CONCLUDING OBSERVATIONS.
It now only remains to give the neophyte a few parting hints of
general application. In getting up any trick, even the simplest, the
first task of the student should be to carefully read and consider
the instructions given, and to make quite certain that he perfectly
comprehends their meaning. This being ascertained, the next point will
be to see whether the trick involves any principle of sleight-of-hand
in which he is not thoroughly proficient; and if it does, to set to
work and practise diligently, till the difficulty is conquered. Having
thus mastered the elements of the trick, he should next attack it as
a whole, and in like manner practise, practise, practise, till from
beginning to end he can work each successive step of the process
with ease and finish. Having achieved this much, he may perhaps
consider that his task is at an end. By no means. Being perfect in the
mechanical portion of the illusion, he must now devote himself to its
dramatic element, which, as regards the effect upon the spectator, is
by far the more important portion. The performer should always bear in
mind that he fills the character of a person possessing supernatural
powers, and should endeavour, in every word and gesture, to enter
into the spirit of his part. As the true actor, playing Hamlet, will
endeavour actually to _be_ Hamlet for the time, so the _soi-disant_
magician must, in the first place, learn to believe in himself. When
he steps upon the stage he should, for the time being, persuade
himself that his fictitious power is a reality, and that the wand he
holds is not only the emblem, but the actual implement of his power.
Every time he pronounces the mystic “Pass!” or touches an object with
his wand to effect some pretended transformation, he should force
himself to forget the commonplace expedients by which the result is
really attained, and to believe that the effect is produced by a
genuine magical process. When he goes through the motion of passing
a coin from the right hand to the left, he should have imagination
enough to persuade himself, for the moment, that the coin has really
been transferred as it appears to be. If a performer has sufficient
imaginative faculty to do this--if he can so enter into the spirit
of his part, as himself to believe in the marvels he professes, he
will achieve an almost unlimited mastery over the imaginations of his
audience.
As we have already intimated, each individual illusion should have its
appropriate words and gestures--in technical language, its “patter,” or
“_boniment_”--carefully arranged and rehearsed, so as to produce the
maximum of effect. These are, in truth, the very life of the trick. How
much depends on _mise en scène_ is forcibly illustrated by the account
which we quoted in the last chapter from the life of Robert-Houdin,
of his exhibition in Algeria of the “Light and Heavy Chest.” We will
borrow from the same high authority another illustration, purposely
selecting one of the simplest of card tricks, the well-known feat
of picking out a chosen card from the pack, placed in a person’s
pocket. The trick has already been described in outline, but we will
recapitulate its effect in a few words.
The performer offers the pack to a spectator, and requests him to
draw a card. (This card may or may not be “forced.”) The card having
been drawn and replaced in the pack, the performer makes the pass to
bring it to the top, and palms it, immediately handing the pack to be
shuffled. If the card was forced, he already knows it; if not, he takes
the opportunity to glance at it while the cards are being shuffled. The
pack being returned, the drawn card is placed on the top, and the pack
placed in the pocket of a second spectator. The performer now announces
that he not only already knows the card, but that he is able to pick
it out without seeing it from the remainder of the pack, which he does
accordingly.
Presented in this barren form, the trick would attract only the most
passing notice. We will now proceed to describe it, quoting again from
Robert-Houdin, as it should actually be presented.
“Ladies and gentlemen, I shall commence my performance with an
experiment which is wholly independent of dexterity. I propose simply
to show you the extreme degree of sensibility which may be acquired by
the sense of touch. We possess, as you all know, five senses--sight,
hearing, smell, touch, and taste. In the ordinary way, each of these
senses enjoys one faculty only; but when the mysterious influences
of magic are brought to bear, the case is altered. All five of the
senses may be exercised through the instrumentality of one--‘touch,’
for example; so that we can not only touch, but hear, see, smell, and
taste with the tips of the fingers. You smile, gentlemen, but I assure
you that I am serious; and I venture to think that in a few minutes you
will be fully convinced of the reality of the singular fact which I
have mentioned.
“Here is a pack of cards. Madam, will you be kind enough to take
whichever card you please; hold it for a moment between your hands, so
as to impregnate it with the mesmeric influence of your touch, and then
replace it in the middle of the pack.
“In order to exclude all possibility of sleight-of-hand, we will now
thoroughly shuffle the cards; after which, for still greater certainty,
I will show you that the card is neither at top nor bottom, whence you
may be persuaded that it is placed just where chance has chosen to put
it.” (For the purpose of showing that the card is neither at top nor
bottom, it may either be left second from the top after the shuffle,
if executed by the performer himself, or being actually placed on the
top, the second card may be drawn instead of the first by means of a
_filage_.)
“Will some gentleman now have the kindness to empty his breast-pocket,
and allow me to place the pack in it.” (This is done.) “Now that the
cards are placed in perfect darkness, I will endeavour, by virtue of
that five-fold sensibility of touch which I have just mentioned, to
discover, by the aid of my fingers only, the card which this lady drew.
To make my task still more difficult, I will undertake to draw the card
at such number as you yourselves may choose. What number shall it be?”
(We will suppose that the reply is “Seventh.”) “Seventh, be it so.
Then six times in succession I must avoid taking the drawn card, and
produce it on the seventh occasion only. One, two, three, four, five,
six.” (He exhibits six cards one by one, taking them from the bottom
of the pack.) “Now to find the lady’s card! Yes, I think I have it.
Before taking it out, I will read it with my little finger, which is
the cleverest of the five. Yes! It is not a small card; it is not a
club, nor a spade, nor yet a diamond. It is the king of ----” (He draws
out the card, and places it face downwards.) “Will you be good enough,
madam, to finish naming the card before I turn it over, and we shall
see whether my little finger has been correct in its assertions.” (The
lady names the king of hearts, which the performer forthwith turns up.)
“My little finger was right, you see. Will you be good enough, sir, to
take the remainder of the cards out of your pocket, and testify that
the experiment has really been performed exactly as I have stated.”
