THE OLD AND THE NEW MAGIC,
by Henry Ridgely Evans.

MIEUSEMENT, phot. à Blois; LECESNE, éditeur

ROBERT-HOUDIN

THE OLD AND THE NEW

MAGIC

BY

HENRY RIDGELY EVANS

ILLUSTRATED

D’rum hab’

ich mich der

Magie ergeben!

INTRODUCTION

BY

DR. PAUL CARUS

CHICAGO

THE OPEN COURT PUBLISHING CO.

KEGAN PAUL, TRENCH, TRÜBNER & CO., LIMITED. LONDON

1906

COPYRIGHT 1906

BY

THE OPEN COURT PUBLISHING CO.

CHICAGO

SKETCH OF HENRY RIDGELY EVANS.

“Henry Ridgely Evans, journalist, author and librarian, was born in Baltimore, Md., November 7, 1861. He is the son of Henry Cotheal and Mary (Garrettson) Evans. Through his mother he is descended from the old colonial families of Ridgely, Dorsey, Worthington and Greenberry, which played such a prominent part in the annals of early Maryland. Mr. Evans was educated at the preparatory department of Georgetown (D. C.) College and at Columbian College, Washington, D. C. He studied law at the University of Maryland, and began its practice in Baltimore City; but abandoned the legal profession for the more congenial avocation of journalism. He served for a number of years as special reporter and dramatic critic on the ‘Baltimore News,’ and subsequently became connected with the U. S. Bureau of Education, as one of the assistant librarians. In 1891 he was married to Florence, daughter of Alexander Kirkpatrick, of Philadelphia.”—National Cyclopedia of American Biography.

Mr. Evans is an ardent student of folk-lore, masonic antiquities, psychical research, and occultism. Many of his writings have been contributed to the Monist and Open Court. He is the author of a work on psychical research, entitled “Hours with the Ghosts,” published in 1897, and many brochures on magic and mysticism, etc.

TABLE OF CONTENTS

THE OLD AND THE NEW MAGIC

INTRODUCTION. BY DR. PAUL CARUS.

The very word magic has an alluring sound, and its practice as an art will probably never lose its attractiveness for people’s minds. But we must remember that there is a difference between the old magic and the new, and that both are separated by a deep chasm, which is a kind of color line, for though the latter develops from the former in a gradual and natural course of evolution, they are radically different in principle, and the new magic is irredeemably opposed to the assumptions upon which the old magic rests.

Magic originally meant priestcraft. It is probable that the word is very old, being handed down to us from the Greeks and Romans, who had received it from the Persians. But they in their turn owe it to the Babylonians, and the Babylonians to the Assyrians, and the Assyrians to the Sumero-Akkadians.

Imga in Akkad meant priest, and the Assyrians changed the word to maga, calling their high-priest Rab-mag; and considering the fact that the main business of priests in ancient times consisted in exorcising, fortune-telling, miracle-working, and giving out oracles, it seems justifiable to believe that the Persian term, which in its Latin version is magus, is derived from the Chaldæan and is practically the same; for the connotation of a wise man endowed with supernatural powers has always been connected with the word magus, and even to-day magician means wizard, sorcerer, or miracle-worker. {x}

While the belief in, and practice of, magic are not entirely absent in the civilization of Israel, we find that the leaders of orthodox thought had set their faces against it, at least as it appeared in its crudest form, and went so far as to persecute sorcerers with fire and sword.

SAUL AND THE WITCH OF ENDOR. (After Schnorr von Carolsfeld.)

We read in the Bible that when the Lord “multiplied his signs” in Egypt, he sent Moses and Aaron to Pharaoh to turn their rods into serpents, that the Egyptian magicians vied with them in the performance, but that Aaron’s rod swallowed up their rods, demonstrating thus Aaron’s superiority. It is an interesting fact that the snake charmers of Egypt perform to-day a similar feat, which consists in paralyzing a snake so as to render it motionless. The snake then looks like a stick, but is not rigid. {xi}

JESUS CASTING OUT DEVILS (After Schnorr von Carolsfeld.)

Symbolizing Christ’s power even over demons, according to the view of early Christianity.

CHRIST WITH THE WAND.

From a Christian Sarcophagus.†

† Reproduced from Mrs. Jameson’s and Lady Eastlake’s History of our Lord, London, 1872, Longmans, Green & Co., Vol. I., pp. 347 and 349.

{xii}

How tenacious the idea is that religion is and must be magic, appears from the fact that even Christianity shows traces of it. In fact, the early Christians (who, we must remember, recruited their ranks from the lowly in life) looked upon Christ as a kind of magician, and all his older pictures show him with a magician’s wand in his hand. The resurrection of Lazarus, the change of water into wine, the miracle of the loaves and fishes, the healing of diseases by casting out devils, and kindred miracles, according to the notions of those centuries, are performed after the fashion of sorcerers.

The adjoined illustration, one of the oldest representations of Christ, has been reproduced from Rossi’s Roma Sotterranea (II, Table 14). It is a fresco of the catacombs, discovered in the St. Callisto Chapel, and is dated by Franz Xaver Kraus (Geschichte der christlichen Kunst, I, p. 153) at the beginning of the third century. Jesus holds in his left hand the scriptures, while his right hand grasps the wand with which he performs the miracle. Lazarus is represented as a mummy, while one of his sisters kneels at the Saviour’s feet.

Goethe introduces the belief in magic into the very plot of Faust. In his despair at never finding the key to the world-problem in science, which, as he thinks, does not offer what we need, but useless truisms only, Faust hopes to find the royal road to knowledge by supernatural methods. He says:

“Therefore, from Magic I seek assistance,

That many a secret perchance I reach

Through spirit-power and spirit-speech,

And thus the bitter task forego

Of saying the things I do not know,—

That I may detect the inmost force

Which binds the world, and guides its course;

Its germs, productive powers explore,

And rummage in empty words no more!”

{xiii}

MOSES AND AARON PERFORMING THE MIRACLE OF THE SERPENTS BEFORE PHARAOH

(After Schnorr von Carolsfeld.)

THE EGYPTIAN SNAKE NAJA HAJE MADE MOTIONLESS BY PRESSURE UPON THE NECK

(Reproduced from Verworn after Photographs.)

{xiv}

Faust follows the will o’ the wisp of pseudo-science, and so finds his efforts to gain useful knowledge balked. He turns agnostic and declares that we cannot know anything worth knowing. He exclaims:

“That which we do not know is dearly needed;

And what we need we do not know.”

And in another place:

“I see that nothing can be known.”

But, having acquired a rich store of experience, Faust, at the end of his career, found out that the study of nature is not a useless rummage in empty words, and became converted to science. His ideal is a genuinely scientific view of nature. He says:

“Not yet have I my liberty made good:

So long as I can’t banish magic’s fell creations

And totally unlearn the incantations.

Stood I, O Nature, as a man in thee,

Then were it worth one’s while a man to be.

And such was I ere I with the occult conversed,

And ere so wickedly the world I cursed.”

