Henry Ridgely Evans

“As in Agrippa’s magic glass,

The loved and lost arose to view.”—WHITTIER: The Mermaid.

I love to read about the old-time conjurers, the contemporaries of Robert-Houdin, or his immediate successors. Literature on the subject is very sparse indeed. In his memoirs, Houdin gives us a few thumbnail sketches of his rivals in the mystic art, and then dismisses them with a kindly, Vale. He has something to say about Bosco’s personal appearance and performances, but makes no mention of the romantic incidents in the great magician’s career. I shall try, in this chapter, to sketch the lives of some of these men, basing my information on rare brochures contained in the Ellison Library, and from information picked up by Mr. Harry Houdini in Europe. The great encyclopedic dictionary of Larousse—a monument of French erudition—contains something about Phillippe, Robin and Comte. Mr. Ellis Stanyon, a conjurer of London, and author of several valuable little treatises on magic, has kindly furnished me with interesting data; the files of old newspapers in the British Museum, and the Library of Congress have also been drawn upon, also the fine collection of old programmes of Mr. Arthur Margery, the English magician. Let us begin with

Louis Apollinaire Comte was a magician of great skill, a mimic and ventriloquist. He was born in Geneva, Switzerland, June 22, 1788, and died at Rueil, France, November 25, 1859. On one occasion he was denounced by some super­sti­tious Swiss peasants as a sorcerer, set upon and beaten with clubs, and was {161} about to be thrown into a lime kiln. His ventriloquial powers saved his life. He caused demoniacal voices to proceed from the kiln, whereupon his tormentors fled from the spot in affright, imagining that they were addressed by the Powers of Darkness.

When summoned to appear before Louis XVIII, at the palace of the Tuilleries, Comte arranged a clever mystification to amuse his royal patron. During the course of the entertainment he requested the king to select a card from a pack. By his address, he caused the monarch to draw the king of hearts. Placing the card in a pistol, Comte fired it at a bouquet of flowers on a table, declaring that the pasteboard would appear in the bouquet. Immediately, a bust of the king was seen among the flowers.

“What does this mean?” said Louis XVIII, with a sarcastic smile. “I fancy, sir, your trick has not ended as you stated.”

“I beg your Majesty’s pardon,” Comte replied, with a profound bow. “I have quite kept my promise. I pledged myself that the king of hearts should appear in that bouquet of flowers, and I appeal to all Frenchmen whether that bust does not represent the king of all hearts.

The experiment was applauded to the echo by those present. The Royal Journal of the 20th of December, 1814, thus describes the affair.

“The whole audience exclaimed in reply to M. Comte, ‘We recognize him—it is he—the king of all hearts! the beloved of the French—of the whole universe—Louis XVIII, the august descendant of Henri Quatre?’

“The king, much affected by these warm acclamations, complimented M. Comte on his skill.

“‘It would be a pity,’ he said to him, ‘to order such a talented sorcerer to be burnt alive. You have caused us too much pleasure for us to cause you pain. Live many years, for yourself in the first place, and then for us.’”

Comte was an adept at the art of flattery. Perhaps all the while, he and the fickle courtiers of the Tuilleries were secretly laughing at the poor old Bourbon king, the scion of a race that had all but ruined France, and were wishing back from Elba that Thunderbolt of War—Napoleon the Great. {162}

Comte was made a Chevalier of the Legion of Honor by Louis Philippe.

Phillippe [Talon] was born at Alais, near Nimes (France). He carried on the trade of confectioner first in Paris, afterwards in Aberdeen, Scotland. Failing to make a success of the sugar business, he adopted conjuring as a profession, and was remarkably successful. He was assisted by a young Scotchman named Macalister, who on the stage appeared as a negro, “Domingo.” Macalister, a clever mechanic, invented many of the best things in Phillippe’s repertoire. From some Chinese jugglers, Phillippe learned the gold-fish trick and the Chinese rings. With these capital experiments added to his programme, he repaired to Paris, in 1841, and made a great hit. Habited like a Chinaman, he performed them in a scene called “A night in the palace of Pekin.” The fish trick he ostentatiously named “Neptune’s Basins, and the Gold Fish.” The bowls of water containing the fish he produced from shawls while standing on a low table. He followed this with a production of rabbits, pigeons, ducks, and chickens.

