let us begin at the
beginning.
II.
On a certain day in the year 1843, the Count de l’Escalopier, a
scion of the old régime of France, and a great lover of curios,
was strolling along the Rue de Vendôme, in the Marais Quarter, of
Paris. He stopped to look at some mechanical toys displayed in the
window of a dark little shop, over the door of which was painted the
following modest sign: “M. Robert-Houdin, Pendules de Précision.”
This sign noted the fact that the proprietor was a watchmaker,
and that his wares were distinguished for precise running. What
particularly attracted the nobleman’s attention was a peculiar
looking clock of clearest crystal that ran apparently without works,
the invention of M. Robert-Houdin. The Count, who was a great lover
of _science amusante_, or science wedded to recreation, purchased
the magic clock, and better than that, made the acquaintance of the
inventor, the obscure watchmaker, who was destined to become a great
prestidigitateur, author, and ambassador. The Count became a frequent
visitor at Houdin’s shop, to watch the construction of various
automata, which the inventor intended some day to use in public
performances. Says Houdin: “A kind of intimacy having thus become
established between M. de l’Escalopier and myself, I was naturally
led to talk to him of my projects of appearing in public; and, in
order to justify them, I had given him, on more than one occasion,
specimens of my skill in sleight of hand. Prompted doubtless by his
friendly feelings, my spectator steadily applauded me, and gave me
the warmest encouragement to put my schemes into actual practice.
Count de l’Escalopier, who was the {126} possessor of a considerable
fortune, lived in one of those splendid houses which surround the
square which has been called _Royale_, or _des Vosges_, according
to the color of the flag of our masters of the time being. I myself
lived in a humble lodging in the Rue de Vendôme, in the Marais, but
the wide disproportion in the style of our respective dwelling-places
did not prevent the nobleman and the artist from addressing each
other as ‘my dear neighbor,’ or sometimes even as ‘my dear friend.’
[Illustration: Houdin’s Magic Clock.[21]]
[21] “The cut represents the magic clock invented by
Robert-Houdin about sixty years ago. This very remarkable
time-piece consists of a dial composed of two juxtaposed
disks of glass, one of which is stationary and carries the
hours, while the other is movable and serves for the motion
of the hands. This latter disk is provided with a wheel
or rather a toothed ring concealed within the metallic
ring forming a dial. The glass column which constitutes
the body of the piece is formed of two tubes which operate
according to the principle of the dial, that is to say,
one is stationary and the other movable. To each of the
extremities of the latter is fixed a wheel. These wheels
gear with transmission pinions which communicate, one of
them at the top with the movable plate of glass of the
dial, and the other at the bottom with the movement placed
in the wooden base which supports the glass shade covering
the clock. All these concealed transmissions are arranged
in a most skillful manner, and complete the illusion. The
movable glass of the dial, carried along by the column,
actuates a small dial-train mounted in the thickness of
the stationary glass, and within an extremely narrow space
in the center of the dial. It is covered by the small hand
and is consequently invisible. The hands are very easily
actuated by it on account of their extreme lightness and
perfect equilibrium.”—_Scientific American, N. Y._
{127}
“My neighbor then being, as I have just stated, warmly interested in
my projects, was constantly talking of them; and in order to give me
opportunities of practice in my future profession, and to enable me
to acquire that confidence in which I was then wanting, he frequently
invited me to pass the evening in the company of a few friends of
his own, whom I was delighted to amuse with my feats of dexterity.
It was after a dinner given by M. de l’Escalopier to the Archbishop
of Paris, Monseigneur Affre, with whom he was on intimate terms,
that I had the honor of being presented to the reverend prelate as a
mechanician and future magician, and that I performed before him a
selection of the best of my experiments.
“At that period—I don’t say it in order to gratify a retrospective
vanity—my skill in sleight of hand was of a high order. I am
warranted in this belief by the fact that my numerous audiences
exhibited the greatest wonderment at my performance, and that the
Archbishop himself paid me, in his own handwriting, a compliment
which I can not refrain from here relating.
“I had reserved for the last item of my programme a trick which,
to use a familiar expression, I had at my fingers’ ends. In effect
it was shortly as follows:—After having requested the spectators
carefully to examine a large envelope sealed on all sides, I handed
it to the Archbishop’s Grand Vicar, begging him to keep it in his
own possession. Next, handing to the prelate himself a small slip
of paper, I requested him to write thereon, secretly, a sentence,
or whatever he might choose to think of; the paper was then folded
in four, and (apparently) burnt. But scarcely was it consumed and
the ashes scattered to the winds, than, handing the envelope to the
Archbishop, I requested him to open it. The first envelope being
removed a second was found, sealed in like manner; then another,
until a dozen envelopes, one inside another, had been opened, the
last containing the scrap of paper restored intact. It was passed
from hand to hand, and each read as follows:—
“ ‘Though I do not claim to be a prophet, I venture to predict, sir,
that you will achieve brilliant success in your future career.’ {128}
“I begged Monseigneur Affre’s permission to keep the autograph in
question, which he very graciously gave me.”
Poor Archbishop Affre; he was killed at the barricades in the
Revolution of 1848. Though he confessed that he was no prophet,
yet his prediction was fulfilled to the letter. Houdin became the
foremost conjurer of his age, of any age in fact, and has left to
posterity more than a name:—his fascinating memoirs, and several
works in which the psychology of deception is treated in a masterly
manner. The slip of paper given to him by the Archbishop he preserved
as a religious relic. “I kept it,” he said, “in a secret corner of my
pocket-book which I always carried about my person. During my travels
in Algeria I had the misfortune to lose both this pocket-book and the
precious object it contained.”
After the séance recorded above, the Count de l’Escalopier urged
Houdin continually to abandon the watchmaking and mechanical-toy
trade and go on the stage as a prestidigitateur. Finally Houdin
confessed his inability to do so, owing to lack of means, whereupon
the kind-hearted nobleman exclaimed: “_Mon cher ami_, I have at
home, at this very moment, ten thousand francs or so, which I really
don’t know what to do with. Do me the favor to borrow them for an
indefinite period: you will be doing me an actual service.”
But Houdin would not accept the offer, for he was loth to risk a
friend’s money in a theatrical speculation. The Count in a state of
pique left the shop and did not return for many days. Then he rushed
excitedly into the workroom, sank upon a chair, and exclaimed:
“My dear neighbor, since you are determined not to accept a favor
from me, I have now come to beg one of you. This is the status of the
case. For the last year my desk has been robbed from time to time
of very considerable sums of money. In vain have I endeavored to
ascertain the thief. I have sent away my servants, one after another.
I have had the place watched, changed the locks, and placed secret
fastenings on the doors, but none of these safeguards and precautions
have foiled the cunning of the miscreant. This very morning a couple
of thousand {129} franc-notes disappeared. Think of the frightful
position the entire family is placed in. Can you not come to my
assistance?”
“Count,” replied Houdin, “I fail to see how I can help you in the
present instance. My magic power, unfortunately, extends only to my
finger tips.”
“That is true,” said the Count, “but you have a mighty aid in
mechanics.”
“Mechanics,” exclaimed the magician. “Stop a bit! I remember when I
was a boy at school that I invented a primitive piece of apparatus
to apprehend a rascal who was in the habit of stealing my boyish
possessions. I will improve upon that idea. Come to see me in a few
days.”
Houdin put on his thinking-cap and shut himself up in his workshop.
From his inner consciousness he evolved a singularly ingenious
contrivance, designed not only to discover a thief, but to brand
him indelibly for his crime. In brief let me describe it. It was an
apparatus to be fastened to the inside of a desk. When the desk was
unlocked, and the lid raised ever so little, a pistol was discharged;
at the same time a claw-like arrangement, attached to a light rod and
impelled by a spring, came sharply down on the back of the hand which
held the key. This claw was a tatooing instrument. It consisted of
“a number of very short but sharp points, so arranged as to form the
word _Robber_. These points were brought through a pad impregnated
with nitrate of silver, a portion of which was forced by the blow
into the punctures, and made the scars indelible for life.”
When the Count saw this apparatus at work, the inventor using a
heavily-padded glove to prevent being wounded by the claw, he
objected to it strenuously, remarking that he had no right to brand
a criminal. That was the province of Justice. He also argued that it
would be wrong from a humanitarian standpoint. A poor wretch thus
branded could only get rid of it by a horrible self-mutilation. If
he failed in his endeavor, it might close the door of repentance
forever against him, and class him permanently among the enemies of
the social order. “Worse than that,” said the Count, “suppose some
member of {130} my family by inadvertence, or through some fatal
mistake, should fall a victim to our stern precautions; and then⸺”
“You are quite right!” said Houdin. “I had not thought of those
objections. I was carried away by my enthusiasm as an inventor. You
are quite right! I will alter the apparatus at once.”
In the place of the branding contrivance, he inserted a kind of
cat’s-claw, which would make a slight scratch on the hand—a mere
superficial wound, readily healed. The Count was satisfied with the
alteration, and the apparatus was secretly fixed to the desk in the
nobleman’s bed-room.
In order to stimulate the cupidity of the robber, the Count drew
considerable money from his bankers. He even made a pretence of
leaving Paris on a trip to a short distance. But the bait did not
take. Sixteen days passed away. The Count had almost despaired of
catching the culprit, when one morning while reading in his library,
which was some little distance from the bed-room, he heard the report
of a pistol.
“Ah,” he exclaimed, excitedly. “The robber at last.” Picking up the
first weapon to hand, a battle axe from a stand of ancestral armor
near by, he ran quickly to the bed-room. There stood his trusted
valet, Bernard, who had been in his household for many years.
“What are you doing here?” asked the Count.
With great coolness and audacity, Bernard explained that he had been
brought thither by the noise of the explosion, and had just seen a
man making his escape down the back stairs. The Count rushed down the
stairs only to find the door locked. A frightful thought overcame
him: “Could Bernard be the thief?” He returned to the bed-room. The
valet, he noticed, kept his right hand behind him. The Count dragged
it forcibly in sight, and saw that it was covered with blood.
“Infamous scoundrel!” said the nobleman, as he flung the man from him
in disgust.
“Mercy, mercy!” cried the criminal, falling upon his knees. {131}
“How long have you been robbing me?” asked the Count, sternly.
“For nearly two years.”
“And how much have you taken?”
“I cannot tell exactly. Perhaps 15,000 francs, or thereabouts.”
“We will call it 15,000 francs. You may keep the rest. What have you
done with the money?”
“I have invested it in Government stock. The scrip is in my desk.”
The thief yielded up the securities to the amount of fifteen thousand
francs, and wrote a confession of his guilt, which he signed in
the presence of a witness. The kind-hearted nobleman, bidding the
valet repent of his crime, forthwith dismissed him from his employ,
agreeing not to prosecute him provided he led an honest life. One
year from that date, the wretched Bernard died. Remorse hastened his
end.
M. de l’Escalopier took the money thus recovered to Houdin, saying:
“I do hope, my dear friend, that you will no longer refuse me the
pleasure of lending you this sum, which I owe entirely to your
ingenuity and mechanical skill. Take it, return it to me just when
you like, with the understanding that it is to be repaid only out of
the profits of your theatre.”
Overcome by emotion at the generosity of his benefactor, Houdin
embraced the Count. “This embrace,” he says, “was the only security
which M. de l’Escalopier would accept from me.”
This was the turning point of the conjurer’s life. “It is an ill wind
that blows nobody good.”
With this money Houdin without further delay built in the Palais
Royal a little theatre. “The galleries which surround the garden of
the Palais Royal are divided,” says Houdin, “into successive arches,
occupied by shops. Above these arches there are, on the first floor,
spacious suites of apartments, used as public assembly rooms, clubs,
cafés, etc. It was in the space occupied by one of these suites, at
No. 164 of the Rue de Valois, {132} that I built my theatre, which
extended, in width, over three of the above-mentioned arches; and in
length the distance between the garden of the Palais Royal and the
Rue de Valois, or, in other words, the whole depth of the building.”
The dimensions of this miniature theatre were very limited. It would
not seat over two hundred people. Though the seats were few in
number, their prices were tolerably high. Children were paid for as
grown persons.
The Palais Royal was formerly the residence of Cardinal Richelieu,
the “Red Duke,” and afterwards became the home of the Orléans family.
The Regent d’Orléans, in the reign of Louis XV, experimented with
magic mirrors in this building. It was in the Palais Royal that the
French Revolution was hatched. Could a more favorable place have been
selected in which to start a revolution in conjuring? I think not.
The following is the announcement of Houdin’s first performance,
which appeared on the bill-boards of Paris:
Aujourd’hui Jeudi, 3 Juillet 1845.
Première Représentation
des
Soirées Fantastiques
de
Robert-Houdin.
“On this day,” says Houdin, “by a strange coincidence, the
Hippodrome and the ‘Fantastic Soirées’ of Robert-Houdin, the largest
and smallest stage in Paris, were opened to the public. The 3d of
July, 1845, saw two bills placarded on the walls of Paris; one
enormous belonging to the Hippodrome, while the other of far more
modest proportions, announced my performances. Still as in the fable
of the reed and the oak, the large theatre, in spite of the skill
of the managers, has undergone many changes of fortune; while the
smaller one has continually enjoyed the public favor. I have sacredly
kept a proof of my first bill, the form and color of which have
always remained the same since that date. I copy it word for word
here, both to {133} furnish an idea of its simplicity, and to display
the programme of the experiments I then offered to the public:”—
TO-DAY, THURSDAY, JULY 3, 1845
FIRST REPRESENTATION
OF
THE FANTASTIC SOIRÉES
OF
ROBERT-HOUDIN
AUTOMATA, SLEIGHT OF HAND, MAGIC
The Performance will be composed of entirely novel Experiments
invented by M. ROBERT-HOUDIN
AMONG THEM BEING:
THE CABALISTIC CLOCK
AURIOL AND DEBUREAU
THE ORANGE-TREE
THE MYSTERIOUS BOUQUET
THE HANDKERCHIEF
PIERROT IN THE EGG
OBEDIENT CARDS
THE MIRACULOUS FISH
THE FASCINATING OWL
THE PASTRYCOOK OF THE PALAIS ROYAL
TO COMMENCE AT EIGHT O’CLOCK
Box-office open at Half-past Seven
Price of places: Upper Boxes, 1 fr. 50 c.; Stalls, 3 fr.; Boxes,
4 fr.; Dress Circle, 5 fr.
These fantastic evenings soon became popular. When the Revolution of
1848 ruined the majority of Parisian theater managers, Houdin simply
locked the door of his hall, and retired to his little workshop to
invent new tricks and automata. His loss was very slight, for he
was under no great expense. When order was restored, he resumed the
_soirées magiques_. The newspapers rallied to his assistance and
made playful allusions to his {134} being related to the family of
_Robert le Diable_. The leading illustrated journals sent artists to
draw pictures of his stage. Houdin found time, amid all his labors,
to edit a little paper which he called _Cagliostro_, full of _bon
mots_ and pleasantries, to say nothing of cartoons. Copies of this
_petit journal pour rire_ were distributed among the spectators at
each performance.
As each theatrical season opened, Houdin had some new marvel to
present to his audiences. His maxims were: “It is more difficult to
support admiration than to excite it.” “The fashion an artist enjoys
can only last as long as his talent daily increases.” Houdin had
but few, if any, rivals in his day. His tricks were all new, or so
improved as to appear new. He swept everything before him. When he
went to London for a prolonged engagement, Anderson, the “Wizard of
the North,” who was a great favorite with the public, retired into
the Provinces with his antique repertoire. What had the English
conjurer to offer alongside of such unique novelties as the _Second
Sight_, _Aerial Suspension_, _Inexhaustible Bottle_, _Mysterious
Portfolio_, _Crystal Cash Box_, _Shower of Gold_, _Light and Heavy
Chest_, _Orange Tree_, _the Crystal Clock_, and the automaton figures
_Auriol and Debureau_, _the Pastry Cook of the Palais Royal_, etc.,
etc.
III.
Jean-Eugène Robert (Houdin) was born on December 6, 1805, in the
quaint old city of Blois, the birth-place of Louis XII. and of Papin,
the inventor of the steam engine. Napoleon was at the zenith of his
fame, and had just fought the bloody battle of Austerlitz.
Luckily for the subject of this sketch, he was born too late to serve
as food for powder. He lived to grow to man’s estate and honorable
old age, and became the veritable Napoleon of necromancy. His career
makes fascinating reading. Houdin’s father was a watchmaker, and from
him he inherited his remarkable mechanical genius. At the age of
eleven, Jean-Eugène was sent to college at Orleans. On the completion
of his studies, he entered a notary’s office at Blois, but spent most
of his time inventing little mechanical toys and devices, instead
of engrossing {135} dusty parchment, so the notary advised him to
abandon the idea of becoming a lawyer and take up a mechanical trade.
Houdin joyfully took up his father’s occupation of watchmaking, for
which he had a decided bent. One evening the young apprentice went
to a bookseller’s shop in Blois and asked for a work on horology by
Berthoud. The shopman by mistake handed him a couple of odd volumes
of the _Encyclopédie_, which somewhat resembled Berthoud’s book.
Jean-Eugène went home to his attic, lit a candle, and prepared to
devote an evening to hard study, but judge of his surprise to find
that the supposed treatise on watchmaking was a work on natural magic
and prestidigitation, under the head of scientific amusements. He was
delighted at the revelations contained in the mystic volume, which
told how to perform tricks with the cards, to cut off a pigeon’s head
and restore it again, etc., etc. Here was an introduction to the
New Arabian Nights of enchantment. He slept with the book under his
pillow, and possibly dreamed of African wizards, genii, and all sorts
of incantations. This little incident brought about great changes in
Houdin’s life. He secretly vowed to become a prestidigitateur,—a rôle
for which he was eminently fitted, psychologically and physically.
The principles of sleight of hand Houdin had to create for himself,
for the mystic volume, though it revealed the secrets of the
tricks, gave the neophyte no adequate idea of the subtle passes and
misdirection required to properly execute them.
Though an ardent devotee of legerdemain, Houdin did not neglect
his trade of watchmaker. When his apprenticeship was over, he went
to Tours as a journeyman, in the shop of M. Noriet, who afterwards
became a noted sculptor. While in the employ of M. Noriet, Houdin
was poisoned by eating a ragôut cooked in a stew pan in which there
chanced to be verdigris. He was very ill, and his life was saved
with difficulty. Possessed with the idea that he was soon to die,
he escaped one day from his nurse and doctor and set out for Blois
to bid adieu to his family before he departed from this sublunary
sphere. A most singular adventure befell him, which reads like a
romance. Those who believe in destiny have here a curious example
of its {136} strange workings. The jolting of the lumbering old
diligence gave Houdin great pain. He was burning with fever and
delirious. Without any one knowing it, he opened the door of the
_rotonde_, in which he happened to be the only passenger, and leaped
out on the high road, where he lay unconscious. When he recovered his
senses, he found himself lying in a comfortable bed. An unknown man
with a phial of medicine in his hand bent over him. By the strangest
luck, Houdin had fallen into the hands of a traveling conjurer named
Torrini, who went about the country in a sort of house on wheels,
which was drawn by a pair of big Norman horses. This unique vehicle
which was six yards in length could be converted into a miniature
theatre twice its size by an ingenious mechanical arrangement. The
body was telescopic and could be drawn out, the projection being
supported by trestles. Torrini early in life had been a physician and
was able to tend his patient with intelligence and skill. Finding
the young watchmaker a clever mechanician, Torrini gave him some
magical automata to repair, and Houdin was introduced for the first
time to the little Harlequin that jumps out of a box and performs
various feats at the mandate of the conjurer. A delightful friendship
began between the watchmaker and the wizard. Torrini, who was an
expert with cards, initiated Houdin into the secrets of many clever
tricks performed with the pasteboards. He also corrected his pupil’s
numerous mistakes in legerdemain, into which all self-educated
amateurs fall. It was a fascinating life led in this conjurer’s
caravan. Besides Torrini and Houdin there was Antonio, the assistant,
and man of all work. Torrini related many amusing adventures to
his young pupil, which the latter has recorded in his admirable
autobiography. It was he, the _ci-devint_, Comte de Grisy who
performed the famous watch trick before Pius VII. and had so unique
revenge upon the Chevalier Pinetti.
Torrini’s son was accidentally shot by a spectator in the gun trick
during a performance at Strasburg, as has been explained in the
chapter on the “History of Natural Magic and Prestidigitation.”
Overcome with grief at the loss of his only child and at the
subsequent death of his wife, he abandoned the great cities {137}
and wandered about the French Provinces attended by has faithful
assistant and brother-in-law, Antonio. But to return to Robert-Houdin.
One day at Aubusson the conjurer’s caravan collided with an enormous
hay cart. Houdin and Antonio escaped with light contusions, but the
Master had a leg broken and an arm dislocated. The two horses were
killed; as for the carriage, only the body remained intact; all the
rest was smashed to atoms. During Torrini’s illness, Houdin, assisted
by Antonio, gave a conjuring performance at the town hall to replete
the exchequer. Houdin succeeded very well in his first attempt, with
the exception that he ruined a gentleman’s chapeau while performing
the trick of the omelet in the hat.
Soon after this Houdin bid adieu to Torrini and returned to his
parents at Blois. He never saw Torrini again in this life. After
following watchmaking at Blois for quite a little while, he proceeded
to Paris, with his wife,—for he had not only taken unto himself
a spouse, but had adopted her name, Houdin, as part of his own
cognomen. He was now Jean-Eugène Robert-Houdin, master-watchmaker.
His recontre with the Count de l’Escalopier and the result have
already been given.
Houdin completely revolutionized the art of conjuring. Prior to
his time, the tables used by magicians were little else than huge
confederate boxes. Conjuring under such circumstances was child’s
play, as compared with the difficulties to be encountered with the
apparatus of the new school. In addition, Houdin discarded the long,
flowing robes of many of his predecessors, and appeared in evening
dress. Since his time all first-class prestidigitateurs have followed
his example, both as to dress and tables.
Houdin’s center-table was a marvel of mechanical skill and ingenuity.