To be a man in nature and to fight one’s way to liberty is a much more dignified position than to go lobbying to the courts of the celestials and to beg of them favors. Progress does not pursue a straight line, but moves in spirals or epicycles. Periods of daylight are followed by nights of super­sti­tion. So it happened that in the first and second decades of the nineteenth century the rationalism of the eighteenth century waned, not to make room for a higher rationalism, but to suffer the old bugbears of ghosts and hobgoblins to reappear in a reactionary movement. Faust (expressing here Goethe’s own ideas) continues:

“Now fills the air so many a haunting shape,

That no one knows how best he may escape.

What though the day with rational splendor beams,

The night entangles us in webs of dreams.

By super­sti­tion constantly ensnared,

It spooks, gives warnings, is declared.

Intimidated thus we stand alone.

The portal jars, yet entrance is there none.”

{xv}

The aim of man is his liberty and independence. As soon as we understand that there are no spooks that must be conciliated by supplications and appeased, but that we stand in nature from which we have grown in constant interaction between our own aspirations and the natural forces regulated by law, we shall have confidence in our own faculties, which can be increased by investigation and a proper comprehension of conditions, and we shall no longer look beyond but around. Faust says:

“A fool who to the Beyond his eyes directeth

And over the clouds a place of peers detecteth.

Firm must man stand and look around him well,

The world means something to the capable.”

This manhood of man, to be gained by science through the conquest of all magic, is the ideal which the present age is striving to attain, and the ideal has plainly been recognized by leaders of human progress. The time has come for us “to put away childish things,” and to relinquish the beliefs and practices of the medicine-man.

The old magic is sorcery, or, considering the impossibility of genuine sorcery, the attempt to practise sorcery. It is based upon the pre-scientific world-conception, which in its primitive stage is called animism, imputing to nature a spiritual life analogous to our own spirit, and peopling the world with individual personalities, spirits, ghosts, goblins, gods, devils, ogres, gnomes and fairies. The old magic stands in contrast to science; it endeavors to transcend human knowledge by supernatural methods and is based upon the hope of working miracles by the assistance of invisible presences or intelligences, who, according to this belief, could be forced or coaxed by magic into an alliance. The savage believes that the evil influence of the powers of nature can be averted by charms or talismans, and their aid procured by proper incantations, conjurations and prayers.

The world-conception of the savage is long-lingering, and its influence does not subside instantaneously with the first appearance of science. The Middle Ages are full of magic, and the belief in it has not died out to this day.

The old magic found a rival in science and has in all its aspects, in religion as well as in occultism, in mysticism and obscurantism, treated science as its hereditary enemy. It is now {xvi} succumbing in the fight, but in the meantime a new magic has originated and taken the place of the old, performing miracles as wonderful as those of the best conjurers of former days, nay, more wonderful; yet these miracles are accomplished with the help of science and without the least pretense of supernatural power.

The new magic originated from the old magic when the belief in sorcery began to break down in the eighteenth century, which is the dawn of rationalism and marks the epoch since which mankind has been systematically working out a scientific world-conception.

In primitive society religion is magic, and priests are magicians. The savage would think that if the medicine-man could not work miracles there would be no use for religion. Religion, however, does not disappear with the faith in the medicine-man’s power. When magic becomes discredited by science, religion is purified. We must know, though, that religious reforms of this kind are not accomplished at once, but come on gradually in slow process of evolution, first by disappointment and then in exultation at the thought that the actualities of science are higher, nobler and better than the dreams of super­sti­tion, even if they were possible, and thus it appears that science comes to fulfil, not to destroy.

Science has been pressed into the service of magic by ancient pagan priests, who utilized mechanical contrivances in their temples to impress the credulous with the supernatural power of their gods.

The magic lantern, commonly supposed to be an invention of the Jesuit Kircher, in 1671, must have been secretly known among the few members of the craft of scientific magic at least as early as the end of the middle ages, for we have an old drawing, which is here reproduced, showing that it was employed in warfare as a means of striking terror in the ranks of the enemy. We have no information as to the success of the stratagem, but we may assume that in the days of a common belief in witchcraft and absolute ignorance of the natural sciences, it must have been quite effective with super­sti­tious soldiers {xvii}

MAGIC LANTERN OF JOHANNES DE FONTANA,
ABOUT 1420.

[The apparatus is quite crude in comparison with modern instruments of the same kind. It possesses no lens, the picture being drawn in an upright position upon cylindrical glass, presumably blackened with the exception of the figure. So far as known this is the oldest record of the use of the magic lantern.

Fontana’s lantern was used, as F. M. Feldhaus informs us (Gartenlaube, 1905, Nov. 23, p. 848) by the encignerius or antwere maister, i. e., the master of siege and fortress defenses, who from an appropriate hiding-place projected the image upon a convenient wall in the outside works of a fort so as to let assailants unexpectedly be confronted with the hideous form of a demon.]

{xviii}

While magic as super­sti­tion and as fraud is doomed, magic as an art will not die. Science will take hold of it and permeate it with its own spirit, changing it into scientific magic which is destitute of all mysticism, occultism and super­sti­tion, and comes to us as a witty play for our recreation and diversion.

It is an extraordinary help to a man to be acquainted with the tricks of pre­sti­di­gi­ta­teurs, and we advise parents not to neglect this phase in the education of their children. The present age is laying the basis of a scientific world-conception, and it is, perhaps, not without good reasons that it has produced quite a literature on the subject of modern magic.

It might seem that if the public became familiar with the methods of the magicians who give public entertainments, their business would be gone. But this is not the case. As a peep behind the scenes and a knowledge of the machinery of the stage only help us to appreciate scenic effects, so an insight into the tricks of the pre­sti­di­gi­ta­teur will only serve to whet our appetite for seeing him perform his tricks. The pre­sti­di­gi­ta­teur will be forced to improve his tricks before an intelligent audience; he will be obliged to invent new methods, but not to abandon his art.

Moreover, it is not the trick alone that we admire, but the way in which it is performed. Even those who know how things can be made to disappear by sleight of hand, must confess that they always found delight in seeing the late Alexander Herrmann, whenever he began a soirée, take off his gloves, roll them up and make them vanish as if into nothingness.

It is true that magic in the old sense is gone; but that need not be lamented. The coarseness of Cagliostro’s frauds has given way to the elegant display of scientific inventiveness and an adroit use of human wit. Traces of the religion of magic are still prevalent to-day, and it will take much patient work before the last remnants of it are swept away. The notions of magic still hold in bondage the minds of the uneducated and half-educated, and even the leaders of progress feel themselves now and then hampered by ghosts and super­sti­tions.

We believe that the spread of modern magic and its proper comprehension are an important sign of progress, and in this {xix} sense the feats of our Kellars and Herrmanns are a work of religious significance. They are instrumental in dispelling the fogs of super­sti­tion by exhibiting to the public the astonishing but natural miracles of the art of legerdemain; and while they amuse and entertain they fortify the people in their conviction of the reliability of science.