Robert-Houdin in his memoirs, gives a brief but pointed sketch of Phillippe. On page 163 I reproduce one of his unique programmes (London, March, 1846).

Henri Robin was a Hollander by birth, his real name being Dunkell. He was born about 1805 and died in Paris in 1874. Although he had appeared before the public many times and his talents as a prestidigatateur had long been recognized, it was not until the end of 1862, when he opened his theatre in Paris, that he became a celebrity and a household word in the country of his adoption. He was a man of distinguished appearance, very urbane, and possessed of a sparkling wit. His handsome little salle de spectacle, known as the Theatre Robin,23 was situated on {164} the Boulevard du Temple. Porcelain medallions ornamented the walls, representing Archimides, Galileo, Palissy, Vaucanson, Franklin, Volta, Newton, Daguerre, Arago, Cuvier, Robertson, Humboldt, Comte, and Cagliostro. Of these great men only Vaucanson, Robertson, and Cagliostro could properly be classed as magicians. Vaucanson was a builder of ingenious automata; Robertson the creator of optical illusions; and Cagliostro a pretender to sorcery, who made use of hypnotism and phan­tas­ma­goria in his sÉances. But science has its wizards, in one sense of the word, and so Robin included the great pioneers of scientific research among his galaxy of wonder-workers.

The journal La France said in its issue of January 19, 1863: “The stage is large and square in form, the curtain rises upon {165} a brilliantly lighted salon showing much gilding, filled with strange objects, electrical apparatus of all sizes, mysterious chests, revolving tables, articulated animals which as far surpass the automatons of Vaucanson as an Everard or Pleyel piano is superior to an old fashioned spinet. There were peacocks which paraded up and down and could tell you the name of any city you might think of; drums which beat the retreat without a drummer; Christmas trees which shook their branches, powdered with snow, and covered themselves with lighted candles, bonbons, flowers and toys; inexhaustible bottles, invisible bells, etc. Altogether it was the strange, supernatural and fantastic world of pre­sti­di­gi­ta­tion, magic and sorcery.

“All at once, from the bottom of a magic casket, leaped out a harlequin about ten inches high but so well proportioned in its figure, so well made, so nimble and supple, so intelligent and spirituel, that the whole audience uttered a cry of pleasure and admiration. This pretty little manikin does everything belonging to its character. It dances, smokes, frisks about, takes off and puts on its mask, bows to the company and plays the flageolet. One is tempted to say—‘it only needs speech to be human.’ Well, it has speech. It talks and answers all questions addressed to it like a real person. It even tells stories, making them up as it goes along.”

Besides the show of magic an “agioscope” was to be seen which projected upon a screen the history of creation in forty-five pictures. Robin also performed experiments in physics and chemistry and an exhibition of the ghost illusion closed the entertainment.

Robin and Robert-Houdin were at odds about the inexhaustible bottle which each claimed to have invented. Robert-Houdin declared that he had exhibited it for the first time on December 1, 1847, while Robin produced his “Almanach of Cagliostro,” showing the trick of the inexhaustible bottle which he declares he had invented and exhibited for the first time July 6, 1844, at the theatre Re at Milan. Nevertheless in all their lectures {166} on physics, scientific men explain to their hearers the operation of the Robert-Houdin bottle.24

When the Davenport Brothers, pretended spiritualists, came to Paris, Robin duplicated all their tricks at his theatre. He did much to discredit the charlatans. About 1869 he gave up his theatre, and became the proprietor of a hotel on the Boulevard Mazas.

Robin left three works, copies of which are very rare, viz: L’Almanach IllustrÉ de Cagliostro; Histoire des Spectres Vivants et Impalpables; Secret de la Physique Amusante (Paris, 1864). He was also the inventor of a railroad for ascending Mount Rigi in Switzerland. The motor in this system was a balloon which, by its ascentional force compelled the car to climb the ascent guided by four iron rails. A model of this contrivance was exhibited at Robin’s theatre, 49 Boulevard du Temple.