Concealed in the body were “vertical rods, each arranged to rise
and fall in a tube, according as it was drawn down by a spiral
spring or pulled up by a whip-cord which passed over a pulley at
the top of the tube and so down the table-leg to the hiding-place
of the confederate.” There were “ten of these pistons, and ten
cords passing under the floor of the stage, {138} terminating at a
key-board. Various ingenious automata were actuated by this means of
transmitting motion.”
Houdin’s stage was very handsome. It was a replica in miniature of a
salon of the Louis XV. period—all in white and gold—illuminated by
elegant candelabra and a chandelier. The magic table occupied the
center of the room. This piece of furniture was flanked by little
guéridons. At the sides were consoles, with about five inches of gold
fringe hanging from them, and across the back of the apartment ran
a broad shelf, upon which was displayed the various apparatus to be
used in the séances. “The consoles were nothing more than shallow
wooden boxes with openings through the side-scenes. The tops of the
consoles were perforated with traps. Any object which the wizard
desired to work off secretly to his confederate behind the scenes
was placed on one of these traps and covered with a sheet of paper,
pasteboard cover or a handkerchief. Touching a spring caused the
article to fall noiselessly through the trap upon cotton batting, and
roll into the hand of the conjurer’s concealed assistant.”
[Illustration: HOUDIN’S TRICK-TABLE.]
Now for a few of the tricks of this classic prestidigitateur. His
greatest invention was the “light and heavy chest.” Speaking of this
remarkable experiment he wrote: “I do not think, modesty apart,
that I ever invented anything so daringly ingenious.” The magician
came forward with a little wooden box, {139} to the top of which
was attached a metal handle. He addressed the audience as follows:
“Ladies and gentlemen. I have a cash-box which possesses strange
properties. It becomes heavy or light at will. I place in it some
banknotes for safekeeping and deposit it here on the ‘run-down’ in
sight of all. Will some gentleman test the lightness of the box?”
When the volunteer had satisfied the audience that the box could
be lifted with the little finger, Houdin executed some pretended
mesmeric passes over it, and bade the gentleman lift it a second
time. But try as he might, the volunteer would prove unequal to the
task. At a sign from Houdin the box would be restored to its pristine
lightness. This trick was performed with a powerful electro-magnet
with conducting wires reaching behind the scenes to a battery. At a
signal from the performer an operator turned on the electric current,
and the box, which had an iron plate let into its bottom, covered
with mahogany-colored paper, clung to the magnet with supernatural
attraction. In the year 1845, the phenomena of electro-magnetism were
unknown to the general public, hence the spirit cash-box created
the most extraordinary sensation. When the subject of electricity
became better known, Houdin made an addition to the feat which threw
his spectators off the scent. After first having shown the trick on
the “run-down,” he hooked the box to one end of a cord which passed
over a pulley attached to the ceiling of the hall. A spectator was
requested to take hold of the other end of the cord and keep the
chest suspended.
“Just at present,” remarked the conjurer, “the chest is extremely
light; but as it is about to become, at my command, very heavy, I
must ask five or six other persons to help this gentleman, for fear
the chest should lift him off his feet.”
No sooner was this done than the chest came heavily to the ground,
dragging along and sometimes lifting off their feet all the
spectators who were holding the cord. The explanation is this: On
a casual inspection of the pulley and block everything appears to
indicate that, as usual in such cases, the cord passes straight
over the pulley, in on one side and out on the other; but such is
not really the fact, as will be seen upon tracing the course {140}
of the dotted lines (Fig. 1), which, passing through the block and
through the ceiling, are attached on either side to a double pulley
fixed in the room above. To any one who has the most elementary
acquaintance with the laws of mechanics, it will be obvious that the
strength of the person who holds the handle of the windlass above is
multiplied tenfold, and that he can easily overcome even the combined
resistance of five or six spectators.
[Illustration: Fig. 1.]
[Illustration: Fig. 2. THE TALKING BUST.]
The “Bust of Socrates” was another favorite experiment with Houdin.
In this illusion a living bust with the features of Socrates was
suspended in the middle of the stage without visible support. The
performer, habited as an Athenian noble, addressed questions to the
mutilated philosopher and received replies in stanzas of elegiac
verse. The _mise en scène_ is represented in Fig. 2. Houdin explains
the illusion as follows:
“_A_, _B_, _C_, _D_, (Fig. 3) represent a section of the stage on
which the trick is exhibited. A sheet of silvered glass, _G_, _G_,
occupying the whole width of the stage, is placed in a diagonal
position, extending from the upper part of the stage at the rear,
down to the footlights, so as to form an angle of forty-five degrees
with the floor. In the center of the glass is an opening through
which {141} the actor passes his head and shoulders, as shown in the
figure. It should be further mentioned that the ceiling and the two
sides of the stage are hung with wall-paper of the same pattern, and
are brilliantly illuminated, either by means of footlights at _C_, or
by gas-jets placed behind the border _A_. Such being the condition of
things, the effect is as follows: The ceiling _A_ is reflected in the
mirror, and its reflection appears to the spectators to be the paper
of the wall _B_, _D_, which in reality is hidden by the glass.
[Illustration: Fig 3. HOW THE TALKING BUST WAS WORKED.]
“By means of this reflection, of which he is of course unaware, the
spectator is led to believe that he sees three sides of the stage;
and there being nothing to suggest to his mind the presence of the
glass, he is led to believe that the bust is suspended in mid-air and
without any support.”
“Aerial Suspension” was one of Houdin’s inventions. It has been a
favorite trick since his time. In the original illusion Houdin had
one of his young sons, who was dressed as a page, stand on a small
stool. The performer then placed a walking-stick under the extended
right arm of the boy, near the elbow, and one under the left arm.
First the stool was knocked away and the youthful assistant was
suspended in the air, held up only by the two frail sticks, which
were in themselves inadequate to support such a weight. Then the left
stick was removed, but the boy did not fall. To the astonishment of
every one, the youth {142} was placed in a horizontal position. He
remained in a perfectly rigid attitude with his head leaning on his
arm, the top of the cane under his elbow.
This very ingenious trick was suggested to Houdin on reading stories
about the alleged levitation of Hindoo fakirs. The walking-stick that
supported the right arm of the assistant was of iron, painted to
resemble wood. It fitted into a slot in the stage; its top connected
with a bar concealed in the sleeve of the boy. This bar formed part
of a strong steel framework worn under the assistant’s clothing. Thus
was the page suspended in the air.
Houdin’s trick of the “orange-tree” was a capital one. The tree
blossomed and bore fruit at the command of the conjurer. All the
oranges were distributed among the spectators except one on the
topmost branch of the tree. In this orange the magician caused a
handkerchief to appear, which had been previously borrowed. The
handkerchief was made to vanish from the hands of the performer.
“Hey, presto!” the orange fell apart in four sections, whereupon two
butterflies sprang out and fluttered upward with the handkerchief.
The explanation of this beautiful trick is as follows: The tree
was a clever piece of mechanism, so closely fashioned to resemble
a plant that it was impossible to detect the difference. The
blossoms, constructed of white silk, were pushed up through the
hollow branches by pistons rising in the table and operating upon
similar rods contained in the tree. When these pedals were relaxed
the blossoms disappeared, and the fruit was slowly developed. Real
oranges were stuck on iron spikes protruding from the branches of
the tree, and were concealed from the spectators by hemispherical
wire screens painted green. The screens were also partly hidden by
the artificial foliage. By means of cords running down through the
branches of the tree and off behind the scenes, an assistant caused
the screens to make a half-turn, thereby developing the fruit. The
borrowed handkerchief was exchanged for a dummy belonging to the
conjurer, and passed to an assistant who placed it in the mechanical
orange. The tree was now brought forward. After the real fruit had
been distributed, the magician called attention to the orange on the
top (the mechanical one). By {143} means of sleight of hand the
handkerchief was made to vanish, to be discovered in the orange. The
butterflies, which were fastened by wires to the stalk and fixed on
delicate spiral springs, invisible at a little distance, flew out of
the orange of their own accord, carrying with them the handkerchief,
as soon as the fruit fell apart.
IV.
In the year 1846 Houdin was summoned to the Palace of Saint-Cloud to
give a performance before Louis Philippe and his Court, whereupon he
invented his remarkable trick of the enchanted casket, which created
great excitement in the Parisian journals, and gained him no little
fame. He had six days to prepare for the _séance magique_. Early on
the appointed morning a van from the royal stables came to convey him
and his son, together with the magic paraphernalia, to the palace
of the king. A stage had been erected in one of the handsome salons
of St. Cloud, the windows of which opened out on an orangery lined
with double rows of orange-trees, “each growing in its square box on
wheels. A sentry was placed at the door to see that the conjurer was
not disturbed in his preparations. The King himself dropped in once
to ask the entertainer if he had everything necessary.”
At four o’clock in the afternoon, a brilliant company assembled in
the hall to witness the performance. The _pièce de résistance_ of the
séance was Cagliostro’s casket, the effect of which is best described
in Houdin’s own words:
“I borrowed from my noble spectators several handkerchiefs, which
I made into a parcel, and laid on the table. Then, at my request,
different persons wrote on blank cards the names of places whither
they desired their handkerchiefs to be invisibly transported.
“When this had been done, I begged the King to take three of the
cards at hazard, and choose from them the place he might consider
most suitable.
“ ‘Let us see,’ Louis Philippe said, ‘what this one says: “I desire
the handkerchiefs to be found beneath one of the {144} candelabra on
the mantelpiece.” That is too easy for a sorcerer; so we will pass to
the next card: “The handkerchiefs are to be transported to the dome
of the Invalides.” That would suit me, but it is much too far, not
for the handkerchiefs, but for us, ‘Ah, ah!’ the King added, looking
at the last card, ‘I am afraid, Monsieur Robert-Houdin, I am about to
embarrass you. Do you know what this card proposes?’
“ ‘Will your majesty deign to inform me?’
“ ‘It is desired that you should send the handkerchiefs into the
chest of the last orange-tree on the right of the avenue.’
“ ‘Only that, sir? Deign to order, and I will obey.’
“ ‘Very good, then; I should like to see such a magic act: I,
therefore, choose the orange-tree chest.’
“The king gave some orders in a low voice, and I directly saw several
persons run to the orange-tree, in order to watch it and prevent any
fraud.
“I was delighted at this precaution, which must add to the effect of
my experiment, for the trick was already arranged, and the precaution
hence too late.
“I had now to send the handkerchiefs on their travels, so I placed
them beneath a bell of opaque glass, and, taking my wand, I ordered
my invisible travelers to proceed to the spot the king had chosen.
“I raised the bell; the little parcel was no longer there, and a
white turtle-dove had taken its place.
“The King then walked quickly to the door, whence he looked in the
direction of the orange-tree, to assure himself that the guards were
at their post; when this was done, he began to smile and shrug his
shoulders.
“ ‘Ah! Monsieur Houdin,’ he said, somewhat ironically, ‘I much fear
for the virtue of your magic staff.’ Then he added, as he returned
to the end of the room, where several servants were standing,
‘Tell William to open immediately the last chest at the end of the
avenue, and bring me carefully what he finds there—if he _does_ find
anything.’
“William soon proceeded to the orange-tree, and though much
astonished at the orders given him, he began to carry them out. {145}
“He carefully removed one of the sides of the chest, thrust his
hand in, and almost touched the roots of the tree before he found
anything. All at once he uttered a cry of surprise, as he drew out a
small iron coffer eaten by rust.
“This curious ‘find,’ after having been cleansed of the mould, was
brought in and placed on a small ottoman by the king’s side.
“ ‘Well, Monsieur Robert-Houdin,’ Louis Philippe said to me, with a
movement of impatient curiosity, ‘here is a box; am I to conclude it
contains the handkerchiefs?’
“ ‘Yes, sire,’ I replied, with assurance, ‘and they have been there,
too, for a long period.’
“ ‘How can that be? the handkerchiefs were lent you scarce a quarter
of an hour ago.’
“ ‘I cannot deny it, sire; but what would my magic powers avail me
if I could not perform incomprehensible tricks? Your Majesty will
doubtless be still more surprised, when I prove to your satisfaction
that this coffer, as well as its contents, was deposited in the chest
of the orange-tree sixty years ago.’
“ ‘I should like to believe your statement,’ the King replied, with a
smile; ‘but that is impossible, and I must, therefore, ask for proofs
of your assertion.’
“ ‘If Your Majesty will be kind enough to open this casket they will
be supplied.’
“ ‘Certainly; but I shall require a key for that.’
“ ‘It only depends on yourself, sire, to have one. Deign to remove it
from the neck of this turtle-dove, which has just brought it to you.’
“Louis Philippe unfastened a ribbon that held a small rusty key, with
which he hastened to unlock the coffer.
“The first thing that caught the King’s eye was a parchment on which
he read the following statement:
“ ‘This day, the 6th June, 1786,
This iron box, containing six handkerchiefs, was placed
among the roots of an orange-tree by me, Balsamo, Count
of Cagliostro, to serve in performing an act of magic,
which will be executed on the same day sixty years hence
before Louis Philippe of Orleans and his family.’
{146}
“ ‘There is decidedly witchcraft about this,’ the king said, more and
more amazed. ‘Nothing is wanting, for the seal and signature of the
celebrated sorcerer are placed at the foot of this statement, which,
Heaven pardon me, smells strongly of sulphur.’
“At this jest the audience began to laugh.
“ ‘But,’ the king added, taking out of the box a carefully sealed
packet, ‘can the handkerchiefs by possibility be in this?’
“ ‘Indeed, sire, they are; but, before opening the parcel, I would
request your majesty to notice that it also bears the impression of
Cagliostro’s seal.’
“This seal once rendered so famous by being placed on the celebrated
alchemist’s bottles of elixir and liquid gold, I had obtained from
Torrini, who had been an old friend of Cagliostro’s.
“ ‘It is certainly the same,’ my royal spectator answered, after
comparing the two seals. Still, in his impatience to learn the
contents of the parcel, the king quickly tore open the envelope and
soon displayed before the astonished spectators the six handkerchiefs
which, a few moments before, were still on my table.
“This trick gained me lively applause.”
Robert-Houdin never revealed the secret of this remarkable experiment
in natural magic, but the acute reader, especially if he be a student
of legerdemain, will be able to give a pretty shrewd guess as to
the _modus operandi_. The best analysis of this trick has been
lately given by Professor Brander Matthews. He writes as follows
(_Scribner’s Magazine_, May, 1903):
“Nothing more extraordinary was ever performed by any mere conjurer;
indeed, this feat is quite as startling as any of those attributed
to Cagliostro himself, and it has the advantage of being accurately
and precisely narrated by the inventor. Not only is the thing done
a seeming impossibility, but it stands forth the more impressively
because of the spectacular circumstances of its performance,—a
stately palace, a lovely garden, the assembled courtiers, and the
royal family. The magician had to depend on his wits alone, for
he was deprived of all advantages of his own theatre and of all
possibility of aid from a confederate mingled amid the casual
spectators. {147}
“Robert-Houdin was justified in the gentle pride with which he told
how he had thus astonished the King of the French. He refrained
from any explanation of the means whereby he wrought his mystery,
believing that what is unknown is ever the more magnificent. He did
no more than drop a hint or two, telling the reader that he had long
possessed a cast of Cagliostro’s seal, and suggesting slyly that when
the King sent messengers out into the garden to stand guard over the
orange-tree the trick was already done and all precautions were then
futile.
“Yet, although the inventor chose to keep his secret, any one who
has mastered the principles of the art of magic can venture an
explanation. Robert-Houdin has set forth the facts honestly; and
with the facts solidly established, it is possible to reason out the
method employed to accomplish a deed which, at first sight, seems not
only impossible but incomprehensible.
“The first point to be emphasized is that Robert-Houdin was as
dexterous as he was ingenious. He was truly a prestidigitateur,
capable of any sleight of hand. Nothing was simpler for so
accomplished a performer than the substitution of one package for
another, right before the eyes of all the spectators. And it is to
be remembered that although the palace was the King’s the apparatus
on the extemporized stage was the magician’s. Therefore, when he
borrowed six handkerchiefs and went up on the stage and made them up
into a package which remained on a table in sight of everybody, we
can grant without difficulty that the package which remained in sight
did not then contain the borrowed handkerchiefs.
“In fact, we may be sure that the borrowed handkerchiefs had been
conveyed somehow to Robert-Houdin’s son who acted as his assistant.
When the handkerchiefs were once in the possession of the son out of
sight behind the scenery or hangings of the stage, the father would
pick up his package of blank visiting-cards and distribute a dozen of
them or a score, moving to and fro in very leisurely fashion, perhaps
going back to the stage to get pencils which he would also give out
as slowly as possible, filling up the time with playful pleasantry,
until he should again {148} catch sight of his son. Then, and
not until then, would he feel at liberty to collect the cards and
take them over to the King. When the son had got possession of the
handkerchiefs, he would smooth them swiftly, possibly even ironing
them into their folds. Then he would put them into the parchment
packet which he would seal twice with Cagliostro’s seal. Laying this
packet in the bottom of the rusty iron casket, he would put on top
the other parchment which had already been prepared, with its adroit
imitation of Cagliostro’s handwriting. Snapping down the lid of the
casket, the lad would slip out into the corridor and steal into the
garden, going straight to the box of the appointed orange-tree. He
could do this unobserved, because no one was then suspecting him
and because all the spectators were then engaged in thinking up odd
places to which the handkerchiefs might be transported. Already,
in the long morning, probably while the royal household was at its
midday breakfast, the father or the son had loosened one of the
staples in the back of the box in which the designated orange-tree
was growing. The lad now removed this staple and thrust the casket
into the already prepared hole in the center of the roots of the
tree. Then he replaced the staple at the back of the box, feeling
certain that whoever should open the box in front would find the soil
undisturbed. This most difficult part of the task once accomplished,
he returned to the stage, or at least in some way he signified to
his father that he had accomplished his share of the wonder, in the
performance of which he was not supposed to have any part.
“On seeing his son, or on receiving the signal that his son had
returned, Robert-Houdin would feel himself at liberty to collect the
cards on which various spectators had written the destinations they
proposed for the package of handkerchiefs which was still in full
sight. He gathered up the cards he had distributed; but as he went
toward the King, he substituted for those written by the spectators
others previously prepared by himself,—a feat of sleight of hand
quite within the reach of any ordinary performer. Of these cards,
prepared by himself, he forced three {149} on the sovereign; and
the forcing of cards upon a kindly monarch would present little
difficulty to a prestidigitateur of Robert-Houdin’s consummate skill.
“When the three cards were once in the King’s hands, the trick was
done, for Robert-Houdin knew Louis Philippe to be a shrewd man in
small matters. Therefore, it was reasonably certain that when the
King had to make a choice out of three places, one near and easy, a
second remote and difficult, and a third both near and difficult,
Louis Philippe would surely select the third which was conveniently
at hand and which seemed to be at least as impossible as either of
the others.
“The event proved that the conjurer’s analysis of the King’s
character was accurate: yet one may venture the opinion that the
magician had taken every needed precaution to avoid failure even if
the monarch had made another selection. Probably Robert-Houdin had
one little parchment packet hidden in advance somewhere in the dome
of the Invalides and another tucked up out of sight in the base of
one of the candelabra on the chimney-piece; and if either of the
other destinations had been chosen, the substitute packet would have
been produced and the magician would then have offered to transport
it also into the box of the orange-tree. And thus the startling
climax of the marvel would have been only a little delayed.
“When so strange a wonder can be wrought under such circumstances by
means so simple, we cannot but feel the force of Dr. Lodge’s warning
that an unwavering scepticism ought to be the attitude of all honest
investigators toward every one who professes to be able to suspend
the operation of a custom of nature. No one of the feats attributed
to Home, the celebrated medium who plied his trade in Paris during
the Second Empire, was more abnormal than this trick of Cagliostro’s
Casket, and no one of them is so well authenticated. It may be that
certain of the customs of nature are not inexorable and that we shall
be able to discover exceptions now and again. But the proof of any
alleged exception, the evidence in favor of any alleged violation of
the custom of nature, ought to be overwhelming.” {150}
V.
The greatest event of Houdin’s life was his embassy to Algeria, “at
the special request of the French Government, which desired to lessen
the influence of the Marabouts, whose conjuring tricks, accepted as
actual magic by the Arabs, gave them too much influence.” He went
to play off his tricks against those of Arab priests, or holy men,
and, by “greater marvels than they could show, destroy the _prestige_
which they had acquired. He so completely succeeded that the Arabs
lost all faith in the miracles of the Marabouts, and thus was
destroyed an influence very dangerous to the French Government.” His
first performance was given at the leading theatre of Algiers, before
a great assemblage of Arabs, who had been summoned to witness the
_soirée magique_, by the mandate of the Marshall-Governor of Algeria.
Houdin’s “Light and Heavy Chest” literally paralyzed the Arabs with
astonishment. He altered the _mise en scène_, and pretended to be
able to make the strongest man so weak that he would be unable to
lift a small box from the floor. He says in his memoirs:
“I advanced with my box in my hand, to the center of the
‘practicable,’ communicating from the stage to the pit; then
addressing the Arabs, I said to them:
“ ‘From what you have witnessed, you will attribute a supernatural
power to me, and you are right. I will give you a new proof of my
marvelous authority, by showing that I can deprive the most powerful
man of his strength and restore it at my will. Any one who thinks
himself strong enough to try the experiment may draw near me.’ (I
spoke slowly, in order to give the interpreter time to translate my
words).
“An Arab of middle height, but well built and muscular, like many of
the Arabs are, came to my side with sufficient assurance.
“ ‘Are you very strong?’ I said to him, measuring him from head to
foot.
“ ‘Oh yes!’ he replied carelessly.
“ ‘Are you sure you will always remain so?’
“ ‘Quite sure.’
“ ‘You are mistaken, for in an instant I will rob you of your
strength, and you shall become like as a little child.’ {151}
“The Arab smiled disdainfully, as a sign of his incredulity.
“ ‘Stay,’ I continued; ‘lift up this box.’
“The Arab stooped, lifted up the box, and said to me, ‘Is this all?’
“ ‘Wait ⸺!’ I replied.
“Then with all possible gravity, I made an imposing gesture and
solemnly pronounced the words:
“ ‘Behold! you are weaker than a woman; now, try to lift the box.’
“The Hercules, quite cool as to my conjuration, seized the box once
again by the handle, and gave it a violent tug, but this time the box
resisted, and spite of his most vigorous attacks, would not budge an
inch.
