Chapter XIII: Part IV: Finale (2)

“The Doctor then passed into a rear room, donned a long robe of light blue material and returned with the piece of colored glass which I had seen during my previous visit. It was still flitted to the metal support, and with it he brought a bar magnet. He placed the glass upon the table before him, making many passes over it with his fingers, sometimes rubbing them upon his gown as if they were burned. He explained that he had sensitized the glass with a secret fluid which remained thereon as a film. He drew a sort of tripod upon paper and placed the glass and magnet alongside.

“ ‘I demonstrated at the last meeting how this power—which I called ‘yud’—could be exerted against human beings. You remember that I caused the man to fall from his bicycle. Tonight I will exert the power against an animal,’ said the fantaisiste.

“He stated that the lights would all be extinguished; that those present would be stationed at the front windows; that at a given signal he would cause a horse passing the street to halt and remain motionless, to the amazement of the driver. Turning to me, he asked, ‘Would Monsieur prefer that the horse be passing eastward or westward?’ ‘Eastward,’ I said.

“Then the lights were put out, but previously his wife had retired, ostensibly to put to bed the boy, who had grown sleepy. All of the members present and the young man—a stranger, evidently a reporter—were posted at the front windows. My companion and I were stationed at two windows within a small hall room adjoining. We were all asked to maintain absolute silence. Vines covered both windows of our room and a street lamp burned before the house to our right. The wait was long, {267} probably twenty minutes, before the first vehicle ventured through the block.

[29] Since Dr. Sarak’s séance, Col. Younghusband and a
column of British soldiers have penetrated into the holy
city of Llassa without difficulty. The fluidic walls of the
masters have not impeded the progress of the British in the
least degree.

“It was a buggy, drawn by a single horse, but, alas! it proceeded westward. In it were seated two figures, whom I could not see—both enshrouded in darkness.

“My impatience was now well nigh unbearable. In a few minutes, however, I heard the clatter of hoofs from the opposite direction—eastward.

“A buggy with a single horse came into view. One figure wore a white fascinator or shawl about the head. The other was a man. The horse slowed into a walk just before reaching the house. It halted directly in front of us, then backed a few feet and the rear wheel went upon the sidewalk opposite.

“ ‘What’s de mattah wid dat hoss?’ said a negro voice. ‘Nebber seen him act dat way befo’!’ The horse stood still for a minute; then the driver clucked him up and he proceeded on his way. It was too dark to see the positions of the reins or the features of either occupant of the vehicle. Soon afterward Madame de Sarak returned with the child and pointed toward him, as if to say: ‘See, he has recovered from his sleepy spell!’

“At this point the Doctor retired and returned gowned in white. He passed to us a canvas such as is commonly used by painters in oil. He placed this upon an easel. At his right was a table bearing brushes and two glasses filled, one with dark blue and the other with white paint. He then distributed large napkins among those present and handed to me two balls of absorbent cotton. These I was told to place over his eyes, and as I did so the two other men and several of the women bound the napkins over the cotton. They were tied very tightly and two were crossed. We inspected the bandages and pronounced them secure. Then the white-robed figure, in this grotesque headgear, asked me to lead him to an arm-chair in the far end of the rear apartment, which I did. Seated in the chair, his chin hanging down upon his breast, he remained for some time, until suddenly he arose and walked straightway to his wife and child, who were sitting behind the table in the front room, upon the sofa as previously. He knelt before them, kissed the little one, his back being toward us the while. Then he walked directly {268} to my companion and took the latter’s watch from his pocket without fumbling. He now proceeded to the easel, and, selecting a brush from the table, dipped into the blue paint and printed across the top of the canvas ‘Fifteen Minutes.’ I looked at my companion’s watch and it registered half past 10. Evidently the words denoted the time in which the picture was to be painted. One of the women present requested that a moonlight scene in Thibet be reproduced. Sudden movements of two brushes, dipped in the two colors, transformed the letters into a clouded sky through which a moon was bursting. Below was outlined a sort of tower, to the left of which was painted a tree. After some detail in the picture was outlined in blue, for example, the white paint would be applied in lines exactly parallel to the first, and many such touches of the brushes indicated that the painting was not made as the result of memory alone. Near the end of the painting the Doctor again approached his wife and child, leading the latter to the easel and placing him upon a chair before it.