The above example will show how, by the exercise of a little tact
and ingenuity, a simple piece of parlour magic may be elevated to
the dignity of a stage trick. The great secret is the directing of
the minds of the audience into such a channel, that the _dénouement_
for the moment seems to be a natural result of the causes artfully
suggested by the performer. This may, to a considerable extent, be
effected, as in the example above given, by the language and gesture
of the performer in the individual trick; but still more may be done
by the artistic grouping of one trick with another, a comparatively
simple feat being employed to prepare the minds of the spectators for
the greater marvel to follow. Thus, in the recent performances of the
Fakir of Oolu, the aërial suspension, which formed the staple of his
programme, was preceded by the exhibition of a wooden rod or wand
which (by means of certain projecting wire points, so minute as to be
imperceptible at a very short distance), was made to defy the laws of
gravity by clinging to his finger-tips in various positions without
visible support. This minor illusion, being somewhat similar in effect
(though wholly different as to the means employed), prepared the minds
of the audience to receive the greater marvel of a living woman made
to recline in mid-air. In like manner, the trick of the “Flying Money”
(_see_ page 172) forms an apt preparation for the introduction of the
“Crystal Cash-box” (page 487). The series of tricks described under the
title of the “Birth of Flowers” (page 411), affords another instance
of the artistic combination of two or three different tricks in such
manner as to enhance the effect of the whole; but, in truth, examples
might be multiplied _ad infinitum_. In arranging an entertainment, the
performer should continually bear this principle in mind. The programme
should consist not of a number of absolutely unconnected tricks, but
of a series of ten or a dozen _groups_ of tricks. As compared with
each other, the groups should have as much diversity as possible; but,
individually, each should consist of the same or a similar effect
repeated in a more and more striking form (though produced by different
means), or else of a string of tricks united by some natural sequence,
as in the case of the production of the two rabbits from the hat,
followed by the rolling of the one into the other, and terminating with
the reproduction of the vanished animal in another quarter. In order
to make our meaning clearer, we subjoin a specimen working programme,
arranged on the principles we have stated.
PROGRAMME (_for performer’s own use_).
1. Vanishing gloves (_page_ 325). Transformed handkerchief (_page_
246). Handkerchief ultimately found in candle (_page_ 249).
2. Borrowed half-crown, changed to penny, and back again (_page_
161); made to pass into centre of two oranges in succession (_page_
170). Three more half-crowns borrowed, and all four made to pass
invisibly from performer’s hand to goblet at a distance (_page_
200), and finally into crystal cash-box (_page_ 487).
3. Shower of sweets produced from borrowed handkerchief (_page_
251), followed by bird-cages (_page_ 311). Then bowls of gold-fish
from shawl (_page_ 371).
4. Eggs produced from mouth of assistant (_page_ 329). Wizard’s
omelet (_page_ 398). Dove wrapped in paper, and vanished (_page_
452).
5. Chosen card picked out of pack placed in a spectator’s pocket
(_page_ 106). Chosen card caught on sword (_page_ 121). The rising
cards (_page_ 125).
6. Borrowed watch, made to bend backwards and forwards (_page_
214). Made to strike the hour as a repeater (_page_ 222). Placed in
pistol, and fired at target (_page_ 220).
7. The Chinese rings (_page_ 401).
8. Rabbits produced from borrowed hat; one rolled into the other,
and subsequently found in bran-glass (_page_ 452). Multiplying
balls and cannon-balls produced from hat (_page_ 304).
9. Inexhaustible box (_page_ 391), producing toys, reticules
(_page_ 309), and finally Chinese lanterns (_page_ 395).
The above, with proper _mise en scène_, will be found an ample
programme for a two hours’ entertainment. It is hardly necessary to
observe that the programme of the same entertainment for distribution
among the audience would be of a very different character. This is
always drawn up in the vaguest possible terms, so as not to reveal
beforehand the actual effect of the different tricks. Thus the tricks
in question would be described somewhat as follows:--
PROGRAMME (_for distribution_).
1. The Enchanted Handkerchief.
2. The Flying Coins.
3. A Succession of Surprises.
4. The Fairy Omelet.
5. The Cabalistic Cards.
6. The Mesmerised Watch.
7. The Chinese Rings.
8. The Bewitched Hat.
9. The Feast of Lanterns.
Between each of the items above-mentioned, there should be an interval
of one or two minutes (filled up by music), while the operator leaves
the stage, and makes the necessary preparation for the next trick.
It will further be found an advantage, where practicable, to divide
the entertainment into two parts, with an interval of ten minutes or
so between them, the curtain being let down during such interval.
The few minutes’ break is always acceptable to the audience (who are
apt to become fatigued by too long protracted attention), and is
especially valuable to the performer, as enabling him to re-arrange
his _servante_, removing articles that have served their purpose, and
replacing them by such as may be needed for the tricks to come. An
overcrowded _servante_ is a fertile source of annoyance and failure,
as an article accidentally falling from it reveals the existence of a
receptacle behind the table, and thereby deprives the performance of
half its effect. When a re-arrangement of the _servante_ between the
parts of the performance is impracticable, it is well, if any tricks
involving the production of articles from this quarter are included
in the programme, to introduce such tricks as early as possible, so
that the _servante_ may be relieved of such articles, and left clear
for its second use of getting rid of articles upon it. We have known a
professor, performing the “flying glass of water” trick, and in placing
the glass on the _servante_, knock down a cannon-ball, placed there to
be introduced, later on, into a hat. That cannon-ball weighed on the
professor’s mind for the rest of the evening, and the performance was
practically spoilt.
Having arranged his programme, and the appropriate “patter” for each
group of tricks, the performer should conclude his practice by a series
of three or four “dress rehearsals,” with an intelligent friend to play
the part of audience, and who should be invited to criticise with the
utmost freedom. At these rehearsals there should be no “make believe,”
but each trick should be worked throughout with the same completeness
in every particular with which it is afterwards to be exhibited in
public. In the course of these final rehearsals the performer should
tax his invention to see what amount of “incidents,” or byplay, he
can introduce in the course of the different tricks. Thus at the
commencement of his entertainment, the trick of the “Flower in the
Button-hole,” or that of the “Vanishing Gloves” may be introduced--not
professedly as an item of the programme, but as a little preliminary
flourish. Again, if the performer has occasion for an egg or lemon
in the course of a trick, it greatly enhances the effect, if instead
of having the necessary article brought in by his assistant, he
produces it himself from a lady’s muff, or from the whiskers of a male
spectator. These little matters, though small in themselves, tend
to keep alive the attention of the audience, and to create a sort
of magical atmosphere, which will aid materially in disposing the
spectators to receive with due respect the occult pretensions of the
performer.
With respect to stage arrangements, the professional, performing
evening after evening, with full provision of stage appliances, will
quickly learn by experience how best to arrange those appliances for
the purpose of his entertainment; but the amateur, performing only
occasionally, and in places not specially adapted for magical purposes,
may be glad of some little practical counsel in this particular.
[Illustration: FIG. 317.]