I look again into the magic mirror of the past. Who is this portly figure enveloped in a befrogged military cloak? He has the mobile visage of an Italian. There is an air of pomposity about him. His eyes are bold and piercing. He has something of the appearance of a Russian nobleman, or general under the Empire. Ah, that is the renowned Bosco, the conjurer!

Bartolomeo Bosco had an adventurous career.25 He was born in Turin, Italy, January 11, 1793. He came of a noble family of Piedmont. At the age of nineteen he was one of the {167} victims caught in the meshes of the great military drag-net of Napoleon I, that fisher for men. In other words, he became “food for powder” in the Russian campaign of the Emperor of France. He was a fusilier in the 11th infantry of the line. At the battle of Borodino, in an encounter with Cossacks, Bosco was badly wounded in the side by a lance, and fell upon the ground. A son of the Cossack lancer who had wounded him, {168} dismounted and began to rifle his pockets. Like all soldiers on a campaign, Bosco carried his fortune with him. It did not amount to very much: a watch, a keepsake from a sweetheart, a few gold pieces, a tobacco pouch, etc. Fearing to receive the coup de grace from his enemy, he pretended to be dead. But on realizing that if he were robbed of his money he would be left destitute in the world, he put his abilities as a conjurer to work and dexterously picked the Cossack’s pocket of a well-filled purse. It was a case of Greek meeting Greek. The Russian, grumbling, perhaps, at the paucity of his ill-gotten plunder, finally mounted his horse and rode away after his comrades, to discover later on that he had been done and by a corpse. Later in the day Bosco was picked up from the battlefield by the Russian medical corps, and his wounds treated. He was sent a captive to Siberia, near the town of Tobolsk. His talent for escamotage served him well. The long winter evenings of his captivity when the snow lay deep upon the earth, and the wind howled about the prison walls, were spent by him either amusing his jailors or his fellow-soldiers. He sometimes gave exhibitions of his skill before the high officials of the place, thereby picking up considerable money. He spent his earnings generously upon his poorer brethren. Finally, in April, 1814, he was released. He returned to Italy, to the great delight of his friends, and studied medicine. Eventually he abandoned the art of Esculapias for the art of Trismegistus and became a professional conjurer.

Bosco was a wonderful performer of the cup-and-ball trick. He also possessed great skill with cards and coins. He traveled all over Europe. He gave an exhibition before Marie Louise, the widow of Napoleon I, on the 27th of April, 1836. His sonorous, bizarre name has become a byword in France for deception, whether in conjuring or politics. The statesman Thiers was called the “Bosco of the Tribune.” Many of Bartolomeo Bosco’s imitators assumed his cognomen. At the present day there is a French magician touring the music halls of Europe, who calls himself Bosco. The original Bosco, like Alexander Herrmann, was in the habit of advertising himself by giving impromptu exhibitions of his skill in cafÉs, stage {169} coaches, hotels, etc. He was wonderfully clever at this. A Parisian newspaper thus announced one of his entertainments: “The famous Bosco, who can conjure away a house as easily as a nutmeg, is about to give his performances at Paris, in which some miraculous tricks will be executed.” This illusion to the nutmeg has reference to the magician’s cup-and-ball trick; nutmegs frequently being used instead of cork balls. Houdin describes Bosco’s stage as follows:

“I entered the little theatre and took my seat. According to the idea I had formed of a magician’s laboratory, I expected to find myself before a curtain whose large folds, when withdrawn, would display before my dazzled eyes a brilliant stage ornamented with apparatus worthy of the celebrity announced; but my illusions on this subject soon faded away.

“A curtain had been considered superfluous, and the stage was open. Before me was a long three-storied sideboard, entirely covered with black serge. This lugubrious buffet was adorned with a number of wax candles, among which glistened the apparatus. At the topmost point of this strange ÉtagÈre was a death’s-head, much surprised, I have no doubt, at finding itself at such a festival, and it quite produced the effect of a funeral service.