ZÖLLNER’S ILLUSION

In speaking of modern magic, we refer to the art of the pre­sti­di­gi­ta­teur, and exclude from its domain the experiments of hypnotism as well as the vulgar lies of fraud. There is no magic in the psychosis of an hysterical subject, who at the hypnotizer’s suggestion becomes the prey of hal­luc­i­na­tions; nor is there any art in the deceptions of the fortune-teller, whose business will vanish when the public ceases to be credulous and super­sti­tious. The former is a disease, the latter mostly fraud. Magic proper (i. e., the artifices of pre­sti­di­gi­ta­tion) is produced by a combination of three factors: (1) legerdemain proper, or sleight of hand; (2) psy­cho­log­i­cal illusions, and (3) surprising feats of natural science with clever concealment of their true causes. The success of almost every trick depends upon the introduction of these three factors.

The throwing of cards is mere dexterity; Zöllner’s famous figures of parallel lines having an apparent inclination toward {xx} one another is a pure sense-illusion (see cut here reproduced); so is the magical swing; while fire-eating (or better, fire-breathing) is a purely physical experiment. But it goes without saying that there is scarcely any performance of genuine pre­sti­di­gi­ta­tion which is not a combination of all three elements. The production of a bowl of water with living fishes in it is a combination of dexterity with psychology.

The trick with the glass dial (which is now exhibited by both Mr. Kellar and Mr. Herrmann, the nephew of the late Alexander Herrmann) is purely physical. The machinery used by them is entirely different, but in either case no sleight of hand nor any psy­cho­log­i­cal diversion is needed, except in letting the accomplice behind the stage know the number to which he should point.

As an instance of a wonderful trick which is a mere sense-illusion we mention the magic swing, which is explained by Albert A. Hopkins in his comprehensive book on magic[1] as follows:

“Those who are to participate in the apparent gyrations of the swing—and there may be quite a number who enjoy it simultaneously—are ushered into a small room. From a bar crossing the room, near the ceiling, hangs a large swing, which is provided with seats for a number of people. After the people have taken their places, the attendant pushes the car and it starts into oscillation like any other swing. The room door is closed. Gradually those in it feel after three or four movements that their swing is going rather high, but this is not all. The apparent amplitude of the oscillations increases more and more, until presently the whole swing seems to whirl completely over, describing a full circle about the bar on which it hangs. To make the thing more utterly mysterious, the bar is bent crank fashion, the swing continues apparently to go round and round this way, imparting a most weird sensation to the occupants, until its movements begin gradually to cease and the complete rotation is succeeded by the usual back and forth swinging. The door of the room is opened, and the swinging party leave. Those who have tried it say the sensation is most peculiar.

“The illusion is based on the movements of the room proper. During the entire exhibition the swing is practically stationary, while the room rotates about the suspending bar. At the beginning of operations the swing may be given a slight push; the operators outside the room then begin to swing the room itself, which is really a large box journaled on the swing bar, starting {xxi} it off to correspond with the movements of the swing. They swing it back and forth, increasing the arc through which it moves until it goes so far as to make a complete rotation. The operatives do this without special machinery, taking hold of the sides and corners of the box or ‘room.’ At this time the people in the swing imagine that the room is stationary while they are whirling through space. After keeping this up for some time, the movement is brought gradually to a stop, a sufficient number of back and forth swings being given at the finale to carry out the illusion to the end.

[1] MAGIC, STAGE ILLUSIONS, AND SCIENTIFIC DIVERSIONS, INCLUDING TRICK PHOTOGRAPHY. Compiled and edited by Albert A. Hopkins. With 400 illustrations. New York: Munn & Co. 1898.

ILLUSION PRODUCED BY A RIDE IN THE SWING

{xxii}

TRUE POSITION OF THE SWING

“The room is as completely furnished as possible, everything being, of course, fastened in place. What is apparently a kerosene lamp stands on a table, near at hand. It is securely fastened to the table, which in its turn is fastened to the floor, and the light is supplied by a small incandescent lamp within the chimney, but concealed by the shade. The visitor never imagines that it is an electric lamp, and naturally thinks that it would be impossible for a kerosene lamp to be inverted without disaster, so that this adds to the deception materially. The same is to be said of the pictures hanging on the {xxiii} wall, of the cupboard full of chinaware, of the chair with a hat on it, and of the baby carriage. All contribute to the mystification. Even though one is informed of the secret before entering the swing, the deception is said to be so complete that passengers involuntarily seize the arms of the seats to avoid being precipitated below.”

The illusion is purely an instance of misguided judgment, which is commonly but erroneously called illusion of the senses, and belongs to the same category as the well-known Zöllner figures mentioned above and consisting of heavy lines crossed slantingly by lighter lines. The heavy lines are parallel but appear to diverge in the direction of the slant.

THE SWORD-TRICK.

Another very ingenious trick consists in apparently stabbing a man to death, the bloody end of the sword appearing at the back, yet leaving the man uninjured. Since the audience naturally will suspect that the point emerging from the back is not the true end of the sword, the trick has been altered to the effect of replacing the sword with a big needle (A), having tape threaded through its eye. When the assassin’s needle has passed through the victim, it can be pulled out at the other side, together with the tape, where it appears reddened with blood. The stabbing, when performed quickly, before the spectator begins to {xxiv} notice that the blade is somewhat reduced in size, is most startling, and makes a deep impression on the audience; but the artifice through which the manipulation is rendered possible is very simple. The sword, or needle, used for the purpose, is made of a very thin and flexible plate of steel, sufficiently blunt to prevent it from doing any harm. The victim, as if trying to ward off the dangerous weapon, takes hold of it and causes it to slip into the opening of a concealed sheath (B), which he carries strapped around his body, whereupon the assassin makes his thrust. The interior of the sheath contains a red fluid, which dyes the blade and helps to make the deception complete. The accompanying illustration sufficiently explains the performance.

While the performance of magical tricks is an art, the observation of them and also their description is a science, presupposing a quick and critical eye, of which very few people are possessed; and scientists by profession are sometimes the least fit persons to detect the place and mode of the deception.

How differently different persons watch the same events becomes apparent when we compare Professor Zöllner’s reports of spiritualistic séances with those of other more critical wit­nes­ses. Pro­fessor Zöllner, for instance, writes (Wis­sen­schaft­liche Ab­handl., Vol. III, p. 354) in his description of one of the experiments with the famous American medium, Dr. Slade, that Professor Fechner’s chair was lifted up about half a foot above the ground, while Dr. Slade touched the back of it lightly with his hand, and he emphasizes that his colleague, after hovering some time in the air, was suddenly dropped with great noise. The event as thus described is mystifying. However, when we carefully compare Professor Fechner’s account, we come to the conclusion that the whole proceeding is no longer miraculous, but could be repeated by pre­sti­di­gi­ta­teurs. Fechner writes that at the request of Dr. Slade, he himself (Professor Fechner), who was slim and light, took the place of Professor Braune. Dr. Slade turned round to Professor Fechner and bore his chair upward in a way which is not at all inexplicable by the methods of legerdemain. Professor Fechner does not mention that he hovered for some time in the air, but it is obvious that Dr. Slade {xxv} made the two professors change seats because he would scarcely have had the strength to lift up the heavy Professor Braune.

PROFESSOR ZÖLLNER AND DR. SLADE. (From Willmann.)