We will suppose, for instance, that he is called upon to give a magical
_séance_ in a private drawing-room. The first point is to decide which
part of the room is to form the “stage.” Having settled this, the
seats for the spectators should be arranged at the opposite end of the
room, leaving as wide a space between as can well be obtained, as many
“changes,” etc., are effected during the journey from the audience to
the table, and the longer this journey is, the more time is available
for the necessary manipulations. At the stage end, the “table” will
be the principal feature, and either behind or beside this, should
be placed a screen of not less than six feet in height, and four or
five wide, to serve as “behind the scenes,” and to afford the cover
necessary for the various preparations. Supposing a regular screen is
not available, one must be extemporized. A large clothes-horse, with a
curtain thrown over it, will answer the purpose very well. If, however,
the drawing-room be of the regular London fashion, _i.e._, consisting
of a large front and a small back room, connected by folding doors, the
screen may be dispensed with, and the rooms arranged as in Fig. 317,
which represents a ground plan of two such rooms, with the adjoining
staircase and landing. The larger room, A, will form the auditorium,
and the smaller, B, the stage; _a_ and _b_ representing the doors
leading to the landing, and _c c_ the folding doors between the two
rooms. The folding doors (which act as curtain) being first closed,
the spectators are marshalled into A, and requested to take their
seats, and the door _b_ is then closed, to remain so throughout the
entertainment. The room B is arranged as follows:--The “table” _d_ is
placed in the centre, towards the back, with its _servante_ properly
arranged. This may either stand alone, or may be supplemented by a
couple of side tables, _e e_. An ordinary table, _f_, should be placed
outside the door, and upon this will be laid in due order the various
pieces of apparatus and other articles which will be required in the
course of the entertainment. A working programme should be kept on this
table for the use of the performer and his assistant, with a note of
the articles required for the purpose of each trick. This will enable
them to have everything ready at the right moment, without delay or
confusion. The door _a_ should be kept open, so that the assistant,
from his place by the table _f_, can instantly see and hear what is
wanted.
When the performer has made his bow to his audience, there are still
one or two little points that he will do well to bear in mind. They may
be summarized as follows:--
1. _Don’t be nervous._ (The reader may possibly consider that this is
a matter in which he has no choice; but nothing could be a greater
mistake.) A little diffidence is excusable on the first presentation of
a new programme, but never afterwards.
2. _Take your time._ Deliver your _boniment_ like an actor playing
his part, and not like a school-boy repeating his lesson. Further,
give your audience time to see and appreciate your movements. Young
performers are very apt to exhibit the second phase of a transformation
without having sufficiently indicated the first to the spectators. The
change of, say, an orange to an apple, falls decidedly flat if nobody
noticed that the article was an orange in the first instance.
3. _Don’t make any parade of dexterity, and don’t affect any unusual
quickness in your movements._ If you are about to vanish a coin, don’t
play shuttlecock with it from hand to hand as a preliminary; but make
the necessary “pass” as quietly and deliberately as you possibly
can. Don’t talk about “the quickness of the hand deceiving the eye,”
and still less do anything to support such an idea. The perfection
of conjuring lies in the _ars artem celandi_--in sending away the
spectators persuaded that sleight-of-hand has not been employed at all,
and unable to suggest _any_ solution of the wonders they have seen.
4. _Don’t force yourself to be funny._ If you are naturally humorous,
so much the better; but in any case perform in your natural character.
5. _Avoid personalities._ We except the case of the often recurring
nuisance, the gentleman who professes to know how everything is done,
and whose special endeavour it is to embarrass the performer. When
you can make a person of this kind look like a fool (by no means a
difficult task) by all means do so.
6. _Never plead guilty to a failure._ Keep your wits about you, and if
anything goes wrong, try to save your credit by bringing the trick to
some sort of a conclusion, even though it be a comparatively weak one.
If you are so unfortunate as to experience a complete and unmistakeable
break-down, smile cheerfully, and ascribe the _fiasco_ to the moon
being in a wrong quarter, to a little misunderstanding between two of
your “controlling spirits,” or any other burlesque reason, so long as
it be sufficiently remote from the true one.
Bearing in mind these parting counsels, and thus armed against failure
as well as prepared for success, you may safely ring up the curtain,
and begin to “witch the world” with the marvels and mysteries of
MODERN MAGIC.
APPENDIX.
CONTAINING
EXPLANATIONS OF SOME OF THE BEST KNOWN SPECIALTIES OF MESSRS. MASKELYNE
AND COOKE.
BY
ARPREY VERE.
ANCIENT AND MODERN MAGIC.
CHAPTER I.
INTRODUCTION.
The wonder excited by the marvellous automatons of Messrs. Maskelyne
and Cooke has caused many inquiries into the art of mechanical
conjuring. Although the productions of those gentleman at the Egyptian
Hall have been thought by the general public to be unprecedented, we
shall see that their marvels have been produced in ages long gone by,
and that the art of conjuring, or producing apparently unaccountable
and magical results by means of mechanism, was an art brought to great
perfection hundreds of years ago, and long before “Psycho” astonished
the metropolis.
My readers will perceive that the automatic figures of these caterers
of wonders are neither original nor novel. I hope that, as the art of
magic is so very popular, a brief exposition of the subject will be
found interesting to many readers.
It is my intention in this and the following chapters to give a brief
summary of the history of mechanical magic in ancient and modern times,
and then to furnish a full explanation of how the apparently marvellous
results of sleight of hand, second sight, and the mysterious movements
of automata of the present day, are attained; and my readers will no
doubt reap a harvest of information on the subject, and will be able
not only to perform many of the numerous tricks at which they have
before been astonished, but will also be in a position to explain to
the uninitiated “How it is done.”
Passing over the ancient oracles which have been shown so frequently as
being worked by the simple law of mechanics, I would merely mention
that Plato and Aristotle both speak of certain statues made by Dædalus
which could not only walk, but which it was necessary to bind in
order to prevent them from moving. The latter speaks of a wonderful
Venus of this kind, and all we are told of the motive power is that
Dædalus made it move by means of quicksilver. Aulus Gellius mentions a
wooden pigeon which possessed the power of flying, but the only fault
of this piece of mechanism was that when the pigeon once settled, it
could not renew its aërial flight. Cassiodorus, who lived in the sixth
century, gives a concise and graphic description of certain machines
invented by Bœthius. He says “the birds of Diomedes (a mechanician of
that date) trumpet in brass, the brazen serpent hisses, counterfeit
swallows chatter, and such as have no proper note send forth from brass
harmonious music.” Accounts of the heads said to have been constructed
by Roger Bacon and Albertus Magnus, are so mixed up with fables that
we cannot rely upon their veracity; and yet our experience has shown
us that they could have been produced. They are said not only to have
moved, but spoken, and their heads were used as oracles. Perhaps it
will be remembered that some years ago a similar head, with the same
power of imitating the human voice, was exhibited at the Egyptian Hall,
London.