“In front of the stage, and near the spectators, was a table covered by a brown cloth, reaching to the ground, on which five brass cups were symmetrically arranged. Finally, above this table hung a copper ball, which strangely excited my curiosity.

“For the life of me I could not imagine what this was for, so I determined to wait till Bosco came to explain it. The silvery sound of a small bell put an end to my reverie, and Bosco appeared upon the stage.

“The artiste wore a little black velvet jacket, fastened round the waist by a leathern belt of the same color. His sleeves were excessively short, and displayed a handsome arm. He had on loose black trousers, ornamented at the bottom with a ruche of lace, and a large white collar round his neck. This strange attire bore considerable resemblance to the classical costume of the Scapins in our plays. {170}

“After making a majestic bow to his audience, the celebrated conjurer walked silently and with measured steps up to the famous copper ball. After convincing himself it was solidly hung, he took up his wand, which he wiped with a white handkerchief, as if to remove any foreign influence; then, with imperturbable gravity, he struck the ball thrice with it, pronouncing, amid the most solemn silence, this imperious sentence: Spiriti mei infernali, obedite. {171}

“I, like a simpleton, scarce breathed in my expectation of some miraculous result, but it was only an innocent pleasantry, a simple introduction to the performance with the cups.”

After many wanderings Bartolomeo Bosco laid down his magic wand in Dresden, March 2, 1862. He lies buried in a cemetery on Friederichstrasse. Mr. Harry Houdini, the American conjurer, located the grave on October 23, 1903. Upon the tombstone is carved the insignia of Bosco’s profession—a cup-and-ball and a wand. They are encircled by a wreath of laurel. Says Mr. Houdini, in a letter to Mahatma: “I found the head of the wand missing. Looking into the tall grass near by I discovered the broken tip.” This relic he presented to Dr. Saram R. Ellison, of New York (1904). The tombstone bears the following inscription: Ici rÉpose le cÉlÈbre Bartolomeo Bosco ... Ne À Turin le 11 Janvier, 1793; dÉcÉdÉ À Dresden le 2 Mars, 1862. Madame Bosco was interred in the same grave with her husband, but no mention of her is made on the stone. The small plot of ground where the grave is situated was leased for a term of years. That term had long expired when Mr. Houdini discovered the last resting place of Bosco. It was offered for sale. In the event of its purchase the remains of the conjurer and his wife would have been transferred to a section of the cemetery set apart for the neglected dead. But Houdini prevented all future possibility of this by buying the lot in fee. He then deeded it to the Society of American Magicians.

John Henry Anderson was born in Aberdeenshire, Scotland, July 14, 1814. He began life as an actor. After witnessing a performance in England by Signor Blitz, his mind was struck with the resources of magic as a means of entertaining the public, and adding to his own exchequer. So he abandoned the histrionic stage for conjuring, though he occasionally performed in melodrama as a side issue. He was very fine in the title rÔle of “Rob Roy,” and as William, in “Black-eyed Susan.” His professional sobriquet in his early career was that of the “Calidonian Necromancer.” On one occasion he gave an exhibition {172} of his skill at Abbotsford, and the genial Sir Walter Scott said to him, “They call me the ‘Wizard of the North,’ but this is a mistake—it is you, not I, who best deserve the title.” Mr. Anderson was not slow in adopting the suggestion of the Wizard of the Pen, and ever after called himself the Great Wizard of the North.