“The Arab vainly expended on this unlucky box a strength which would
have raised an enormous weight, until at length exhausted, panting,
and red with anger, he stopped, became thoughtful, and began to
comprehend the influences of magic.
“He was on the point of withdrawing; but that would be allowing his
weakness, and that he, hitherto respected for his vigor, had become
as a little child. This thought rendered him almost mad.
“Deriving fresh strength from the encouragements his friends offered
him by word and deed, he turned a glance around them, which seemed to
say, ‘You will see what a son of the desert can do.’
“He bent once again over the box: his nervous hands twined around the
handle, and his legs, placed on either side like two bronze columns,
served as a support for the final effort.
“But, wonder of wonders! this Hercules, a moment since so strong and
proud, now bows his head; his arms, riveted to the box, undergo a
violent muscular contraction; his legs give way, and he falls on his
knees with a yell of agony.
“An electric shock, produced by an induction apparatus, had been
passed, on a signal from me, from the further end of the stage into
the handle of the box. Hence the contortions of the poor Arab!
“It would have been cruelty to prolong this scene. {152}
“I gave a second signal, and the electric current was immediately
intercepted. My athlete, disengaged from his terrible bondage, raised
his hands over his head.
“ ‘Allah! Allah’ he exclaimed, full of terror; then, wrapping himself
up quickly in the folds of his burnous, as if to hide his disgrace,
he rushed through the ranks of the spectators and gained the front
entrance.
“With the exception of the dignitaries occupying the stage boxes and
the privileged spectators, in the body of the house, who seemed to
take great pleasure in this great experiment, my audience had become
grave and silent, and I heard the words ‘_Shaitan!_’ ‘_Djenoum!_’
passing in a murmur round the circle of credulous men, who, while
gazing on me, seemed astonished that I possessed none of the physical
qualities attributed to the angel of darkness.”
The Marabout priests constantly boasted of their invulnerability.
They were reputed to be possessed of powerful talismans which
caused loaded weapons to flash in the pan when fired at them.
Houdin counteracted these claims by performing his celebrated
bullet-catching feat, in which a marked bullet apparently shot from a
gun is caught by the magician in a plate or between his teeth. There
are two ways of accomplishing this trick. One is by substituting
a bullet of hollow wax for the real leaden bullet. The explosion
scatters the wax into minute fragments which fly in all directions
and do not come in contact with the person shot at; provided he
stands at a respectable distance from the individual who handles the
pistol or gun. The second method is to insert into the barrel of the
weapon a small tube open at one end. Into this receptacle the bullet
falls, and the tube is withdrawn from the gun in the act of ramming
it, forming as it were a part of the ramrod. The performer, once in
possession of the little tube, secretly extracts the marked bullet
and produces it at the proper time. Houdin had recourse to both ways
of performing this startling trick. Sometimes he filled the wax
bullet with blood, extracted from his thumb. When the bullet smashed
against a white wall it left a red splash. Houdin, after traveling
into the interior of Algeria, visiting many prominent chieftains,
returned to France, and settled down at St. Gervais, a suburb {153}
of Blois. He relinquished his theatre to his brother-in-law, Pierre
Chocat (M. Hamilton), and devoted himself to scientific work, and
writing his _Confidences_ and other works on natural magic.
VI.
Houdin called his villa at St. Gervais the “Priory,” a rather
monastic title. It was a veritable palace of enchantments. Electrical
devices played an important part in its construction, as well
as automata. The Pepper ghost illusion was rigged up in a small
pavilion on the grounds. A mechanical hermit welcomed guests to a
grotto: Houdin’s friends jestingly called the place “_L’Abbaye de
l’Attrape_ (_la Trappe_),” or “Catch’em Abbey.” The pun is almost
untranslatable. “_Attrape_” is a trap, in French. You have a Trappist
Monastery. I need say no more. During the Franco-Prussian War,
Houdin’s neighbors brought their valuables to him to be concealed. He
had a hiding place built which defied detection. But the Prussians
never bothered him.
Says William Manning (_Recollections of Robert-Houdin_, London, 1891):
“Robert-Houdin’s employment of electricity, not only as a moving
power for the performance of his illusions, but for domestic
purposes, was long in advance of his time. The electric bell, so
common to us now, was in every-day use _for years_ in his own house,
before its value was recognized by the public.
“He had a favorite horse, named Fanny, for which he entertained great
affection, and christened her ‘the friend of the family.’ She was
of gentle disposition and was growing old in his service; so he was
anxious to allow her every indulgence, especially punctuality at
meals and full allowance of fodder.
“Such being the case, it was a matter of great surprise that Fanny
grew daily thinner and thinner, till it was discovered that her groom
had a great fancy for the art formerly practised by her master and
converted her hay into five-franc pieces! So Houdin dismissed the
groom and secured a more honest lad, but to provide against further
contingencies and neglect of duty he had {154} a clock placed in
his study, which with the aid of an electrical wire worked a food
supply in the stable, a distance of fifty yards from the house.
The distributing apparatus was a square funnel-shaped box which
discharged the provender in prearranged quantities. No one could
steal the oats from the horse after they had fallen, as the electric
trigger could not act unless the stable door was locked. The lock was
outside, and if any one entered before the horse finished eating his
oats, a bell would immediately ring in the house.
“This same clock in his study also transmitted the time to two large
clock-faces, placed one on the top of the house, the other on the
gardener’s lodge, the former for the benefit of the villagers.
“In his bell-tower he had a clockwork arrangement of sufficient power
to lift the hammer at the proper moment. The daily winding of the
clock was performed automatically by communication with a swing-door
in his kitchen, and the winding-up apparatus of the clock in the
clock-tower was so arranged that the servants in passing backward and
forward on their domestic duties unconsciously wound up the striking
movement of the clock.”
The Priory is now a partial ruin. It has passed out of his family.
Houdin died there June 13, 1871, after an illness of ten days.
His death was caused by pneumonia. The following is an extract of
the notice of his decease, taken from the registers of the civil
authorities of St. Gervais:
“June 14, 1871. Notice of the death of Robert-Houdin, Jean-Eugène,
died at St. Gervais, June 13, 1871, at 10 P. M., sixty-five years of
age. Son of the defunct Prosper Robert and Marie Catherine Guillon;
widower of his first wife Josephe Cecile Eglantine Houdin; married
the second time to Françoise Marguerite Olympe Naconnier; Court House
of St. Gervais, signed—The Mayor.” The signature is illegible.
William Manning was an intimate friend of Houdin. When the famous
conjurer went to London to exhibit, he lodged at the house of
Manning’s father. William was a young man at the time and deeply
enamored with conjuring exhibitions. {155} Houdin showed him many
favors and presented him with a number of souvenirs, among them being
a magic clock, a harlequin-in-the-box, etc., also a photograph of
himself, a copy of which Mr. Manning sent to me a few years ago,
during the course of a correspondence I had with him concerning
Houdin. Up to the time of his death the great conjurer exchanged
letters with his friend, then a grown man. Houdin’s closing years
were saddened by the tragic death of his son, Eugène, who was killed
at Reichshoffen in the Franco-Prussian War. He was a sub-lieutenant
in the French army and a graduate of the military school at St. Cyr.
He assisted his father on the stage, but abandoned conjuring for a
military career. In a letter to William Manning, dated September 11,
1870, Houdin describes the affair at Reichshoffen: . . . . “My son
was 33 years old; he was captain since 1866; he belonged to the 1st
Zouaves and was considered one of the bravest in that brave corps.
You can judge of it by the following extract from an article in the
_Figaro_, of Sept. 3, entitled ‘An episode of Reichshoffen,’ an
extract from a private letter. This letter was undoubtedly written
by a soldier in my son’s company; it is signed with an X. I omit the
harrowing incidents which preceded this sad retreat. . . . ‘The line
had received orders to break up and were defeated, 35,000 against
140,000! My company (1st Zouaves) was drawn up on the battle-field,
to be used as sharp-shooters, alone, without artillery; we were
to resist the retreat. Upon the order of Captain Robert-Houdin,
Lieutenant Girard advanced with two men to reconnoitre the enemy. He
took three steps, and fell, crying: ’_Do not give up the Coucou_,
(a familiar expression applied to the flag). We carried him away
and the Captain shouted ‘Fire!’ The order to retreat came, but we
did not hear it, and continued to beat against a wall of fire which
illuminated our ranks. Soon our Captain fell, saying: ‘Tell them
. . . _that I fell facing the enemy_.’ A bullet had pierced his
breast. He was taken in the ambulance to Reichshoffen where he died,
four days later, from his wound.”
“My dear Manning, would you believe it, my brave son, mortally
wounded as he was, had the heroic courage amidst {156} flying shot to
take from his pocket a pencil and a card and to write these words:
‘Dear father, _I am wounded, but be reassured, it is only a trifle_.’
He could not sign this. The card and the envelope are stained with
his blood. This precious relic was sent to me from Reichshoffen after
my son’s death.”
[Illustration: LITHOGRAPHED INVITATION-TICKET DESIGNED BY HOUDIN.
(The signatures are those of Houdin and Hamilton.)]
Emile, the elder son who distinguished himself in the “Second-Sight
Trick,” as soon as his father retired from the stage, became a
watchmaker. He published a work on horology to which his father wrote
the following preface:
“I have often been asked why my son did not follow the career I had
opened for him in prestidigitation, but preferred instead the study
of horology. My answer to the question may be used fitly as a preface
to this pamphlet.
“If you believe in hereditary vocations, here is a case for their
just application. My son’s maternal great-grandfather, Nicolas
Houdin, was a watchmaker of great merit in the last century. J. F.
Houdin, his son, has gained, as is well known, a prominent place
among the most distinguished watchmakers of his time. A certain
modesty, which you will understand, prevents me from praising
my father as highly; I shall only say {157} that he was a very
skilful and ingenious watchmaker. Before devoting myself to the art
of conjuring, based on mechanism, I, too, was for a long time a
watchmaker and achieved some success.
[Illustration]
“With such genealogy, should one not be predestined to horology?
Therefore my son was irresistibly drawn to his {158} vocation, and
he took up the art which Berthoud and Bréguet have made famous. It
was from the latter of the two celebrated masters that he learned the
elements of the profession of his forefathers.”
Emile was subsequently induced to take up the magic wand, and in
conjunction with Professor Brannet gave many clever entertainments.
During his management the old theatre[22] in the Palais Royal was
abandoned, and a new theatre erected on the Boulevard des Italiens.
He held this property until his decease in 1883. The theatre was
partly destroyed by fire, January 30, 1901, but was rebuilt.
[22] Houdin’s original theatre in the _Galerie de Valois_
of the Palais Royal has long ago been swallowed up in the
alterations made in the building. M. Trewey, in the spring
of 1905, met an old man, a former employee of the Palais,
who remembered seeing Houdin perform in 1845–46, but he
could not even locate the little theatre. How soon are
the glories of the past forgotten by a fickle public. The
theatre has been divided into two or three shops.
The only surviving members of the family are Madame Emile
Robert-Houdin, widow of the elder son, and a daughter who is married
to M. Lemaitre Robert-Houdin, a municipal officer of Blois, who has
adopted the name of Houdin. Robert-Houdin is interred in the cemetery
of Blois. A handsome monument marks his grave.
At the Paris Exhibition of 1844, Houdin was awarded a medal for the
ingenious construction of automata; at the Exhibition of 1855 he
received a gold medal for his scientific application of electricity
to clocks. He invented an ophthalmoscope to enable the operator to
examine the interior of his own eye. From important papers in the
possession of M. Lemaitre it seems more than probable that Houdin had
worked out the secret of the modern telephone before it had been made
known to the world at large.
Houdin has been considered of such importance and interest in France
that in Didot’s _Nouvelle Biographie Générale_ a whole page is
given him. His personal appearance is thus described in Larousse’s
_Encyclopédie_: “He was a man of small stature. His manners were
engaging and vivacious. His face was clean-shaven, showing a large
and eloquent mouth. In his old age, {159} his head was covered with
snow white hair. His eyes up to the last retained the fire and
brilliancy of a man of twenty-five.”
On December 6, 1905, the French Society of Magicians celebrated
the hundredth anniversary of Houdin’s birth. The exercises were
held at the Theatre Robert-Houdin, Boulevard des Italiens, Paris.
The little theatre was crowded with conjurers and their friends.
Among the wielders of the magic staff were Caroly, the editor of
_Illusioniste_, M. and Mme. de Gago, Folletto, M. and Mme. Talazac,
and M. Raynaly. M. and Mme. Talazac, in their “mind-reading” act,
evoked great applause. M. Miliès, the manager of the house, exhibited
the automaton, “Antonio Diavolo,” invented by Robert-Houdin. M.
Renaly, the well-known drawing-room conjurer, read a poem in honor
of the great master, at the close of which a bust of Robert-Houdin,
which stood upon the stage, was crowned with a wreath of laurel.
Strange to say, not a word of this interesting event was recorded in
the newspapers.
Houdin was the first conjurer to be employed in an official capacity
by a civilized Power. The second case we have record of was on the
occasion of the English Mission to the late Sultan of Morocco when
Mr. Douglas Beaufort was appointed conjurer to the party by the
British Government. The object was to surprise the Arabs with the
skill of an Anglo-Saxon prestidigitateur. During the journey to Fez
from the coast, Mr. Beaufort gave a number of séances. The news of
his necromantic powers soon spread like wild-fire among the natives.
When the Embassy reached the Arab Capital, the Sultan refused to see
the “Devil Man,” as he termed the conjurer. He imagined that the
British proposed to cast a spell over him. For eight weeks he held
out, but finally curiosity got the better of him. The Grand Vizier
was ordered to produce the Disciple of Beelzebub at the Royal Palace.
The performance of Mr. Beaufort so delighted the ruler of Morocco
that he presented him with a silver dagger, a fine Arabian steed from
the royal stable, and a bag containing 500 dollars, as a token of
esteem and regard.
{160}
SOME OLD-TIME CONJURERS.
“As in Agrippa’s magic glass,
The loved and lost arose to view.”—WHITTIER: _The Mermaid_.
I love to read about the old-time conjurers, the contemporaries
of Robert-Houdin, or his immediate successors. Literature on the
subject is very sparse indeed. In his memoirs, Houdin gives us a
few thumbnail sketches of his rivals in the mystic art, and then
dismisses them with a kindly, _Vale_. He has something to say about
Bosco’s personal appearance and performances, but makes no mention
of the romantic incidents in the great magician’s career. I shall
try, in this chapter, to sketch the lives of some of these men,
basing my information on rare _brochures_ contained in the Ellison
Library, and from information picked up by Mr. Harry Houdini in
Europe. The great encyclopedic dictionary of Larousse—a monument
of French erudition—contains something about Phillippe, Robin and
Comte. Mr. Ellis Stanyon, a conjurer of London, and author of several
valuable little treatises on magic, has kindly furnished me with
interesting data; the files of old newspapers in the British Museum,
and the Library of Congress have also been drawn upon, also the fine
collection of old programmes of Mr. Arthur Margery, the English
magician. Let us begin with
COMTE.
Louis Apollinaire Comte was a magician of great skill, a mimic and
ventriloquist. He was born in Geneva, Switzerland, June 22, 1788,
and died at Rueil, France, November 25, 1859. On one occasion he
was denounced by some superstitious Swiss peasants as a sorcerer,
set upon and beaten with clubs, and was {161} about to be thrown
into a lime kiln. His ventriloquial powers saved his life. He caused
demoniacal voices to proceed from the kiln, whereupon his tormentors
fled from the spot in affright, imagining that they were addressed by
the Powers of Darkness.
When summoned to appear before Louis XVIII, at the palace of the
Tuilleries, Comte arranged a clever mystification to amuse his royal
patron. During the course of the entertainment he requested the king
to select a card from a pack. By his address, he caused the monarch
to draw the king of hearts. Placing the card in a pistol, Comte fired
it at a bouquet of flowers on a table, declaring that the pasteboard
would appear in the bouquet. Immediately, a bust of the king was seen
among the flowers.
“What does this mean?” said Louis XVIII, with a sarcastic smile. “I
fancy, sir, your trick has not ended as you stated.”
“I beg your Majesty’s pardon,” Comte replied, with a profound bow.
“I have quite kept my promise. I pledged myself that the king of
hearts should appear in that bouquet of flowers, and I appeal to
all Frenchmen whether that bust does not represent _the king of all
hearts_.
The experiment was applauded to the echo by those present. The _Royal
Journal_ of the 20th of December, 1814, thus describes the affair.
“The whole audience exclaimed in reply to M. Comte, ‘We recognize
him—it is he—the king of all hearts! the beloved of the French—of the
whole universe—Louis XVIII, the august descendant of Henri Quatre?’
“The king, much affected by these warm acclamations, complimented M.
Comte on his skill.
“ ‘It would be a pity,’ he said to him, ‘to order such a talented
sorcerer to be burnt alive. You have caused us too much pleasure for
us to cause you pain. Live many years, for yourself in the first
place, and then for us.’ ”
Comte was an adept at the art of flattery. Perhaps all the while, he
and the fickle courtiers of the Tuilleries were secretly laughing
at the poor old Bourbon king, the scion of a race that had all but
ruined France, and were wishing back from Elba that Thunderbolt of
War—Napoleon the Great. {162}
Comte was made a Chevalier of the Legion of Honor by Louis Philippe.
PHILLIPPE.
Phillippe [Talon] was born at Alais, near Nimes (France). He carried
on the trade of confectioner first in Paris, afterwards in Aberdeen,
Scotland. Failing to make a success of the sugar business, he
adopted conjuring as a profession, and was remarkably successful.
He was assisted by a young Scotchman named Macalister, who on the
stage appeared as a negro, “Domingo.” Macalister, a clever mechanic,
invented many of the best things in Phillippe’s repertoire. From
some Chinese jugglers, Phillippe learned the gold-fish trick and the
Chinese rings. With these capital experiments added to his programme,
he repaired to Paris, in 1841, and made a great hit. Habited like
a Chinaman, he performed them in a scene called “A night in the
palace of Pekin.” The fish trick he ostentatiously named “Neptune’s
Basins, and the Gold Fish.” The bowls of water containing the fish he
produced from shawls while standing on a low table. He followed this
with a production of rabbits, pigeons, ducks, and chickens.
Robert-Houdin in his memoirs, gives a brief but pointed sketch of
Phillippe. On page 163 I reproduce one of his unique programmes
(London, March, 1846).
NEW STRAND THEATRE
Lessee, M. PHILLIPPE, 4 Strand Lane
TRIUMPHANT SUCCESS
PHILLIPPE’s
SOIRÉES
MYSTÉRIEUSES
The Entertainments will commence with M. PHILLIPPE’s Celebrated
and Unrivalled TOURS DE PHYSIQUE AND ASTOUNDING FEATS OF MAGICAL
DELUSION! Which he has exhibited in Paris, Vienna, Berlin, St.
Petersburgh, and before all the Courts of Europe, with truly
unparalleled Success.
THE ENTERTAINMENT WILL BE DIVIDED INTO TWO PARTS
PART FIRST
Will comprise peculiar and unequalled
Metamorphoses and Delusions!
And Astonishing Deceptions!
INCLUDING
The Miller of Amsterdam
The Obedient Cards
Il Diavolo
The Rose Tree of Granada
The Flying Watches
The Modern Confectioner
The Enchanted Handkerchief
The Grand Distribution
The Accomplished Harlequin
New Method of Making Coffee
Concluding with the universally admired and elegant Tour
d’Addresse, entitled THE NATIONAL FLAG
There will be an interval of Fifteen Minutes between the Parts
PART SECOND
A NIGHT IN THE
PALACE OF PEKIN!
In which Mons. PHILLIPPE will perform some of the most
Extraordinary and Startling INDIAN AND CHINESE EXPERIMENTS Ever
attempted by any European, comprising
The Turtle Dove and the Flying Handkerchiefs
La Fille des Fleurs
Kitchen of Parapharagaramus
PAS DE CARACTERE
BY
La Fille des Fleurs
The Inexhaustible Hat
And concluding with the celebrated DELUSION Les Bassins de Neptune
et les Poissons d’or AND THE GRAND MENAGERIE!
Unanimously pronounced to be the most inexplicable and surprising
Tour de Physique ever witnessed
ROBIN.
Henri Robin was a Hollander by birth, his real name being Dunkell.
He was born about 1805 and died in Paris in 1874. Although he
had appeared before the public many times and his talents as a
prestidigatateur had long been recognized, it was not until the
end of 1862, when he opened his theatre in Paris, that he became a
celebrity and a household word in the country of his adoption. He was
a man of distinguished appearance, very urbane, and possessed of a
sparkling wit. His handsome little _salle de spectacle_, known as the
Theatre Robin,[23] was situated on {164} the Boulevard du Temple.
Porcelain medallions ornamented the walls, representing Archimides,
Galileo, Palissy, Vaucanson, Franklin, Volta, Newton, Daguerre,
Arago, Cuvier, Robertson, Humboldt, Comte, and Cagliostro. Of these
great men only Vaucanson, Robertson, and Cagliostro could properly be
classed as magicians. Vaucanson was a builder of ingenious automata;
Robertson the creator of optical illusions; and Cagliostro a
pretender to sorcery, who made use of hypnotism and phantasmagoria in
his séances. But science has its wizards, in one sense of the word,
and so Robin included the great pioneers of scientific research among
his galaxy of wonder-workers.
[23] This theatre was demolished at the time of the
enlargement of the Place de Chateau d’Eau.
[Illustration: HENRI ROBIN.]
The journal _La France_ said in its issue of January 19, 1863: “The
stage is large and square in form, the curtain rises upon {165} a
brilliantly lighted salon showing much gilding, filled with strange
objects, electrical apparatus of all sizes, mysterious chests,
revolving tables, articulated animals which as far surpass the
automatons of Vaucanson as an Everard or Pleyel piano is superior to
an old fashioned spinet. There were peacocks which paraded up and
down and could tell you the name of any city you might think of;
drums which beat the retreat without a drummer; Christmas trees which
shook their branches, powdered with snow, and covered themselves with
lighted candles, bonbons, flowers and toys; inexhaustible bottles,
invisible bells, etc. Altogether it was the strange, supernatural and
fantastic world of prestidigitation, magic and sorcery.
