Henry Ridgely Evans

“To succeed as a conjurer, three things are essential—first, dexterity; second, dexterity; and third, dexterity.”—ROBERT-HOUDIN.

I.

Imro Fox, “the comic conjurer,” was born May 21, 1852, in Bromberg, Germany. He came to the United States in 1874, and after serving as a chef de cuisine in several New York hotels, finally came to Washington, where he presided over the kitchen of the old Hotel Lawrence, a famous resort for vaudeville people. When not engaged in his culinary duties, he practised sleight of hand tricks. In the year 1880, a strolling company came to the city, having as its bright, particular star a magician. The man of mystery, alas, was addicted to the flowing bowl, and went on a spree after the first night’s performance. The manager of the troupe, who was staying at the Lawrence, was in despair. He told his woes to the proprietor of the hotel, who informed him that the chef of the establishment was a conjurer. Descending to the “lower regions” (a capital place, by the way, in which to seek a disciple of the black art), the theatrical man discovered the genial Imro studying a big volume. Near by a black cat sat blinking at him. Upon the stove was a huge caldron. The mise en scÈne of the place was decidedly that of a wizard’s studio. But things are seldom what they seem.

The book which Fox was so industriously conning proved to be a dictionary of the French language, not a black-letter tome on sorcery. The chef was engaged in making up a mÉnu card, in other words, giving French names to good old Anglo-Saxon dishes. The caldron contained soup. The cat was the regular feline habituÉ of the kitchen, not an imp or familiar demon. {272}

“The chef, I believe,” said the manager, politely.

“I am,” said Fox.

“You are an amateur conjurer?”

“I amuse myself with legerdemain occasionally.”

“You’re the man I’m looking for. I am the proprietor of a vaudeville company playing at ...... The gentleman who does the magic turn for me has disappeared; gone on a prolonged debauch....”

“Ah, I see,” interrupted Imro, “a devotee of the ‘inexhaustible bottle’ trick.”

“I want you to take his place,” said the manager, “and fill out the week’s engagement. I will arrange matters with the hotel proprietor for you.”

“Donner und Blitzen!” cried Fox. “Why, I never was on a stage before in my life. I’d die with fright. Face an audience? I’d rather face a battery of cannons.”

“Nonsense,” answered the theatrical man. “Do help me like a good fellow. It will be money in your pocket.”

After considerable persuasion, Fox consented. The culinary department was turned over to an assistant. That night Imro appeared on the stage, habited in a hired dress suit that did not fit him like the proverbial “paper on the wall.” With fear and trembling he made his bow, and broke the ice by the following allusion to his very bald pate: “Ladies and gentlemen, why is my head like Heaven?.... You give it up! Good! Because there is no parting there!” Amid the shout of laughter occasioned by this conundrum, Fox began his card tricks. In the argot of the stage, he “made good.”

This event decided him; he abandoned cooking for conjuring; mÉnu cards for the making of programmes.

His entertainment is quite original. The curtain rises on a gloomy cavern. In the middle is a boiling caldron, fed by witches À la Macbeth. An aged necromancer, dressed in a long robe with a pointed cap on his head, enters. He begins his incantations, whereupon hosts of demons appear, who dance about the caldron. Suddenly amid the crash of thunder and a blinding flash of light, the wizard’s cave is metamorphosed into a twentieth century drawing-room, fitted up for a {273} conjuring sÉance. The decrepit sorcerer is changed into a gentleman in evening dress—Mr. Fox—who begins his up-to-date entertainment of modern magic. Is not this cleverly conceived?

A few thumbnail sketches of some of the local magicians of New York City will not come amiss. First, there is Elmer P. Ransom, familiarly known as “Pop.” He was born in old New York, not far from Boss Tweed’s house. He still lives in that quaint part of the city. He knows New York like a book. Once he guided me through the Jewish ghetto, the Italian and Chinese quarters. It was a rare treat. Ransom is a good all around magician, who believes in the old school of apparatus combined with sleight of hand. And so do I.

Next we have Adrian Plate, who was born in Utrecht, Holland, in 1844. His rooms in upper New York are the Mecca of all visiting magicians. He has a fine collection of books on magic, and a scrap-book par excellence. Thanks to this clever conjurer, I have secured translations of rare and curious Dutch works on necromancy. Plate has always something new up his sleeve.

T. Francis Fritz (Frank Ducrot) edits Mahatma, a magazine for magicians, and is a good conjurer.

Sargent, the “Merry Wizard,” and second president of the S. A. M., is an adept in the psychology of deception and a recognized authority on the subject of patter. His articles on magic, published in Mahatma, are very interesting. He wields a facile pen as well as a wand, and like Silas Wegg occasionally drops into poetry. His poetical effusion, “In Martinka’s Little Back Shop,” brought out some years ago in Mahatma, has been widely copied.

Henry V. A. Parsell, for a number of years the archivist of the S. A. M., is a devotee of magic and freemasonry; a student of the occult; and a mechanical engineer by profession. He is especially fond of electrical tricks. He signs himself Paracelsus, not that he has any special love for the Bombast of Hohenheim, but because the name is a euphonic paraphrase of his own cognomen, and redolent of sorcery. {274}

Dr. Golden Mortimer, first president of the S. A. M., is a gentleman of culture. He was born in New York City, December 27, 1854. He began life as a magician, and was a pupil of Robinson, the Fakir of Vishnu. He eventually toured the country with an entertainment of the Heller order, known as “Mortimer’s Mysteries,” and was very successful. Graduating finally as a physician, he abandoned the art magique as a profession.

Krieger, the arch-master of cup-and-ball conjuring, the successor of Bosco, often drops into Martinka’s. He is of Jewish birth. With his little family he travels about, giving exhibitions of his skill, at summer hotels, seaside resorts, clubs, lyceums, etc. The errant propensities of the Krieger mÉnage gained for it the sobriquet of the “Wandering Few,” a paraphrase of the title of Eugene Sue’s weird novel, The Wandering Jew. To listen to Krieger’s funny accent; to see him shake his bushy locks; to watch his deft fingers manipulate the little cork balls, is to enjoy a rare treat. When the small balls grow to large ones and finally change into onions, potatoes, lemons, and apples you are quite ready to acknowledge that Krieger’s art is the acme of legerdemain.

But the prince of Hanky Panky is undoubtedly Nate Leipziger. For close work with cards, coins, watches, handkerchiefs, and the like he is pre-eminent in this country, perhaps in any country. His great forte is amusing after-dinner parties. His art is extremely subtle and indetectable, even to those acquainted with the mysteries of magic. He is the inventor of many new sleights and conjuring artifices.