Similarly, the accounts of the famous painter, Gabriel Max, who also attended some of Slade’s séances with Zöllner, make the performances of the medium appear in a less wonderful light. {xxvi}

Mr. Carl Willmann, a manufacturer of magical apparatus at Hamburg, and the author of several books on modern magic, publishes a circumstantial description of Professor Zöllner’s double slates used in séances with Dr. Slade, which are now in possession of Dr. Borcherdt of Hamburg, who bought them, with other objects of interest, from the estate of the deceased Professor Zöllner. The seals of these slates are by no means so intact as not to arouse the suspicion that they have been tampered with. To a superficial inspection they appear unbroken, but the sealing wax shows vestiges of finger marks, and Mr. Willmann has not the slightest doubt that the slates were opened underneath the seals with a thin heated wire, and that the seals were afterwards replaced.

THE OPENING OF SLADE’S SLATE BY MEANS OF A HEATED WIRE.
(After Willmann.)

Professor Zöllner, the most famous victim of the bold medium, lacked entirely the necessary critical faculty, and became an easy prey of fraud. One of his colleagues, a professor of surgery in the University of Leipsic, had entered upon a bet with Professor Zöllner that a slate carefully sealed and watched by himself could not be written upon by spirits; he had left the slate in Professor Zöllner’s hands in the confidence that the latter would use all necessary precautions. Professor Zöllner, however, not finding Dr. Slade at home, saw nothing wrong in leaving the sealed slate at the medium’s residence and thus allowing it to pass for an indefinite time out of his own control, thinking that the seals were a sufficient protection. It goes without saying that his colleague at once cancelled the bet and took no more interest in the experiment. {xxvii}

The foot and hand prints which Dr. Slade produced were apparently made from celluloid impressions, which could easily be carried about and hidden in the pocket. This explains why these vestiges of the spirit were not of the size of Dr. Slade’s hands or feet.

Mr. Willmann calls attention to the fact that the footprints, as published by Professor Zöllner, were made from feet whose stockings had been removed but a few moments before, for they still show the meshes of the knitting which quickly disappear as soon as the skin of the foot grows cold. Professor Zöllner did not see such trifles, and yet they are important, even if it were for the mere purpose of determining whether the spirits wear stockings made in Germany or America.

The accounts of travelers are, as a rule, full of extravagant praise of the accomplishments of foreign magicians; thus, the feats of our American Indians are almost habitually greatly exaggerated. The same is true in a greater measure of fakirs and Hindu magicians. Recent accounts of a famous traveler are startling, but the problem is not whether or not what he tells is true (for only a little dose of good judgment is sufficient to recognize their impossibility), but whether or not he believes his tales himself. The problem is neither physical nor historical as to the reality of the events narrated; the problem is purely psy­cho­log­i­cal as to his own state of mind.

The primitive simplicity of the methods of the Hindu jugglers and the openness of the theatre where they perform their tricks cause wonderment to those who are not familiar with the methods of legerdemain. Mr. Willmann, who had occasion to watch Hindu magicians, says in his book, Moderne Wunder, page 3: “After a careful investigation, it becomes apparent that the greatest miracles of Indian conjurers are much more insignificant than they appear in the latest reports of travelers. The descriptions which in our days men of science have furnished about the wonderful tricks of fakirs, have very little value in the shape in which they are rendered. If they, for instance, speak with admiration about the invisible growth of a flower before their very eyes, produced from the seed deposited by a fakir in {xxviii} a flower-pot, they prove only that even men of science can be duped by a little trick the practice of which lies without the pale of their own experience.”

Eye-witnesses whose critical capacities are a safeguard against imposition, relate more plausible stories. John T. McCutcheon describes the famous trick of growing a mango tree, as follows:

“The further away from India one is the greater appears the skill of these Hindu magicians. How often have we read the traveler’s tales about the feats of Indian jugglers, and how eagerly we have looked forward to the time when we might behold them and be spellbound with amazement and surprise. When I first saw the Indian juggler beginning the preparations for the mango trick I was half prepared by the traveler’s tales to see a graceful tree spring quickly into life and subsequently see somebody climb it and pick quantities of nice, ripe mangoes. Nothing of the kind happened, as will be seen by the following description of the mango trick as it is really performed:

THE SINGALESE CONJURER BEN-KI-BEY.
(After Carl Willmann.)

“The juggler, with a big bag of properties, arrived on the scene and immediately began to talk excitedly, meanwhile unpacking various receptacles taken from the bag. He squatted down, piped a few notes on a wheezy reed whistle and the show began. From his belongings he took a little tin can about the size of a cove oyster can, filled it with dirt and saturated the dirt with water. Then he held up a mango seed to show that there was nothing concealed by his sleeves; counted ‘ek, do, tin, char,’ or ‘one, two, three, four,’ and imbedded the seed in the moist earth. He spread a large cloth over the can and several feet of circumjacent ground. Then he played a few more notes on his reed instrument and allowed the seed a few minutes in which to take root and develop into a glorious shade tree. While he was waiting he {xxix} unfolded some snakes from a small basket, took a mongoose from a bag and entertained his audience with a combat between the mongoose and one of the snakes.

“ ‘Ek, do, tin, char; one, two, three, four—plenty fight—very good mongoose—biga snake—four rupee mongoose—two rupee snake—mongoose fight snake. Look—gentlymans—plenty big fight.’

MODERN SNAKE CHARMERS. (From Brehm.)

“All this time the cloth remained peaceful and quiet, and there were no uneasy move­ments of its folds to indicate that the mango crop was flourishing. The juggler now turned his attention to it, however, poked his hands under the cloth, and after a few seconds of mysterious fumbling triumphantly threw off the cloth, and lo! there was a little bunch of leaves about as big as a sprig of water cress sticking up dejectedly from the damp earth. This was straightway deluged with some water and the cloth again thrown over it.

“Once more there was a diversion. This time an exhibition of a shell game, in which the juggler showed considerable dexterity in placing the little ball where you didn’t think it would be. Still the cloth revealed no disposition to bulge skyward, and a second time the juggler fumbled under it, talking hurriedly in Hindustani and making the occasion as interesting as possible. After much poking around he finally threw off the cloth with a glad cry, and there was a mango tree a foot high, with adult leaves which glistened with moisture. When his spectators had gazed at it for awhile he pulled the little tree up by the roots, and there was a mango seed attached, with the little sprouts springing out from it.

“The trick was over, the juggler’s harvest of rupees and annas began, and soon his crowd faded away. A few minutes later, from a half-hidden seat {xxx} on the hotel veranda, I saw the wizard over across the street, beneath the big shade trees, folding up the mango tree and tucking it compactly into a small bag.”[2]

To conjure ghosts has always been the highest ambition of performers of magical tricks, and we know that the magic lantern has been used for this purpose since mediæval days, but modern necromancy has been brought to perfection by Robertson and Pepper, through the invention of a simple contrivance, known under the name of Pepper’s ghost, by which impalpable specters become plainly visible to the astonished eyes of the spectators.

