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.
“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.
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.
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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.
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.
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}
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.
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!”
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:
“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.
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.
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.
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.
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}
{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