John Muller, known as Regiomontanus, was one of the cleverest
mechanicians of the fifteenth century--that is, if we can rely on
the testimony of Peter Ramus, who did not flourish until a hundred
years afterward. We must take Peter’s account _cum grano salis_.
Regiomontanus is stated to have constructed an eagle which, upon the
approach of the Emperor Maximilian to Nuremberg, in June, 1470, perched
upon the town gate, stretched forth its wings, and saluted him by an
inclination of the body. He is also said to have manufactured an iron
fly. At dinner one day, when surrounded by his friends, he produced it
for their amusement, and caused the insect to fly from his hand, take
a circle round the room, and return again to its maker. Charles V.
after his abdication entered with zest into the study of mechanism. He
engaged the services of Torriano, said to be a very eminent artist, who
accompanied him to the Monastery of Juste. Here they worked together.
Strada tells us that his Majesty frequently introduced puppets upon the
table, some of which beat drums, some blew trumpets, others charged
each other with couched spears, and with a ferocity almost human. He
made wooden sparrows, which, by their flight, terrified and scared the
superstitious monks, who thought him a magician and an accomplice of
his infernal majesty. He is said to have made a mill which moved of
itself, and which was so small that a monk could put it up his sleeve,
and yet we are told that it was powerful enough to grind in a single
day grain sufficient for the consumption of eight men!
Hans Bullman, a padlock-maker of Nuremberg, who lived in the middle of
the sixteenth century, made figures of men and women which promenaded
backward and forward, beat drums, and played upon the lute. The motive
power in this case was known to be clockwork.
In the volume of “Mémoires de l’Académie des Sciences,” of 1729, we
find an account of a most extraordinary piece of mechanism invented
by one Père Truchet, made solely for the amusement of Louis XIV. when
a child. It consisted of a number of moving pictures, representing an
opera in five acts, which the little figures enacted--of course, in
pantomime.
Camus constructed with the same object a small carriage, drawn by two
horses, which contained a little lady, with her coachman driving, and a
footman and page holding on behind. When placed upon the floor of the
table, the horses galloped along, and the coachman smacked his whip in
quite a professional manner. When the carriage stopped, the page got
down, opened the door, the lady stepped out, and with a curtsey bowed
and presented a petition to the young king. She again bowed, entered
the carriage, the page mounted, the coachman flogged his horses, the
carriage glided on, while the footman ran behind, and at last jumped
upon the box.
In 1738, there were exhibited in Paris, by M. Vaucanson, three
automata, which have been reproduced in modern times: one represented
a flute player in a sitting posture, which performed twelve distinct
tunes; the second was a standing figure, which discoursed harmony on a
shepherd’s flute, held in his left hand, while with his right he beat
on a tabor; the third was a life-size duck, which flapped its wings,
quacked, drank water, ate corn, and even performed other functions of
nature that made it more closely resemble its natural prototype. Some
idea may be formed of the _modus operandi_ of the cornet player of
Messrs. Maskelyne and Cooke, by the information afforded by Vaucanson
himself, which was published in 1738, and which purports to give a
full explanation of the method of working the automaton flute player.
The figure was five feet and a half high; it was seated upon a rock,
which was supported by a pedestal four feet high, by three and a half
broad. Within the pedestal were eight pair of bellows, which were set
in motion by clockwork. The wind was forced into these tubes, which
ascended through its trunk, and terminated in a single reservoir
connected with the cavity of the mouth. Another piece of clockwork
within the pedestal was applied to execute the necessary motions of
the fingers, lips, and tongue. A revolving cylinder, with various pegs
inserted in it, raised or depressed several levers, on the principle of
a barrel organ and in this manner, it was said, music was produced very
little inferior, if not equal, to the performance of a skilful flute
player of flesh and blood.
One of the most ingenious inventors of mechanical figures was Mons.
Maillardet, a Swiss. He exhibited in London a beautiful figure which
performed eighteen tunes on the piano, while imitating at the same time
all the motions of the human player. From a description given we learn
that the bosom heaved, the eyes followed the motions of the fingers,
and at the commencement and conclusion of an air the figure turned
to the audience and made a graceful salute. Mons. Maillardet also
constructed the figure of a boy kneeling that held in the right hand
a pencil with which he executed some capital drawings and pieces of
writing.
Another marvel produced by the Swiss was a magician, who answered any
question put to him from twenty different medals. The medal was placed
in a drawer, and, after much cogitation and reference to his books, he,
with a solemn wave of his wand, touched the drawer, which opened and
displayed the required answer.
The celebrated automaton Chess Player will be well remembered. The
history of this wonderful piece of mechanism is as follows: M. Wolfgang
de Kempelen, a Hungarian gentleman, devoted himself from an early
age to the study of mechanics. In 1769 he paid a visit to Vienna on
business of his office of Aulic Counsellor to the Royal Chamber of
the domains of the Emperor of Germany in Hungary. He received an
invitation from the Empress Maria Theresa to be present at certain
magnetical experiments exhibited by a French gentleman of the name
of Pelletier. While in conversation with the Empress during its
exhibition, Mons. Kempelen asserted that he felt himself competent to
construct a piece of mechanism far more surprising than those which
they were witnessing. The Empress took him at his word, and bound him
to keep or attempt to keep his promise. He kept it, and in six months
he produced the famous Chess Player. When shown in Vienna, it caused
the greatest excitement and admiration. It was the talk of society. The
inventor, in spite of its success, persistently refused to exhibit it
in public. He put it aside, and even took it to pieces, and for several
years it was not used.
It was not until the visit of the Grand Duke Paul of Russia, and his
consort, to the Court of Vienna, that the chess player was again
brought to light, and exhibited by the wish of the Empress. The royal
visitors were so delighted with its marvellous performance that they
urged Kempelen to permit its public exhibition. He complied, and it
was shown in various parts of Germany and France, and in 1785 it was
brought to England. When Kempelen died, about 1803, the figure was sold
by his son to Mons. Marlzel, and in 1819 that gentleman brought it
again to the metropolis. That figure, exhibited some time ago in the
Crystal Palace, was an improvement upon Kempelen’s Chess Player.
The following is a description of the original Chess Player: The room
in which it was exhibited had an inner apartment, within which appeared
the figure of a Turk of the natural size, sitting behind a chest 3½ ft.