Leipziger was born in Stockholm, Sweden, in 1873, and was apprenticed at an early age to an optical instrument maker. Grinding and polishing lenses is his trade, but he abandoned it for conjuring when he came to the United States. It is a curious fact that the majority of great magicians have been recruited from among watchmakers, optical instrument manufacturers, chemists, and physicians. Hundreds of them have been doctors. Among our American Indians medicine and magic are synonymous terms. The “medicine man” is the High Priest, the Mage, of the tribe. As every student of psychology knows, there is a good deal of humbug about the practice of medicine. {275} Suggestion aided by deception in the way of bread pills and harmless philtres effect as many cures as potent drugs. Surgery is an exact science, medicine is experimental. The medico takes naturally to magic, for he is already an adept in the art of suggestion. Apropos of this let me quote a sentence from an article by Joseph Jastrow (Psychological Review, Vol. 7, p. 617): “A dominant principle, most frequently illustrated, is the kinship of conjuring to suggestion; for it is the suggestion of things not done quite as much as the concealment of those that are done that determines the success of modern conjuring.”

Horace Goldin is known as the “Whirlwind Wizard,” so called because of the rapidity of his work. His tricks and illusions follow each other with kaleidoscopic effect. Goldin can compress more magic feats in a twenty-minute turn, than the average conjurer can execute in an hour. But his act is a silent one; he uses no patter whatever. As a general rule this is to be condemned. Amateurs are warned against it. Says Professor Jastrow, the psychologist: “The ‘patter,’ or setting of a trick, often constitutes the real art of its execution, because it directs, or rather misdirects, the attention.” More than that, artfully worded patter weaves about a conjuring experiment an atmosphere of plausibility; people are often convinced that red is black, etc. Consider the dramatic setting of Houdin’s magic chest and aerial suspension. Without patter these charming tricks would have degenerated to the commonplace. But Goldin is a law unto himself, and must not be judged by any standards other than those laid down by himself. He is a genius.

Goldin, who is of Jewish descent, was born in Wilana, Russia, December 17, 1874. He began life as a traveling salesman. He took to conjuring to amuse himself and his friends. Afterwards he went on the stage. He has played before Edward VII of England and William II of Germany. While playing an engagement in New York City, at Hammerstein’s Theatre, August, 1904, he went about the city in an automobile known as the “red devil.” Some of his facetious friends described him as a “little white devil” in a “big red devil.” Among the {276} numerous clever illusions performed by him is the “Invisible Flight,” an exposÉ of which was published in the Strand, as follows:

“A pedestal about seven feet high is seen in the centre of the stage. The performer introduces a liveried assistant and entirely envelops him in a black cloak and hood, and puts a pistol in his right hand. He then fetches a ladder, places it against the pedestal, walks up, and steps from it on to the top of the pedestal, behind a curtain, which is hung in front, just reaching to his feet. The assistant puts the ladder back and fires the pistol, when immediately the curtain rises and a great surprise meets the gaze of the audience, for there on the pedestal, where the performer stepped only a moment previously, stands the liveried servant; but the climax is reached when the supposed assistant pulls off the cloak and hood, showing him to be none other than the performer himself.

“To perform this illusion it is necessary to have two assistants as near alike as possible and of similar stature to the performer himself, the rest being quite simple but requiring much exactness in execution. The performer cloaks assistant No. 1 and hands him the pistol, then goes to fetch the ladder, part of which is showing between the wings, the other part being held by assistant No. 2, who is made to look, at a quick glance, exactly like the performer. The performer catches hold of the ladder and steps between the wings, leaving one leg showing; the assistant (No. 2) steps out backwards with the ladder, covering the performer momentarily, who then steps right in between the wings. The natural movement of the assistant in stepping back at the right moment looks as if it is still the performer; indeed, he is never suspected to be otherwise. Assistant No. 2 places the ladder against the pedestal, walks up, and, stepping behind the curtain, unhooks a duplicate livery from it, quickly puts it on, pockets wig and mustache, or any other make-up which went to match the magician’s appearance, and stands ready for the curtain to be raised, at the sound of the pistol, by a string leading inside to one of the stage hands. During this time assistant No. 1 has taken the ladder back to its original place, and the performer, who has meanwhile quickly donned a cloak and hood exactly as worn by assistant No. 1, reverses his previous action, stepping back {277} with a pistol in his right hand, this again being so natural as not to excite suspicion. He then fires, when assistant No. 2 is seen upon the pedestal, believed by the audience to be assistant No. 1, the idea of a duplicate never occurring to them, as they have not seen the change take place. The performer then takes off his cloak and hood, bowing smilingly to the bewildered audience.”

One of the most entertaining men in the profession is Frederick Eugene Powell. He is a man of scholarly attainments. Powell was born in Philadelphia, and was attracted to magic after having witnessed a performance by good old Signor Blitz. He became quite an expert at the art and gave entertainments for the amusement of his fellow students at the Pennsylvania Military Academy, at Chester, from which institution he graduated in 1877 with the degree of Civil Engineer and the rank of Lieutenant. After a short career on the stage as a magician, he entered into mercantile life. Eventually he returned to his old love, magic, and began a series of entertainments at Wood’s Theatre, corner of Ninth and Arch Streets, Philadelphia. His “second-sight trick,” in which he was assisted by his brother {278} Edwin, was one of his strong cards. Robert Heller had just died, and there was no one to continue the art of second sight but Powell. After touring the United States and Spanish America he left the stage to take the intermediate chair of mathematics at the Pennsylvania Military Academy, which post he held for three years. The sedentary life affected his health, and he returned to the stage. Powell has played several long engagements at the Eden MusÉe, one of them lasting for six months. In the year 1892, he produced at this theatre for the first time to a New York audience the illusion “She.” In 1902 he visited the Sandwich and Samoa Islands, and played in the principal cities of Australia. Powell was the first conjurer to introduce the improved “coin ladder” in this country.

Howard Thurston, the American illusionist, was educated for the ministry, but abandoned theology for conjuring. He possesses great skill with cards, and is an inventor of many novel feats of spectacular magic.