For a description of these performances, as well as many other feats in the same line, we refer to Mr. Evans’ fascinating explanations in the body of the present volume.

Tricks performed by mediums are in one respect quite different from the feats of pre­sti­di­gi­ta­teurs; if they come up to the standards, they are, or might be, based upon the psychic dispositions of people. Believers will gladly be caught in the traps set for them and are, as a rule, grateful for the deception, while determined unbelievers will either prove altogether hopeless or will become so bewildered as to be likely to become believers. Sleight of hand is always a valuable aid to the medium; but, as tricks pure and simple, mediumistic séances are not different from the performances of pre­sti­di­gi­ta­teurs, and differ only in this, that they claim to be done with the assistance of spirits. Mediums must be on the lookout and use different methods as the occasion may require. They produce rappings with their hands or their feet,[3] or with mechanical devices hidden in their shoes; neither do they scorn the use of rapping tables with concealed batteries and electric wires.

[2] Chicago Record, April 22, 1899.

[3] One of the Fox sisters could produce rappings through a peculiar construction of the bones of her foot, and Cumberland’s big toe was blessed with a tendon of its own, enabling him to rap the floor quite vigorously without being detected.

The instances here adduced are sufficient to show that even the most complete deceptions admit of explanations which, in many instances, are much simpler than the spectators think. {xxxi} Neither the marvelous feats of pre­sti­di­gi­ta­teurs nor the surprising revelations of mediums should shake our confidence in science or make us slaves of super­sti­tion. The success of modern magic, which accomplishes more than the old magic or sorcery ever did, is a sufficient guarantee of the reliability of reason, and even where “now we see through a glass darkly,” we must remain confident that when we grow in wisdom and comprehension we shall learn to see “face to face.”

THE CONJURER. (By Prof. W. Zimmer.)

For all these reasons, knowledge of magic and its history, the false pretenses of the old magic and the brilliant success of modern magic should have a place in our educational program. I do not advocate its introduction into schools, but would recommend parents to let their children become acquainted with the remarkable performances of the best and greatest among modern magicians. We all should know something of the general methods of magic, and some time in our lives witness the {xxxii} extraordinary feats, bordering on miracles, with which a pre­sti­di­gi­ta­teur can dazzle our eyes and misguide our judgment.

Modern magic is not merely a diversion or a recreation, but may become possessed of a deeper worth when it broadens our insight into the rich possibilities of mystification, while a peep behind the scenes will keep us sober and prevent us from falling a prey to super­sti­tion.

HISTORY OF
NATURAL MAGIC AND PRESTIDIGITATION.

“Therefore made I a decree to bring in all the wise men of Babylon before me. . . . Then came in the magicians, the astrologers, the Chaldeans, and the soothsayers.”—Dan. iv., 6–7.

“What, Sir! you dare to make so free,

And play your hocus-pocus on us!”

—GOETHE: Faust, Scene V.

I.

The art of natural magic dates back to the remotest antiquity. There is an Egyptian papyrus[4] in the British Museum which chronicles a magical seance given by a certain Tchatcha-em-ankh before King Khufu, B. C. 3766. The manuscript says of the wizard: “He knoweth how to bind on a head which hath been cut off; he knoweth how to make a lion follow him as if led by a rope; and he knoweth the number of the stars of the house (constellation) of Thoth.” It will be seen from this that the decapitation trick was in vogue ages ago, while the experiment with the lion, which is unquestionably a hypnotic feat, shows hypnotism to be very ancient indeed. Ennemoser, in his History of Magic, devotes considerable space to Egyptian thaumaturgy, especially to the wonders wrought by animal magnetism, which in the hands of the priestly hierarchy must have been miracles indeed to the uninitiated. All that was known of science was in {2} possession of the guardians of the temples, who frequently used their knowledge of natural phenomena to gain ascendancy over the ignorant multitude.

[4] Westcar papyrus, XVIII dynasty; about B. C. 1550. In this ancient manuscript are stories which date from the early empire. “They are as old,” says Budge (Egyptian Magic, London, 1899), “as the Great Pyramid.”

An acquaintance with stage machinery and the science of optics and acoustics was necessary to the production of the many marvelous effects exhibited. Every temple in Egypt and Greece was a veritable storehouse of natural magic. Thanks to ancient writers like Heron of Alexandria, Philo of Byzantium, and the Fathers of the early Christian Church, we are able to fathom some of the secrets of the old thaumaturgists. The magi of the temples were adepts in the art of phan­tas­ma­goria. In the ancient temple of Hercules at Tyre, Pliny states that there was a seat of consecrated stone “from which the gods easily rose.”

In the temple at Tarsus, Esculapius showed himself to the devout. Damascius says: “In a manifestation, which ought not to be revealed, . . . there appeared on the wall of a temple a mass of light, which at first seemed to be very remote; it transformed itself, in coming nearer, into a face evidently divine and supernatural, of severe aspect, but mixed with gentleness and extremely beautiful. According to the institutions of a mysterious religion the Alexandrians honored it as Osiris and Adonis.”

By means of concave mirrors, made of highly polished metal, the priests were able to project images upon walls, in the air, or upon the smoke arising from burning incense. In speaking of the art of casting specula of persons upon smoke, the ingenious Salverte says: “The Theurgists caused the appearance of the gods in the air in the midst of gaseous vapors disengaged from fire. Porphyrus admires this secret; Iamblichus censures the employment of it, but he confesses its existence and grants it to be worthy the attention of the inquirer after truth. The Theurgist Maximus undoubtedly made use of a secret analogous to this, when, in the fumes of the incense which he burned before the statute of Hecate, the image was seen to laugh so naturally as to fill the spectators with terror.”

A. Rich, in his Dictionary of Roman and Greek Antiquities, relates, under the heading of the word “Adytum,” that many of the ancient temples possessed chambers the existence of which was known only to the priests, and which served for the {3} production of their illusions. He visited one at Alba, upon the lake of Fucius. It was located amid the ruins of a temple, and was in a perfect state of preservation. This chamber of mysteries was formed under the apsis—that is to say, under the large semi-circular niche which usually sheltered the image of the god, at the far extremity of the edifice. “One part of this chamber,” says he, “is sunk beneath the pavement of the principal part of the temple (cella) and the other rises above it. The latter, then, must have appeared to the worshipers gathered together in the temple merely like a base that occupied the lower portion of the apsis, and that was designed to hold in an elevated position the statue of the god or goddess whose name was borne by the edifice. This sanctuary, moreover, had no door or visible com­mu­ni­ca­tion that opened into the body of the building. Entrance therein was effected through a secret door in an enclosure of walls at the rear of the temple. It was through this that the priests introduced themselves and their machinery without being observed by the hoi polloi. But there is one remarkable fact that proves beyond the shadow of a doubt the purpose of the adytum. One discovers here a number of tubes or pipes which pierce the walls between the hiding-place and the interior of the temple. These tubes debouch at different places in the partitions of the cella, and thus permit a voice to be heard in any part of the building, while the person and place from which the sound issues remain unknown to the auditors.”

