It will doubtless have been observed that I have in the foregoing pages been somewhat lavish in respect of patter. I have done so for two or three reasons.

First, in order to enable the reader to form a better estimate of the effect of the trick presented, duly clothed and coloured, to the mind of the spectator. A trick described, however minutely, from the mere mechanical or technical point of view, gives scarcely more idea of its actual effect than the rough charcoal sketch of the artist does of the finished painting. Secondly, because ready-made patter, if the reader cares to use it, will save him a considerable amount of trouble. My third reason is more personal, namely, that it has been a labour of love to do so. To my mind the devising of some little bit of appropriate fiction to serve as introduction to a trick is the pleasantest part of the inventor’s work.

It may perhaps be thought that I have, in some of the more ambitious tricks, been overliberal in this particular. I remember thinking, after witnessing a “show” by Dr. Lynn, a popular performer of the last generation, that he had talked a great deal, and done very little, and that I had had very little real magic for my money. On the other hand, the loquacious doctor was always amusing, and it must not be forgotten that to amuse, even more than to puzzle, is the raison d’Être of the modern magician. It seems to me therefore quite legitimate to use, to a reasonable extent, the art of the raconteur to supplement that of the magician.

If my own patter is in some cases found superabundant, I have at any rate done my best to make it amusing, and if the reader opines that I have not paid sufficient regard to the late Mr. Ducrow’s celebrated maxim, “Cut the cackle, and come to the ’osses,” he is quite at liberty to cut my cackle to what he may consider more reasonable proportions. No doubt, time would be saved thereby. If, for instance, he were to cut out the little romantic fictions with which I have introduced “The Miracle of Mumbo Jumbo” and “The Story of the Alkahest,” and start “right away” with the bare performance of the trick, both could be exhibited in little more time than I have allotted to either alone. Which treatment is likely to give the greater satisfaction to his audience, he must decide for himself.

Where the performer has the gift (for a “gift” it undoubtedly is) of devising effective patter for himself I am strongly in favour of his doing so. Borrowed patter may be likened to a borrowed dress-coat. It is never likely to be an exact fit, and a “giant’s robe upon a dwarfish thief,” or the reverse, cannot be expected to be a becoming garment. Every man has, or should have, a style of his own, and it is rarely good policy to imitate that of somebody else. If a low comedy man were to essay to play Hamlet, or a tragedian, however eminent, were to try to give an imitation of Harry Lauder, the result would be likely to be disappointing.

The reader, undertaking to write his own patter, and desirous of making it just what patter should be, will find counsels of perfection in “Our Magic,” and the more nearly he can approach them the better. As, however, all have not the good fortune to possess that admirable work, I venture to indicate what to my own mind seem to be the chief points to be aimed at.

It is almost a commonplace to say that the main object of patter is misdirection. As the term is more usually applied, this means something said or done midway in the course of a trick to draw away the attention of the audience at some critical moment, and to create what the French conjurers call a “temps” i.e., an “opportunity” for doing, unnoticed, some necessary act. But misdirection may very well start at an earlier stage than this: in fact, well in advance of the actual execution of the trick. Each trick should have some sort of introduction, and the patter serving this purpose should be such as to lead the mind of the hearer away from the true explanation of the marvel, and to suggest, in a more or less plausible way, some other, remote from the real one.

The suggested explanation may be either pseudo-scientific, where possible based on some generally accepted truth (and it is surprising what a long way even a few grains of truth go in such cases); or it may be downright “spoof,” delivered however with due appearance of seriousness. The explanations will naturally fall a good deal short of the George Washington standard of truthfulness, but the most tender conscience need not in such a case have any scruples on the score of veracity. No sane person expects truth in a fairy tale, and a magical entertainment, from beginning to end, is but a fairy tale in action. To put the matter in an epigrammatic nutshell:

This function of patter, the leading away the minds of the audience from the true explanation of the puzzle offered them, may be materially assisted by the introduction, among the “properties” used, of some object professedly essential to the trick, but as a matter of fact having no real concern with the effect produced. The audience take for granted that it must have something to do with the effect, or it would not be used, and are thereby led away the more effectually from the actual explanation. Numerous illustrations of the use of this device will be found in the foregoing pages.

If, in the case of a given trick, the performer is absolutely at a loss to produce a satisfactory fable to introduce it, he may evade the difficulty by stating that he is about to produce an effect for which he cannot himself account, and inviting the assistance of his audience in doing so.

The second function of patter is the calling of the attention of the audience to matters which you desire them to take note of, and to give opportunity to do so. There is small credit to be gained by changing the ace of clubs into the ace of hearts, or making a given article pass invisibly from one spot to another, unless the spectators have been first made to realise the original state of things, and they must be allowed sufficient time to do so. I have more than once seen an otherwise brilliant show spoilt by being rushed through at railroad speed. The mind of the spectator had not been allowed time to receive clear impressions. The company in such a case disperses with a consciousness of having had a rapid succession of surprises, but with only a cloudy recollection as to what they were.

In devising, as is sometimes desirable, new patter for an old trick, an endeavour should be made to look at the effect from an entirely fresh point of view, so as to make the trick practically a new one. A remarkable instance of such a transformation is furnished by an incident in the life of Robert-Houdin. At one period of his career he was entrusted by the French Government with a very important mission. He was sent to Algeria, specially charged to “astonish the natives,” and by his greater wonders to destroy their belief in the pretended miracles of the Aissoua.