His stage represents an Oriental scene. Enter Thurston dressed somewhat after the fashion of a Tartar chieftain: loose trousers, short jacket, turban and high boots. He introduces his act with card manipulation, after which he produces from a shawl thrown over his arm a bowl from which bursts a flame, then another bowl from which spurts a jet of water like a fountain. He stands on a small stool of glass and produces a great quantity of water from a large tin can, by dropping into it the half of a cocoanut shell. Enough water wells up from the can to fill several receptacles. The thaumaturgist then defies the laws of gravitation by suspending a large ball in the air, À la Mahomet’s alleged coffin at Mecca, and passes a hoop about the ball. When he leaves the stage, the ball follows him. This feat is accomplished by a stream of compressed air which plays upon the globe from a receptacle secreted in the sleeve of the performer. The conjurer walks to a stool, covers it with a shawl, and produces a life-size statue, which undergoes various pretty transformations. The illusion suggests that of Professor Pepper. Finally he produces pigeons from a borrowed hat, and toy balloons which float in the air. Altogether it is a pleasing and curious act. {279}

William G. Robinson for years acted as Alexander Herrmann’s stage manager and machinist. He is a devotee of the magic art, a collector of rare books on legerdemain, and the inventor of many ingenious sleights, tricks, and illusions. When not employed at the theatre, he spends his time haunting the second-hand book stores, searching for literature on his favorite hobby. He has found time to write a profoundly interesting brochure called Spirit Slate-Writing, published by the Scientific American Company. After reading this work, I cannot see how any sane person can credit the reality of “independent slate-writing.” It is a mere juggling trick.

Robinson was born in New York City, April 2, 1861, and received a common school education. He started life as “a worker in brass and other metals,” but he abandoned the profession of Tubal Cain for conjuring. After the death of Herrmann, Robinson went as assistant to Leon Herrmann for several seasons, and then started out to astonish the natives on his own account, but without any appreciable success. Just about this time there came to the United States a Chinese conjurer named Ching Ling Foo, with a repertoire of Oriental tricks. One of them was the production of a huge bowl of water from a table-cloth, followed by live pigeons and ducks, and last but not least a little almond-eyed Celestial, his son. This was but a replica of the trick which Phillippe learned from the Chinese many years ago. Foo’s performances drew crowds to the theatres. It was the novelty of the thing that caught the public fancy. In reality, the Mongolian’s magic was not to be compared with that of Herrmann, Kellar, or Goldin. Beneath the folds of a Chinese robe one may conceal almost anything, ranging in size from a bedpost to a cannon ball. When Foo’s manager boastfully advertised to forfeit $500 if any American could fathom or duplicate any of the Celestial’s tricks, “Billy” Robinson came forward and accepted the challenge. But nothing came of it. Foo’s impressario “backed water,” to use a boating phrase. Robinson was so taken with Ching Ling Foo’s act that he decided to give similar sÉances, disguising himself as a Chinaman. Under the name of Chung Ling Soo he went to England, {281} accompanied by his wife and a genuine Chinese acrobat. He opened at the Empire Theatre, and not only reproduced Foo’s best tricks but added others of his own, equally as marvelous. His success was instantaneous. Theatrical London went wild over the celebrated Chinese wizard, and gold began to flow into the coffers of the Robinson mÉnage. So well was the secret kept that for months no one, except the attachÉs of the theatre, knew that Chung Ling Soo was a Yankee and not a genuine Chinaman. The make-up of himself and wife was perfect. Robinson {282} even had the audacity to grant interviews to newspaper reporters. He usually held these receptions at his lodgings, where he had an apartment fitted up À la Chinois; the walls hung with silken drapery embroidered with grotesque dragons. The place was dimly lit by Chinese lanterns. Propped up on silken cushions, the “Yankee Celestial” with his face made up like a finely painted mask, sipped his real oolong, and laughed in his capacious sleeves at the credulity of the journalistic hacks. He gave his opinion on the “Boxer” trouble, speaking a kind of gibberish which the previously tutored Chinese acrobat pretended to interpret into English. Gradually it leaked out in theatrical circles that Chung Ling Soo was a Yankee, but this information never came to the public ear generally.

At the close of the “Boxer” uprising the real Ching Ling Foo had returned to his beloved Flowery Kingdom, loaded down with bags full of dollars extracted from the pockets of the “Foreign Devils,” yclept Americans. Under his own vine and bamboo tree he proceeded to enjoy life like a regular Chinese gentleman; to burn joss sticks to the memory of his ancestors, and study the maxims of Confucius. But the longing for other worlds to conquer with his magic overcame him, and so in the year 1904 he went to England. Great was his astonishment to find that a pretended Mongolian had preceded him and stolen all of his thunder. In January, 1905, Robinson was playing at the Hippodrome, London, and Ching Ling Foo at the Empire. There was great rivalry between them. The result was that Foo challenged Soo to a grand trial of strength, the articles of which appeared in the Weekly Despatch. “I offer £1,000 if Chung Ling Soo, now appearing at the Hippodrome, can do ten out of the twenty of my tricks, or if I fail to do any one of his feats.”

A meeting was arranged to take place at the Despatch office, on January 7, 1905, at 11 a. m. The challenged man, “Billy” Robinson alias Chung Ling Soo, rode up to the newspaper office in his big red automobile, accompanied by his manager and assistants. He was dressed like a mandarin. The acrobat held over his master’s head a gorgeous Chinese umbrella. Robinson gave an exhibition of his skill before a committee of newspaper {283} men and theatrical managers. Foo came not. The next day arrived a letter from Ching Ling Foo’s impressario saying that the Mongolian magician would only consent to compete against his rival on the following condition: “That Chung Ling Soo first prove before members of the Chinese Legation that he is a Chinaman.” This was whipping the Devil (or shall I say dragon?) around the stump. The original challenge had made no condition as to the nationality of the performers.

Buatier de Kolta was the greatest inventor of magic tricks and illusions since the days of Robert-Houdin. He was an absolutely original genius, who set at defiance Solomon’s adage. “There is nothing new under the sun,” by producing in rapid succession a series of brilliant feats that astounded the world of magic. I am indebted to my friend, Dr. W. Golden Mortimer, for facts concerning the career of de Kolta.

Joseph Buatier de Kolta was born in Lyons, France, in the year 1845. For centuries his father’s people had inhabited the ancient palace of the Emperor Claudius. Each firstborn male of the Buatier family was given the Roman name. The subject of our sketch had a sister and two brothers, the latter, with himself, being set apart for the priesthood. His brother Claudius was not given to churchly ways, but the second brother actually entered upon the holy orders. Joseph was at college when he {290} first saw the wonders of magic as revealed by a strolling magician, and he became so fascinated with the possibilities of the art that he entered upon it at once.