* * * * *
“All at once, from the bottom of a magic casket, leaped out a
harlequin about ten inches high but so well proportioned in its
figure, so well made, so nimble and supple, so intelligent and
_spirituel_, that the whole audience uttered a cry of pleasure and
admiration. This pretty little manikin does everything belonging to
its character. It dances, smokes, frisks about, takes off and puts on
its mask, bows to the company and plays the flageolet. One is tempted
to say—‘it only needs speech to be human.’ Well, it has speech. It
talks and answers all questions addressed to it like a real person.
It even tells stories, making them up as it goes along.”
Besides the show of magic an “agioscope” was to be seen which
projected upon a screen the history of creation in forty-five
pictures. Robin also performed experiments in physics and chemistry
and an exhibition of the ghost illusion closed the entertainment.
Robin and Robert-Houdin were at odds about the inexhaustible bottle
which each claimed to have invented. Robert-Houdin declared that he
had exhibited it for the first time on December 1, 1847, while Robin
produced his “Almanach of Cagliostro,” showing the trick of the
inexhaustible bottle which he declares he had invented and exhibited
for the first time July 6, 1844, at the theatre Re at Milan.
Nevertheless in all their lectures {166} on physics, scientific
men explain to their hearers the operation of the Robert-Houdin
bottle.[24]
[24] “It is remarkable how many of the illusions regarded
as the original inventions of eminent conjurers have been
really improvements of older tricks. ‘Hocus Pocus Junior,’
_the Anatomy of Legerdemain_ (4th edition, 1654), gives an
explanatory cut of a method of drawing different liquors
out of a single tap in a barrel, the barrel being divided
into compartments, each having an air-hole at the top,
by means of which the liquor in any of the compartments
was withheld or permitted to flow. Robert-Houdin applied
the principle to a wine-bottle held in his hand, from
which he could pour four different liquids, regulated by
the unstopping of any of the four tiny air holes which
were covered by his fingers. A large number of very small
liquor glasses being provided on trays, and containing
drops of certain flavoring essences, enabled him to
supply imitations of various wines and liquors, according
to the glasses with which he poured syrup from the
bottle.”—_Encyclopedia Britannica._
When the Davenport Brothers, pretended spiritualists, came to Paris,
Robin duplicated all their tricks at his theatre. He did much to
discredit the charlatans. About 1869 he gave up his theatre, and
became the proprietor of a hotel on the Boulevard Mazas.
Robin left three works, copies of which are very rare, viz:
_L’Almanach Illustré de Cagliostro; Histoire des Spectres Vivants
et Impalpables; Secret de la Physique Amusante_ (Paris, 1864). He
was also the inventor of a railroad for ascending Mount Rigi in
Switzerland. The motor in this system was a balloon which, by its
ascentional force compelled the car to climb the ascent guided by
four iron rails. A model of this contrivance was exhibited at Robin’s
theatre, 49 Boulevard du Temple.
BOSCO.
I look again into the magic mirror of the past. Who is this portly
figure enveloped in a befrogged military cloak? He has the mobile
visage of an Italian. There is an air of pomposity about him. His
eyes are bold and piercing. He has something of the appearance of
a Russian nobleman, or general under the Empire. Ah, that is the
renowned Bosco, the conjurer!
[Illustration: BOSCO.
(From a Rare Engraving in the Possession of Dr. Saram R. Ellison, New
York City.)]
Bartolomeo Bosco had an adventurous career.[25] He was born in Turin,
Italy, January 11, 1793. He came of a noble family of Piedmont. At
the age of nineteen he was one of the {167} victims caught in the
meshes of the great military drag-net of Napoleon I, that fisher
for men. In other words, he became “food for powder” in the Russian
campaign of the Emperor of France. He was a fusilier in the 11th
infantry of the line. At the battle of Borodino, in an encounter
with Cossacks, Bosco was badly wounded in the side by a lance, and
fell upon the ground. A son of the Cossack lancer who had wounded
him, {168} dismounted and began to rifle his pockets. Like all
soldiers on a campaign, Bosco carried his fortune with him. It did
not amount to very much: a watch, a keepsake from a sweetheart, a
few gold pieces, a tobacco pouch, etc. Fearing to receive the _coup
de grace_ from his enemy, he pretended to be dead. But on realizing
that if he were robbed of his money he would be left destitute in the
world, he put his abilities as a conjurer to work and dexterously
picked the Cossack’s pocket of a well-filled purse. It was a case
of Greek meeting Greek. The Russian, grumbling, perhaps, at the
paucity of his ill-gotten plunder, finally mounted his horse and
rode away after his comrades, to discover later on that he had been
_done_ and by a corpse. Later in the day Bosco was picked up from the
battlefield by the Russian medical corps, and his wounds treated.
He was sent a captive to Siberia, near the town of Tobolsk. His
talent for _escamotage_ served him well. The long winter evenings of
his captivity when the snow lay deep upon the earth, and the wind
howled about the prison walls, were spent by him either amusing his
jailors or his fellow-soldiers. He sometimes gave exhibitions of his
skill before the high officials of the place, thereby picking up
considerable money. He spent his earnings generously upon his poorer
brethren. Finally, in April, 1814, he was released. He returned to
Italy, to the great delight of his friends, and studied medicine.
Eventually he abandoned the art of Esculapias for the art of
Trismegistus and became a professional conjurer.
[25] _Cabinetto magico del Cavalieri Bartolomeo Bosco de
Torino._ Milano, 1854.
Bosco was a wonderful performer of the cup-and-ball trick. He also
possessed great skill with cards and coins. He traveled all over
Europe. He gave an exhibition before Marie Louise, the widow of
Napoleon I, on the 27th of April, 1836. His sonorous, bizarre name
has become a byword in France for deception, whether in conjuring
or politics. The statesman Thiers was called the “Bosco of the
Tribune.” Many of Bartolomeo Bosco’s imitators assumed his cognomen.
At the present day there is a French magician touring the music
halls of Europe, who calls himself Bosco. The original Bosco, like
Alexander Herrmann, was in the habit of advertising himself by
giving impromptu exhibitions of his skill in cafés, stage {169}
coaches, hotels, etc. He was wonderfully clever at this. A Parisian
newspaper thus announced one of his entertainments: “The famous
Bosco, who can conjure away a house as easily as a nutmeg, is about
to give his performances at Paris, in which some miraculous tricks
will be executed.” This illusion to the nutmeg has reference to the
magician’s cup-and-ball trick; nutmegs frequently being used instead
of cork balls. Houdin describes Bosco’s stage as follows:
“I entered the little theatre and took my seat. According to the idea
I had formed of a magician’s laboratory, I expected to find myself
before a curtain whose large folds, when withdrawn, would display
before my dazzled eyes a brilliant stage ornamented with apparatus
worthy of the celebrity announced; but my illusions on this subject
soon faded away.
“A curtain had been considered superfluous, and the stage was open.
Before me was a long three-storied sideboard, entirely covered with
black serge. This lugubrious buffet was adorned with a number of wax
candles, among which glistened the apparatus. At the topmost point of
this strange _étagère_ was a death’s-head, much surprised, I have no
doubt, at finding itself at such a festival, and it quite produced
the effect of a funeral service.
“In front of the stage, and near the spectators, was a table covered
by a brown cloth, reaching to the ground, on which five brass cups
were symmetrically arranged. Finally, above this table hung a copper
ball, which strangely excited my curiosity.
“For the life of me I could not imagine what this was for, so I
determined to wait till Bosco came to explain it. The silvery sound
of a small bell put an end to my reverie, and Bosco appeared upon the
stage.
“The artiste wore a little black velvet jacket, fastened round
the waist by a leathern belt of the same color. His sleeves were
excessively short, and displayed a handsome arm. He had on loose
black trousers, ornamented at the bottom with a ruche of lace,
and a large white collar round his neck. This strange attire bore
considerable resemblance to the classical costume of the Scapins in
our plays. {170}
“After making a majestic bow to his audience, the celebrated conjurer
walked silently and with measured steps up to the famous copper
ball. After convincing himself it was solidly hung, he took up his
wand, which he wiped with a white handkerchief, as if to remove any
foreign influence; then, with imperturbable gravity, he struck the
ball thrice with it, pronouncing, amid the most solemn silence, this
imperious sentence: _Spiriti mei infernali, obedite_. {171}
[Illustration: HOUDINI AT THE GRAVE OF BOSCO.
(From a Photograph in the Possession of Dr. Saram R. Ellison, New
York City.)]
“I, like a simpleton, scarce breathed in my expectation of some
miraculous result, but it was only an innocent pleasantry, a simple
introduction to the performance with the cups.”
After many wanderings Bartolomeo Bosco laid down his magic wand
in Dresden, March 2, 1862. He lies buried in a cemetery on
Friederichstrasse. Mr. Harry Houdini, the American conjurer, located
the grave on October 23, 1903. Upon the tombstone is carved the
insignia of Bosco’s profession—a cup-and-ball and a wand. They are
encircled by a wreath of laurel. Says Mr. Houdini, in a letter to
_Mahatma_: “I found the head of the wand missing. Looking into the
tall grass near by I discovered the broken tip.” This relic he
presented to Dr. Saram R. Ellison, of New York (1904). The tombstone
bears the following inscription: _Ici répose le célèbre Bartolomeo
Bosco . . . Ne à Turin le 11 Janvier, 1793; décédé à Dresden le 2
Mars, 1862._ Madame Bosco was interred in the same grave with her
husband, but no mention of her is made on the stone. The small plot
of ground where the grave is situated was leased for a term of years.
That term had long expired when Mr. Houdini discovered the last
resting place of Bosco. It was offered for sale. In the event of its
purchase the remains of the conjurer and his wife would have been
transferred to a section of the cemetery set apart for the neglected
dead. But Houdini prevented all future possibility of this by
buying the lot in fee. He then deeded it to the Society of American
Magicians.
ANDERSON.
John Henry Anderson was born in Aberdeenshire, Scotland, July 14,
1814. He began life as an actor. After witnessing a performance in
England by Signor Blitz, his mind was struck with the resources of
magic as a means of entertaining the public, and adding to his own
exchequer. So he abandoned the histrionic stage for conjuring, though
he occasionally performed in melodrama as a side issue. He was very
fine in the title rôle of “Rob Roy,” and as William, in “Black-eyed
Susan.” His professional sobriquet in his early career was that of
the “Calidonian Necromancer.” On one occasion he gave an exhibition
{172} of his skill at Abbotsford, and the genial Sir Walter Scott
said to him, “They call _me_ the ‘Wizard of the North,’ but this is a
mistake—it is you, not I, who best deserve the title.” Mr. Anderson
was not slow in adopting the suggestion of the Wizard of the Pen, and
ever after called himself the Great Wizard of the North.
[Illustration]
[Illustration]
He displayed a great collection of apparatus, which he described as
“a most gorgeous and costly apparatus of solid silver, the mysterious
mechanical construction of which is upon a secret principle, hitherto
unknown in Europe.” He claimed to have been the inventor of the gun
trick, but this was not so, as Torrini and others exhibited it on
the Continent in the latter {173} part of the 18th century. All
that Anderson did was to invent his own peculiar method of working
the illusion. “The extraordinary mystery of the trick,” he said, “is
not effected by the aid of any accomplice, or by inserting a tube
in the muzzle of the gun, or by other conceivable devices (as the
public frequently, and in some instances, correctly imagine), but any
gentleman may really load the gun in the usual manner, inserting,
himself, a marked real leaden ball! The gun being then fired off at
the Wizard, he will instantly produce and exhibit the same bullet in
his hand.” The marked leaden bullet, however, was exchanged for one
composed of an amalgam of tinfoil and quicksilver, which was as heavy
as lead, but was broken into bits and dispersed in firing. He once
played a private engagement at the Winter Palace, St. Petersburg,
before the Czar Nicholas and a brilliant audience of Grand Dukes and
Grand Duchesses. His exhibition of second sight was an excellent one.
He was asked by the Czar to describe the watch he had in his pocket.
To the profound astonishment of the Emperor, Anderson announced
that it was encircled with one hundred and twenty brilliants around
its face, and a portrait on enamel of the Emperor Paul at the back.
He also said that the watch carried by the Empress did not go,
which was a fact, it being a very old one, a relic of Peter the
Great. It was only worn as an ornament. The wizard never claimed
supernatural powers. He undoubtedly obtained his information about
the chronometers from some member of the Czar’s household, and worked
upon the imagination and credulity of the spectators.
Anderson had an indomitable spirit which no misfortune could daunt.
He received the “bludgeonings of Fate” like a hero, and was “Captain
of his soul” through a thousand and one vicissitudes of life. He
built on Glasgow Green one of the largest theatres in Scotland,
and it was burnt to the ground, three months after its erection. A
fortune was lost in the terrible fire. In 1851 he came to America and
met with unbounded success. Returning to England in 1856, he engaged
Covent Garden Theatre. In March of that year this great play-house
was destroyed by fire, and Anderson lost his splendid and costly
{174} apparatus. On top of this disaster came the bankruptcy of
the Royal British Bank, and that event completely swallowed up the
remains of the wizard’s fortune. But he was undaunted. Borrowing
funds from his friends, he bought new paraphernalia, and toured the
world. After an absence of five years he returned to England, January
11, 1863. He had traveled 235,000 miles and “had passed through his
hands the enormous sum of £157,000 sterling.” He died at Darlington,
Scotland, on Tuesday, February 3, 1874. In accordance with a wish
expressed during his last illness, he was buried at Aberdeen, in the
same grave with his beloved mother. No inscription on the tombstone
records the fact that the Wizard of the North lies beneath.
What was the secret of Anderson’s success?
He was not a great magician in the sense of the word—that is to say,
an adept at legerdemain, an original creative genius like Houdin,
Robin, and the elder Herrmann. But he was an actor who played
the role of necromancer with great effect. He surrounded himself
with costly and brilliant apparatus which dazzled the eyes of the
groundlings. His baggage weighed tons and filled many trunks and
boxes. He believed in heavy artillery, like Napoleon I. The dashing
Hussar style was not his. That branch of conjuring belongs to Frikell
and De Kolta. Strange to say, in spite of the revolution in the
art of magic since Anderson’s day, we are coming back to the big
paraphernalia of the old school. The public is tired of small tricks.
A discussion of this subject will be found in the article on Frikell.
I doubt whether a greater advertiser than Anderson ever lived.
Bosco cannot be compared to him. Alexander Herrmann depended on his
social qualities and his laughable adventures in street cars, cafés,
and clubs to boom his reputation. Anderson adopted the methods of
the patent-medicine manufacturers. He would have made an excellent
advance agent for a new panacea. He literally plastered the streets
and walls of London with his advertising devices. Some of them were
highly ingenious and amusing and kept the public on the _qui vive_
with excitement. In this line of puffing, people are willing to
overlook charlatanry. One of his posters was a caricature imitation
of the famous {175} painting, “Napoleon’s Return from Elba.” It was
of gigantic size. Houdin describes it and other advertising schemes
as follows:
“In the foreground Anderson was seen affecting the attitude of the
great man; above his head fluttered an enormous banner, bearing the
words ‘The Wonder of the World,’ while, behind him, and somewhat
lost in the shade, the Emperor of Russia and several other monarchs
stood in a respectful posture. As in the original picture, the
fanatic admirers of the Wizard embraced his knees, while an immense
crowd received him triumphantly. In the distance could be seen the
equestrian statue of the Iron Duke, who, hat in hand, bowed before
him, the Great Wizard; and, lastly, the very dome of St. Paul’s bent
towards him most humbly.
“At the bottom was the inscription,
‘RETURN OF THE NAPOLEON OF NECROMANCY.’
“Regarded seriously, this picture would be found a puff in very bad
taste: but, as a caricature, it is excessively comic. Besides, it had
the double result of making the London public laugh, and bringing a
great number of shillings into the skillful puffer’s pockets.
“When Anderson is about to leave a town where he has exhausted all
his resources, and has nothing more to hope, he still contrives to
make one more enormous haul.
“He orders from the first jeweller in the town a silver vase, worth
twenty or twenty-five pounds; he hires, for one evening only, the
largest theatre or room in the town, and announces that in the
Wizard’s parting performance the spectators will compete to make the
best pun.
“The silver vase is to be the prize of the victor.
“A jury is chosen among the chief people of the town to decide with
the public on the merits of each pun.
“It is agreed that they will applaud if they think a pun good; they
will say nothing to a passable one, but groan at a bad one.
“The room is always crowded, for people come less to see the
performance, which they know by heart, than to display their wit
publicly. Each makes his jest, and receives a greeting more or less
favorable; and, lastly, the vase is decreed to the cleverest among
them. {176}
“Any other than Anderson would be satisfied with the enormous
receipts his performance produces; but the Great Wizard of the North
has not finished yet. Before the audience leaves the house he states
that a short-hand writer has been hired by him to take down all the
puns, and that they will be published as a Miscellany.
“As each spectator who has made a joke likes to see it in print, he
purchases a copy of the book for a shilling. An idea of the number of
these copies may be formed from the number of puns they contain. I
have one of these books in my possession, printed in Glasgow in 1850,
in which there are 1091 of these facetiæ.”
Here is one of Anderson’s typical programmes, dated 1854:
MUSIC HALL, LEEDS
VICTORY!!
20,139 of the inhabitants of Leeds have SURRENDERED to Marshal
Professor Anderson during the past Fortnight.
LAST 11 NIGHTS
OF THE GREAT WIZARD
EXCITEMENT EXTRAORDINARY!
ALL LEEDS MORE ASTONISHED THAN THE
RUSSIANS WERE AT SEBASTOPOL!
☛ In order to avoid being incommoded, Visitors to the Front Seats
are respectfully requested to secure places at the Hall during the
day.
PROFESSOR ANDERSON
Begs respectfully to inform the inhabitants of Leeds, that in
consequence of having made arrangements to perform in St. George’s
Hall, Bradford, on Monday, October 23rd, he cannot possibly appear
in Leeds after Saturday, October 21st.—The following will be the
order of
The Last Eleven Days of Wonders
This Evening, MONDAY, Oct. 9th, 1854, LAST NIGHT but 10.
TUESDAY, OCTOBER 10th, LAST NIGHT BUT 9.
WEDNESDAY, OCTOBER 11th, LAST NIGHT BUT 8.
THURSDAY, OCTOBER 12th, LAST NIGHT BUT 7.
FRIDAY, OCTOBER 13th, LAST NIGHT BUT 6.
SATURDAY, OCTOBER 14th, LAST NIGHT BUT 5.
MONDAY, OCTOBER 16th, LAST NIGHT BUT 4.
TUESDAY, OCTOBER 17th, LAST NIGHT BUT 3.
(Wednesday, October 18th, No Performance, the Hall being pre-engaged.)
THURSDAY, OCTOBER 19th, LAST NIGHT BUT 2.
FRIDAY, OCTOBER 20th, LAST NIGHT BUT 1.
And SATURDAY, OCTOBER 21st, THE LAST GRAND AND FINAL
FAREWELL NIGHT! {177}
☛ REMEMBER you cannot look upon his like again!
PROGRAMME
Professor Anderson begs to inform his Patrons that his
performances are not Superhuman, as supposed, but the result of
Science, applied in a new way to produce the delusive results,
in connection with his Ambidexterological Powers, which make the
“Eyes the fools o’ the other senses,” and will this evening be the
“Head and front of his offending.”
THE ANNIHILATION AND RECUPERATION
OR GRAND HYDRAULIC EXPERIMENT,
THE SCRAP BOOK
With Original and Yankee Scraps showing the Economy of Space.
SECOND SIGHT, OR CLAIRVOYANCE
With the Crystal Casket, vulgarly called the Devil’s Box.
THE GREAT CHEMICAL ANALYSIS with Evaporating Handkerchiefs
OH! MY HAT!
Great Pot Pourri of Handkerchiefs in the Magic Laundry, and
THAT BOTTLE
BRANDY, SCOTCH WHISKEY, GENEVA,
IRISH WHISKEY, RUM, ENGLISH GIN,
The New Cradle, or Mesmeric Sleep,
Strongly recommended for the Nursery, where there are “squalls.”
INTERVAL OF TEN MINUTES
During the Interval, the Wizard’s Handbook of Magic, price
1s., with an explanation of upwards of 250 Magical Delusions,
an Exposee of Gambling, Spirit Rapping, Table Turning, &c.,
illustrated with upwards of 100 Diagrams, &c., showing the
construction of the necessary Apparatus; ALSO, The Wizard
in Paris, being Professor Anderson’s Narrative of a Recent Visit
to the French Capital, descriptive of the place, and throwing new
light upon the people.—A guide for all who are going there, and
a pleasant book for those who have been. May be had of Professor
Anderson’s Assistants
The Wizard will again enter his “PSYCHOMANTEUM,” and commence Part
Two with his Great
MECHANICAL AUTOMATON
Or FORTUNE TELLER, in connection with the SPIRIT RAPPING BELL and
TABLE!
Although the Wizard is not a great Orator or Lecturer, he will
deliver a few remarks on what is called
SPIRITUALISM!
Or Humbug of the First Water, proving that there are still greater
humbugs in England than himself, for which he is very sorry, he
thinking that he was the Ne Plus Ultra in that particular line of
business.
ANIMAL MAGNETISM?
THE GREAT WATCH WONDER
Proving the thickness of some skulls, with the Astounding Miracle,
“Anderson’s” (not Pandora’s) Box. The whole of
this Unparalleled Entertainment will conclude with the
Magic Evaporation, or Disappearance Extraordinary
{178}
BLITZ.
Signor Antonio Blitz was born June 21, 1810, in a little village of
Moravia. At an early age he picked up, unknown to anyone, “a few
adroit tricks from certain gypsies, who visited his native town.”
He began to exhibit these feats for the amusement of himself and
friends. He made his professional début at Hamburg when but thirteen
years of age, and was known to the public as the “mysterious boy.”