“The child was given a brush and dabbed paint upon various parts of the picture. Sometimes he seemed to be guiding his father’s hand, but during this operation the latter was not doing difficult work. All the while the adept was chanting something which the child repeated. The picture was signed with Oriental symbols placed in one corner. Then the painter made a gesture of great fatigue, sighed very audibly and staggered into the rear room. He fell upon a sofa near the door and motioned to have the bandages removed. I removed some, assisted by his wife, who brought him a glass of water. The cotton was in its place as far as I could see. His eyes remained closed after they were uncovered, and his attitude was that of a man who had fainted. His wife held the water to his lips, and then, lifting each of his eyelids, blew into them. Then the Mage arose and, complaining of fatigue, resumed his seat behind the table. Shading his eyes with his hand, he looked toward the canvas, saying: ‘Behold the house in Thibet where I was initiated into the mysteries of the Mahatmas.’

“After the exhibition of ‘double vision’ De Sarak performed the cigarette paper test. {269}

“He concluded the séance with a brief speech, in which he stated that it was customary to take up a collection for charity at each meeting. A small cloth bag was passed by one of the women. The secretary announced that $1.62 had been realized. Then the president pounded with her gavel and adjourned the meeting. The secretary ushered us to the door, and we went out into the darkness.

“Such were the miracles of the adept Albert de Sarak, Comte de Das, and such was his propaganda.”

V.

Is it not strange that people can take such performances seriously? The cigarette test—an old one—and familiar to every schoolboy who dabbles in legerdemain, was a mere trick, dependent upon clever substitution and palming. The absurd splatterdash which the Mage painted while blindfolded had nothing of Thibetan architecture about it, but resembled a ruined castle on the Rhine. That he was able to peep beneath his bandages at one stage of the proceedings seems to me evident. He perhaps arranged this while kissing and fondling the little child. Long practice, however, would enable him to paint roughly while his eyes were bandaged. The horse episode was of course a pre-arranged affair, yet I admit it was very well worked up and gave one a creepy feeling—thanks to the _mise en scéne_. But the Comte de Sarak has other occult phenomena up his sleeve, which I have not yet witnessed—among them being the shattering of a pane of glass by pronouncing the words, “Forward, ever forward”; the instantaneous production of vegetation from the seed; and the immediate development of fish from spawn. He doubtless owes much of his notoriety to the newspapers, which herald his alleged feats of magic in sensational style.

A few months after my séance at the adept’s house, the Washington papers announced the fact that the Count de Sarak, the famous magician, was projecting a personally conducted tour to the Orient for the members of his cult and all those who were {270} interested in occultism. The pilgrims were to visit the inaccessible shrines, pagodas, crypts, and lamaseries of the East, under the ciceronage of the Count, who doubtless was to break down for them by sheer force of will the fluidic barriers that surround Lhassa, Thibet, where dwell the Mahatmas, in order that the tourists might penetrate into the sacred city.

I never heard of anybody leaving Washington to go on this expedition, except the Count—and he, I understand, got no farther than New York City, where the French _table d’hôte_ abounds, and magic and mystery are chiefly to be studied in the recipes of French _chefs de cuisine_.

{271}

MAGICIANS I HAVE MET.

“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?

II.

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.”

III.

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.”

IV.

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}

{280}

V.

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.

(Mr. Wm. G. Robinson.)]

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.