Signor Antonio Blitz was born June 21, 1810, in a little village of Moravia. At an early age he picked up, unknown to anyone, “a few adroit tricks from certain gypsies, who visited his native town.” He began to exhibit these feats for the amusement of himself and friends. He made his professional dÉbut at Hamburg when but thirteen years of age, and was known to the public as the “mysterious boy.” His first appearance in this country was at the Music Hall, Broadway, New York. He had many imitators. Not less than thirteen people traveled the United States using his name, circulating a verbatim copy of his handbill and advertisement—“not only assuming to be the original Blitz, but in many instances claiming to be a son or nephew.” “I have been,” says Blitz, in his memoirs, Fifty Years in the Magic Circle, (Hartford, Conn., 1871), “in constant receipt of bills of their contracting, for, not content with taking my name, they have not even honor enough to pay their debts.” The thirteen impostors exhibited under the following and other names:

• Signor Blitz.
• Signor Blitz, Jr.
• Signor Blitz, The Original.
• Signor Blitz’s Son.
• Signor Blitz’s Nephew.
• Signor Blitz, The Wonderful.
• Signor Blitz, The Great.
• Signor Blitz, The Unrivalled.
• Signor Blitz, The Mysterious.
• Signor Blitz, By Purchase.
• Signor Blitz, The Great Original.

Blitz was not only a magician, but a ventriloquist and trainer of birds. He relates an amusing encounter with the great but eccentric genius, the Italian violinist, Paganini, whose romantic life is known to all lovers of music. The adventure took place in the city of Glasgow, Scotland, where Paganini was giving a concert. Says Blitz: “He, Paganini, was tall and awkward-looking, cadaverous in features, ungainly in form, with long {179} black hair, said to be very wealthy, and characterized as extremely penurious. No instance was ever known of his contributing a penny to the distressed, or to a benevolent institution. One morning I called and found him quietly seated in his room alone. After conversing with him a short time I noticed his violin case lying upon the table, when suddenly the cry of a child issued from therein.

“‘Who is that?’ said Paganini, quickly looking around.

“‘It is me, with the babe,’ answered a womanly voice.

“‘My God! what is this?’ inquired the astonished violinist.

“‘You well know,’ plaintively answered the woman, at the same time the infant again commenced crying.

“‘We know you are a bad woman,’ vehemently declared the excited man.

“‘And did you not make me so, you old Italian fiddler?’

“After this there was apparently a commotion in the box, when Paganini became alarmed and was about to leave the room when I unmasked myself and explained that he had been a victim to the vagaries of ventriloquism; which, on hearing, delighted him prodigiously, and grasping me by the hand he exclaimed, ‘Bravo, Signor!—bravo!’”

Signor Blitz retired from the stage with a fortune and settled in Philadelphia. His home was on Green street near 18th street. He taught magic and gave private entertainments for some years before his death, which took place February, 1877. One of his daughters was the famous opera singer, Madame Vanzant, who at the present writing lives in Europe. These facts I obtained from Mr. Thomas Yost.

Alexander HeimbÜrger was born December 4, 1819, in Germany. He performed under the nom de thÉÂtre of Herr Alexander. He toured Europe, North and South America with great success for a number of years, and retired to his native land with a large fortune. He is at present residing at Munster, an old man of eighty-four, with snow-white hair and beard, and bent over with age. He was long supposed to be dead by the fraternity of magicians, but Mr. Houdini, in his tour of Germany in 1903, discovered that he still lived, and his whereabouts. Alexander had many strange stories to relate of his adventures in America and other places. He was personally acquainted with Houdin, Frikell, Bosco, Anderson, Blitz, the original Bamberg of Amsterdam, etc. He performed several times at the White House before President Polk, and hobnobbed with Henry Clay, Webster and Calhoun. {181} With letters from Polk he visited Brazil, and was admitted into the most aristocratic circles. On leaving New York in 1847 he was presented with a heavy gold medal, cast in the United States Mint at Washington. This medal has his portrait on one side, and on the reverse the following inscription:

“Presented to Herr Alexander as a token of esteem from his friends. New York, 1847.”