He commenced his professional career at Geneva, Italy, in 1867, and shortly after became associated with his cousin, Julias Vidos de Kolta, who for fifteen years thereafter acted as his business manager. De Kolta was his mother’s maiden name, adopted by her ancestors from one of the Hungarian provinces. Buatier de Kolta, as the magician was now known, traveled through Italy, where he presented a two hours’ entertainment, consisting of original sleights with a multiplicity of small properties. In 1875 he opened in London, where a great furore was made with his flying cage, which he had introduced in Italy some two years earlier. Though de Kolta was not given to {291} mishaps, on the first presentation of his trick he threw the cage out into the audience, an accident which has been repeated by other performers.

He married Miss Alice Allen, in London, December 8, 1887. She afterwards traveled with him as his assistant, and acted as his business manager. In the year 1891, he made his first appearance in the United States by playing a four months’ engagement at the Eden MusÉe, New York City. On that occasion he introduced the large vanishing cage, which he intended as a satire on the flying cage because of the repeated supposition that a bird was killed at each performance of that trick, but he never liked the large cage and soon abandoned it. In 1903 he returned to this country, and opened at the Eden MusÉe, on September 15, where he played many months. Among other new tricks he {292} exhibited an improvement on the “rising cards,” consisting in the continuous and successive rising of every card in a pack from out a glass tumbler; and a little sketch entitled “la danse des millions,” in which the money-catching idea was elaborated. This number, delivered in Alexandrine verses with all the charm of a classic, was intended as a hit at the extravagance of the Panama Canal Company under the rÉgime of De Lesseps and his associates.

On that occasion he introduced an absolutely new illusion, the effect of which was as follows: The curtain rose showing a platform in the center of the stage. It was about four feet square and eighteen inches high, with four legs. The conjurer appeared carrying a satchel in one hand. He informed the audience that he kept his wife in the receptacle. It was a convenient way of transporting her about with him. Opening the satchel, he took therefrom a die about six inches square, remarking that his consort was concealed within it. This he placed on the platform. After arranging two open fans on the back of the platform he touched a spring, whereupon the die opened to about two and a half feet square. Presto!—he lifted up the die and his wife appeared on the platform, sitting cross-legged like a Turkish lady on a divan.

The secret of this surprising illusion died with Buatier de Kolta. His wife refused to reveal it after his death.

From New York de Kolta went to New Orleans to play an engagement at the Orpheum Theatre. In that city he died of acute Bright’s disease on October 7, 1903. The body was taken to London for burial.

Among the better known tricks and illusions invented by de Kolta may be mentioned the following: The flying bird cage (1873); the vanishing lady (1889); flowers from a paper cone (1886); the cocoon and living pictures (1887); and his disappearance, at the top of a twenty-one-foot ladder set upright against a bridge, in full light; soup plate and handkerchiefs; the decanters and flying handkerchiefs; multiplying billiard balls; production of a large flag on a staff; new ink and water trick, etc. {293}

In conjunction with J. Nevil Maskelyne, he invented the “Black Art, or the Mahatmas Outdone.” It has been exposed by the Strand, February, 1903, as follows:

“It is necessary for the benefit of those who have never seen an act of this kind to explain that everything is performed in a dark chamber—either the whole stage or a chamber fitted up in the center of it—draped entirely in black—sides, back, floor, and ceiling. The hall is placed almost in darkness, the only lights being a set of sidelights and footlights, which are turned toward the audience with reflectors behind, making it impossible for eyes to penetrate into the darkness beyond them. Everything used in the chamber is white, even the performer’s dress, forming a contrast necessary to the illusion.

“The sÉance is usually commenced by the production of tables and goblets from space. In fact, everything required is mysteriously obtained from apparent nothingness. The performer, usually dressed in an Eastern costume, all of white, enters the empty chamber, and, requiring a wand, raises his hand, when one comes floating into it. He next taps the floor at the left side of the chamber and a small table suddenly appears. This he repeats at the right side, with the same result. He now taps one of the tables and a large goblet appears upon it in the same mysterious manner. This also he repeats at the other table, having now two tables several yards apart, with a goblet upon each. The whole are brought forward for inspection and replaced within the chamber. The performer takes one of the goblets, raises it, turns it over and around in several ways, and it is seen that the other is going through exactly the same movements without anyone being near it. The performer replaces his goblet upon the table; but the other remains suspended alone in mid-air, and the performer places a large ring over it and around it, showing wires or any other connection to be absent. He brings it forward and again hands it for examination, but on regaining it does not take it to the table, for by a wave of his hand the table comes dancing out to him and on receiving the goblet dances back to its original position. He next proceeds to borrow several watches and other articles of jewelry, which he takes into the chamber and places in the goblet on the {294} right. They are clearly seen to drop from his hand from several inches above; he shows his hands empty and immediately rushes across to the other goblet, brings it forward, and allows the audience themselves to take out all the jewelry which was placed in the right goblet only a moment previous. Having finished with these articles, they disappear as mysteriously and quickly as they appeared.

“The next illusion performed is the production from space of a live lady’s bust suspended in a frame. The performer raises his wand and a large picture-frame suddenly hangs itself upon it. This is brought for examination, then placed in the center of the chamber, where it remains suspended in mid-air and sets up a swinging motion by itself. It is then covered momentarily with an Eastern rug, and when removed, a lady, devoid of legs, whose body completely fills the frame, is seen swinging with it. The ‘live picture’ is covered momentarily, and when the covering is withdrawn a large Union Jack is seen to have taken the place of the lady, who has vanished.

“The performer proceeds next with a decapitation act, in which a lady is beheaded in full view of the audience. At a wave of his hand a lady appears, and hands to him her own gruesome means of execution, a large, glittering sabre, which he takes, {295} and with one swing cuts her head clean off where she stands. Catching the head as it falls, he places a pair of wings at the back of it, when it becomes a flying cherub, and immediately soars all about the chamber, finally returning to his outstretched hand. He then removes the wings and replaces the head upon the lady’s shoulders, restoring her to life, for which kindness she quickly embraces him and vanishes. Wishing to get another such share of her favors, the performer endeavors to bring her back by magic aid, but is surprised by the appearance of a grinning ghost, whose whole body consists of a skull, with a moving jaw, draped with a white sheet. He catches it, and detaching its skull brings it forward for a closer scrutiny, the jaw moving all the time and the sheet dancing about alone. He then throws the skull into the air and it is seen no more.