His first appearance in this country was at the Music Hall, Broadway,
New York. He had many imitators. Not less than thirteen people
traveled the United States using his name, circulating a verbatim
copy of his handbill and advertisement—“not only assuming to be the
_original_ Blitz, but in many instances claiming to be a son or
nephew.” “I have been,” says Blitz, in his memoirs, _Fifty Years in
the Magic Circle_, (Hartford, Conn., 1871), “in constant receipt of
bills of their contracting, for, not content with taking my name,
they have not even honor enough to pay their debts.” The thirteen
impostors exhibited under the following and other names:
Signor Blitz.
Signor Blitz, Jr.
Signor Blitz, The Original.
Signor Blitz’s Son.
Signor Blitz’s Nephew.
Signor Blitz, The Wonderful.
Signor Blitz, The Great.
Signor Blitz, The Unrivalled.
Signor Blitz, The Mysterious.
Signor Blitz, By Purchase.
Signor Blitz, The Great Original.
Blitz was not only a magician, but a ventriloquist and trainer of
birds. He relates an amusing encounter with the great but eccentric
genius, the Italian violinist, Paganini, whose romantic life is
known to all lovers of music. The adventure took place in the city
of Glasgow, Scotland, where Paganini was giving a concert. Says
Blitz: “He, Paganini, was tall and awkward-looking, cadaverous in
features, ungainly in form, with long {179} black hair, said to be
very wealthy, and characterized as extremely penurious. No instance
was ever known of his contributing a penny to the distressed, or to
a benevolent institution. One morning I called and found him quietly
seated in his room alone. After conversing with him a short time I
noticed his violin case lying upon the table, when suddenly the cry
of a child issued from therein.
[Illustration: PLAY BILL.
(From the Collection of Mr. Ellis Stanyon, London, England.)]
{180}
“ ‘Who is that?’ said Paganini, quickly looking around.
“ ‘It is _me_, with the babe,’ answered a womanly voice.
“ ‘My God! what is this?’ inquired the astonished violinist.
“ ‘You well know,’ plaintively answered the woman, at the same time
the infant again commenced crying.
“ ‘We know you are a bad woman,’ vehemently declared the excited man.
“ ‘And did you not make me so, you old Italian fiddler?’
“After this there was apparently a commotion in the box, when
Paganini became alarmed and was about to leave the room when I
unmasked myself and explained that he had been a victim to the
vagaries of ventriloquism; which, on hearing, delighted him
prodigiously, and grasping me by the hand he exclaimed, ‘Bravo,
Signor!—bravo!’ ”
Signor Blitz retired from the stage with a fortune and settled in
Philadelphia. His home was on Green street near 18th street. He
taught magic and gave private entertainments for some years before
his death, which took place February, 1877. One of his daughters was
the famous opera singer, Madame Vanzant, who at the present writing
lives in Europe. These facts I obtained from Mr. Thomas Yost.
ALEXANDER.
Alexander Heimbürger was born December 4, 1819, in Germany. He
performed under the _nom de théâtre_ of Herr Alexander. He toured
Europe, North and South America with great success for a number of
years, and retired to his native land with a large fortune. He is
at present residing at Munster, an old man of eighty-four, with
snow-white hair and beard, and bent over with age. He was long
supposed to be dead by the fraternity of magicians, but Mr. Houdini,
in his tour of Germany in 1903, discovered that he still lived, and
his whereabouts. Alexander had many strange stories to relate of his
adventures in America and other places. He was personally acquainted
with Houdin, Frikell, Bosco, Anderson, Blitz, the original Bamberg of
Amsterdam, etc. He performed several times at the White House before
President Polk, and hobnobbed with Henry Clay, Webster and Calhoun.
{181} With letters from Polk he visited Brazil, and was admitted
into the most aristocratic circles. On leaving New York in 1847 he
was presented with a heavy gold medal, cast in the United States Mint
at Washington. This medal has his portrait on one side, and on the
reverse the following inscription:
“Presented to Herr Alexander as a token of esteem from his friends.
New York, 1847.”
[Illustration: ALEXANDER HEIMBÜRGER.]
Mr. Houdini writes as follows about the old magician (_Mahatma_,
June, 1903): “He was a welcome guest at the Palace of the King of
Brazil. He showed me letters to him from King Pedro II and his
wife, dated Brazil, 1850. After an absence of ten years from his
native country he returned, and married. He is blessed with six
children, two sons and four daughters. {182} One is in New York at
the present time. While in New York, Alexander was approached by an
illusionist named Orzini, who had a cabinet of mystery. He was in
hard circumstances and came to Alexander for assistance. The genial
German gave him ten dollars. Orzini secured an engagement at the Park
Theatre, but alas, only played one night, as his act did not suit,
so he was closed after his first performance. Said Alexander to me,
and the statement caused me infinite surprise: ‘This Orzini was the
man who threw the bomb at Napoleon III in Paris, trying to kill the
Emperor, but was himself killed; also blowing up several bystanders,
and wounding the horses of Napoleon’s carriage. The reporters
discovered that Orzini had just arrived from America, and in his
lodgings they found some kind of a mysterious glass house, which must
have been the Illusion Cabinet. In this affair Napoleon escaped with
his life and a few scratches.’ ”
This is a strange story. I am of the opinion that Herr Alexander is
laboring under a mistake in trying to identify the illusionist Orzini
with the celebrated revolutionist Orsini. In the first place, there
is the different spelling of the names—“Orzini” and “Orsini”; but
Mr. Houdini may have incorrectly reported Alexander in this respect.
There is no record of Orsini having come to the United States. Again,
he was not killed in the attempted assassination of Napoleon III, in
the rue Lepelletier, Paris, January 14, 1858. He was captured and
suffered imprisonment, and was guillotined March 13, 1858. While in
prison he wrote his memoirs.
Herr Alexander is the author of a work entitled _Der Moderne
Zauberer_ (“The Modern Magician”).
FRIKELL.
[Illustration: PROF. WILJALBA FRIKELL’S CHRISTMAS ENTERTAINMENT.
(As Exhibited Before Queen Victoria at Windsor Castle.)]
Wiljalba Frikell was born in Scopio, a village of Finland, in 1818.
His family was well-to-do and gave him advantages in the way of
education. He graduated at the High School of Munich in 1840, in his
twenty-second year. During his scholastic days he became interested
in legerdemain, and read with avidity every work on the subject he
could find. He attended {183} the performances of all conjurers who
came to Munich. Refusing to study for one of the learned professions,
greatly to the disappointment of his parents, he went on the stage,
and visited the principal cities of Europe, after which he journeyed
to Egypt. In the land of the pyramids Frikell had the honor of
performing before Mehemit Ali, who presented him with a gold medal.
Returning to Europe he visited Greece, Italy, and Spain. Subsequently
he went to India and investigated the thaumaturgy of the fakirs. He
made his first appearance in London in 1851, and performed before
Queen Victoria and the Royal Family, at Windsor Castle. His broken
German and peculiarity of manner caused him to be described by
_Punch_ as “a comic Charles Matthews.” The same journal also compared
him to “a monster raven in full dress for evening party.” His success
was marked. The Czar of Russia presented Frikell with a diamond
ring of great value, and the King of Denmark made him a Knight of
Dannebrog. Just when this remarkable man retired from the stage I
have been unable to ascertain. In his old age he became {184} a
recluse and denied himself to visitors. In fact, it was supposed by
the profession that he was dead, until Mr. Houdini discovered his
whereabouts in Krotschenbroda, a few miles from Dresden, Germany,
February, 1903, and called at his villa, but did not succeed
in obtaining an interview. Nine months later Frikell died. He
contemplated writing his memoirs _à la_ Robert-Houdin, but, alas,
death cut short the undertaking. That they would have been extremely
entertaining and full of curious incidents of travel, admits of
no doubt. An extract from a letter written by Mr. Houdini to his
American friend, H. S. Thompson, of Chicago, will prove of interest
to the reader.
“Dresden, Oct. 20, 1903.
“I have some news for you that may be of interest. You may remember
that I sought an interview last February with Dr. Wiljalba
Frikell, but was unable to meet him. Since then we have been in
correspondence, and he wrote me that if I ever came to Dresden he
would be pleased to see me. On arriving in Dresden I sent him word
that I would call upon him on October 10th last. I accordingly went
to the Villa Frikell about 1 o’clock, and you can imagine with what
sorrow and astonishment I learned that Dr. Frikell had died of heart
failure three hours before. He was awaiting my arrival at the time.
Fate willed it that I should see Herr Frikell, but that we should
not speak to each other.
“He was buried on October 13th. I attended the funeral and laid two
large wreaths on his grave; one on behalf of the Society of American
Magicians, and the other from myself. The S. A. M. wreath was the
largest and handsomest there.
“Herr Frikell was 87 years old and had made all arrangements to live
to 100. He always claimed he would live to over 100 years and would
tell why he expected to reach that age. Too bad we could not have
held a conversation ere he departed this life.
“Sincerely yours,
“HARRY HOUDINI.”
Frikell was an innovator in the art of magic. He dispensed with
apparatus. In his _Lessons in Magic_, he says: “The use of
complicated and cumbersome apparatus, to which modern conjurers
have become addicted, not only greatly diminishes the amount of
astonishment they are enabled to produce,—a defect which is not
compensated by the external splendor and imposing effect of such
paraphernalia,—but the useful lesson, how fallible our senses are, by
means the most ordinary and at everybody’s command, is entirely lost.
It has been my object {185} in my performances to restore the art to
its original province, and to extend that to a degree which it has,
I believe, never yet hitherto reached. I banish all such mechanical
and scientific preparations from my own practice, confining myself
for the most part to the objects and materials of every day life. The
success I have met with emboldens me to believe that I have followed
the right path.”
There is more or less truth in what Frikell says. But one can go to
extremes in the avoidance of magic paraphernalia. The happy course
is the middle one—a combination of sleight of hand and apparatus. I
quote, as follows, from an article by Prof. Hoffmann (_Mahatma_):
“The scientific school of conjuring, of which Robert-Houdin was the
originator, had its drawbacks. It involved the use of costly and
cumbersome paraphernalia, which grew and grew in quantity, till we
find Anderson, the Wizard of the North, traveling with seven tons
of luggage! Further, a trick, which, like Robert-Houdin’s automatic
figures, obviously depends upon ingenious mechanism, palls upon
the spectator. Such figures, at the present day, would be no more
regarded as magic than the Strasburg clock. Lastly his electrical
tricks produced an extraordinary effect, because very few persons
in his day were acquainted with the properties of electricity, but
now that there are electric bells in every household, and electrical
motor cars in every street, its magical prestige exists no longer.
“Hence a reaction to a severer and simpler school of conjuring,
of which Wiljalba Frikell was the earliest exponent, the school
which professes, so far as the public is concerned, to work without
apparatus and which in fact reduces its apparatus to the smallest
possible dimensions. Many high class performers now give what is
known in England as a ‘carpet bag’ show, and will keep an audience
wonder bound for a couple of hours, using no more apparatus than can
be carried in an ordinary gripsack.
[Illustration:
ST. JAMES’ THEATRE
(LONDON, 1854)
PROFESSOR WILJALBA FRIKELL
Appointed Physicien to their Majesties the
Emperor and Empress of Russia
NEW ENTERTAINMENT OF
PHYSICAL AND NATURAL MAGIC
(WITHOUT THE AID OF ANY APPARATUS)
ENTITLED
TWO HOURS OF ILLUSIONS
1.—The Secret Power and Wonderful Appearance
2.—You Shall and Must Laugh
3.—The Drunken Bracelet
4.—Something for Everybody and the Pleasant Pastime
5.—Time in a Fix
INTERVAL
1.—The Little Devil and the Secret Dispatch
2.—Aladdin’s Magic Lamp
3.—Grand Military Manœuvre, or the Courage of Prof. Frikell
4.—Das Geheimnisz, and Flight in the Air
5.—The Children’s Delight and Christmas Presents of
Prof. Wiljalba Frikell
THE ABOVE IS A COPY OF ONE OF FRIKELL’S PROGRAMMES.]
“Broadly speaking this is undoubtedly an advance, for of two
performers, the one who can produce by the magic of his own fingers
the same degree of illusion for which the other needs elaborate
apparatus, the former is surely the greater artist. But {187} the
striving for simplicity may be overdone. The performer is apt to lose
his feeling for breadth of effect, and to fritter away his skill
over illusions too minute and too soon over to make any permanent
impression. One of the most skilful sleight of hand performers we
have ever seen throws away half the value of his work by going
too fast, and producing small effects, individually brilliant, so
rapidly that his audience has not time fairly to appreciate one
before another is presented. The spectator, under such circumstances,
takes away with him a mere blurred impression, rather than a clear
mental photograph of what he has seen, and the show suffers in his
estimation accordingly.
“Another danger attending the non-apparatus school lies in the fact
that the performer is apt, by carrying the principle to needless
lengths, unduly to limit his methods.
“On the whole we are inclined to think that the most successful
magician of the future will be one who judiciously combines apparatus
and non-apparatus tricks; such apparatus, however, to be of a simple
and homely kind and not made admittedly for the purpose of the trick.
The ideal entertainment, from the standpoint of the spectator, will
be one in which feats of dexterity or supposed dexterity, are worked
in conjunction with brilliant stage effects of a more spectacular
kind, such as are exhibited by Mr. Maskelyne at the Egyptian Hall,
London.”
And so I ring down the curtain on the old-time conjurers. They played
their parts in the great drama of life, and enriched the history of
the stage with their adventures. What could be more romantic than the
career of the incomparable Bosco?
The prestidigitateur makes things appear and disappear to our great
wonderment, until finally Death, the greatest of all necromancers,
waves his wand, and the mortal fades away from view, amid the shadows
of the tomb. Tom Masson, that charming writer of _verse de societé_,
says—
We are like puppets in some conjurer’s hands,
Who smiling, easy, nonchalantly stands
And says, amid the universal cheers:
“You see this man—and now he disappears!”[26]
[26] Munsey’s Magazine, August, 1905.
{188}
THE SECRETS OF SECOND SIGHT.
“Then _second-sighted_ Sandy said,
‘We’ll do nae good at a’, Willie.’ ”
—_Child’s Ballads_, VII. 265.
I.
I went on one occasion to dine with Mr. Francis J. Martinka, and
while waiting for the repast to be served, seated myself upon an
old-fashioned sofa in his drawing-room.
[Illustration: ROBERT HELLER’S MAGIC SOFA.]
“Pardon me,” said my host, gaily, “while I put a bottle of wine on
ice. I will be back in a little while. In the meantime, you may amuse
yourself looking over these photos of eminent conjurers. And, by
the way, you are seated on the very sofa {189} which Robert Heller
used in his second-sight trick. Examine it carefully and you will
see where the wires and electric battery were located. I came into
possession of the relic after the death of Heller.”
So saying he went out to look after the wine.
And so the piece of furniture I was seated on was the veritable
up-to-date tripod of that High Priestess of Delphi, Miss Haidie
Heller, who assisted Robert Heller, acting the part of clairvoyant.
It called up a flood of memories to me.
The magician of the Arabian Nights transported himself from Bagdad to
Damascus upon a piece of carpet. In imagination that old sofa carried
me back thirty years into the past. I was seated in the gallery of
the old National Theatre, Washington, D. C., at a _soirée magique_ of
the famous Heller. I shall never forget his second-sight trick. It
was the most wonder-provoking, the most mysterious experiment I have
ever seen. In his hands, it was perfect. Robert Heller saw Houdin
give an exhibition of this feat of mental magic in London. His acute
mind divined the secret, and he set about devising a code for working
the experiment. He added many new effects. Nothing seemed to puzzle
him and his assistant.
At an entertainment given in Boston, and described by Henry Hermon in
his work on Hellerism, a coin was handed to Heller. He glanced at it
and requested Miss Heller to name the object.
“A coin,” she quickly answered.
“Here, see if you can tell the name of the country, and all about
it?” he next asked.
Without a moment’s hesitation she replied: “It is a large copper
coin—a coin of Africa, I think. Yes, it is of Tripoli. The
inscriptions on it are in Arabic; one side reads ‘Coined at Tripoli;’
the other side, ‘Sultan of two lands, Sultan by inheritance, and the
son of a Sultan.’ ”
“Very well,” said Heller, “that is correct. But look, what is the
date, now?”
“The date is 1‐2‐2‐0, one thousand two hundred and twenty of the
Hegira, or Mohammedan year, which corresponds to 1805 of the
Christian year.” {190}
Tremendous applause greeted this feat.
Mr. Fred Hunt, who was for a number of years Robert Heller’s
assistant, revealed the secret of second sight soon after Heller’s
death. The performer has first to be initiated into a new
alphabetical arrangement, which is as follows:
A is H; B is T; C is S; D is G; E is F; F is E; G is A; H is I; I
is B; J is L; K is Pray; L is C; M is O; N is D; O is V; P is J; Q
is W; R is M; S is N; T is P; U is Look; V is Y; W is R; X is See
this; Y is Q; Z is Hurry. “Hurry up” means to repeat the last letter.
For example, the initials or name in a ring is wanted. Say it is
“Anna.” By the alphabetical arrangement H stands for A. D for N. The
exclamation “Hurry up” always means a repetition of the last letter,
and again H will give the answer when put as follows:
“Here is a name. Do you see it? Hurry up. Have you got it?”
Attention is paid only to the first letter of every sentence, and it
will be perceived that the name of Anna is spelled.
After the alphabet we have the numbers, which are arranged as
follows: 1 is Say or Speak; 2 is Be, Look or Let; 3 is Can or Can’t;
4 is Do or Don’t; 5 is Will or Won’t; 6 is What; 7 is Please or Pray;
8 is Are or Ain’t; 9 is Now; 10 is Tell; 0 is Hurry or Come. “Well”
is to repeat the last figure. Now for an example: The number 1,234 is
needed. The conjurer remarks: “_Say_ the number. _Look_ at it. _Can_
you see it? _Do_ you know?”
Suppose the number called for is 100.
“_Tell_ me the number. _Hurry_!”
So much, dear reader, for the spelling of proper names and conveying
numbers to the clairvoyant on the stage. In regard to colors, metals,
precious stones, countries, materials, fabrics, makers of watches,
playing cards, society emblems, coins, bills, jewelry, wearing
apparel, surgical instruments, etc., etc., Heller had them arranged
in sets of ten. The first question he asked gave the clue to the set;
the second question to the number of the article in the set. Thus
but two short questions were necessary to elicit the proper reply
from the assistant. {191} Miscellaneous articles were divided into
nineteen sets. I will give examples of two:
FIRST SET.
_What article is this?_
1. Handkerchief.
2. Neckerchief.
3. Bag.
4. Glove.
5. Purse.
6. Basket.
7. Beet.
8. Comforter.
9. Headdress.
10. Fan.
SECOND SET.
_What is this?_
1. Watch.
2. Bracelet.
3. Guard.
4. Chain.
5. Breastpin.
6. Necklace.
7. Ring.
8. Rosary.
9. Cross.
10. Charm.
Supposing a spectator handed a _Rosary_ to the conjurer. He would
call out to his assistant, “_What is this?_” (Clue to the second
set.) Then he would exclaim, “_Are_ you ready?” The word _are_ would
give the clue to number 8. And so on.
The clues to the sets were worded very nearly alike, so as to make
the spectators believe that the same questions were being constantly
asked.
Evoking the aid of electricity, Robert Heller was enabled to convey
the cue words and numbers of the sets to Miss Heller _without
speaking a word_. It was this wonderful effect that so puzzled
everybody. A confederate sat among the spectators, near the center
aisle of the theatre, and the wires of an electric battery were
connected with his chair, the electric push button being under the
front part of his seat. Heller gave the cue to the set in which
the article was, its number, etc., by some natural movement of
his body or arms; and the confederate, rapidly interpreting the
secret signals, telegraphed them to the clairvoyant on the stage.
The receiving instrument was attached to the sofa upon which Miss
Heller sat. The interchangeable use of the two methods of conveying
information—spoken and unspoken—during an evening, completely
bewildered the spectators. It was indeed a sphinx problem.
[Illustration: ROBERT HELLER.]
Robert Heller, or William Henry Palmer, was born in Canterbury,
England, in 1833. At the age of fourteen he won a scholarship at the
Royal Academy of Music. In the year 1852 {192} he made his début
in New York City at the Chinese Assembly Rooms. On this occasion
he wore a black wig and spoke with a Gallic accent, believing that
a French conjurer would be better received in this country than an
English magician. He failed to make a success, and eventually drifted
to Washington, where he taught music for a number of years. All this
time he was perfecting himself in legerdemain. Finally he reappeared
in New York and won unbounded success. He visited Europe and India,
returning to the United States in 1875. His last performance was
given at Concert Hall, Philadelphia, on November 25, 1878. He died in
the same city on November 28, 1878. Soon after his death an absurd
story went the rounds of the {193} press that he had directed his
executors to destroy his automata and magical paraphernalia. Such
is not the case. Mr. Francis J. Martinka, of New York, possesses a
number of his tricks. Heller was a magnificent pianist and always
gave a short recital of his own compositions and those of the masters
during his entertainment. He used to append the following effusion to
his posters:
“Shakespeare wrote well;
Dickens wrote _Weller_;
Anderson was—
But the greatest is Heller.”
The following is one of Heller’s programmes (Salt Lake City, Utah,
May 23, 1867):
FOURTH PERFORMANCE OF THE RENOWNED
CONJURER, ILLUSIONIST AND PIANIST
MR. ROBERT
HELLER!
The selections of
WONDERS AND MARVELS!
For these performances will embrace many of his
Most Famous Inventions in Magical Art!
THE MUSICAL SELECTIONS
Will be rendered upon Chickering’s Grand
Piano, attached to the Theatre.
MR. ROBERT HELLER
Will make his FOURTH Appearance
THIS EVENING
PART I.—ILLUSORY.
1.—WITH A CANDLE.
2.—WITH A WATCH—The Watches of the Audience made to strike the hour.
3.—THE CANNON BALLS.
4.—WITH 30 PIECES OF SILVER.
5.—MOCHA—an utter impossibility.
6.—A PHOTOGRAPH.
PART II.—MUSIC.
1.—Caprice on Airs from “Il Trovatore,” including the famous
Anvil Chorus.—HELLER.
2.—“Home, Sweet Home.”—HELLER.
3.—“Storm and Sunshine.”—a musical story.
PART III.—THE GREAT MYSTERY OF
SECOND SIGHT!
The Most Startling Phenomenon of this Country.
PART IV.—FUN.