Mr. Houdini writes as follows about the old magician (Mahatma, June, 1903): “He was a welcome guest at the Palace of the King of Brazil. He showed me letters to him from King Pedro II and his wife, dated Brazil, 1850. After an absence of ten years from his native country he returned, and married. He is blessed with six children, two sons and four daughters. {182} One is in New York at the present time. While in New York, Alexander was approached by an illusionist named Orzini, who had a cabinet of mystery. He was in hard circumstances and came to Alexander for assistance. The genial German gave him ten dollars. Orzini secured an engagement at the Park Theatre, but alas, only played one night, as his act did not suit, so he was closed after his first performance. Said Alexander to me, and the statement caused me infinite surprise: ‘This Orzini was the man who threw the bomb at Napoleon III in Paris, trying to kill the Emperor, but was himself killed; also blowing up several bystanders, and wounding the horses of Napoleon’s carriage. The reporters discovered that Orzini had just arrived from America, and in his lodgings they found some kind of a mysterious glass house, which must have been the Illusion Cabinet. In this affair Napoleon escaped with his life and a few scratches.’”

This is a strange story. I am of the opinion that Herr Alexander is laboring under a mistake in trying to identify the illusionist Orzini with the celebrated revolutionist Orsini. In the first place, there is the different spelling of the names—“Orzini” and “Orsini”; but Mr. Houdini may have incorrectly reported Alexander in this respect. There is no record of Orsini having come to the United States. Again, he was not killed in the attempted assassination of Napoleon III, in the rue Lepelletier, Paris, January 14, 1858. He was captured and suffered imprisonment, and was guillotined March 13, 1858. While in prison he wrote his memoirs.

Herr Alexander is the author of a work entitled Der Moderne Zauberer (“The Modern Magician”).

Wiljalba Frikell was born in Scopio, a village of Finland, in 1818. His family was well-to-do and gave him advantages in the way of education. He graduated at the High School of Munich in 1840, in his twenty-second year. During his scholastic days he became interested in legerdemain, and read with avidity every work on the subject he could find. He attended {183} the performances of all conjurers who came to Munich. Refusing to study for one of the learned professions, greatly to the disappointment of his parents, he went on the stage, and visited the principal cities of Europe, after which he journeyed to Egypt. In the land of the pyramids Frikell had the honor of performing before Mehemit Ali, who presented him with a gold medal. Returning to Europe he visited Greece, Italy, and Spain. Subsequently he went to India and investigated the thaumaturgy of the fakirs. He made his first appearance in London in 1851, and performed before Queen Victoria and the Royal Family, at Windsor Castle. His broken German and peculiarity of manner caused him to be described by Punch as “a comic Charles Matthews.” The same journal also compared him to “a monster raven in full dress for evening party.” His success was marked. The Czar of Russia presented Frikell with a diamond ring of great value, and the King of Denmark made him a Knight of Dannebrog. Just when this remarkable man retired from the stage I have been unable to ascertain. In his old age he became {184} a recluse and denied himself to visitors. In fact, it was supposed by the profession that he was dead, until Mr. Houdini discovered his whereabouts in Krotschenbroda, a few miles from Dresden, Germany, February, 1903, and called at his villa, but did not succeed in obtaining an interview. Nine months later Frikell died. He contemplated writing his memoirs À la Robert-Houdin, but, alas, death cut short the undertaking. That they would have been extremely entertaining and full of curious incidents of travel, admits of no doubt. An extract from a letter written by Mr. Houdini to his American friend, H. S. Thompson, of Chicago, will prove of interest to the reader.

“Dresden, Oct. 20, 1903.

“I have some news for you that may be of interest. You may remember that I sought an interview last February with Dr. Wiljalba Frikell, but was unable to meet him. Since then we have been in correspondence, and he wrote me that if I ever came to Dresden he would be pleased to see me. On arriving in Dresden I sent him word that I would call upon him on October 10th last. I accordingly went to the Villa Frikell about 1 o’clock, and you can imagine with what sorrow and astonishment I learned that Dr. Frikell had died of heart failure three hours before. He was awaiting my arrival at the time. Fate willed it that I should see Herr Frikell, but that we should not speak to each other.

“He was buried on October 13th. I attended the funeral and laid two large wreaths on his grave; one on behalf of the Society of American Magicians, and the other from myself. The S. A. M. wreath was the largest and handsomest there.