Sometimes the adytum was simply a chamber situated behind the apsis, as in a small temple which was still in existence at Rome in the sixteenth century. An architect named Labbacco has left us a description of the edifice. Travelers who have visited the remains of the temple of Ceres, at Eleusis, have observed a curious fact. The pavement of the cella is rough and unpolished, and much lower than the level of the adjacent porch, thereby indicating that a wooden floor, on a level with the portico, covered the present floor, and hid from view a secret vault designed to operate the machinery that moved the flooring. This view is confirmed by vertical and horizontal grooves, and the holes constructed in the side walls. Similar contrivances existed in India. Philostratus, in his Life of Apollonius (1, III, {4} Ch. v), says: “The Indian sages conducted Apollonius toward the temple of their god, marching in solemn procession and singing sacred hymns. Occasionally they would strike the earth in cadence with their staves, whereupon the ground moved like a sea in turmoil, now rising with them to the height of almost two feet, then subsiding to its regular level.” The blows from the wands were evidently the cue for the concealed assistants to operate the machinery that moved the soil. Says Brown, in his Stellar Theology: “Among the buildings uncovered at Pompeii is a temple of Isis, which is a telltale of the mysteries of the Egyptian deity, for the secret stair which conducted the priests unseen to an opening back of the statue of the goddess, through whose marble lips pretended oracles were given and warnings uttered, now lies open to the day, and reveals the whole imposition.”

The Bible has preserved to us the story of the struggle of Daniel with the priests of Bel, in which the secret door played its part. The Hebrew prophet refused to worship the idol Bel, whereupon the King said to him: “Doth not Bel seem to thee to be a living god? Seest thou not how much he eateth and drinketh every day?” Then Daniel smiled and said: “O King, be not deceived; for this is but clay within and brass without, neither hath he eaten at any time.” The King sent for his priests and demanded the truth of them, declaring his intention of putting them to the sword should they fail to demonstrate the fact that the god really consumed the offerings of meat and wine. And the priests of Bel said: “Behold, we go out; and do thou, O King, set on the meats, and make ready the wine, and shut the door fast, and seal it with thy own ring. And when thou comest in the morning, if thou findest not that Bel hath eaten up all, we will suffer death, or else Daniel that hath lied against us.” And they “little regarded it, because they had made under the table a secret entrance, and they always came in by it, and consumed those things.”

Daniel detected the imposture in a very original manner. He caused ashes to be sifted upon the floor of the temple, whereby the footsteps of the false priests were made manifest to the enraged King of Babylon. {5}

One reads in Pausanias (Arcadia, 1 VIII, Ch. xvi) that at Jerusalem the sepulcher of a woman of that country, named Helena, had a door which was of marble like the rest of the monument, and that this door opened of itself on a certain day of the year, and at a certain hour, by means of concealed machinery, thus antedating our time-locks. Eventually it closed itself. “At any other time,” adds the author, “if you had desired to open it, you would have more easily broken it.”

When Aeneas went to consult the Cumæan Sibyl, the hundred doors of the sanctuary opened of themselves, in order that the oracle might be heard.

“Ostia jamque domus patuere ingentia centum

Sponte sua, vatisque ferunt responsa per auras.”

APPARATUS FOR BLOWING A TRUMPET ON OPENING A DOOR.

According to Pliny, the doors of the labyrinth of Thebes were constructed in such a manner that when they were opened a sound resembling that of thunder greeted the astonished worshipers.

Heron, in his Pneumatics, describes an apparatus for blowing a trumpet on opening the door of a temple, the effect of which must have been awe inspiring to the uninitiated common people.

It is hardly necessary to give a detailed translation of the text of the Greek engineer, as the modus operandi of the experiment is sufficiently explained by reference to the descriptive {6} picture. It will suffice to add: One sees that when the door of the temple is opened, a system of cords, rods and pulleys causes a hemispherical cap, to the upper part of which the trumpet is attached, to sink into a vase full of water. The air compressed by the water escapes through the instrument, causing it to sound.

MECHANISM WHICH CAUSED THE TEMPLE DOORS TO OPEN WHEN A FIRE WAS LIGHTED ON THE ALTAR.

Another remarkable device is described in the Pneumatics of Heron, and consists of an apparatus which is entitled: “Construction of a chapel wherein, when fire is lighted upon the altar, the doors open, and when it is extinguished, they close.” {7}

The altar is hollow, and when a fire is lighted thereon, the air contained in the interior expands and begins to press upon the water with which the globe situated beneath is filled. The water then rises through a bent tube which leads to a species of pot, into which it falls. The pot is suspended upon a cord which passes along a pulley, doubling immediately, in order to enroll itself about two cylinders, which turn upon pivots, said cylinders forming the prolongation of the axes upon which the doors above turn. Around the same cylinders are enrolled in a contrary manner, two other cords, which also unite into one before passing along a pulley, and then hanging vertically for the support of a counterpoise.

EGYPTIAN ALTAR

It is clear that when the water from the globe enters the pot, the weight of the latter will be augmented and it will sink, pulling upon the cord which has been wound about the cylinders {8} in such a way as to cause the doors to open, when it is drawn in this direction.

The doors close themselves in the following manner: The bent tube, which places in com­mu­ni­ca­tion the globe and the pot, forms a siphon, the longest branch of which plunges into the globe. When the fire is extinguished upon the altar, the air contained in the latter and in the globe, cools, and diminishes in volume. The water in the pot is then drawn into the globe, and the siphon, being thus naturally influenced, operates until the water in the pot has passed over into the globe. In measure as the pot lightens, it remounts under the constraint of the counterpoise, and the latter, in its descent, closes the doors through the intermedium of the cords wound around the cylinders.

HOW THE STATUES WERE MADE TO POUR LIBATIONS WHEN A FIRE WAS KINDLED ON THE ALTAR.

Heron says that mercury was sometimes used in place of water, by reason of its superior weight. {9}

Certain altars were provided with such mechanism as to afford to the faithful even more astonishing spectacles. Here is another experiment from the learned Heron:

“To construct an altar so that when one kindles the fire thereon, the statues which are at the sides shall pour out libations.”

There should be a pedestal, upon which are placed the statues, and an altar closed on all sides. The pedestal should communicate with the altar through a central tube, also with the statues by means of tubes, the ends of the latter terminating in cups held by the statues. Water is poured into the pedestal through a hole, which is stopped up immediately afterward.

If, then, a fire be kindled upon the altar, the air within expanding, will penetrate the pedestal and force out the water; but the latter, having no other outlet than the tubes, mounts into the cups and the statues thus perform libations, which last as long as the fire does. Upon the fire being extinguished, the libations cease, and recommence as many times as it is rekindled.

The tube through which the heat is conveyed should be larger at the middle than at the extremities, to allow the heat, or more especially, the draft, which it produces, to accumulate in an inflation, in order to be most effectual.

The priests of the temples of old were truly masters of the arts of mechanics and pneumatics.

According to Father Kircher (Oed. Aegypt., Vol. II), an author, whom he calls Bitho, states that there was at Saïs a temple of Minerva containing an altar upon which, when a fire was kindled, Dionysos and Artemis (Bacchus and Diana) poured out milk and wine, while a dragon hissed. The use of steam is indicated here.