“The sÉance is generally concluded by an invisible flight, the vanishing performer immediately reappearing amongst the audience. He takes the dancing sheet and entirely covers himself with it, standing in the center of the chamber, taking great care to drape himself in such a manner as to show the shape of his body. In a few seconds the sheet collapses, and before it has time to reach the ground a shout is heard in the back of the {296} hall; the audience turning around naturally are surprised to see the performer standing amongst them, smilingly bowing in acknowledgment of the applause which greets him.

“As before mentioned, the whole of this takes place in darkness, obtained by the chamber being draped in black velvet and the floor covered with black felt. The brightness of the lights turned towards the audience, contrasting with the denseness of the black behind, dazzles the eye to such an extent that it cannot discern anything in the chamber that is not white or of a very light color. The stage is all arranged before the act, and the tables are in their respective places, but cannot be seen on account of their being draped with black velvet. The goblets, frame, lady, ghost, etc., are all placed in readiness behind a black screen, also draped. None of this can be seen while they are behind the lights, if kept covered in black, no matter how near to the front they are placed. But how do they float about and appear so mysteriously? An assistant is within the chamber, dressed in black velvet throughout, with black gloves and mask, covering all signs of white about him and making him perfectly invisible. He wears no boots, and the felt {297} upon the floor deadens the sound of all his movements. He it is who really produces all the articles. When the performer stretches his hand out for the wand, the assistant brings it from behind the screen and hands it to him with a floating movement. As the performer taps the floor he immediately pulls away the black covering and the table instantly appears to view. The goblets are painted black inside, allowing him to hold them at the back with his fingers inside, unnoticed. After the tables are both produced he places the goblets upon them at the right moment with one hand while he pulls off the velvet with the other. The exposition is so quick and sudden that nothing suspicious can be noticed. The turning of the goblet is also the work of the invisible assistant, and is quickly changed from one hand to another when the ring is being passed over it. The watches, etc., are not placed in the goblet as they appear to be, but dropped behind it into the assistant’s hands, who takes them over to the other while the performer is exhibiting his empty hands. The picture-frame is also handed by the assistant, and when it is apparently placed in mid-air is really passed to the assistant, who quickly hangs it up. When it is covered the lady steps from behind the screen to the frame, and stands upon a swing which nearly reaches to the floor behind it, and catches hold of the frame sides; the assistant draws away the velvet which draped her, and keeps the swing in motion. The frame is attached to the wires of this swing. The lady is dressed in white to the waist, which exactly reaches the bottom of the frame. Below the frame she is dressed in black velvet. When the frame is again covered she steps back behind the screen while the assistant fits the Union Jack in the frame. In the decapitation act there are two ladies, one dressed all in white, the other standing behind her dressed in black, with her head covered by a black hood. When the performer swings the sabre the assistant covers the white lady’s head with a black velvet hood, at the same time pulling the hood quickly from the other lady’s head, who immediately falls to her knees. The illusion looks perfect—a body apparently standing without a head and the head apparently falling. When the wings are put on she flaps them by means of a wire and runs round the {298} chamber, stooping at intervals, so as to take an irregular course. The beheaded lady is restored by exactly the reverse method, and she disappears behind the screen. The ghost is danced about on a stick by the assistant, and when its skull is thrown into the air it is caught in a black bag. The performer takes the sheet and goes behind it and hands it to the assistant, and it is the latter who is seen draping himself, the performer running around to {299} the back of the hall meanwhile, where he waits to see the sheet drop. The assistant, allowing time for this, simply lets go the top of the sheet, and, of course, cannot be seen behind it. The performer runs in before it has time to reach the ground, his invisible flight and immediate reappearance greatly astonishing the spectators.”

Cazeneuve, better known as le commandeur Cazeneuve, the great card expert and magician, was born in Toulouse in 1840. He adopted magic, after witnessing a performance of that original genius, Bosco. His chivalric title (commander of the imperial order of Medjidie) was conferred upon him by the Sultan of Turkey, with whom he was a favorite. At the Court of Russia he and his charming wife made a great sensation with the second-sight trick. When the Franco-Prussian war broke out, Cazeneuve returned to Toulouse and raised two companies of soldiers, one of which was composed entirely of theatrical people. He served as captain of the 1st regiment of Tirailleurs d’Elite, under the command of Colonel Riu, and fought bravely for France. After peace was declared he prepared a new programme of magic and toured Europe and the Americas. He has a handsome home in his native city of Toulouse, where he has collected many rare curios. In the year 1905, Cazeneuve was touring Algeria with a magic show. He is a member of several scientific societies, and manifests great interest in physics.

I first saw Carl Hertz in Baltimore at the old vaudeville theatre “across the bridge,” some twenty years ago. I remember him as a clever, good-looking young fellow, possessed of considerable dash, and very neat in the performance of card tricks. His specialty was the “bird-cage trick,” which he did to perfection. He was born in San Francisco, of German parents. His first manager was M. de FrÈre. Hertz has traveled extensively in the Orient. With the bird-cage trick he puzzled the best informed fakirs of India. In Borneo he met with a most romantic adventure. He is probably the only man who has had to offer himself as a burnt-offering to escape an amorous Princess. He was giving a series of magical entertainments before a Malay Sultan and Court, and not only succeeded in fascinating the yellow-skinned monarch, but his daughter as well. The young princess proposed marriage to the conjurer. “On Mr. Hertz informing the lady, through an interpreter, that he was already wedded, she replied that made no difference to her, as she would rule his other ladies. Here was a fix. However, with the {301} connivance of the British Vice-Consul, Mr. Hertz took the place of his lawful spouse in the Phoenix illusion, and jumping into the blazing caldron waved an affectionate adieu to the astonished and dismayed Princess. Mrs. Hertz had to keep up the delusion by weeping copiously while her husband was being conveyed to the coast in a basket.”

In the Sandwich Islands, on one occasion, a chief leaped upon the stage where Hertz was performing and began worshiping him as a god. How very real must have been the effect of Hertz’s magic upon the untutored mind of that simple native.