Heller’s Original and Wonderful Band of
WOOD MINSTRELS
The most perfect set of Blockheads in the world, who will
introduce their most popular Overtures, Choruses, &c.
{194}
II.
A curious exhibition of silent second sight was that of the Svengali
trio. The effect as described by the _New York Herald_, August 11,
1904, is as follows:
“Two persons (lady and gentleman) are on the stage, both with their
backs toward the audience. A third one goes into the auditorium, with
his back towards the stage, to receive the wishes of the audience.
If the name of any international celebrity is whispered to him, with
lightning rapidity the thought is transmitted. The gentleman on the
stage turns round immediately and appears in features, bearing and
dress as the desired personage—with wonderfully startling resemblance.
“One can likewise whisper to the gentleman in the auditorium the
name of an international opera, operetta or international song. The
thought flies like lightning, and the lady sings what is wanted,
instantly accompanying herself on the piano.
“The secret of this trick is as follows: When the curtain rises,
the master of ceremonies walks to the front of the stage and in a
pleasing voice begins: ‘Ladies and gentlemen—I have the pleasure of
introducing to you, etc., etc. I will call your attention to the
fact that the spectators must confine their whispered wishes to
international celebrities, names of well-known personages, songs and
operas of international fame,’ etc.
“This limitation of choice is the key to the performance. They have
lists of these ‘international celebrities,’ rulers, statesmen,
diplomats, great writers and musical composers; songs of world-wide
reputation, popular selections from the operas, etc. And the secret
of the evening is that all of these carefully selected names, titles,
etc., are numbered, as in the following examples:
STATESMEN AND RULERS.
1. Bismarck.
2. King Humbert of Italy.
3. Napoleon Bonaparte.
4. King Edward VII.
5. Paul Kruger.
120. Lincoln.
POPULAR SONGS.
1. “Home, Sweet Home.”
2. “Last Rose of Summer.”
3. “Marseillaise.”
4. “The Jewel Song in Faust.”
5. “Walter’s Prize Song.”
101. “Comin’ Thro’ the Rye.” {195}
OPERAS.
1. “Faust.”
2. “Lohengrin.”
3. “Bohemian Girl.”
4. “Lucia di Lammermoor.”
5. “Carmen.”
120. “Trovatore.”
GREAT WRITERS.
1. Thackeray.
2. Victor Hugo.
3. Dickens.
4. George Eliot.
5. Shakespeare.
101. Dante.
HOW THE SIGNALS ARE CONCEALED.
“The manager reiterates that if only names of international
reputation are given the responses will be correct nine hundred and
ninety-nine times in a thousand. Then he descends from the stage,
and, smiling right and left, inclines his ear to catch the whispered
wishes as he moves slowly up the aisle, generally with his back to
the stage. An auditor whispers to him, ‘Bismarck.’
“Herr Svengali, gesticulating freely but naturally, pressing his
eyes with his fingers for an instant as if going into a momentary
trance—only a second or two, just enough to impress the audience—then
thrusts a hand into the air, wipes the moisture from his face with
his handkerchief or leans toward a spectator, seeking his attention,
when a voice from the stage says, ‘Bismarck.’
“ ‘Right,’ responds the man who whispered that illustrious name. Then
there is a craning of necks and crushing of programmes, all eyes
fixed on the stage, where the impersonator, standing before a cabinet
of costume pigeonholes, with the aid of an assistant has donned wig
and uniform in his lightning change and whirls around disguised as
Bismarck, while the girl at the piano plays ‘The Watch on the Rhine.’
It is all the work of a few seconds and makes a great impression upon
the spectator.
“The next man calls for an opera air, ‘Bohemian Girl,’ and the
piano plays ‘I Dreamt That I Dwelt in Marble Halls,’ etc. Another
man suggests the magic name ‘Sheridan.’ It is echoed aloud from the
stage, while the audience applauds and the girl plays ‘The Star
Spangled Banner.’
“The few experts present pay little attention to the stage. Their
eyes are fixed on the man Svengali in the aisle, noting every move he
makes. It is observed that his numerous gestures, his frequent use of
his handkerchief, the pressure of his {196} fingers on his eyes, as
if to hypnotize his assistant on the stage, are natural movements,
attracting no attention, yet necessary to hide the vital signals in
the cipher code of the show.
“In the programme and show bills it is emphasized that the lady
and gentleman on the stage have their backs to the audience, while
Svengali, down in the aisle, has his back to the stage, making
collusion apparently impossible. This makes a profound impression on
the public.
“A CONFEDERATE BEHIND A SCREEN.
“But not a word is said of that curious screen panel, bearing a
double-headed eagle—the Austrian coat of arms—surmounting a large
cabinet of costumes occupying so much space on the stage. The
programme does not explain that this screen panel is transparent from
behind and that an accomplice with a strong magnifying lens reads
every move made by Svengali and repeats his signals to the pretty
girl at the piano and the impersonator at the cabinet.
“THE SYSTEMS EXPLAINED.
“Here is an illustration of how the figure system can be worked. As
explained above, the famous personages, popular songs and operas are
on numbered lists. Svengali in the aisle, with his code of signals,
has all these numbers committed to memory.
“When a spectator whispers ‘Dickens’ Svengali knows it is No. 4, and
he signals accordingly.
“But how?
“By touching his head, chin, or breast, or that particular part of
his body designated in the signal code of the Svengali Company.
The diagram given herewith illustrates the system of communication
by numbers, nine figures and a cipher (0), by which all the wealth
of the world may be measured, and any number of words may be
communicated without a word of speech. One has but to map out a
square on his face, breast or body, and number it with these nine
figures, with an extra space for the cipher, to be ready for the
Svengali business. That is, when he has memorized the names and the
numbers representing them. {197}
“Say the human head is used for this purpose. Imagine the top of the
head, right hand side, as No. 1, the right ear as No. 2, the jaw as
No. 3, and the neck as the cipher; the forehead No. 4, the nose No.
5, the chin No. 6, the top of the head on the left side as No. 7, the
left ear No. 8, and the left side of the jaw No. 9.
“Thus you have the code system by which operators can communicate
volumes by using a codified list of numbered words or sentences.
[Illustration]
“If you label the Lord’s Prayer No. 4, and the Declaration of
Independence No. 5, you may instantly telegraph the mighty literature
through wireless space—enough literature to save all Europe from
anarchy—by two natural movements of the hand.
“You can label your eyes, your movements or even your glances, making
them take the places of the nine omnipotent numbers. Again: Glance
upward to the right for No. 1, straight upward for No. 2, and upward
to the left for No. 3. Repeating, glancing horizontally for Nos. 4, 5
and 6. Repeating the same again, by glancing downward for Nos. 7, 8
and 9, and stroking your chin for the cipher (0).
“With your back to the audience, you can telegraph in a similar way,
using your arm and elbow to make the necessary signals. Let the right
arm, hanging down, represent No. 1; the elbow, projecting from the
side, No. 2; elbow raised, No. 3. Repeat {198} with the left arm for
Nos. 4, 5 and 6; with either hand placed naturally behind you, on the
small of the back, above the belt and over your shoulder for Nos. 7,
8 and 9, and on the back of your head or neck for the cipher (0).”
III.
It is an interesting fact to note that the Chevalier Pinetti was
the first exhibitor of the second-sight trick. Houdin revived (or
re-invented) it.
[Illustration: SECOND-SIGHT TRICK.—SIGNALING.]
On the 12th of December, 1846, he announced in his bill, “In this
programme, M. Robert-Houdin’s son, who is gifted with marvelous
second sight, after his eyes have been covered with a thick bandage,
will designate every object presented to him by the audience.” In his
memoirs he thus describes how he came to invent the trick:
“My two children were playing one day in the drawing-room at a game
they had invented for their own amusement. The younger had bandaged
his elder brother’s eyes, and made him guess at the objects he
touched, and when the latter happened to guess right, they changed
places. This simple game suggested to me the most complicated idea
that ever crossed my mind.
“Pursued by the notion, I ran and shut myself up in my workroom,
and was fortunately in that happy state when the mind {199} follows
easily the combinations traced by fancy. I rested my head in my
hands, and, in my excitement, laid down the first principles of
second sight.”
Houdin never revealed his method of working the trick.
Robert Heller’s successors in mental magic are Max Berol and wife,
and the Zancigs. Among other feats Berol is able to memorize over
two hundred words called out by the spectators and written down on a
slip of paper by some gentleman. Berol will then write these words
backwards and forwards without hesitation and name any one of them by
its number in the list. The Zancigs are marvels in the art of second
sight. They were born in Copenhagen, Denmark, but are naturalized
citizens of the United States. Clever advertisers, they lay claim to
occult powers, as the following notice in the Washington Post, April
30, 1905, will testify:
“Although Prof. Zancig and Mme. Zancig, who will be at Chase’s
this week, are naturalized Americans, they come from Denmark. They
first developed their transmission of thought from one mind to
another—or what is known as telepathy—while journeying through the
Orient. They found that quite a number of the Orientals had found
it possible to control ‘thought waves’ and transmit them to the
minds of others, just as Marconi, with his wireless telegraphy,
controls electric waves and transmits them to an objective point.
Prof. Zancig discovered that Mme. Zancig was inceptive, and he could
readily transmit to her mind the thoughts of his own. The tests were
continued, and became so positive and conclusive that it was decided
to give public exhibitions.
“While in India, Prof. and Mme. Zancig saw some astonishing
telepathic exhibitions, which encouraged them to still greater
efforts. They gave exhibitions before the Maharajah, near Delhi;
before the Chinese minister at Hongkong, and before the Japanese
officials of highest grades, who took great interest in the mental
tests. One remarkable incident occurred at Potchefstroom, South
Africa, where the natives are extremely superstitious. The exhibition
had been extensively advertised, and the house was full. The
entertainment created a sensation. As long as Prof. Zancig remained
on the stage everything was all right, {200} but when he went among
the audience and read dates of coins, inscriptions on letters, and
performed other remarkable feats, the audience suddenly became
panic-stricken, and there was a mad rush for windows, doors, or any
other means of exit. In five minutes the hall was empty, and nothing
could induce the people to return. After concluding his tour abroad,
Prof. Zancig and his wife returned to America, and began an American
tour which has been uninterruptedly successful and will extend to
every section of the United States.”
Two clever performers of the second-sight trick are Harry and Mildred
Rouclere. Mr. Rouclere gives a very pleasing magical entertainment.
{201}
THE CONFESSIONS OF AN AMATEUR CONJURER.
“If this be magic, let it be an art.”—SHAKESPEARE.
I.
At the theatre not long ago, I heard the orchestra play Mendelssohn’s
exquisite “Spring Song,” and immediately I was carried back in
fancy to my boyhood days under the old roof-tree at Glen Willow, on
the heights of Georgetown, D. C., where I spent such happy years.
The rain is gently pattering upon the shingled roof; the distant
woods are waxing green under the soft influences of the season; the
blackbirds are calling in the tree tops. O sweet springtide of youth,
made more beautiful still by the associations of books, by the free
play of the imagination in realms of poetry and fantasie—
“A boy’s will is the wind’s will.
And the thoughts of youth are long, long thoughts.”
The intervening years are all blotted out. I am young again, and have
just returned to the old home, after witnessing an exhibition of
magic by Wyman the Wizard at the town hall. To a boy fresh from the
delights of the Arabian Nights this is a wonderful treat. My mind is
agitated with a thousand thoughts. I, too, will become a conjurer,
and hold the groundlings spellbound; bring bowls of goldfish from
a shawl; cook puddings in a borrowed hat; pull rabbits from old
gentlemen’s pockets.
Dear old Wyman, ventriloquist as well as prestidigitateur, old-time
showman, and the delight of my boyhood—what a weary pilgrimage you
had of it in this world; wandering up and down, never at rest,
traveling thousands of miles by stagecoach, steamboat, and railroad,
giving entertainments in little villages {202} and towns all over
the United States, and welcomed everywhere by happy children. The big
cities you left to your more ambitious brethren. But what of that?
You brought thereby more pleasure into humble lives than all of the
old conjurers put together. Well have you earned your rest. Though
your name is quite forgotten by the present generation, a few old
boys and girls still hold you in loving remembrance.
[Illustration: WYMAN, THE MAGICIAN.
(From an Old Print, Ellison Collection.)]
Wyman was born in Albany, N. Y., and was reported to be sixty-five
years of age at the time of his death. Just when he went on the
stage, I have been unable to ascertain. Mr. George Wood, who is now
running a small curio shop on Filbert Street, Philadelphia, was for
sixteen years Wyman’s manager. He afterwards went with Pharazyn and
Frederick Eugene Powell. Thanks to my friend, Mr. C. S. Eby, who
interviewed Mr. Wood during the summer of 1905, I have obtained a
few facts concerning Wyman’s career. After giving exhibitions all
over the United States in school houses and small halls, Wyman went
abroad and brought back with him quite an outfit of apparatus, most
of it purchased, I presume, from Voisin’s Repository in {203} Paris.
Voisin was the only manufacturer of magical novelties in those days.
About 1850 Wyman played in New York City under the management of
P. T. Barnum. When the magician Anderson sold out, Wyman bought
considerable of his paraphernalia, such as the “Magic Cauldron”
(Phillippe’s old trick), the “Nest of Boxes,” “Aerial Suspension,”
“Inexhaustible Bottle,” and “Gun Trick.” In 1867 Wyman started the
“gift show” in connection with his magic entertainment, sometimes
giving away building lots as a first prize. He introduced the Sphinx
illusion in the South for the first time and made a tremendous hit.
People would come twenty miles to see it. He had a wonderful memory,
which he applied to a second-sight act. The articles were placed in a
handkerchief by the boy who borrowed them and the professor managed
to get one secret look at the collection. From his remembrance he
would later describe the articles while they were held aloft still
tied in the handkerchief. Another favorite illusion was the borrowing
of a watch, which was pounded and afterwards found under one of the
spectators (not a confederate). It was one of the duties of Wood to
slip the borrowed watch in place while ostensibly selling magic books.
Wyman retired from the stage eventually, and lived in Philadelphia
for several years at 612 North Eleventh Street. Afterwards he moved
to Burlington, New Jersey, where he bought an imposing country place.
He owned considerable real estate. He died July 31, 1881. A few days
before his death he called to see his old friend Thomas W. Yost, the
manufacturer of magical apparatus, of Philadelphia. He must have had
a premonition of his demise, for he remarked to Mr. Yost, as he left
the store: “You will not see me again. This is the last of Wyman.” In
a few days he was dead. He was buried at Fall River, Massachusetts,
the home of his wife. Wyman’s show consisted of ventriloquism, magic,
and an exhibition of Italian _fantochini_ (puppets). He was one of
the best entertainers of his day.
II.
I took to magic at an early age—not the magic of the sleight of hand
artist, however, but the real goetic or black magic, {204} as black
as any old grimoire of mediæval days could make it. Aye, darker in
hue than any inveighed against in the famous Dæmonologie of King
James I. of Protestant memory. I believed firmly in witches, ghosts,
goblins, voodoo spells, and conjure doctors. But what can you expect
of a small boy surrounded by negro servants, the relics of the old
régime of slavery, who still held tenaciously to the devil-lore of
their ancestors of the African jungle? At nightfall I dared not go
near the smoke-house for fear of the witches who held their revels
there. One day my father brought home a book for his library. It
was Mackey’s _Extraordinary Popular Delusions; or, The Madness of
Crowds_. That work of absorbing interest opened my eyes to the
unreality of the old superstitions. I read it with avidity. It became
a sort of Bible to me. It lies on the table before me, as I pen these
lines; a much-thumbed, faded, old book.
The first amateur sleight of hand show I ever took part in, was
given by a boy named Albert Niblack. The _matinée magique_ was held
in a stable attached to my father’s house. The entrance fee was
three pins, orchestra chairs ten pins. The stage was erected in the
carriage house, and the curtain consisted of a couple of sheets
surreptitiously borrowed from the household linen closet. I acted
as the conjurer’s assistant. The success of the entertainment was
phenomenal. The audience consisted of some thirty children, with
a sprinkling of negro nurses who came to preserve order among the
smaller fry, and an old horse who persisted in sticking his head
through a window near the stage, his stall being in an adjoining
compartment. He occupied the only private box in the theatre. Among
other tricks on the programme, young Niblack produced a small canary
bird from an egg which had been previously examined and declared to
be the real product of the hen by all the colored experts present,
who tested it on their teeth. One fat old mammy, with her head
picturesquely done up in a red bandana handkerchief, was so overcome
by the trick that she shouted out: “Fo de Lawd sake! Dat boy mus’
be kin to de Debbil sho,’ ” and regretted the fact that she did not
have a rabbit’s foot with her, to ward off the spells. Years have
passed since then. Young Niblack is now Lieut. Commander Niblack,
U. S. N., erstwhile naval attaché {205} of the American embassy
at Berlin, etc. I wonder if he still practises magic. He obtained
his insight into the mysteries of conjuring from a little book of
sleights, puzzles and chemical experiments, a cheap affair and very
crude. Like Houdin, he had to create the principles of legerdemain
himself, for the book contained no real information on the subject.
It was manufactured to _sell_ in two senses of the word, and to the
best of my belief, was purchased at the circus. Among that audience
were several children who have since become famous, to a greater or
less extent. There was Umei Tsuda, a diminutive Japanese girl, sent
to this country to be educated, and who now presides over a great
normal school in Japan; Waldemar Bodisco (son of Count Bodisco, the
Russian Minister to the United States), now an officer in the Czar’s
navy; and, if I mistake not, Agustin de Iturbide, the adopted son of
the ill-fated Maximilian, who attempted to found an empire in Mexico,
bolstered up by French bayonets. Young Iturbide’s mother, after the
tragic death of Maximilian, came to Georgetown to reside and educate
her son, the heir to the throne of Mexico. Poor fellow, he was a
prince, but he did not plume himself because of the fact, for he
was in reality a “boy without a country.” We were classmates in the
preparatory department of Georgetown College. His career is one of
the romances of history. He is now living an exile in an old country
house in the District of Columbia, where he spends his time reading
and dreaming.
III.
I entered upon the practise of sleight of hand in the year 1877,
after reading Hoffmann’s _Modern Magic_. I adopted Houdin’s method
of carrying a pack of cards and other articles in my pockets. On my
way to school, over a long country road, I put in some hard practise,
learning to _sauter le coupe_, and palm most any small object. While
in class one day, I was caught _in flagrante delicto_, with a pack of
cards in my hand, by the dignified old Latin professor. I was sent
to the Principal of the Academy for punishment, which I received
like a stoic, but vowing vengeance on the Latin pedagogue, who was a
very {206} orthodox religionist, the principal of a Baptist Sunday
school, and consequently held cards in abhorrence. I often heard him
remark that cards were the “Devil’s Looking Glasses.” One day, I
slipped a couple of packs of cards in the sleeve of the professor’s
overcoat, which hung upon the wall back of his desk, and tipped the
wink to the boys. They were astounded at my audacity. When the class
was dismissed, the scholars lingered around to see the fun. The
professor went to put on his coat, whereupon the cards flew about the
room in a shower, being propelled by the impact of his arm, which
he thrust violently into the sleeve. The boys, with a great shout,
began picking up the scattered pasteboards, which they presented to
the teacher, commiserating with him in his trouble. The old man, who
was very angry, disclaimed ownership of the detested cards, and got
out of the room as speedily as possible. Perhaps it is needless to
remark that I failed miserably in the Latin examinations that year.
But it may have been owing to my stupidity and not to any animus on
the professor’s part. Let us hope so.
[Illustration: GLEN WILLOW, GEORGETOWN, D. C.]
After long practise in legerdemain, I determined to give an
entertainment, and selected as my assistant, my school chum, Edward
L. Dent, a boy who possessed great mechanical genius. Later in
life he graduated with honors as a mechanical engineer {207} from
Stevens’ Institute, New Jersey, and founded a great iron mill in
Georgetown. Poor fellow, he met with business reverses and lost a
fortune. He died some five or six years ago. Young Dent lived in a
historical mansion on the heights of Georgetown, surrounded by a
great park of oaks. It was the home of John C. Calhoun, when he was
Secretary of State of the United States. In the great attic of the
house, Judge Dent had fitted up a superb carpenter shop and forge for
his son.
Here my chum and I manufactured our apparatus: the Washerwoman’s
Bottle, the Nest of Boxes _à la_ Kellar; the Card Star; the Coffee
and Milk Vases; the Sphinx Table, etc. When all was ready, about
two hundred invitations were sent out for a _Soirée Magique_. The
great drawing-room of the house was fitted up as a theatre, with a
stage at one end and drop curtain. We fenced in the stage with rich
draperies, after the style of Robert Heller, and our gilded tables
and silver candelabra with wax tapers looked very fine against the
crimson background. It was the most elaborate amateur show I ever
saw. Twenty minutes before the curtain rang up, both magician and
assistant were seized with stage fright. We had peeped through a hole
in the curtain and taken in the sea of faces. We dared not confront
that crowd of youngsters without a mask of some kind. Happy thought!
We decided to blacken our faces with burnt cork and appear as negro
necromancers. The performance went off very well indeed, until we
came to the “Card Star.” O fatal Pentagram of Pythagoras! The cards
were chosen from a pack and rammed down the mouth of a big pistol,
preparatory to firing them at the star, on the points of which they
were to appear. I began my patter, facing the audience. “Ladies and
gentlemen, I will give you an exhibition of magic marksmanship. I
will fire this pistol (laughter) at the star on yonder table (renewed
laughter), and the cards”—(ironical cat calls). I turned around, and
to my horror, the duplicate cards were already sticking to the star;
my assistant had let off the apparatus too soon. The curtain fell.
I shed tears of rage at the fiasco. But, later on, I learned to act
more philosophically. Magicians are subject to these mistakes. I have
seen Alexander Herrmann’s {208} calculations all upset by comical
contretemps of like character to the above, but he smiled benignantly
and went right along as unconcernedly as ever. Conjuring certainly
gets on the nerves of its devotees.
IV.