2 in. breadth and 2½ ft. in height. To this was attached the wooden
shelf on which the figure sat. The chest was movable on casters, and
could be moved to any part of the room. On its top, in the centre of
the chest, was an immovable chessboard, upon which the eyes of the
figure were always fixed. Its right hand and arm were extended on the
chest, while the left, slightly raised, held a long pipe. Two doors in
front and two doors in the back of the chest were opened, and a drawer
in the bottom of it, containing the chess-men and a cushion whereon to
place the arm of the automaton, was pulled out. Two smaller doors were
also opened in the body of the figure, and a lighted candle was held
within the openings thus displayed. This was repeated at the conclusion
of the game, if the spectators so wished. The chest appeared divided
by a partition into two unequal chambers, that on the right being the
narrowest, and occupying one third of the whole. It was full of small
wheels, and cylinders and levers. That to the left contained wheels,
barrels with springs, and two quadrants placed horizontally. The door
and drawer having been closed, the exhibitor wound up the works with
a key inserted in a small opening in the side of the chest, placed a
cushion beneath the arm of the figure, and then challenged any one of
the company present to play a game with it. It was observed that in
playing the automaton always selected the white pieces, and had the
first move. Owing to a curious mistake of the inventor, the figure
moved the men with his left hand. The error, when found out, could
not afterward be rectified. Its hands and fingers opened, and then
grasped a piece, which it conveyed to the proper square. In taking a
piece, the same motion was made by the arm and hand as before; it,
however, conveyed the piece off the board, and then placed its own
piece upon the vacant square. While and after his opponent made a move,
the figure paused for a few moments as though contemplating its own.
It intimated with a nod of the head when it gave check to the king.
During the time the arm was in motion, a low sound of clockwork running
down was distinctly heard. The works were wound up at intervals by the
exhibitor, who otherwise did nothing but walk up and down the room. As
we find that the automaton both lost and won--in Kempelen’s time it
very seldom lost--and that each game was different to the others, it
necessarily follows that these phenomena are inconsistent with the sole
effects of mechanism. Various conjectures have been offered as to the
mode of communication between the figure and the intelligence which
directed it. A plausible and probable explanation was given in 1821 in
a pamphlet called, “An Attempt to Analyze the Automaton Chess Player.”
In this brochure it is shown that in spite of the apparent display of
the interior of the chest and the figure, there yet was ample space
left unopened for the concealment of a person of ordinary size behind
a false back to the narrowest division only. This is shown in the
accompanying illustrations.
The basis for this elucidation of what was a profound mystery to the
many was as follows:
[Illustration]
The machinery was ostentatiously displayed when at rest; but carefully
secluded from view while in motion. By this means the spectator could
not form any judgment as to whether the machinery was in any way
connected with the automaton. There never was any variation in the
method of opening the several doors. When winding up the clockwork, the
key always made a certain number of revolutions, whether the motions of
the figure, owing to the exigencies of the game, were more varied or
protracted than usual. It was noticed that sixty-three moves were at
one time made without the machinery being wound up, while at another
time the machinery was wound up with the intervention of a single move.
Whether or not the action of the automaton was produced by the agency
of a concealed person I do not care to pronounce, but the illustration
given proves clearly, I think, that it might have been so produced.
Mons. Kempelen is said to have invented a still more extraordinary
exhibition of his great mechanical genius--namely, a speaking
automaton. How this figure became possessed of a voice, I will show in
another chapter.
[Illustration]
CHAPTER II.
KEMPELEN.
Kempelen’s Speaking Machine has been thus described. It was of
simple structure, and consisted only of five parts--viz., the reed,
representing the human glottis; an air-chest, with internal valves; the
bellows or lungs; a mouth with its appurtenances, and nostrils formed
to resemble those of the human body. The reed was not cylindrical, but
formed to imitate the reed of a bagpipe drone. The hollow portion,
however, was square, and the tongue of the reed, which vibrated,
consisted of a thin ivory slip resting upon it horizontally. This
hollow tube was inserted into the chest, and the discharge of air
occasioning a vibration of the ivory, the requisite sound was produced.
To soften its vibration, the part supporting the slip was covered with
leather, and a movable spring shifting along the upper side of the slip
brought the sound of the reed to the proper pitch. The sound was more
acute as the spring was moved forward to the outer extremity, because
the vibrations then became quicker, and when shifted farther from the
anterior extremity, the sound became more grave, as the vibrations
were then slower. A slight curvature of the ivory slip arose from the
pressure of the spring, which was enough for the object desired. One
end of the air-chest, which was of an oblong figure, received this
voice-pipe, containing the reed; and into the opposite end was inserted
the mouth of the bellows. Both the apertures were guarded by leather,
to prevent unnecessary waste of air: two smaller air-chests were then
put into it, each having a valve above closed by the pressure of a
spring, and each having a round aperture adapted to receive through
the side of the large air-chest a tin funnel, and a round wooden
tube for producing hissing sounds--as, _s_, _z_, _sch_, _j_. The
voice-pipe was placed in the large air-chest, so as to be between the
smaller air-chests. When all these parts were fitted to the air-chest,
the operation of one lever raising the valve of the first smaller
chest connected with the tin funnel produced the sound _s_; while the
operation of another, raising the valve of the second smaller chest
connected with the wooden tube, produced the sound of _sch_. But it is
proper further to explain that instead of being a simple tunnel, it
was, in fact, a tin box, with a square hole in the outer end, nearly
covered by a slip of pasteboard; and the wooden tube was merely the
mouth-piece of a common flute, closed at the lower extremity, and with
the air-hole modified and contracted: the letter _r_ was produced by
the rapid vibration of the ivory slip, owing to a strong discharge of
air.
Mons. Kempelen’s bellows, which were formed to supply the place of
lungs, had no peculiarities. He found that his machine required six
times the quantity of air used by a man in speaking. The muzzle, as I
have observed, was inserted into the large air-chest, and the air which
it discharged was also received by the small air-chest. With regard to
the mouth, it consisted of a funnel, or rather bell-shaped piece of
elastic gum, applied to the air-chest, and so adapted that the sound of
the reed issued from it. Elastic gum was selected for this purpose as
more nearly approaching to the natural softness and flexibility of the
human organs. Independent of its communications with the reed producing
the sound required, a tin tube connected it with the air-chest, by
means of which it might be kept constantly full of air. This Mons.
Kempelen considered a very essential, and even an indispensable part of
the machine. Besides these there were small additional bellows, for the
purpose of aiding the production of such sounds as _p_, _k_, _t_, which
needed a greater emission of air. The nose consisted of two tin tubes,
communicating with the mouth. When the mouth-piece was closed, and both
tubes remained open, a perfect _m_ was heard; when one was closed, but
the other open, _n_ was sounded. By the combined means of all these
contrivances Mons. Kempelen could make his figure repeat such sentences
as _Vous étes mon ami_, _Je vous aime_, etc. Upon Kempelen’s machinery
all succeeding talking figures have been based.