In the year 1904, a troupe of Hindoo jugglers, acrobats and snake charmers were brought to the United States to entertain lovers of the marvelous at the St. Louis Exposition. Among them was a man with an unpronounceable name, whom the management dubbed “Alexander.” I met the dusky necromancer at Martinka’s in the summer of 1904. He went about the streets of New York garbed in his rich Oriental costume. The street gamins always followed him from his hotel to the Palace of Magic and stood about the doorway in crowds, awaiting in breathless astonishment some feat of wizardry. But the impassive Hindoo paid no attention to his youthful admirers, but went on blowing wreaths of smoke from Egyptian cigarettes, and making purchases of magical apparatus with which to astonish the natives of his beloved India. Taking magic tricks to India is like carrying coals to Newcastle. But Alexander had a very high opinion of Occidental conjuring, and fully realized the fact that the sorcerers of the West, aided by all the resources of modern science, were the superiors of the Hindoo fakirs, except perhaps in one particular—feats of hypnotism and apparent death. I saw Alexander, in Martinka s little back shop, support a couple of heavy iron weights, which were fastened at the ends of a cord, upon his eyelids. The cord rested on the lids, the weights dangling at the ends of the string. The pressure upon the eyeballs must have been tremendous. Alexander presented Dr. Ellison with a wand—the thigh-bone of a sacred simian from the famous monkey temple of India. The bone was inscribed with cabalistic characters and Sanskrit sentences. The monkey is famous for playing {302} tricks, and the thigh-bone of a sacred monkey consequently ought to make an admirable mystic wand for a conjurer. The doctor prizes this unique relic very highly, and is thinking of building a shrine of Benares copper for its reception. In the future, crowds of wandering wizards will doubtless make pilgrimages to this shrine to gaze in ecstasy at the holy relic, just as crowds of East Indians visit the temple where Buddha’s wisdom tooth is displayed for the delectation of the faithful.

In the year 1894 there flashed on the theatrical horizon of Europe an eccentric gentleman conjurer, who performed with a mask on his face, advertising himself as L’Homme MasquÉ (the Masked Man).

“Who is he?” inquired the quid nuncs of the vaudeville theatres.

Nobody seemed to know. Had the Man in the Iron Mask, celebrated by Voltaire and Alexander Dumas, come to life again?

“What does he wear a mask for?” asked the public.

“To hide his aristocratic features,” replied the manager of L’Homme MasquÉ. “He wishes to remain incognito.”

Eventually he permitted his name to leak out. It was Marquis d’O. “But ‘O’ is not a name,” cried the quid nuncs. “It is a letter, an exclamation of surprise or terror.” “Not so fast,” remarked the Dryasdusts. “There was a Marquis d’O who lived in the seventeenth century. He was a noted duelist and gambler, but that did not prevent him from being a favorite with Henri III of France. Possibly L’Homme MasquÉ is a descendant of the famous nobleman of the old rÉgime. He is unquestionably a Frenchman, for he speaks like a native.”

The masked man refused to further reveal his identity. In one respect he resembled the favorite of the Valois King. He was familiar with cards. After losing 800,000 francs at Monte Carlo, he took up magic as a profession and made his dÉbut, March, 1894. I have ascertained that the Marquis is a native of Peru, South America. His real name I do not know. The “O” perhaps is a nom de thÈatre. Again, it may be an {303} abbreviation of Olivarez. Mr. Downs writes as follows in the Sphinx, January, 1903, concerning the mysterious marquis:

“L Homme’ MasquÉ (Marquis d’O) and myself are especially engaged to give a series of magical performances at the Casino Theatre, Spa, Belgium, Nov. 15 to Dec. 31, 1902. The Marquis is a remarkably clever magician of the non-apparatus school and gives an hour and thirty minutes’ performance, changing his show each evening. He uses only cards, handkerchiefs, flowers, eggs and other small objects for his illusions. He is eminently original and possesses a great personality. He is a decided sensation in the theatrical world. His success has been so pronounced that he has had many imitators who have donned the mask and traded on his reputation. The Society of Magicians in Hamburg presented him with a valuable gold-tipped wand set with diamonds. Like Robert-Houdin, the Marquis presents his audiences with many charming souvenirs, some of them of considerable value, such as cigarette cases, cigars, bouquets, etc. He is very popular in aristocratic circles. When in London, he received as high as £20 for a private entertainment and was invited everywhere.”

To keep the public guessing is the particular business of a conjurer, but to keep people guessing as to your identity as well as your tricks, caps the climax in the art of mystery mongering. Imagine the Sphinx wearing a mask. This business of a wizard disguising his features with a black mask is a piece of sublime audacity. Vive le Marquis d’O! Is it not a pity that such an act cannot be copyrighted? Think of some really original idea and produce it on the stage and immediately hundreds of imitators will spring up like mushrooms in a single night. Not only will they copy your act, but your patter as well.

Two of our foremost American conjurers, Downs and Houdini, can testify to this fact. T. Nelson Downs, the “King of Coins,” a native of Marshaltown, Iowa, invented a number of original sleights with coins, which he embodied in an act known as the Miser’s Dream. A brilliant success was the result, whereupon a legion of imitators, billing themselves as Coin Kings, sprang up everywhere. Downs, however, remains the unapproachable manipulator of coins; his imitators have gone {304} to the wall, one after the other. Downs’ act is really unique, He is also a fine performer with cards. Edward VII of England, who has a penchant for entertainments of magic and mystery, had Downs give private sÉances for him, and was charmed with the American’s skill.

A word or two here concerning that brilliant entertainer, Harry Houdini, whose handcuff act is the sensation of two continents.

Mr. Houdini, whose real name is Weiss, was born April 6, 1873, in Appleton, Wisconsin. He began his career as an entertainer when but nine years of age, doing a contortion and trapeze act in Jack Hoffler’s “five cent” circus in Appleton. His mother took him away from the sawdust arena and apprenticed him to a locksmith. Here he was initiated into the mysteries of locks and keys, and laid the foundation of his great handcuff act. Locksmithing, despite the fact that King Louis XVI of France worked at it as an amateur, possessed no charms for the youthful Houdini. To use his own expression, “One day I made a bolt for the door, and never came back to my employer.” Again he went with a circus, where he acted as a conjurer, a clown and a ventriloquist. He made a specialty of the rope-tying business and performed occasionally with handcuffs, but without sensational results. Finally the circus landed in Rhode Island and opened up in a town where Sunday performances were forbidden by law, but were greatly desired by a large section of the population. As the fine was light, the proprietor ran the risk, and gave a show on the Sabbath. A summons followed, and each member of the troupe was fined. As Houdini epigrammatically put it: “The manager couldn’t find the fine, so we all found ourselves in confinement.” Houdini was locked up in a cell with a number of side-show freaks, the fat lady, the living skeleton, and the German giant. The fat lady was too wide for the compartment, the giant too long. With tears in their eyes they emplored Houdini to pick the lock and let them out. Finally the young conjurer consented, and dexterously picked the lock, whereupon he and his companions {305} marched out of the jail in triumph, and paraded down the main street of the town in Indian file, to the great amusement of the populace. Houdini was rearrested on the charge of jail-breaking, but the judge let him off with a reprimand. This event decided his career. He became a “Handcuff King.”