Amateur magicians are called upon to exhibit their skill in all sorts
of places. I once gave a performance in a Pullman car, going at
full speed. It was on the occasion of a pilgrimage to the Scottish
Rite temples of the Southwest, with a party of eminent members of
the fraternity. This was in the spring of 1904. Among those who
went on the journey were the Hon. James Daniel Richardson, 33°,
Sovereign Grand Commander of the Ancient and Accepted Scottish Rite
of Freemasonry for the Southern jurisdiction of the United States,
and Admiral Winfield Scott Schley, 32°, the “hero of Santiago,” a
most genial traveling companion and raconteur. Mr. Richardson had
jocularly appointed me Hierophant of the Mysteries, so I took along
with me a box full of magic apparatus, to amuse the Initiates when
time hung heavy on their hands. My first performance was given while
speeding across the State of Kentucky. At one end of an observation
car I arranged my table and paraphernalia. In honor of the Admiral,
I got up an impromptu trick, which I called, “After the Battle of
Santiago.” Borrowing a silk hat, and showing it empty, I began as
follows:
“Gentlemen, stretch your imaginations, like Jules Verne, and let
this hat represent the cruiser Brooklyn, Admiral Schley’s ship. This
oscillating Pullman car is the ocean. The great battle of Santiago
is over. Victory has crowned the American arms. An order comes from
the flagship to decorate the vessels of the fleet with bunting.
The sailors of the Brooklyn dive down into the hold and bring up a
variety of flags. (Here I produced from the hat the flags of all
nations.) They are not satisfactory. Roll them together, says the
commander, and see what the composition will make. (I rolled the
flags into a bundle, which I proceeded to throw in the air, whereupon
a big silk American flag appeared, the smaller ensigns having
disappeared.) Ah, the Star {209} Spangled Banner, under whose folds
the men of many nations live in amity as fellow citizens.”
I waved the flag in the air, amid the plaudits of the spectators.
Just then the car gave a terrific lurch, while rounding a curve; I
lost my balance and was precipitated head first like a battering ram
against the capacious stomach of an old gentleman, seated in the
front row. He doubled up with pain.
“Say, what kind of a trick do you call that?” he gasped out.
“That,” said I, “is a representation of a sailor on board of the
Brooklyn falling overboard.”
“I call it a monkey trick,” he groaned. His dignity and digestive
apparatus had been sadly upset. From that time on, he eyed me with
suspicion whenever I gave a show, and always took a chair in the back
row of seats.
“Speaking of monkey tricks,” said Admiral Schley, “reminds me of
an incident that occurred when I was a midshipman on board of the
steam frigate Niagara, in 1860. A monkey was the prestidigitateur.
We were conveying back to their native land the Japanese embassy
that had visited the United States in return for the visit made
to their country by Commodore Perry some years before. One of the
embassy bought a monkey at Anger Point, Africa, during a stoppage at
that place. He (the monkey, not the Ambassador) proved to be a most
mischievous brute, and was continually picking and stealing eatables
from the cook’s galley. Worse than that, so far as the sailors were
concerned, the ‘missing link’ of Darwin took a special delight in
upsetting pots and pans of grease on the deck, which the seamen had
to clean up. When chased by some irate Jack Tar with a rope’s end,
the monkey would take refuge in the rigging, where he would hang by
his tail from a spar, and grin with delight at his enemies. We all
hated the beast, but respect for our Japanese guests forbade revenge.
Finally an old sailor caught the monkey and greased his tail. Soon
after, the simian committed one of his daily depredations and hied
himself, as usual, up the rigging, where he attempted to swing from
a yardarm by his greased tail. But, alas, he fell overboard and was
drowned. The verdict rendered was that he had committed suicide. His
only mourners were the Mikado’s ambassadors.” {210}
V.
The study of natural magic is wonderfully fascinating. It possesses,
too, a decided pedagogic value, which eminent scholars have not been
slow to recognize. Those who obtain an insight into its principles
are preserved against infection from the many psychical epidemics
of the age. The subject is of interest to scientists. Dr. G.
Stanley Hall, at one time professor of experimental psychology at
the Johns Hopkins University, Baltimore, Md., at present president
of Clarke University, Worcester, Massachusetts, used to exhibit
conjuring tricks to his classes, to illustrate the illusions of
the senses. An eminent German scientist, Dr. Max Dessoir, has
written learnedly on the psychology of legerdemain. Prof. Joseph
Jastrow, of the University of Wisconsin, subjected the conjurers,
Herrmann and Kellar, to a series of careful tests, to ascertain
their “tactile sensibility, sensitiveness to textures, accuracy of
visual perception, quickness of movement, mental processes,” etc.
The results of these tests were printed in _Science_, Vol. III, page
685–689, under the title of “Psychological Notes upon Sleight-of-hand
Experts.”
The literature of natural magic is not extensive. Thirty years ago,
first-class works in English on legerdemain were rare. Houdin’s
_Secrets de la Prestidigitation et de la Magie_, which was published
in 1868, was out of print, and, says Prof. Hoffmann, “the possession
of a copy was regarded among professors of magic as a boon of the
highest possible value.” Hoffmann picked up an old second-hand copy
of the work in Paris, and translated it in the year 1877. To-day,
books on sleight of hand have been multiplying rapidly. Every
professor of the art thinks it incumbent upon him to publish a
treatise on magic. Strange to say, the good works on the subject have
been written by amateurs. Prof. Hoffmann (Angelo Lewis), a member of
the London bar, has written the best book, following him have come
Edwin Sachs and C. Lang Neill. The autobiography of that arch-master
of magic, Robert-Houdin, was translated, in 1859, by Dr. R. Shelton
Mackenzie, of Philadelphia. Thomas Frost, in 1881, produced an
interesting work on the _Lives of the Conjurers_, but it is now quite
out of date. I know of no really scholarly treatise extant to-day on
the history of prestidigitation. {211}
[Illustration: WANDS OF FAMOUS MAGICIANS.
(From the Ellison Collection, New York.)]
I have been very fortunate in my researches in the history of
magic, to have had access to several private collections of
books, old playbills, programmes, prints, etc., relating to the
subject. I myself have been an indefatigable collector of books and
pamphlets treating of magic and magicians. But my library pales
into insignificance beside that of my friend, Dr. Saram R. Ellison,
of New York City. Dr. Ellison is a practising physician and, like
many others of his profession, a great lover of escamotage, perhaps
because of its relationship to psychology. He has {212} in his
collection of books, many rare volumes picked up in Europe and
elsewhere. At the present writing his library contains nearly one
thousand two hundred titles, among them being rare copies of Decremps
(1789–1793), Pinetti (1785), Breslaw (1812), Porta (1658), Kosmann
(1817), Witgeest (1773), Naudeus (1657), etc., etc. In the year 1902,
Kellar visited the Ellison library. He endeavored to purchase the
collection for $2,000. Dr. Ellison refused to part with his beloved
books. In his will he has left the collection to Columbia University,
New York City. One of the doctor’s fads is the collection of wands of
famous magicians. He possesses over sixty rods of the modern magi,
and has often contemplated sending an expedition to Egypt to discover
the wands used by Moses and Aaron. Among his collection are wands
formerly wielded by Carl, Leon, Alexander and Mme. Herrmann (four
representatives of one family), Willmann, Anderson, Blitz, de Kolta,
Hoffmann, Goldin, Maskelyne, Powell, McAllister, Robinson, Kellar,
Fox, etc. Each of the wands is accompanied by a story, which will be
published in the near future.
VI.
When the citizen-king, Louis Philippe, ruled over the destinies of
_la belle_ France, there resided in Paris an old man, by the name of
M. Roujol, familiarly known among his confrères as “Father” Roujol.
He kept a modest shop in the Rue Richelieu for the manufacture and
sale of magical apparatus. The professional and amateur conjurers
of the French capital made Roujol’s their meeting place. “The Duc
de M⸺,” says Robert-Houdin, “did not disdain to visit the humble
emporium of the mystic art, and remain for hours conversing with
Roujol and his associates.” It was here that Houdin became acquainted
with Jules de Rovère, of noble birth, a conjurer who abandoned
the title of _escamoteur_, as beneath his aristocratic dignity,
and coined for himself the pompous cognomen, _prestidigitateur_,
from _presti digiti_ (activity of the fingers). The French Academy
sanctioned the formation of this word, thus handing it down to
posterity. Jules de Rovère also called himself _Physicien du Roi_.
Old Father Roujol is dust long ago. We have replicas of his {213}
quaint place in New York, Chicago, Boston and Philadelphia. On
Sixth Avenue, not far from Thirtieth Street, New York City, is the
shop of the Martinka Brothers. It is located on the ground floor of
a dingy old building. In front is a tiny window, with a variety of
magical apparatus displayed therein. Above the door, in tarnished
gold letters, is the sign, “Palace of Magic.” The second floor is
occupied by a Chinese restaurant. The Occident and Orient exist here
cheek-by-jowl. The Chinaman concocts mysterious dishes to tickle
the jaded palates of the _boulevardiers_; the proprietors of the
Aladdin Palace of Up-to-Date Enchantments invent ingenious tricks and
illusions to astound the eyes of their patrons. Here I met Robinson,
de Kolta, Kellar, and many other conjurers of note. The Society of
American Magicians holds its meetings at Martinka’s.
[Illustration: BIJOU THEATRE OF THE MARTINKA BROS., NEW YORK.]
This society owes its foundation to two practising physicians of
New York, Dr. W. Golden Mortimer, an ex-conjurer, and Dr. Saram R.
Ellison, the collector of magic literature. Ellison suggested the
name, Mortimer wrote the ritual of the order, and {214} the two
of them called the meeting for the formation of the society. The
first idea of such a fraternity of magicians was formulated by the
writer of this book, who endeavored to found a society called the
“Sphinx,” but it proved abortive. The leading conjurers of the United
States and Europe are enrolled among the members of the S. A. M.
The meetings are held once a month, at Martinka’s, usually followed
by exhibitions of skill on the stage of the Bijou Theatre, attached
to the place. Robert-Houdin, in the closing chapter of his _Secrets
of Conjuring and Magic_, remarks that it would be a superb sight to
witness a performance by magicians, where each would show his _chef
d’oeuvre_ in the art. At Martinka’s this is realized. Here you may
see the very perfection of digital dexterity, mental magic, and the
like. Mr. Francis J. Martinka possesses many interesting relics of
celebrated performers: Alexander Herrmann’s wand, Robert Heller’s
orange tree, and photographs galore of magicians, living and dead.
Some of the most important illusions of the day have been built in
the shop of the Martinka Brothers. Other manufacturers in New York
City are Witmark & Sons, and Mr. Beadle, a veteran mechanic and
erstwhile assistant to Robert Heller.
In Boston we have the magic emporiums of W. D. LeRoy and C. Milton
Chase; and in Chicago, that of A. Roterberg. Both LeRoy and Roterberg
are fine sleight-of-hand performers. Mr. Roterberg is the author
of a clever work on card conjuring, which ranks very high in the
estimation of the profession, also several little brochures on
up-to-date legerdemain. In Philadelphia, Mr. Thomas Yost, a veteran
manufacturer of magical apparatus, holds forth. He has built many
fine illusions and tricks. In London, we have the well-known firm of
Hamley & Co.; in Paris, Caroly and De Vere. There is no dearth of
periodicals devoted to the art of magic. Among the leading ones are:
_Mahatma_, Brooklyn, New York; _The Sphinx_, Kansas City, Missouri;
_Magic_ and _The Wizard_, London; _The Magician_, Liverpool;
_L’Illusioniste_, Paris; and _Der Zauberspiegel_, Berlin.
{215}
A DAY WITH ALEXANDER THE GREAT.
“Come, bring thy wand, whose magic power
Can wake the troubled spirits of the deep.”
HEMANS: _Address to Fancy._
I.
They come back to me, those old days in the newspaper office in
Baltimore. I can shut my eyes and see the long, dingy room with its
ink-splattered tables and flaring gas jets. The printers’ devils
rushing in and out with wet proof-sheets. Reporters come and go.
Look! There is Joe Kelly, Lefevre, Jarrett and John Monroe. And here
comes Ludlam, familiarly known as “Lud,” the prince of Bohemian
newsgatherers; a cross between Dickens’ Alfred Jingle and Murger’s
Rodolph. He is always “down on his luck,” but nothing can phase his
natural gaiety and bonhomie. He snaps his fingers at Fate, and mocks
at the world. On his death bed he made bon mots. Poor old Ludlam, he
is forever associated with my introduction to Alexander the Great.
I look back across the years that separate me from my journalistic
experiences, and see myself seated at a reporter’s table, on a
certain morning in January, waiting for an assignment from the city
editor; a fire, a murder, political interview, I knew not what,
and therein lies the ineffable charm of newspaper reporting. Enter
Ludlam, jaunty and debonaire. The snow encrusts his faded coat with
powdery flakes. He strikes a theatrical attitude, and exclaims:
“Philosophers say that the Devil is dead! Gentlemen, don’t you
believe them. I have just had an interview with His Satanic Majesty,
and he is very much alive. He was beautifully perfumed with sulphur
(or was it cigarette smoke?); and wore a fur-lined overcoat. Coming
from a tropical climate, {216} he finds this cold weather very
disagreeable. He turned my watch into a turnip and back again. He
took a roll of greenbacks from my coat pocket. That was sure enough
witchcraft. I defy any other person than Beelzebub to get money from
_my_ clothes. He extracted a hard-boiled egg from my nose, and a
rabbit from my hat. But seeing is believing. Here he is now!”
[Illustration: ALEXANDER HERRMANN.]
With that he threw open the green baize door with a crash, and in
walked Alexander Herrmann, the magician, smiling and bowing. This
little comedy had been arranged by the irrepressible Ludlam. He was
a great practical joker. We shouted with laughter. This was my first
introduction to Alexander the Great, who was making his periodical
visit to the newspaper offices, and he came to the _News_ first,
because it was an afternoon journal. He was to play that night at
Ford’s Opera House. He performed a number of capital tricks for us
with watches, coins, handkerchiefs and rings, and was pronounced
a royal good fellow by the entire outfit—editors, reporters,
typesetters and devils. Being the only amateur magician on the paper,
I was detailed to accompany the famous conjurer on his “swing around
the {217} magic circle.” I was delighted with my assignment. We
traversed the markets; visited the Stock Exchange, where a howling
mob of brokers danced a carmagnole about us; and the police stations.
Herrmann was received everywhere with acclamations. His impromptu
feats of magic evoked shouts of laughter. On one of the street cars
the following scene took place, which I hugely enjoyed:
The conductor, a cadaverous, solemn looking man, who took the world
and himself seriously, came around to collect the fares. He accosted
the conjurer first.
“Fare.” exclaimed Herrmann, with an expressive shrug of the
shoulders. “Why, I paid mine long ago.”
“No such thing!” snapped the conductor.
“But, my dear fellow—!”
“You can’t come that game on me!” said the conductor. “I demand your
fare, at once, or off you go.”
“Nonsense, man, I gave you a five-dollar gold piece, but you did not
return the change. You said, ‘Wait until’—. But here is the gold coin
sticking in your scarf.” So saying, the conjurer proceeded to extract
a coin from the muffler which the conductor wore about his neck. “And
worse than that, you’ve robbed me.” Then seizing hold of the coat of
the dumbfounded man, he took from his breast pocket a large bundle
of what seemed to be greenbacks. These, Herrmann scattered about
the car. On each note was printed his portrait and an advertisement
of his show. At a trifling distance these advertisements resembled
greenbacks. They were more or less facsimiles of U. S. Treasury
certificates. The occupants of the car picked them up, and laughed
heartily at the mystification. Herrmann then paid his fare, presented
the conductor and driver with passes to the theater, and in a little
while we got off at Barnum’s hotel, where we had luncheon. The negro
waiters of the establishment eyed him with fear and trembling, for he
had played many practical jokes on them, and they never knew when he
would break out in a new spot. He had a capital trick of raising a
glass of wine to his lips as if about to partake of it, when with a
dash of the hand upwards the glass would vanish, wine and all, only
to be reproduced a minute later from somebody’s coat tail. {218}
II.
The following is a charming anecdote related by Herrmann in the
_North American Review_, some years ago:
[Illustration: ALEXANDER HERRMANN AT THE AGE OF 23.]
“In March, 1885, while in Madrid, I appeared at the Sasuella Theatre
quite successfully, for the house was filled every evening with
hidalgos and noble senoras, and King Alphonso XII. was kind enough to
view my performance from a box. He was so pleased that I was asked
to the palace, and knowing him to be a great sportsman, I presented
him with a silver-mounted saddle which I had brought with me from
Buenos Ayres. He was exceedingly kind, and after I had performed a
mathematical trick with cards, which pleased him greatly, he kept
asking me continually if he could not be of some service to me. At
first I did not accept, but a little while afterwards I thought it
would be a great {219} thing if I could make the King of Spain my
confederate in a trick. He consented, laughingly, and it was so
arranged that from the stage I was to ask one of the audience to
write a number, when the King was to get up and say, ‘I will write
it,’ and do it. Of course, with such a confederate, the trick was
accomplished with the greatest effect. The first thing I did in
beginning the second part of my performance was to take a blank piece
of paper. This I handed to the King, asking him to sign it at the
bottom. He did so readily, and the paper was passed from hand to hand
and given to me. I conjured up all the spirits that have been or will
be, and lo and behold! the paper was closely written from the top to
the place where His Majesty’s signature was affixed. It was handed
back to him, and, while he laughed very heartily, he said, ‘I will
not deny my signature to this document, which appoints Alexander
Herrmann prestidigitateur to the King of Spain, and, as the spirits
have done so, I heartily acquiesce.’ ”
Those who are acquainted with the peculiar properties of sympathetic
inks will readily understand the modus operandi of the above trick.
For example: Copper sulphate in very dilute solution will produce an
invisible handwriting, which will turn light blue when subjected to
the vapor of ammonia. Again, write with a weak solution of sulphuric
acid and the chirography will appear in black letters when the paper
is submitted to a strong heat. To obtain the requisite heat, all you
have to do is to lay the sheet of paper on a small table which has
a top of thin sheet iron or tin. Beneath this top, concealed in the
body of the table, is a spirit lamp—not a lamp run by spooks, but
“spirits of wine.” Ample time for the chemical operation to take
place is afforded by the patter of the conjurer.
Another clever trick, bordering on the supernatural, was Herrmann’s
“Thibetan Mail,” the effect of which was as follows: Handing a sheet
of note paper to various persons in the audience, Herrmann requested
them to write sentences upon it, one under the other. When this was
accomplished, he tore the paper into halves, and requested some
gentleman to retain one half. The other half the magician thrust into
the flame of a candle and burned it to ashes. Flinging the ashes in
the air, he cried: “I send this message to the mighty Mahatma who
dwells in the {220} great temple of Lhassa. Let him restore the paper
intact and return it to me by spiritual post.” No sooner said than
done. Immediately a District Messenger boy rushed into the theatre,
down the center aisle, waving in his hand a sealed letter. Handing
this to some one in the audience, Herrmann requested him to break the
seal and examine the contents of the envelope. Inside of the envelope
he found a second one, and within that a third and fourth, etc. In
the last envelope the half sheet of paper was revealed perfectly
restored. Its identity was proved by matching it with the half-sheet
of writing retained by the first spectator, whereupon they were found
to fit exactly, and the writing to correspond. The modus operandi
of this astounding feat, like all good things in magic, is very
simple, but it requires adroitness on the part of the performer to
execute properly. The conjurer does not burn the piece of paper which
contains the writing, but exchanges it for a dummy which he thrusts
into the flame of the candle. The original half-sheet of paper is
secretly transferred to an assistant, usually in the following
manner: The magician calls for a candle and matches, which the
assistant brings in upon a salver. The slip of paper is “worked off”
to the assistant in the act of taking the candle and matches from the
tray. The confederate then goes behind the scenes, slips the paper
into a “nest of envelopes,” seals them simultaneously, and gives the
package to a stage hand habited as a messenger boy, who runs to the
front part of the house to await the cue from the conjurer. This
trick was intended as a burlesque on Madame Blavatsky’s Indian Mail
feat.
I remember very well performing this experiment at an amateur show
at the home of Mr. O― H―, of Baltimore, some eighteen years ago,
before a company of interested spectators, among whom was the
charming daughter of the house, Miss Alice, now the Countess Andrezzi
Bernini, of Rome, Italy. My stage was situated in an alcove at one
end of the splendid drawing room, and it had a window opening on
a side street. My District Messenger boy, hired for the occasion,
and privately instructed how to act, was stationed beneath this
window, and threatened with all the penalties of Dante’s Inferno
if he went asleep at his post. My brother, Walter Dorsey Evans,
{221} afterwards a skillful amateur prestidigitateur, acted as my
assistant, and adroitly threw the sealed note out of the window to
the boy. Great was the surprise of my audience when the door bell
rang and the stately butler of the establishment brought into the
parlor the messenger boy with his sealed letter.
“Where did you get this?” asked the host, as he doubtfully fingered
the envelope and examined the address, which read, “To Sahib O― H―,
Baltimore, Md.”
“Please, sir, an old man dressed in a yellow robe came into the
office, and asked that the letter be delivered at once.”
“A Mahatma, I presume!” said the lawyer, ironically.
“He had no hat on, sir, only a turbot wrapped round his head.”
“A turban, I suppose you mean.”
“That’s it, sir—a turbing like the Turks wear.”
“That will do, young man. You may go.”
The boy left. May he be forgiven the lies uttered in my behalf. But
all is fair in love, war, and conjuring. He was well tutored what
to say in the event of his being questioned, but he performed his
part so naturally and lied so artistically and with such a front
of brass as to have deceived the most incredulous. I have often
speculated upon the subsequent career of that lad. Possibly today he
is representing his country abroad in an important diplomatic post,
or manufacturing sensational news for the yellow press. Had I been
a professional conjurer, I would have hired him on the spot as an
assistant.
III.