The most noted person who succeeded Kempelen in the art of magical
automata was Robert Houdin. He not only improved upon the production
of his predecessors, but applied the basis of their materials to works
comparatively original and unique. His automata certainly place him
in the highest rank of modern illusionists, and in giving in detail
the principal of his inventions, I shall at the same time be affording
a solution of the working of many surprising and ingenious automatic
tricks, which have been exhibited in recent days. One of his best
productions was a Talking Figure, similar, but in many respects far
superior, to that of Kempelen, the mechanism of which I have described
above.
It has been asserted that Houdin first turned his attention to the
construction of automata through the following trivial circumstance:
[Illustration]
Being in company one day with a travelling showman, his assistance was
asked to repair one of the figures the showman had accidentally broken.
Having seen the performance of the figure, which was none other than
the well-known Dancing Harlequin, he was struck with the marvellous and
apparently magical effects which could be produced by the simplest laws
of mechanism. He became so infatuated with the discovery the showman
permitted him to make in the construction of the box and figure, that
he, from that time, devoted all his thoughts and energies to the
construction of automata.
The magic harlequin is worth description, not only because it takes
so prominent a place among mechanical figures, but more because, in
disclosing its mechanism, I shall be explaining the construction of
a whole class of automata, which have been constructed on the same
principle. As will be seen by the illustration given above, a box
was placed upon a table, and at word of command the box opened and
a harlequin was discovered therein. At a sign from the conjurer the
figure leaped from the box, and then, apparently without being attached
in any way to the box, it performed a variety of movements, imitating
the action of the human pantomimist. It further smoked a pipe or cigar,
and blew a whistle.
Such was the figure which opened the eyes of Houdin to the marvels
which the application of the simple laws of mechanics might produce;
and his great mechanical genius enabled him to succeed even better than
he hoped when first he began his investigations of the automata that
had already been exhibited.
[Illustration]
The mechanism of the Magic Harlequin is extremely simple; in fact,
it will be found that the most marvellous and astounding effects are
produced by the simplest contrivances. The box containing the figure
was grooved in the back in nine places, each groove terminating in
a hole pierced through the bottom of the box. Corresponding exactly
with these holes were nine holes in the table upon which the figure
performed. Below these holes at the back of the table, which was always
placed close up to the curtains at the back of the stage, and behind
which the person who manœuvred the figure was concealed, were nine
spring pistons worked by nine different strings passing over pulleys,
each of which performed a different function, and were attached to that
point in the figure which each was designed to move.
The figure of the harlequin, as the reader will perceive by the annexed
illustration, was attached by means of two rods to a revolving bar
fixed from side to side of the box, and so near the front that it was
concealed from the eyes of the audience. When the harlequin was out
of the box, the rods connecting it with the bar were hidden by the
drapery of the figure. The first string worked the opening and shutting
of the lid of the box. The second string, passing under a pulley
immediately beneath the bar, passed over the shoulders of the figure,
and by a sharp movement turned the bar and jerked the figure--which was
reversed when in the box--out on to the table, the figure, of course,
maintaining a standing posture, and being held up by means of the rods
attached to the revolving bar. The shoulders were made to revolve on
the two rods, so that the jerking motion would be easily produced. The
third string passed through the body, and was attached to the legs, and
produced a motion to imitate the stretching of the legs, known as the
“splits.” Another string closed the legs and simultaneously turned the
head right and left. Another string lifted the legs and imitated the
movements of a dance. Another string turned the figure back again into
the box. In the corner of the box was a bellows, through the medium of
which, and by means of a tube passing through the arm, and ending in
the mouth, the concealed person, by manipulating the nine pistons which
worked the bellows, was enabled to produce the effects of smoking and
whistling.
It is upon this system of mechanism that very many modern tricks have
been based--notably, the great rope acrobatic figure of Theodin. In
this case, what was thought by the audience to be a rope was really
a tube made to imitate a rope, and the strings passed through this
tube and worked from the side of the stage, the rope serving the same
purpose as the bar stretched across the box in the harlequin automaton.
Houdin was said to be the inventor of the well-known Magic Clock. This
was a glass dial plate with hands, but with no visible works. This
clever invention has within the last year or two been reproduced, and
exhibited in many jewelers’ windows. His chief automatic figures,
besides the talking one I have already mentioned, were two performing
French Clowns and the Cook of the Palais Royal. The clowns were shown
one sitting on a chair, and the other standing beside it. At the
request of the exhibitor, the standing clown raised the chair, with its
occupant, above his head, while the latter went through a number of
acrobatic performances that would have done honor to a living gymnast.
These capital figures were worked precisely on the same system as the
Magic Harlequin, the strings, pistons, and machinery being necessarily
of stronger make, and worked from beneath, instead of behind the stage.
This was considered by the public, and Houdin himself looked upon
it, as his _chef d’œuvre_, and a masterpiece in automatic figures it
certainly was.
The Cook of the Palais Royal was a very amusing piece of mechanical
application. It consisted of a faithful representation of a detached
villa. Houdin handed round a list of wines and liquors, requesting his
audience to select which they liked best on the bill of fare. When
one was mentioned, a figure of a young maid emerged from the doorway,
descended the steps, and brought forward on a tray a glass of the
desired wine. When the person at whose order the wine was brought
removed the glass from the tray, the figure turned and glided back into
the house, again emerging with another glass of wine, and so on until
the list was exhausted or the bibulous propensities of the audience
were fully satisfied.
The same basis of machinery used in the Magic Harlequin was also
employed in the Cook of the Palais Royal, each piston working a tap
containing one kind of wine. The operator at the back of the stage
could hear the wine asked for, and thus knew which string to pull, and
which tap to open, when the figure, which was made to pass under every
tap, re-entered the house.
Houdin’s Orange Tree was a capital trick, and, although exceedingly
simple in its mechanism, produced the most startling effects. Houdin
borrowed a handkerchief, which he burnt, or rather which he led the
audience to think he burnt, at the sacrifice of a duplicate, in front
of a plant placed in a box upon a table, which, at word of command,
gradually began to bloom. White blossoms were seen to emerge from four
or five different shoots. These disappeared, giving place to oranges,
which Houdin removed from the tree and distributed among his audience,
with the exception of one, which he left on. This one opened, and out
from it sprang two butterflies, and in the middle of the orange was
found the burnt handkerchief.
In this trick also the spring pistons of the Magic Harlequin were used.