The _Despatch_ said: “The destination of the challenge money remains in abeyance, and the questions arise: ‘Did Foo fool Soo? And can Soo sue Foo?’ ” {284}

The merits of this interesting mix-up are thus summed up by Mr. John N. Hilliard, in an editorial published in the _Sphinx_, Kansas City, Mo., March 15, 1905:

“While we do not take the controversy with undue seriousness, there is an ethical aspect in the case, however, that invites discussion. In commenting disparagingly on the professional ability of the Chinese conjurer, in belittling his originality and his achievements in the magic arts, Mr. Robinson (Chung Ling Soo) is really throwing stones at his own crystal dwelling place. Despite the glowing presentments of his press agent, one single naked truth shines out as clearly as a frosty star in a turquoise sky. It is violating no confidence to assert that had it not been for Ching Ling Foo, the professional status of Mr. William E. Robinson, masquerading as a Chinaman, and adopting the sobriquet of ‘Chung Ling Soo,’ would be more or less of a negative quantity to-day. Ching Ling Foo, the genuine Chinaman, is indisputably the originator, so far as the Western hemisphere is concerned, at least, of this peculiar act, and Robinson is merely an imitator. Robinson is shrewd and has a ‘head for business.’ He doubtless realizes, as well as his critics, that in the dress of the modern magician he would not be unqualifiedly successful, despite his skill with cards and coins and his knowledge of the art. The success of Ching Ling Foo in this country was his opportunity. Adopting the dress and make-up of a Mongolian, and appropriating the leading features of Ching’s act, he went to Europe, where the act was a novelty, and scored a great success. Of course, from a utilitarian point of view, this success is legitimate; but in the light of what the American magician really owes to the great Chinese conjurer, it is ridiculous for Robinson to pose as ‘the original Chinese magician,’ and for him to say that Ching Ling Foo is ‘a performer of the streets,’ while he is the ‘court magician to the Empress Dowager.’ This may be good showmanship, but it is not fair play. The devil himself is entitled to his due; and, the question of merit aside, the indubitable fact remains that it is Ching Ling Foo who is the ‘original Chinese magician,’ while ‘Chung Ling Soo’ is an imitator of his act and a usurper in the Oriental kingdom. {285} But outside of the ethical nature of the controversy, we refuse to take it seriously.”

Robinson calls himself “Chung Ling Soo, he of the One Button [mandarin], Royal Chinese Conjurer.” Chung Ling Soo, in the vernacular of Confucius, means Double Luck, or extra good luck. Wherever he goes he puts on exhibition in the lobby of the theatre the resplendent robes of his ancestors—“a piece of sacrilege,” says an English paper, “no Chinaman the world has ever known has been guilty of before. Some of the exhibits are from the Imperial palace at Pekin.” These gorgeous garments were doubtless purchased in some Chinese bazaar in London. According to a Holloway journal, Robinson is the possessor of a wonderful collection of Oriental embroideries, carvings, armor, and swords, and last but not least, “a splendid {286} palanquin which cost the Chinese equivalent of 1,000 guineas. It was presented to him by the late Dowager Empress of China, and is constructed of solid ebony inlaid with gold and precious stones.” In this palanquin, Robinson comes on the stage to perform his bullet-catching feat, supposed to be a replica of a similar adventure when he was attacked by “Boxers” in China. This is Herrmann’s old trick, with an Oriental setting. Some years ago, a German-American wizard, Prof. Mingus, invented a method of catching live gold fish on the end of a line fixed to an ordinary bamboo fishing rod. The line being cast in the air, a gold fish appeared dangling upon the hook. The fish was then thrown into a bowl of water and shown to the audience. Several fish were caught in this manner. Robinson adopted this trick with great success. Pestered to death for an explanation of the mystery by his journalistic friends, he finally condescended to explain (?) it. He thus described it in the _News of the World_, Holloway, England, April 9, 1905:

“Anyone may know how Chung does the goldfish trick, but it does not follow that having been told one can do it. When Chung Ling Soo makes casts in the air with his rod and line, little Suce Seen, the Celestial handmaiden, stands meekly some yards away, holding a glass bowl of water. The hook is a powerful magnet, and if one could examine the goldfish caught, one would detect pieces of metal attached to the bodies of the finny captures. The live goldfish repose in little Suce Seen’s sleeve, and when a more than usually skillful cast brings the magnetic bait for a second into the interior of the girl’s sleeve, a ‘catch’ has at once been effected, and the fish is seen dangling and wriggling in the air at the end of the line.”