THE MIRACULOUS STATUE OF CYBELE.

The Jesuit savant possessed in his museum an apparatus which probably came from some ancient Egyptian temple. It consisted of a hollow hemispherical dome supported by four columns, and placed over the image of the goddess of the numerous breasts. To two of the columns were adjusted movable holders, upon which lamps were fixed. The hemisphere was hermetically closed beneath by a metallic plate. The small altar, into which the milk was poured, communicated with the interior {10} of the statue by a tube reaching nearly to the bottom; it was also connected with the hollow dome by a tube having a double bend. At the moment of sacrifice, the two lamps, which were turned by means of movable holders directly beneath the lower plate of the dome, were lighted, thereby causing the air inclosed in the dome to expand. This expanded air, passing through the tube, pressed upon the milk shut within the altar, forcing it to ascend the straight tube into the interior of the statue and up to the height of the breasts of the goddess. A series of little ducts, branching off from the principal tube, conveyed the liquid into the breasts. From these mammary glands of bronze the {11} lacteal fluid streamed out, to the great admiration of the spectators, who believed that a miracle had taken place. When the sacrifice was finished, the lamps were extinguished by the attendant priest of the shrine, and the milk ceased to flow.

There were many other mechanical devices of great interest, such as the miraculous vessels used in the temples of Egypt and Greece, and the apparatus that formed part of the Grecian puppet-shows and other theatrical performances; but these hardly come within the scope of this chapter. Philo of Byzantium and Heron of Alexandria both left exhaustive treatises on the mechanic arts as understood by the ancients. Philo’s work has unfortunately been lost, but Heron’s treatise has a world of interest to anyone who is attracted to the subject.

ORIENTAL CONJURER PERFORMING THE CUP-AND-BALL TRICK, WITH SNAKE EFFECT INTRODUCED.

From an old and rare book called The Universal Conjurer or the Whole Art as Practised by the Famous Breslaw, Katerfelto, Jonas, Flockton, Conus, and by the Greatest Adepts in London and Paris, etc. London.

(From the Ellison Collection, New York.)

Besides the miracle-mongers of antiquity there were also cup-and-ball conjurers, who were called “acetabularii,” from the Latin word acetabulum, which means a cup, and professors of natural magic in general who laid no claim to supernatural powers. They wandered from place to place, giving their shows. The grammarian, Athenæus, in his Deipnosophists, or “Banquet of the Learned” (A. D. 228), mentions a number of famous conjurers and jugglers of Greece. He says: “The people of Histiæa and of Oreum erected in their theatre a brazen statue holding a die in its hand to Theodorus the juggler.” Xenophon, the conjurer, was very popular at Athens. He left behind him a pupil named Cratisthenes, “a citizen of Phlias; a man who {12} used to make fire spout up of its own accord, and who contrived many other extraordinary sights, so as almost to make men discredit the evidence of their own senses. And Nymphodorus, the conjurer, was another such man. . . . And Diopeithes, the Locrian, according to the account of Phanodemus, when he came to Thebes, fastened round his waist bladders full of wine and milk, and then, squeezing them, pretended that he was drawing up those liquids out of his mouth. And Noëmon gained a great reputation for the same sort of tricks. . . . There were also, at Alexander’s court, the following jugglers who had a great name: Scymnus of Tarentum, and Philistides of Syracuse, and Heraclitus of Mitylene.” (Deipn. Epit., B. 1, c. 34, 35.)

CONJUROR PULLING A TOOTH BY PISTOL.

From a rare book called The Whole Art of Hocus Pocus, Containing the Most Dexterous Feats of Sleight-of-hand Performed by Katerfelto, Breslaw, Boas, etc. London, 1812. (From the Ellison Collection, New York.)

{13}

II.

In the Middle Ages the art of magic was ardently cultivated, in spite of the denunciations of the Church. Many pretenders to necromancy made use of the secrets of optics and acoustics, and gained thereby a wonderful reputation as genuine sorcerers. Benvenuto Cellini, sculptor, goldsmith and man-at-arms, in that greatest of autobiographies,[5] records a magical seance which reads like a chapter from the Arabian Nights.

[5] Memoirs of Cellini, Book I, Chapter LXIV.

He says: “It happened through a variety of singular accidents that I became intimate with a Sicilian priest, who was a man of very elevated genius and well instructed in both Latin and Greek letters. In the course of conversation one day, we were led to talk about the art of necromancy, à propos of which I said: ‘Throughout my whole life I have had the most intense desire to see or learn something of this art.’ Thereto the priest replied: ‘A stout soul and a steadfast must the man have who sets himself to such an enterprise.’ I answered that of strength and steadfastness of soul I should have enough and to spare, provided I found the opportunity. Then the priest said: ‘If you have the heart to dare it, I will amply satisfy your curiosity.’ Accordingly we agreed upon attempting the adventure.

“The priest one evening made his preparations, and bade me find a comrade, or not more than two. I invited Vincenzio Romoli, a very dear friend of mine, and the priest took with him a native of Pistoja, who also cultivated the black art. We went together to the Colosseum; and there the priest, having arrayed himself in necromancers’ robes, began to describe circles on the earth with the finest ceremonies that can be imagined. I must say that he had made us bring precious perfumes and fire, and also drugs of fetid odor. When the preliminaries were completed, he made the entrance into the circle; and taking us by the hand, introduced us one by one inside of it. Then he assigned our several functions; to the necromancer, his comrade, he gave the pentacle to hold; the other two of us had to look after the fire and the perfumes; and then he began his incantations. This {14} lasted more than an hour and a half, when several legions appeared and the Colosseum was all full of devils. I was occupied with the precious perfumes, and when the priest perceived in what numbers they were present, he turned to me and said: ‘Benvenuto, ask them something.’ I called on them to reunite me with my Sicilian Angelica.”

It seems the spirits did not respond. The magic spells were found inoperative, whereupon the priest dismissed the demons, observing that the presence of a pure boy was requisite to the successful accomplishment of the séance.

Another night Cellini and the sorcerer repaired to the ruins of the Colosseum. The artist was accompanied by a boy of twelve years of age, who was in his employ, and by two friends, Agnolino Gaddi and the before-mentioned Romoli. The necromancer, after describing the usual magic circle and building a fire, “began to utter those awful invocations, calling by name on multitudes of demons who are captains of their legions . . . ; insomuch that in a short space of time the whole Colosseum was full of a hundredfold as many as had appeared upon the first occasion.” At the advice of the wizard, Cellini again asked to be reunited with his mistress. The sorcerer turned to him and said: “Hear you what they have replied; that in the space of one month you will be where she is.” The company within the magic circle were now confronted by a great company of demons. The boy declared that he saw four armed giants of immense stature who were endeavoring to get within the circle. They trembled with fear. The necromancer, to calm the fright of the boy, assured him that what they beheld was but smoke and shadows, and that the spirits were under his power. As the smoke died out, the demons faded away, and Cellini and his friends left the place fully satisfied of the reality of the conjurations. As they left the Colosseum, the boy declared that he saw two of the demons leaping and skipping before them, and often upon the roofs of the houses. The priest paid no attention to them, but endeavored to persuade the goldsmith to renew the attempt on some future occasion, in order to discover the secret treasures of the earth. But Cellini did not care to meddle more in the black art. {15}

What are we to believe about this magic invocation? Was Cellini romancing? Though a vainglorious, egotistical man, he was truthful, and his memoirs may be relied on.