His salary at the Alhambra Theatre, London, was $300 a week. One week at St. Petersburg, Russia, netted him over $2,000. He appeared before royalty. {306}

The handcuff act when exhibited with the proper mise en scÈne is certainly very mystifying and calculated to produce a profound impression on the minds of susceptible people. Taking the cue from the Davenport Brothers, Houdini might have advertised himself as a spirit medium, thereby creating a great sensation. But he preferred not to play the charlatan. I am not personally acquainted with his method of working the trick, therefore I express no opinion on the subject, except to say that the locks of the handcuffs are picked with a key of some {307} kind which is adroitly secreted about the person of the performer; or some soft piece of iron or copper wire which can be converted into a skeleton key. In the event of his being stripped naked (as often occurs in the case of Houdini) the key is probably hidden in the nose, ear, mouth, or bushy hair of the Handcuff King—or else slipped to him by a confederate, or concealed in a pocket in the drapery of the cabinet. I quote the following from the Strand Magazine (Sept., 1903):

“For a man fettered with handcuffs, leg-irons, and chains to free himself in less time than it has taken to fasten him has long been so mystifying a performance that many people have acquired the impression that it bordered on the supernatural. The secret is, however, like many of the best tricks ever invented, in reality a surprisingly simple one.

“In the first place, it must be remembered that handcuffs such as are used by Scotland Yard are constructed with spring-locks, which are fastened or released by means of a key, or some article which answers the same purpose, which pulls back the spring. Without the aid of such a key it is impossible for any human being to free himself from the regulation handcuffs employed by the police. And herein lies the whole {308} secret—the performer has a key, or rather several keys. All his ingenuity is exercised in concealing these about his person, or inside the cabinet to which he retires to release himself after being, to all appearances, helplessly secured.

“Some of these keys are concealed in the framework of the cabinet, which is generally constructed of piping, having additional pieces which appear to be essential portions of the framework, but which in reality are only intended to hold the keys. Other keys the performer keeps disposed about his person in sundry small pockets especially made for the purpose, and so arranged that he is able to place his hand upon some one or other of them in whatever position he may be. The best places for concealment are—first, a pocket between the knees, to permit the key to be reached when the performer is fastened in a crouched position; secondly, a pocket about six inches up inside the leg of the trousers; thirdly, a key carried in the hip pocket of the trousers, for use when pinioned with the arms behind the back; and finally, a small pocket inside the top of the waistcoat, or wherever it may be found convenient.

“Let us now turn to the photographs, which have been especially taken for this article, and which render the whole proceeding very clear. In Fig. 1 the performer is fastened with six pairs of handcuffs. In such a position it seems impossible that he can free himself; but by putting his hands over his head and down his coat collar he has caught the end of a silk handkerchief thrust into the breast of his waistcoat, to which a key is attached. Fig. 2 shows the handkerchief and key drawn to the front; while Fig. 3 shows the key inserted in the lock.

“Fig. 4 shows the method employed when the position is such that it is impossible, owing to the awkwardness of the attitude, to pull the lock back. A piece of violin string is made into a loop and kept inside the cabinet. When it is impossible to draw the key, and with it the lock spring, with the fingers, the loop is put over the key, the heel of the boot placed {310} in the other end of the loop, and the lock is then easily drawn back. After one pair has been opened the others follow as a matter of course.

“Figs. 5 and 6 show another position, the key this time being obtained from the waistcoat. Fig. 7 shows one of the most difficult positions in which it is possible to be placed. The silk handkerchief shown is just peeping from the waistcoat, and is brought out by the aid of the tongue, it being possible to draw out a good silk by licking it. In Fig. 8 the performer has rolled over and obtained a good hold of the handkerchief, which, by a quick jerk of the head, he throws over his back, and eventually gets hold of it with his hands, as shown in Fig. 9. If the key falls to the floor he rolls over and picks it up, the rattle of the handcuffs hiding the sound of the falling key. His next movement is to free his hands from his feet, which he does in the manner already described. The key for this position can also be obtained from the leg of the trousers.

“Fig. 10 shows the implements of torture and the condition of the performer’s wrists after an exhibition. The special keys {312} are split with a saw about half an inch down, to allow for variation in the sizes of various locks (Fig. 11). It should be understood that an expert, when about to give a performance, inquires what position it is intended to place him in. He then causes, as an introduction, a few pairs of his own handcuffs to be placed on his wrists, and while freeing himself from these in his cabinet he arranges his keys to suit the position in which he will next be placed. Other implements besides keys are also used: a piece of bent wire is often quite sufficient. Most experts are also conjurers, and ‘palm’ the key, especially in the case of a nude test, when they are stripped and locked up in a cell; or they make use of a concealing key, which is made telescopic, the handle being constructed to close down the side of {313} the key, and the whole being fixed under the toes by a piece of shoemaker’s wax and detached when inside the cell.

“Although, when the secret is explained, it seems very easy to accomplish, it must be understood that it is necessary for a successful performer to possess very hard, strong wrists and abundance of finger strength, and to be a man of some resource. It is almost impossible for any person to fasten an expert securely unless he himself understands the secret of the method of escape, and even then he may not be successful. On one occasion a performer underwent a severe test by a person who understood the secret, and therefore did not use any keys whatever, but by a very ingenious method overcame the efforts of the gentleman in question to fasten him. He obtained some very small gold-filled wire and made it into the form of a wire ring, which was partly covered by a broad gold one, to which the wire ring was attached. Thus prepared he underwent the test, unwrapping the wire ring when in the cabinet. Needless to state, in a very short time he was free.

“Handcuffs are sometimes brought to fetter the performer with the locks plugged or otherwise tampered with. But it is the performer’s own fault if he is trapped. It is a very easy matter to tamper with the locks—a few lead pellets dropped {314} down the barrel will effectually prevent the lock from being drawn. This method has often been attempted, but not successfully.

“Now that the methods have been explained and illustrated, it will be very easily perceived that there is nothing supernatural about the secret of handcuff manipulation.”