“Herr Frikell was 87 years old and had made all arrangements to live to 100. He always claimed he would live to over 100 years and would tell why he expected to reach that age. Too bad we could not have held a conversation ere he departed this life.

“Sincerely yours,

“HARRY HOUDINI.”

Frikell was an innovator in the art of magic. He dispensed with apparatus. In his Lessons in Magic, he says: “The use of complicated and cumbersome apparatus, to which modern conjurers have become addicted, not only greatly diminishes the amount of astonishment they are enabled to produce,—a defect which is not compensated by the external splendor and imposing effect of such paraphernalia,—but the useful lesson, how fallible our senses are, by means the most ordinary and at everybody’s command, is entirely lost. It has been my object {185} in my performances to restore the art to its original province, and to extend that to a degree which it has, I believe, never yet hitherto reached. I banish all such mechanical and scientific preparations from my own practice, confining myself for the most part to the objects and materials of every day life. The success I have met with emboldens me to believe that I have followed the right path.”

There is more or less truth in what Frikell says. But one can go to extremes in the avoidance of magic paraphernalia. The happy course is the middle one—a combination of sleight of hand and apparatus. I quote, as follows, from an article by Prof. Hoffmann (Mahatma): “The scientific school of conjuring, of which Robert-Houdin was the originator, had its drawbacks. It involved the use of costly and cumbersome paraphernalia, which grew and grew in quantity, till we find Anderson, the Wizard of the North, traveling with seven tons of luggage! Further, a trick, which, like Robert-Houdin’s automatic figures, obviously depends upon ingenious mechanism, palls upon the spectator. Such figures, at the present day, would be no more regarded as magic than the Strasburg clock. Lastly his electrical tricks produced an extraordinary effect, because very few persons in his day were acquainted with the properties of electricity, but now that there are electric bells in every household, and electrical motor cars in every street, its magical prestige exists no longer.

“Hence a reaction to a severer and simpler school of conjuring, of which Wiljalba Frikell was the earliest exponent, the school which professes, so far as the public is concerned, to work without apparatus and which in fact reduces its apparatus to the smallest possible dimensions. Many high class performers now give what is known in England as a ‘carpet bag’ show, and will keep an audience wonder bound for a couple of hours, using no more apparatus than can be carried in an ordinary gripsack.

“Broadly speaking this is undoubtedly an advance, for of two performers, the one who can produce by the magic of his own fingers the same degree of illusion for which the other needs elaborate apparatus, the former is surely the greater artist. But {187} the striving for simplicity may be overdone. The performer is apt to lose his feeling for breadth of effect, and to fritter away his skill over illusions too minute and too soon over to make any permanent impression. One of the most skilful sleight of hand performers we have ever seen throws away half the value of his work by going too fast, and producing small effects, individually brilliant, so rapidly that his audience has not time fairly to appreciate one before another is presented. The spectator, under such circumstances, takes away with him a mere blurred impression, rather than a clear mental photograph of what he has seen, and the show suffers in his estimation accordingly.

“Another danger attending the non-apparatus school lies in the fact that the performer is apt, by carrying the principle to needless lengths, unduly to limit his methods.

“On the whole we are inclined to think that the most successful magician of the future will be one who judiciously combines apparatus and non-apparatus tricks; such apparatus, however, to be of a simple and homely kind and not made admittedly for the purpose of the trick. The ideal entertainment, from the standpoint of the spectator, will be one in which feats of dexterity or supposed dexterity, are worked in conjunction with brilliant stage effects of a more spectacular kind, such as are exhibited by Mr. Maskelyne at the Egyptian Hall, London.”

And so I ring down the curtain on the old-time conjurers. They played their parts in the great drama of life, and enriched the history of the stage with their adventures. What could be more romantic than the career of the incomparable Bosco?

The pre­sti­di­gi­ta­teur makes things appear and disappear to our great wonderment, until finally Death, the greatest of all necromancers, waves his wand, and the mortal fades away from view, amid the shadows of the tomb. Tom Masson, that charming writer of verse de societÉ, says—