The real oranges were fixed on pins and hidden by the leaves. A string
or wire opened the leaves, gradually disclosing the oranges, which
appeared at a distance to grow in size as the leaves spread wider.
Another set of wires, worked by another string, pushed the blossoms
up fine tubes, and as the paper emerged from the tube the separate
parts spread out, giving the appearance of growing blossoms. As soon
as the two halves of the sham orange in the centre were released, the
butterflies, attached by wires to the stalk, and fixed upon delicate
spiral springs, sprang out of their own accord, and presented the
appearance of fluttering on the wing. The _bona fide_ handkerchief was
pushed into the halves of the orange through a hole in the back while
Houdin was taking off the real oranges. A rose-tree, similar in its
effects, was also exhibited by Houdin.
This clever mechanician was, I believe, the inventor of the Electric
Bell, or, to be more precise, he produced it as a magical trick, long
before the electric bell came into use.
The Magic Drum, swung from the ceiling by means of wires looking like
cords, of which Houdin was the first exhibitor, was constructed on
precisely the same principles as the modern continuous electric bell,
only worked with a much stronger battery and a more powerfully made
electro-magnet.
[Illustration]
Mr. Houdin was the first person to introduce the famous “Suspension
in the Air” trick, centuries ago made so famous by the Fakir of Oolu,
performed by the Hindoos. The lady selected for the trick is generally
slight in figure. Previous to coming on the stage she binds close to
her body a framework specially made to fit her. This frame consists
of an iron bar, with front and back plate fitting on the hip by means
of straps fastened round the body. The iron bar reaches as far as the
armpit, where it is joined to another bar reaching from the armpit to
the elbow by a movable circular plate indented in three places. At the
end of the arm bar and immediately below the elbow is a pin of iron,
which is made to fit into the hollow iron bar upon which the exhibitor
rests the lady. At the top of the body bar is a spring stop, made to
glide into the indentations of the movable circular hinge, and thus
keep the whole framework in the position it is placed. The annexed
illustration will more clearly show this single piece of machinery.
A is the iron bar, and B the hip plate. D is a spring stop fitting
into the teeth of the joint F. F is the arm bar, and G is the pin
fitting into the hollow tube H, which is fixed into a socket in the
platform. The frame is fastened to the body by means of the leather
straps K. When the body is raised to the position of L, the spring stop
D slips into the middle indentation, and thus keeps the frame and the
lady borne upon the frame in that position. When the body is raised
to a horizontal position, M, the spring stop catches in the first
indentation, and keeps the body perfectly straight. In commencing the
trick the performer rests the figure upon two poles and then knocks
one away. This is done to make the audience believe that the two poles
are similar. I need scarcely say that the putting of the lady into a
mesmeric trance is only a piece of acting; it, however, adds very much
to the effect of the trick, as the reader no doubt has thought up till
now. It will be remembered, notably in the case of the Fakir of Oolu,
that sometimes when the trick was performed _both_ poles were taken
away. What, then, you will ask, becomes of all my machinery? The two
poles were _seemingly_ taken away. The poles used consisted of brass
bars. The limelight beamed upon the figure of the sleeping lady, while
the rest of the stage was comparatively dark. Thus, when the conjuror
apparently took away the only support the figure had, the audience did
not and could not perceive that he really took away the brass _case_
of the second pole, leaving another, the actual pole on which the
framework was fixed, and which was of the same color as the drapery of
the stage. It was for the purpose of deceiving the eyes of the audience
that the pole was encased in a _brass_ shell in the first instance. He
refixed the case before the stage was relit, and the lady woke up from
her sham mesmeric trance.
[Illustration]
CHAPTER III.
THEODIN.
Contemporary with Houdin were Theodin, Robin, Professor Anderson, and a
whole host of minor stars, at whom I shall just take a passing glance,
and then I will enter at once into the subject of modern automata,
second sight or clairvoyance, optical illusions, and the other branches
of the art of magic and conjuring. The principal production of Mons.
Theodin was the rope acrobat, which I have fully explained in a
preceding chapter. Mons. Robin also exhibited a very ingenious and
interesting piece of automata, well known as the Magic Windmill. Upon
a table a large-sized windmill was placed. The exhibitor tapped at the
door, when the miller’s head was seen at the window for a moment, as if
he desired to know who was knocking, and then a few seconds after the
door opened, and the miller appeared in full person, candle in hand and
pipe in mouth.
Mons. Robin desired the miller to kindly grind a small sack of corn
which he gave him; the miller nodded assent, took the corn and entered
the mill, the door closing upon him. Shortly afterward the sails of the
mill went gaily round, and after a brief interval the miller opened his
door and handed Mons. Robin the sack back, with the ground bran and
corn mixed. This he was desired to separate, when he again entered the
mill, and after a brief interval returned with the task duly performed.
The door of the mill being closed, and the miller supposed to have
retired to bed after his labors, Mons. Robin selected five cards, or,
rather, made his audience believe _they_ selected them; he tore them
up, and loaded a pistol with the pieces. He then fired at the windmill,
when _lo! presto!_ one of the torn cards was perceived upon each sail
of the mill, and one upon the door! But this was not all. The firing
of the pistol set the mill on fire, and the blaze was seen emerging
from the top. I need scarcely say that Mons. Robin’s Windmill was
highly successful. The whole of the effects obtained by this clever
conjuror from this one piece of automata was caused by precisely the
same means as those of the magic Harlequin and the Cook of the Palais
Royal. The same system of levers, valves, and pulleys was employed, and
the whole was worked by a person off the stage.
The only automaton of Professor Anderson was, compared with that of
his predecessors, extremely weak, and scarcely deserving of notice. It
consisted of an old man, who nodded, shook his head, and raised his arm
to ring a bell. The reader of these articles will know exactly how this
was done. The head was worked beneath the stage; one string causing the
head to nod, another to turn from side to side, and a third raising
its arm and letting its hand fall upon a bell. By these three simple
movements it answered various questions put to it.