Alexander Herrmann was born in Paris, February 11, 1844. Information
concerning his family is somewhat meagre. His father, Samuel
Herrmann, was a German Jew, a physician, who had come to France to
reside, and there married a Breton lady. Sixteen children were born
of this union, of whom Carl was the oldest of the eight boys and
Alexander the youngest. Samuel Herrmann was an accomplished conjurer,
but rarely performed in public. He gave private séances before
Napoleon I, who presented him with a superb watch. This timepiece
descended to Alexander, and is in possession of his widow. {222}
Carl Herrmann was born in Hanover, Germany, January 23, 1816. Despite
parental opposition he became a sleight-of-hand artist, and was known
as the “First Professor of Magic in the World.” In 1848 he made his
first bow to the English people, at the Adelphi Theatre, London,
where he produced the second-sight trick, which he copied from Houdin
in France. Early in the sixties he made a tour of America, with great
success. At his farewell performance in New York City, he introduced
his brother Alexander as his legitimate successor. Carl then retired
with a fortune to Vienna, where he spent the remainder of his days in
collecting rare antiquities. His death occurred at Carlsbad, June,
1887, at the age of seventy-two. He was a great favorite with Czar
Nicholas and the Sultan of Turkey and frequently performed at their
palaces.
Here is one of Carl Herrmann’s German programmes:
Teplitzer Stadttheater
Dienstag den 8 Juni 1886
Zweite und letzte Gastvorstellung
des berühmten Prestidigitateur
Prof. C. Herrmann
aus Wien
unter der Direction des Herrn A. MORINI
PROGRAMM
I. Abtheilung
1. Wo wünschen Sie es?
2. Die Billard-Kugel
3. Das Schlangentuch
4. Die fliegenden Gegenstände
5. Der Banquier
6. Der Fischfang und das Gegenstück
II. Abtheilung
1. Der Sack
2. Die Plantation
3. Die Tasche
4. Der Kegel
5. Der Ring in Gefahr
6. Eine Improvisation
Alle oben ausgeführten Experimente sind Erfindungen des Herrn
Prof. Herrmann und werden ohne jedweden Apparat und sonstige
Hilfsmittel ausgeführt.
The following is one of Carl’s characteristic English programmes. I
consider it of great interest to the profession: {223}
THEATRE ROYAL, HAY-MARKET.
Mr. B. WEBSTER, Sole Lessee and Manager, Old Brompton.
MORNING PERFORMANCES.
MATINÉES
MAGIQUE
Commencing at Two o’clock.
THE WONDER OF THE WORLD!
This Morning, Wednesday May 3rd, 1848,
And during the week,
M. Herrmann
(OF HANOVER), PREMIER PRESTIDIGITATEUR OF FRANCE, AND THE
ACKNOWLEDGED FIRST PROFESSOR OF MAGIC IN THE WORLD,
Respectfully announces to the Nobility, Gentry and the Public in
general that he will give
FOUR FAREWELL PERFORMANCES,
Previous to his departure to the Provinces, and will introduce
SIX NEW EXTRAORDINARY TRICKS,
NEVER BEFORE EXHIBITED!
L’Album Hanoverien; The Hanoverian Album.
Les Chapeaux Diaboliques; The Diabolical Hats.
Le Coffre infernale; The Infernal Chest.
Le Vase d’Armide; ou, l’horlogerie de Geneve; Armida’s Vase; or
The Geneva Clockwork.
La Multiplication des Indes; Indian Multiplication.
Les Mysteres de Paris; The Mysteries of Paris.
MAD^E. HERRMANN
Will also exhibit her extraordinary powers of
SECOND SIGHT; OR ANTI-MAGNETISM,
By divining, with Closed Eyes, any objects that may be submitted
to this proof, which has astonished the most scientific.
PROGRAMME
Le Volage des Cartes; Illusions with Cards.
Le Miroir des Dames; the Lady’s Looking Glass.
LA BOUTEILLE INEPUISABLE; THE INEXHAUSTIBLE BOTTLE.
Robin le Sorcier (piece mecanique); Robin the Sorcerer.
La Poche Marveilleuse; The Marvellous Pocket.
Le Noces de Canaes; The Nuptials of Cana.
Satan et son Mouchoir; Satan and his Kerchief.
Les Colombes Sympathetiques; The Sympathetic Doves.
LE CADRAN MATHEMATICIEN; THE MATHEMATICAL CLOCK.
Le Timbre Isole (piece mecanique); The Isolated Clock Bell.
Le pain de sucre Magique; The Magic Sweetcake.
Plusieurs tours de Cartes nouveaux et de magie blanche; New
Illusions with Cards and White Magic.
La naissance des Poissons rouges, execute en habit de ville; The
Birth of Gold Fish; performed in an Evening Dress.
GRAND NEW ILLUSIONS FROM INDIA,
Le SUSPENSION ETHEREENNE By Ether
LE DOUBLE VUE! or, SECOND SIGHT,
By MADAME HERRMANN, with various new
ILLUSIONS WITH CARDS AND MAGIE BLANCHE!
And a Concert in Imitation of Various Birds,
By M. HERRMANN.
{224}
Alexander was destined by his father to the practice of medicine, but
fate willed otherwise.
[Illustration: ADELAIDE HERRMANN.]
When quite a boy, he ran away and joined Carl, acting as his
assistant. He remained with his brother six years, when his
parents placed him in college at Vienna. He did not complete his
scholastic studies, but went to Spain in 1859 and began his career
as a magician. He appeared in America in 1861, but returned a year
later to Europe, and made an extended tour. He played an engagement
of 1,000 consecutive nights at Egyptian Hall, London. In 1875 he
married Adelaide Scarsez, a beautiful and clever danseuse, who
assisted him in his _soirées magiques_. Herrmann became a naturalized
citizen of the United States in 1876. He died of heart failure in
his private car, December 11, 1896, while traveling from Rochester,
N. Y., to Bradford, Penn., and was buried with Masonic honors in
Woodlawn cemetery, just outside of New York City. He made and
lost several fortunes. Unsuccessful theatrical speculations were
largely responsible for his losses. He aspired in vain to be the
manager and proprietor of a chain of theatres. He introduced the
celebrated Trewey, the French fantaisiste, to the American public.
Herrmann was an extraordinary linguist, a raconteur and wit. Several
chivalric orders were conferred upon him by European potentates.
He usually billed himself as the Chevalier Alexander Herrmann. His
mephistophelean aspect, his foreign accent, and histrionic powers,
coupled with his wonderful sleight of hand, made him indeed the
king of conjurers. He had a wrist of steel and a palm of velvet. He
performed tricks wherever he went, in the street cars, cafés, clubs,
hotels, newspaper offices, and markets, imitating in this respect the
renowned Bosco. These impromptu entertainments widely advertised his
art. He rarely changed his repertoire, but old tricks in his hands
were invested with the charm of newness. I can remember as a boy with
what emotion I beheld the rising of the curtain, in his fantastic
soirées, and saw him appear, in full court costume, smiling and
bowing. Hey, presto! I expected every moment to see him metamorphosed
into the Mephisto of Goethe’s “Faust,” habited in the traditional red
costume, with red cock’s feather in his pointed cap, and clanking
rapier by his side; sardonic, {225} and full of subtleties. He
looked the part to perfection. He was Mephisto in evening dress. When
he performed the trick of the inexhaustible bottle, which gave forth
any liquor called for by the spectators, I thought of him as Mephisto
in that famous drinking scene in Auerbach’s cellar, boring holes in
an old table, and extracting from them various sparkling liquors as
well as flames. In his nervous hands articles vanished and reappeared
with surprising rapidity. Everything material, under the spell of
his flexible fingers, seemed to be resolved into a fluidic state, as
elusive as pellets of quicksilver. He was indeed the Alexander the
Great of Magic, who had conquered all worlds with his necromancer’s
wand—theatrical worlds; and he sighed because there were no more to
dominate with his legerdemain. One of his posters always fascinated
my boyish imagination. It was {226} night in the desert. The Sphinx
loomed up majestically under the black canopy of the Egyptian sky. In
front of the giant figure stood Herrmann, in the center of a magic
circle of skulls and cabalistic figures. Incense from a brazier
ascended and circled about the head of the Sphinx. Herrmann was
depicted in the act of producing rabbits and bowls of gold fish from
a shawl, while Mephisto, the guardian of the weird scene, stood near
by, dressed all in red, and pointing approvingly at his disciple
in the black art. In this picture were symbolized Egyptian mystery
and necromancy, mediæval magic, and the sorcery of science and
prestidigitation.
IV.
When Herrmann came to Baltimore, he always put up at Barnum’s Hotel,
a quaint, old caravansary that had sheltered beneath its hospitable
roof such notables as Charles Dickens, Thackeray and Jenny Lind.
Alas, the historic hostelry was torn down years ago to make room for
improvements. It stood on the southwest corner of Calvert and Fayette
streets, within a stone’s throw of the Battle Monument. I spent some
happy hours with Herrmann in this ancient hotel, listening to his
rich store of anecdotes. I received from him many valuable hints in
conjuring. There was something exotic about his tastes. He loved to
surround himself with Oriental luxuries, rare curios picked up in the
bazaars of Constantinople, Cairo, and Damascus; nargilehs, swords
of exquisite workmanship; carved ivory boxes; richly embroidered
hangings, and the like. His private yacht, “Fra Diavolo,” and
his Pullman car were fitted up regardless of expense. Habited in
a Turkish dressing gown which glowed with all the colors of the
rainbow; his feet thrust into red Morocco slippers; the inevitable
cigarette in his mouth, Herrmann resembled a pasha of the East. He
was inordinately fond of pets and carried with him on his travels
a Mexican dog, a Persian cat, cages full of canaries, a parrot and
a monkey. His rooms looked like a small zoo. He seemed to enjoy
the noises made by his pets. His opinions concerning his art were
interesting. {227}
“A magician is born, not made!” was his favorite apothegm. “He must
possess not only digital dexterity, but be an actor as well.”
“What is the greatest illusion in the repertoire of the conjurer?” I
asked him.
“The Vanishing Lady of M. Buatier de Kolta,” was the unhesitating
reply.
“Why so?” I inquired.
“Because of its simplicity. The great things of magic are always the
simple things. The ‘Vanishing Lady’ trick has the most transcendant
effect when properly produced, but, alas, the secret is now too well
known. Its great success proved its ruin. Irresponsible bunglers
took it up and made a fiasco of it. In the hands of De Kolta it was
perfection itself. There was nothing wanting in artistic finish.”
Herrmann related to me some amusing episodes of his varied career.
In the year 1863 he was playing an engagement in Constantinople. He
received a summons to appear before the Sultan and his court. At
the appointed hour there came to the hotel where he was staying a
Turkish officer, who drove him in a handsome equipage to a palace
overlooking the gleaming waters of the Golden Horn, where “ships that
fly the flags of half the world” ride at anchor. It was a lovely
afternoon in April. Herrmann was ushered into a luxuriously furnished
apartment and invited to be seated on a divan. The officer then
withdrew. Presently a couple of tall Arabs entered. One carried a
lighted chibouk; the other a salver, upon which was a golden pot full
of steaming hot Mocha coffee, and a tiny cup and saucer of exquisite
porcelain. The slaves knelt at his feet and presented the tray and
pipe to him.
“A faint suspicion,” said Herrmann, “crossed my mind that perhaps the
tobacco and coffee were drugged with a pinch or two of hasheesh—that
opiate of the East, celebrated by Monte Cristo; the drug that brings
forgetfulness and elevates its votaries to the seventh heaven of
spiritual ecstasy. I thought, ‘what if the Sultan were trying some
of his sleight-of-hand tricks on me for the amusement of the thing.
Sultans have been known to do such things.’ Now I wanted to keep
cool and have all of my wits {228} about me. My reputation as a
prestidigitateur was at stake. It was very silly, I suppose, to
entertain such ideas. But once possessed of this absurd obsession I
could not get rid of it. So I waved off the attendants politely and
signified by gestures that I did not desire to indulge in coffee or
tobacco. But they persisted, and I saw that I could not rid myself
of them without an effort. Happy thought! I just took a whiff of
the pipe and a sip of the coffee, when, hey, presto!—I made the
chibouk and cup vanish by my sleight of hand and caused a couple of
small snakes, which I carried upon my person for use in impromptu
tricks, to appear in my hands. The astonishment on the faces of
those two Arabs was something indescribable. They gazed up at the
gilded ceiling and down at the carpet, puzzled to find out where
the articles had gone, but finding no solution to the problem and
beholding the writhing serpents in my hands, fled incontinently from
the room. These simple sons of the desert evidently thought that
I had just stepped out of the Arabian Nights Entertainments. At
this juncture a chamberlain entered and in French bade me welcome,
informing me that His Imperial Majesty was ready to receive me. He
conducted me to a superb salon with a platform at one end. I looked
around me, but saw only one person, a black-bearded gentleman, who
sat in an armchair in the middle of the apartment. I recognized in
him the famous ‘Sick Man of Europe.’ I bowed low to the Sultan Abdul
Aziz.
“ ‘Well, monsieur, begin,’ he said in French.
“And so this was my audience. No array of brilliantly garbed
courtiers and attendants; no music. Only a fat gentleman, languidly
polite, waiting to be amused. How was it possible to perform with
any _élan_ under such depressing conditions? It takes a large and
enthusiastic audience to inspire a performer. I began my tricks.
As I progressed with my programme, however, I became aware of the
presence of other persons in the room besides the ruler of the
Ottoman Empire. The laughter of women rippled out from behind the
gilded lattice work and silken curtains that surrounded the salon.
The harem was present though invisible to me. I felt like another
being and executed my tricks with more than usual effect. The Sultan
was charmed and paid me many compliments. A couple of weeks after the
{229} séance, I was invited to accompany him on a short cruise in
the royal yacht. On this occasion I created a profound sensation by
borrowing the Sultan’s watch, which I (apparently) threw overboard.
His face fairly blazed with anger; his hand involuntarily sought the
handle of his jeweled sword. Never before had the Commander of the
Faithful been treated so cavalierly. Seeing his agitation, I hastened
to explain. ‘Don’t be alarmed, your Majesty, for the safety of your
timepiece. It will be restored to you intact. I pledge my honor as a
magician.’ He sneered incredulously, but vouchsafed no reply. ‘Permit
me to throw overboard this hook and line and indulge in a little
fishing.’ So saying, I cast into the sea the line, and after a little
while brought up a good sized fish. Cutting it open, I produced from
its body the missing watch. This feat, bordering so closely on the
sorcery of the Arabian Nights, made a wonderful impression on the
spectators. I was the lion of the hour. Constantinople soon rang with
my fame. In the cafés and bazaars the ignorant populace discussed my
marvelous powers with bated breath. The watch trick, however, proved
my undoing. One morning I was sitting in my room at my hotel, idly
smoking a cigarette and building palaces as unsubstantial as those
erected by the Genii in the story of ‘Aladdin and his wonderful
lamp,’ when a messenger from his Imperial Majesty was announced. He
made a low obeisance and humbly laid at my feet a bag containing
5,000 piastres, after which he handed me an envelope inscribed with
Turkish characters and sealed with large seals.
“ ‘Ah,’ I said to myself, ‘the Sultan is going to confer upon me the
coveted order of the Medjidie.’ My heart swelled with pride. I was
like the foolish Alnaschar, who, while indulging in day dreams of
greatness, unconsciously overturned his stock of glassware in the
market, thereby ruining himself. I prolonged opening the envelope in
order to indulge my extravagant fancies. Finally I broke the seals
and read the enclosed letter, which was written in French:
“ ‘It would be better for you to leave Constantinople at once.’
“My budding hopes were crushed. I left the city that afternoon in a
British steamer bound for a Grecian port. Either {230} watch tricks
were unpopular in the Orient, or I was encroaching upon the preserves
of the Dervishes—a close corporation for the working of pious frauds.
But things have changed in Turkey since then.”
V.
Madame Herrmann, on the death of her husband, sent to Europe for her
nephew-in-law, Leon Herrmann, and they continued the entertainments
of magic throughout the country, meeting with success. Some curious
and amusing adventures were encountered on their travels. One of
Alexander Herrmann’s favorite tricks was the production of a mass of
colored paper ribbon from a cocoanut shell, and from the paper a live
duck. This clever feat always evoked tremendous applause. The stupid
look of the duck as it waddled around the stage was very laughable.
On one occasion, when I was present at the _soirée magique_, the
duck seemed to find difficulty in reaching the exit and went around
quacking in loud distress, thereby interrupting the conjurer in his
patter. Quick as a flash, Herrmann remarked to his assistant, “Kindly
remove the comedian.” Shouts of laughter greeted the sally. Herrmann
was very felicitous in this species of impromptu by-play. He was
indeed, as he described himself, the necromantic comedian. Leon,
following in the footsteps of his illustrious uncle, also performed
the cocoanut shell trick. He had as assistant a stalwart Ethiopian,
who had been with the elder Herrmann, and rejoiced in the stage
name of “Boumski.” One day in the city of Detroit, Mich., Madame
Herrmann missed from her dressing room at the theatre a valuable
diamond ring. Suspicion fell upon the negro, who had attained some
proficiency in the _black_ art, so far as making things disappear was
concerned, though he was not so apt when it came to producing them.
Boumski stoutly asseverated that he had seen the duck swallow the
ring. The fowl was accordingly slain, and its stomach searched, but
without result. The loss of the duck caused considerable grief in the
conjuring ménage. It was quite a pet, and trained to perform its part
in the magic tricks. Suspicion again fell upon Boumski. Finally, the
dusky necromancer confessed that he was the thief and that the poor
{231} duck was innocent. The ring was recovered in a pawnbroker’s
shop. Boumski went to jail. To revenge himself he exposed the whole
repertoire of tricks of the Herrmann company to the newspapers.
[Illustration: ALEXANDER HERRMANN’S MAGIC TABLE.
(In the Possession of Francis J. Martinka.)]
After playing together for a season or two, aunt and nephew
separated, today they are performing with great success in
vaudeville. Madame Herrmann calls her act “A Night in Japan.” It
is an exhibition of silent magic—_en pantomime_. She was ever a
graceful woman, and her exhibitions of legerdemain are most pleasing.
Beautiful scenery adds to the effect. Leon Herrmann, who resembles
his great uncle in personal appearance, is fast becoming a favorite
with the American public.
VI.
[Illustration: MAGICAL CABINET CONSTRUCTED BY CARL HERRMANN.
The magician places a card in one of the little drawers of the
cabinet, and it reappears in any other drawer the onlooker may
suggest. (Now in the possession of Mr. Martinka, New York City.)]
Let us now pass in review some of Alexander Herrmann’s tricks. His
gun illusion was perhaps his most sensational feat. {232} I am
indebted to the late Frederick Bancroft for the correct explanation
of the startling trick. A squad of soldiers, under the command of a
sergeant, comprised the firing party. The guns were apparently loaded
with genuine cartridges, the bullets of which had been previously
marked for identification by various spectators. The soldiers stood
upon a platform erected in the centre of the theatre, and Herrmann
stationed himself upon the stage. The guns were fired at him, and he
caught the balls upon a plate. Upon examination the balls were found
to be still warm from the effects of the explosion, and the marks
were identified upon them. The substitution of the sham cartridges,
which were loaded into the gun, for the genuine ones was very subtly
executed by means of a trick salver having a small well let into its
centre to hold the cartridges. Into this well the marked cartridges
were deposited by the spectators. In the interior of the salver was
a second compartment loaded with the blank cartridges. The sergeant
who collected the bullets shifted the compartments by means of a peg
underneath the salver, as he walked from the audience to the stage.
The sham cartridges {233} were now brought to view and the real were
hidden in the body of the salver. While the soldiers were engaged in
loading their rifles with the blank cartridges, the sergeant went
behind a side scene to get his gun and deposit the salver. A couple
of assistants extracted the genuine bullets and heated them. Herrmann
went to the wing to get the plate, and secretly secured the marked
bullets. The rest of the trick consisted in working up the dramatic
effects.
[Illustration: “AFTER THE BALL”—1. SCREENING THE LADY.]
[Illustration: “AFTER THE BALL”—2. THE ESCAPE.]
One of Herrmann’s best illusions, though not invented by him, was his
vanishing lady, known as “Vanity Fair” and “After {234} the Ball.” A
large pier glass, which was elevated some two feet above the stage,
was brought forward by the magician, and the glass shown to be solid,
back and front. Mme. Herrmann, dressed in a handsome ball costume,
was now introduced to the audience. By the aid of a small ladder, she
climbed up and stood upon a glass shelf immediately in front of the
mirror. A narrow screen was then placed about her, so as not to hide
from the spectators the sides of the mirror.
“Ladies and gentlemen,” said Herrmann, “Madame Vanity Fair, who
is now gazing at her pretty features in the mirror, has only to
pronounce a certain mystic formula known to the Cabalists, and she
will be instantly transported to the grand ball at the Opera House.
This is a decided improvement on horses and carriages.” He fired a
pistol, and the screen was pulled away. The lady was found to have
completely vanished. But how? Not into the mirror, into that land of
adumbration, celebrated in _Alice’s Adventures in a Looking Glass_.
No, the glass was apparently of solid crystal, and too thin to
conceal anyone. This is the _modus operandi_ of the trick: The mirror
in reality was composed of two sections. The glass shelf, upon which
the lady stood, concealed the top of the lower section. The upper
section was placed to the rear of the lower mirror, so that its lower
end slid down behind it. This upper glass worked like a window sash.
When it was pushed up, its upper end was hidden in the wide panel of
the frame. The lower part of this large glass had a piece cut out.
Through this opening the lady was drawn by an assistant across an
improvised bridge—a plank shoved through the back scene, as shown in
the illustration. When she had escaped, the counterpoised mirror was
again pushed down into its proper place, and the plank withdrawn.
The fact that some of the mirror was in view during the exhibition
allayed suspicion on the part of the audience. The effect was further
enhanced by turning the back of the mirror to the spectators to show
them that the lady was not there. It was one of the most novel and
effective illusions of Herrmann’s repertoire, particularly because
of the fact that he was assisted by his pretty and graceful wife,
who looked charming in her elegant ball dress, and acted her part to
perfection. {235}
[Illustration: HERRMANN I, II, III.]
{236}
The following is one of Alexander Herrmann’s programmes:
The Necromantic Comedian
HERRMANN, the Great
Aided by MME. HERRMANN, in his incomparable entertainment of
MAGIC, MIRTH AND MYSTERY
PART I.
THIRTY MINUTES WITH HERRMANN,
All Nature’s laws set aside. Laughter born of bewilderment and
wonder. Concluding with Herrmann’s latest and most startling
illusion, entitled:
AFTER THE BALL.
By MME. HERRMANN.
INTERMISSION.