Among other surprises, he decided to make use of his “Light and Heavy Chest,” a chest which, as the reader is doubtless aware, became at command, by means of an electro-magnet in the pedestal on which it rested, so “heavy” that the strongest man could not lift it from its base. This trick, produced at a time when the phenomena of electricity were but little understood, has produced an immense sensation at his Paris performances. But the Master instinctively felt that the trick in that shape would produce little or no effect on the more primitive mind of the Arab. He would simply have taken for granted some mechanical means of holding down the chest, beyond his own comprehension, no doubt, but by no means to be regarded as miraculous. Robert-Houdin decided to change the mode of presentation altogether, and to make the illusion no longer objective, but subjective. He announced that by means of his magic power he could take away the strength of the strongest man, and render him weak as a little child. The “chest” was in this case merely brought forward in a casual way, as a convenient object wherewith the assertion of the magician could be tested. The strongest man in the company was invited to come forward, and try whether he could lift that little box. Of course he could, and did; a child could have done the same. “You lifted it because I permitted you to do so,” said the magician. “But I take away your strength. Try to lift it now!”

Again the athlete tries his strength, but now he fails. With teeth set, and every muscle tense, he strains, and strains, but in vain, and he has to confess that the infidel wonder-worker has, for the time, taken away all his strength. Here was a wizard indeed!

In arranging your patter, be humorous if you can, but if, like the gentleman we have all heard of, you “joke with difficulty,” don’t force yourself to be funny. That it is possible for a man lacking humour still to be a great conjurer is proved by the case of Hartz, who was notably deficient in this particular, but by his excellence in other directions won a place in the very first rank of his profession. But if you cannot be humorous, at any rate be cheerful. Geniality of manner is one of the most valuable assets of the conjurer. Above all, don’t be nervous. You may say “I can’t help it,” but to a great extent you can. It is largely a matter of will. Start with the idea that all will go well, and it will probably do so. On the other hand, a low-spirited conjurer always makes a low-spirited audience.

In any case, be sparing of puns, which have been deservedly described as the lowest form of wit. A single pun, if good enough (or bad enough) may win a laugh, and score to your credit, but to pepper an audience with verbal shrapnel in the shape of puns is an outrage on good taste.

Passing to the third function of patter, the misdirection of attention in the course of a trick, we will assume that you have made a start in the right direction at the outset, by suggesting some fanciful explanation of the effect you intend to produce, so that your audience, starting from wrong premises, do not know the points at which their too close observation would be inconvenient. The best way of diverting their attention at one of these critical points is obviously to attract it to some other direction. A mere sentence, particularly if accompanied by appropriate action, will suffice. Supposing, to take an elementary instance, that the performer desires to drop unseen into the profonde from his left hand some small article for which he has just deftly substituted a duplicate, now exhibited in the right hand, he has only to say, “Now I want you particularly to keep an eye on this”—whatever the article in the right hand may happen to be. All eyes are for the moment, instinctively drawn to the object in question, and in that moment the deed is done. The artifice is ridiculously simple, but it is effective, and it is on being fully prepared with the right thing to say and do at the critical moment that the success of a magical entertainment largely depends. Careful rehearsal, preferably before an expert friend, will furnish the best hints as to the danger-spots in the working of a trick, and how best to devise patter to meet them.

A final word of advice—advice that has been often given, but cannot be too often repeated if you really aim to carry your audience with you. Never lose sight of the fact that you are, in the words of Robert-Houdin, “an actor playing the part of a magician,” and take your office seriously. In particular, never before an audience use the word “trick,” which at once gives away all your pretension to magical power. An actor never tells his audience that he is an actor or that he is playing a part. He does not call their attention to his make-up, however excellent, or tell them that his wig comes from Clarkson. On the contrary, he does his best to make his audience for the time forget that he is Hubert de Barnstormer, or whatever his stage name may be, and to keep up the illusion that he is actually the person whom he represents. The modern magician should do the same. If he has enough of the true artistic spirit to imagine, when he steps forward on the platform, that he is a magician, and that his miracles are genuine, he will go a long way towards producing a like impression in the minds of his audience. Bearing this in mind, describe what you propose to do as an “effect,” a “marvel,” an “experiment,” or a “phenomenon”; never by any chance as a “trick.”

It may be objected that I have myself repeatedly used the obnoxious word in the course of the foregoing pages, but that is another matter. This book is written by a conjurer for conjurers: and as between ourselves we are forced to admit, painful though it be to do so, that our greatest miracles are only tricks. But we need not tell the public so. Logically-minded, persons know it well enough, if they are allowed to think about the matter. Our business is to make them, for the time, forget it. A wise old Roman said: Populus vult decipi: decipiatur. Your audience wish to be deceived; in fact they have come together for that purpose. By all means let them be deceived to the top of their bent; and the first step towards effectually deceiving them, is to persuade them, if possible, that there is “no deception.”

The patter for a given trick, once composed, and tested by a few performances in public, may thenceforth, so far as the professional is concerned, be left to take care of itself. It should automatically improve with each of its earlier repetitions as good wine improves in bottle. Faults will correct themselves, and being made perfect by practice, the performer will thenceforth be able to “speak his piece” without effort, and devote his whole energies to the actual working of the trick.

To the amateur, only performing on special occasions, with perhaps considerable intervals between them, I commend a plan from which I myself derived great benefit, viz.: Write out from memory the patter for each trick on the programme a day or two before a coming performance. After you have given your show, go through your manuscript again carefully, noting and correcting it in any point in which the patter failed to be exactly right. The interpolation of a single sentence, the transposition in point of sequence of two movements, or the alteration of some trifling detail, such as standing at a different angle to your table at a given moment, may make all the difference between partial failure and complete success.