[Illustration]
Before proceeding further, I may as well state that I have necessarily
passed by a large number of automata which were exhibited by numerous
other professors of the “black art” whom I have not even named. This
was absolutely unavoidable, inasmuch as the space and time that would
be required to give a full history of automatic conjuring is not at
my disposal. But I have endeavored to give the principal wonders of
mechanical art as applied to conjuring, those which I have omitted to
mention being weak imitations of the great masterpieces, and therefore
of no note. But, following up the sequence of events in the history
of conjuring, I must make mention of Colonel Stodare’s Living Head,
especially as this will open up quite a new subject. Stodare placed
upon a table, supported by legs, and beneath which the audience
apparently saw the back of the stage, an empty box with folding doors
in front. Having closed the doors of the box for a few minutes, he
reopened them, when a living head, dressed to represent the head of
a sphinx, was seen within the box. To all appearance there could not
possibly be any connection of that head with a body. There was the
head in a box of such a size as only to be capable of admitting a
head. The audience saw that the body could not be placed beneath the
table, for they perceived the curtains at the back of the stage,
between the legs, while the table itself was at some distance from the
curtains at the back, and the space between could plainly be seen. The
audience, however, could _not_ see through the legs of the table, but
what they saw was a reflection of the sides of the stage, which were
made to correspond exactly with the back. This was effected by means
of two plate-glass mirrors fixed so as to closely fit into the space
between the three legs facing the audience. The floor was covered with
green baize, which was reflected in the glasses, and seemed to be a
continuation of the floor. The living body belonging to the animate
head was in reality beneath the table, concealed from view by the
mirrors. The annexed illustration will show the position of the body
during the performance.
In order that the reader may more clearly understand how this great
optical illusion was produced, I will give a full explanation of an
improvement upon this apparently wonderful phenomenon--the Fatima
illusion--when the reader will more clearly comprehend the solution
of what must have hitherto been to him or her a profound mystery. But
before doing so I may mention that simultaneously with the appearance
of Colonel Stodare’s Talking Head there was produced by Messrs.
Pepper and Tobin an optical illusion founded upon precisely the same
mechanical arrangement. It was called “Proteus; or, We’re here and
not here.” A cabinet 3 ft. 6 in. wide by 6 ft. high, standing upon
four small feet so that the audience could see beneath it, was brought
upon the stage. It was then opened, and inside was seen a pillar in
the centre from floor to top, on the point of which was hung a lamp.
The cabinet was seen to be empty. A person entered it, closing the
door after him. In a few seconds, when the door was reopened, it was
found to be empty. This was repeated with three different persons.
A fourth went in, and on the door being opened the four persons were
seen inside, and emerged from the cabinet. Of course, where these
men concealed themselves was the cause of a great deal of surmise
and conjecture; but the reader who has seen this trick, after I have
explained the mystery, will marvel at the ease with which he was
deceived and hoodwinked.
[Illustration]
From the preceding ground plan of the cabinet, it will at once be seen
by the simple laws of optics how our very eyes may be made to cheat
the other senses: A B, C D, is the floor plan of the cabinet. A B,
B D, D C, and C A, representing the four sides. E is the pillar from
floor to roof. Attached to the sides A C and B D, are two plate-glass
sides fitting exactly, so as to form two sides to the cabinet, A E,
B E, terminating in the pillar E. These plate glasses are movable on
hinges in the direction indicated by the arrows, and could be moved
close to the sides of the cabinet. The backs of the plate-glass doors
are painted or papered to resemble exactly the sides of the cabinet, so
that when closed the plate-glass sides appear to be _bona fide_ sides
of the cabinet. Thus, when a man stepped into the cabinet he merely
opened the plate-glass sides, and stood behind them when the cabinet
was opened. The glass reflecting the sides of the cabinet, which were
exactly like the back, made it appear that the box was empty, the lamp
being so placed that it was not reflected by the glass sides. From
this it will be seen that as many persons as the space inclosed by the
folding glass sides could hold, might easily enter the cabinet, and yet
not seem to be in it.
This and the Living Head of Stodare were such good optical illusions,
and so safe for the exhibitor to work upon, that succeeding conjurors
have improved upon the trick, and produced one of the prettiest and
most marvellous effects, that of a lady being seen on the table,
without any lower limbs whatever, and yet able to talk and sing.
No doubt many of my readers will remember to have seen Fatima when
exhibited some little time ago in Lime Street, Liverpool. A description
of this optical illusion, as seen by the public, will be scarcely
necessary.
[Illustration]
It will be remembered that to all appearance a half body was resting
upon a small table standing on legs, which again rested upon a larger
table likewise upon four legs, and that the space beneath the table was
seen. In point of fact, the space beneath the table was _not_ seen, for
the remaining portion of the visible body actually stood in the space
beneath the table. The table was really upon three legs placed at right
angles. Between the middle and two other legs were two plate-glass
mirrors, fitted closely to the legs and the top of the table. The
pattern of the carpet was always of a square character, and the table
was so placed that the reflection in the glass formed a continuation
of the pattern, thus giving an appearance of space and a continuity of
surroundings. The fourth leg of the table was produced by a very simple
contrivance. A single leg, carved similarly to the legs of the table,
was concealed behind each of the small screens which bore a lamp,
and on each leg was a placard bearing the letters composing the name
of Fatima, but written thus--AMITAF, so that, as seen in the glass,
they appeared FATIMA. These legs were so placed that they threw their
reflections in such a way as to continue and form one leg, the fourth
leg of the table. The ground plan, as given here, will at once show the
position of the table and the separate legs.
A B C are the three legs of table, A B and B C being the two plates
of glass. D D are the two screens concealing the single legs E E.
According to the laws of reflection the legs E E will be reflected in
the point F, and thus present the appearance of four legs. Upon each
of the legs is placed the placard bearing the name written backward,
and the reflection so deceives the spectator that he fully believes
he is looking at a fourth substantial leg. Of course the upper table
upon which the visible portion of the body appears to rest is likewise
made of three legs with looking-glass in between. The invisible portion
of the body is concealed by the looking-glasses. The pattern of the
floorcloth being of a cubic shape, the reflection in the glasses
seems to be a continuation of the pattern. It was by these simple
combinations of mechanics and optical contrivances that thousands upon
thousands of persons were mystified and completely cheated of their
senses.
[Illustration]
CHAPTER IV.
AUTOMATA: PSYCHO.
We now come to our own time, and to a description of the various
automatic exhibitions of the present day. The most notable and
successful, because the most original, exhibitors and inventors of
automatic figures at the present day are Messrs. Maskelyne and Cooke,
now located at that old “home of mystery,” the Egyptian Hall, London.
Their first and, in my opinion, their best piece of mechanism was
Psycho, the celebrated Whist Player, which they produced in 1865. A
description of this interesting figure is scarcely needed. For years
they contrived to keep the motive power and mechanical arrangements of
this automaton an entire secret, while the public, the press, and the
scientific world, saw, wondered, and were puzzled. Many and various
were the solutions offered to account for the working of the Whist
Player; but the secret of the sinews and muscles, so to speak, of
Psycho mystified every one. So thoroughly successful was the figure
that, as a natural consequence, mechanicians set about producing
something similar.