It is needless to remark that this is a _fish story_. Chung Ling Soo is romancing. The gold fish are concealed in the handle of the rod. The fish that appears on the hook at each cast of the line is an imitation affair of silk, which is hidden in the hollow lead sinker. A substitution is made, and the real fish thrown into the bowl by the conjurer. The dainty little Chinese maiden (Mrs. Robinson) has nothing more to do with the trick than the people in the audience. She merely holds the bowl and looks cute.

The following is a sample of some of the nonsense published {287} about Robinson, taken from the _Weekly Despatch_, April 9, 1905:

“Chung Ling Soo rose from the ranks, and his fame as a sorcerer penetrated to the Chinese Empress Dowager, who commanded him to court, where, after years of service, he was promoted to many Celestial honors, and ultimately the rank of Mandarin was bestowed upon him. His skin is yellow, his eyes are black and oblique, and his teeth are absolutely inky, as all true Celestials of rank should be.” Any one acquainted with the art of stage “make-up” knows how easily these facial effects can be produced. There is even a black paste for the teeth. I don’t doubt this much of the journalist’s story—but the “Celestial honors” and the “rank of Mandarin”—shade of the illustrious Münchausen preserve us! Poor old Ching Ling Foo, the original Chinaman, has doubtless devoted his ingenious rival and “foreign devil” to the innumerable hells of the Chinese Buddhists.

So much for the Oriental ancestry of my old friend, Billy Robinson, the “One Button Man” of the Celestial Empire (Theatre of London, England).

Robinson is the inventor of the clever stage illusion “Gone,” which Herrmann exhibited, and which still forms one of the principal specialties of Kellar. I am indebted to my friend, Henry V. A. Parsell, for an accurate description of the trick, as at present worked by Mr. Kellar.

“At the rise of the curtain the stage is seen to have its rear part concealed by a second curtain and drapery, which, being drawn up, discloses a substantial framework. This framework, at the first glance, gives one the impression that it is that horrible instrument of death, the guillotine. As will be seen, it consists simply of two uprights, with a bar across the top and another a little below the middle. Just below the centre bar is a windlass, the two ropes of which pass through two pulleys fixed to the top bar. The machine stands out boldly against a black background, the distance from which is indeterminate.

“After the introduction of the fair maiden ‘who is to be gone,’ an ordinary looking bent wood chair is shown. The chair is then placed on the stage behind the framework, and by means of snap hooks the two ropes from the windlass are attached {288} to the side of the chair. The maiden is now seated in the chair and her skirt adjusted that it may not hang too low.

“A couple of assistants now work the windlass and elevate the chair and its occupant until they are well above the middle cross bar. One assistant then retires, the other remains with one hand resting against the side of the framework. The performer fires his pistol thrice, upon which the maiden vanishes and the {289} fragments of the chair fall to the ground. The illusion is produced by a black curtain which lies concealed behind the middle cross bar. When the pistol is fired, the assistant, whose hand is on the frame, presses a spring which releases this black curtain which is instantly drawn up in front of the suspended girl. At this same moment the girl undoes a couple of catches which allow the main part of the chair to drop. She, meanwhile, being seated on a false chair-bottom to which the ropes are attached.”

As originally devised by Mr. Robinson, the illusion was based upon the Pepper ghost-show. Between the cross-bars of a slanting frame was a sheet of plate glass which, being invisible, left the lady on the chair in full view as long as the light fell upon her. A screen of the same color as the background was concealed above the curtain and placed at such an angle as to allow its reflection to pass out to the audience. The firing of the pistol was the signal for the assistant to turn a switch. The lady was then veiled in relative darkness while the screen was illuminated and its reflection on the plate glass concealed her from sight. Carrying around the country a big sheet of plate glass is not only an expensive luxury but a risky one, so the illusion was simplified in the manner described by Mr. Parsell.

VI.

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.

Showing the girl’s head covered with a black hood—The girl acting for the head falling to her knees.]