Houdini is not only a Handcuff King, but a skillful performer with cards. When too many imitators shall have made his specialty a drug on the market, he can take to some other branch of conjuring. He has a very fine trunk illusion which he often combines with his handcuff act. For seven years past he has been collecting data for an extensive biographical encyclopedia of magicians. In his travels on the continent of Europe he has visited the homes and haunts of famous conjurers of the past and secured valuable material for his prospective book. Thanks to this interesting man, photographs of the tombs of Robert-Houdin and Bosco have been made, and considerable light thrown on their careers. In a letter to me, October 9, 1905, he says: “When in Russia, I searched in vain for the grave of the fascinating Pinetti—that pre­sti­di­gi­ta­teur par excellence of the eighteenth century—but, alas, my labors were not rewarded. But in St. Petersburg I picked up an exceedingly rare portrait of Pinetti, which I prize highly and which will form the frontispiece to my book on magicians.” Houdini is a reincarnation of Sir Walter Scott’s Old Mortality, who went about furbishing up the tombstones of the illustrious dead of his faith. When at home (New York City), Harry Houdini lives among his books and curios. He has also a handsome farm in Massachusetts. Houdini’s brother, under the stage name of Hardeen, is also a handcuff expert.

In this review of magicians I have met, I must not fail to mention Charles Edwin Fields of the Royal Aquarium and Crystal Palace, London, England. This veteran of the wand was born in London, May 15, 1835, and received a good education at private academies in England and France. He has appeared before royalty and instructed hundreds of people in {315} the mystic art. In the days when magic literature was sparse, Prof. Fields obtained large sums of money from wealthy amateurs for the secrets of tricks. Alas, the golden age of wizardry has passed. Magic is an “open secret.” The Professor’s occupation is gone.

I come now to FranÇois de Villiers, the French illusionist, who is an excellent performer. He is able to invest the simplest parlor trick with a halo of interest, thanks to his wit and bonhomie. He was born in the Island of Malta, where Cagliostro went to work in the chemical laboratory of the Grand Commander Pinto. De Villiers when but a callow youth ran away from the parental home and joined a French circus which happened to be touring the Island of Malta. He wandered all over the continent of Europe with the knights of the sawdust circle, playing many parts, acrobat, clown and conjurer. Finally he took up magic as a profession.

De Villiers next drifted to India, where he became a subject of the British crown. Being of an adventurous nature, he joined a cavalry regiment and wore the khaki of the Queen. When his term of enlistment had expired, he went to Spain and fought valiantly under the banner of Don Carlos. Captured by the government forces, he was tried as a rebel and condemned to be shot, but his sentence was commuted to banishment, thanks to the timely intervention of the British Ambassador, to whom he had appealed for aid. De Villiers is now a naturalized citizen of the United States and his home is in New York City.

Ziska is a magician of ability and possessed of much originality. Assisted by Mr. King, he does an act in which magic is blended with comedy. It is entitled “The Magician and His Valet.” The conjurer is very clever and the valet very clumsy, but no exposÉs of the tricks are made; Mr. Ziska is too much of an artist to permit that.

J. Warren Keane is a clever manipulator of cards and billiard balls. He gives a pleasing act of magic.

Prof. Barney Ives is possessed of great originality. Some of his inventions have become famous. In this respect he is a rival to the celebrated Henry Hardin. {316}

De Biere and Stillwell are conjurers who are fast rising into prominence. Stillwell is a handkerchief manipulator.

Next in line we have Malini, Fred Hurd, Hal Merton and Maro, all of them clever magicians. Hurd’s rabbit and duck trick has to be seen to be appreciated. Maro is not only an excellent illusionist, but a musician and a crayon artist. Merton, a favorite in the lyceum field, was at one time the editor of “Mahatma.” Malini’s forte is cards, and he devotes most of his time to giving drawing-room and club entertainments. Of late years he has made London his home. Among the clever amateurs I have met may be mentioned Mr. Guy L. Baker, of Buffalo, N. Y., and Mr. LeRoy McCafferty and Mr. John J. Allen, of Washington, D. C. Mr. Baker is an excellent drawing-room conjurer and the originator of a novel method of working the rising card trick À la de Kolta, by means of a clockwork apparatus in the body of a small table. Mr. McCafferty is good at hanky-panky, particularly with billiard balls; and Mr. Allen, an ardent student of the art of deception, bids fair to become a good entertainer.

Ere I bring this chapter to a close I must not neglect to pay a tribute to my old-time friend, Dr. Leonard Caughey, of Baltimore, Md., the finest amateur conjurer, rope-tying and cabinet medium I have ever met. A dentist by profession, he devoted his leisure time to magic. He died some fifteen years ago in Washington, D. C. His cousin, Mr. Charles M. Caughey, also an amateur pre­sti­di­gi­ta­teur, is at present United States Consul to Palermo, Sicily, the birthplace of Cagliostro. From Dr. Caughey I received my first scientific instruction in the art of palming and mediumistic marvels. I owe him a debt of gratitude. In my little book “Hours With the Ghosts” I have described some of my adventures with this admirable amateur necromancer, who has passed from the lesser to the Greater Mysteries. Long before Professor Hoffmann had written his great treatise on “Modern Magic,” Dr. Caughey was thoroughly initiated into all branches of magic, something unusual in those days, and was giving splendid entertainments for churches, lyceums, etc. A fine mechanic, he made most of his apparatus, some of it of a very elaborate character. I imported Hoffmann’s {317} book from England and showed it to him. He was paralyzed with astonishment at the revelations contained in the volume and exclaimed, “The golden days of magic are over. The GÖtterdÄmmerung (Twilight of the Gods) has come! The world will be as full of magicians as the Jersey coast is of mosquitoes. The palmy days of Herrmann, Houdin and Heller are ended.” His prophecy has been more or less fulfilled. The vail of Isis is lifted and the mysteries of magic laid open to all who care to delve in its literature and inform themselves. Alas, unscrupulous professionals have contributed to this state of things by exposing tricks on the stage for the benefit of the public at large. This is indeed killing outright the goose that lays the golden eggs. Initiate the hoi polloi into the secrets of the cult, and magic will soon be relegated to the parlor as an after-dinner amusement, unless some absolutely original genius like Robert-Houdin or de Kolta arises and recreates the art. The Society of British Magicians, known as “The Magic Circle of Great Britain,” expels a member who wilfully exposes any magical trick or illusion on the stage. The Society of American Magicians comes out strongly against the reprehensible practice of stage exposÉs, but as yet has taken no steps to expel members who offend against the law. But that will doubtless come in time.