John Addington Symonds, one of the translators of Cellini’s autobiography, remarks: “Imagination and the awe-inspiring influences of the place, even if we eliminate a possible magic lantern among the conjurer’s appurtenances, are enough to account for what Cellini saw. He was credulous; he was super­sti­tious.”

Sir David Brewster, who quotes Cellini’s narrative in his Natural Magic, explains that the demons seen in the Colosseum “were not produced by any influence upon the imag­i­na­tions of the spectators, but were actual optical phantasms, or the images of pictures or objects produced by one or more concave mirrors or lenses. A fire is lighted and perfumes and incense are burnt, in order to create a ground for the images, and the beholders are rigidly confined within the pale of the magic circle. The concave mirror and the objects presented to it having been so placed that the persons within the circle could not see the aerial image of the objects by the rays directly reflected from the mirror, the work of deception was ready to begin. The attendance of the magician upon his mirror was by no means necessary. He took his place along with the spectators within the magic circle. The images of the devils were all distinctly formed in the air immediately above the fire, but none of them could be seen by those within the circle.

“The moment, however, the perfumes were thrown into the fire to produce smoke, the first wreath of smoke that rose through the place of one or more of the images would reflect them to the eyes of the spectators, and they would again disappear if the wreath was not followed by another. More and more images would be rendered visible as new wreaths of smoke arose, and the whole group would appear at once when the smoke was uniformly diffused over the place occupied by the images.”

Again, the magician may have been aided by a confederate amid the ruins, who manipulated a magic lantern, or some device of the kind. The magician himself may have been provided with a box fitted up with a concave mirror, the lights and figures of {16} the demons. The assertion of the boy that he saw demons skipping in front of him, etc., would be accounted for by the magic box being carried with them.

Says the Encyclopaedia Britannica, in speaking of Cellini’s adventure: “The existence of a camera at this latter date (middle of sixteenth century) is a fact, for the instrument is described by Baptista Porta, the Neapolitan philosopher, in the Magia Naturalis (1558). And the doubt how magic lantern effects could have been produced in the fourteenth century, when the lantern itself is alleged to have been invented by Athanasius Kircher in the middle of the seventeenth century, is set at rest by the fact that glass lenses were constructed at the earlier of these dates,—Roger Bacon, in his Discovery of the Miracles of Art, Nature and Magic (about 1260), writing of glass lenses and perspectives so well made as to give good telescopic and microscopic effects, and to be useful to old men and those who have weak eyes.”

Chaucer, in the House of Fame, Book III, speaks of “appearances such as the subtil tregetours perform at feasts”—images of hunting, falconry and knights jousting, with the persons and objects instantaneously disappearing.

Later on Nostradamus conjured up a vision of the future king of France in a magic mirror, for the benefit of Marie de Medeci. This illusion was effected by mirrors adroitly concealed amid hanging draperies.

In the sixteenth century conjurers wandered from place to place, exhibiting their tricks at fairs, in barns, and at the castles of noblemen. They were little more than strolling gypsies or vagabonds. Reginald Scott, in his Discoverie of Witchcraft (1584), enumerates some of the stock feats of these mountebanks. The list includes, “swallowing a knife; burning a card and reproducing it from the pocket of a spectator; passing a coin from one pocket to another; converting money into counters, or counters into money; conveying money into the hand of another person; making a coin pass through a table or vanish from a handkerchief; tying a knot and undoing it ‘by the power of words’; taking beads from a string, the ends of which are held fast by another person; making a coin to pass from one box to another; turning wheat into flour ‘by the power of {17} words’; burning a thread and making it whole again; pulling ribbons from the mouth; thrusting a knife into the head of a man; putting a ring through the cheek, and cutting off a person’s head and restoring it to its former position.”

Conjuring with cups and balls belongs to this list.

EIGHTEENTH CENTURY CONJURER PERFORMING THE CUP-AND-BALL TRICK.

(From an Old Print, Ellison Collection.)

The conjurer of the sixteenth century, and even of later date, wore about his waist a sort of bag, called gibécière, from its resemblance to a game bag, ostensibly to hold his paraphernalia. While delving into this bag for various articles to be used in his tricks, the magician succeeded in making substitutions and secretly getting possession of eggs, coins, balls, etc. It was a very clumsy device, but indispensable for an open-air {18} performer, who usually stood encircled by the spectators. Finally, the suspicious-looking gibécière was abandoned by all save strolling mountebanks, and a table with a long cloth substituted. This table concealed an assistant, who made the necessary transformations required in the act, by means of traps and other devices. Comus, the elder, in the eighteenth century, abandoned the long table covers and the concealed assistant for the servante. But his immediate competitors still adhered to the draped tables, and a whole generation of later conjurers, among whom may be mentioned Comte, Bosco and Phillippe, followed their example. Robert-Houdin struck the keynote of reform in 1844. He sarcastically called the suspiciously draped table a boite à compère (wooden confederate).

Conjurers in the seventeenth century were frequently known as Hocus Pocus. These curious words first occur in a pamphlet printed in 1641, in which the author, speaking of the sights of Bartholomew fair, mentions “Hocus Pocus, with three yards of tape or ribbon in his hand, showing his art of legerdemain.” The seventeenth century is the age of the strolling mountebank, who performed wherever he could get an audience—in the stable, barnyard, street or fair. From him to the pre­sti­di­gi­ta­teur of the theatre is a long step, but no longer than from the barnstorming actor to the artist of the well-appointed playhouse. There is evolution in everything. It was not until the eighteenth century that conjuring became a legitimate profession. This was largely owing to the fact that men of gentle birth, well versed in the science of the age, took up the magic wand, and gave the art dignity and respectability.

It was not until the eighteenth century that natural magic was shorn of charlatanism, but even then the great Pinetti pretended to the occult in his exhibition of so-called “second sight.” He always avoided the Papal States, taking warning from the fate of Cagliostro. Magic and spiritism were in bad odor in the dominions of the Pope. Towards the middle of the century we hear of Jonas, Carlotti, Katerfelto, Androletti, Philadelphia, Rollin, Comus I and II. Comus II was famous for coining hard words. He advertised in London, “various uncommon experiments with his Enchanted Horologium, Pyxidees Literarum, {19} and many curious operations in Rhabdology, Steganography and Phylacteria, with many wonderful performances on the grand Dodecahedron, also Chartomantic Deceptions and Kharamatic Operations. To conclude with the performance of the Teretopaest Figure and Magical House; the like never seen in this kingdom before; and will astonish every beholder.” These magical experiments were doubtless very simple. What puzzled the spectators must have been the names of the tricks.

Rollin, a Frenchman, after accumulating a fortune, purchased the chateau of Fontenoy-aux-Roses, in the department of the Seine. He was denounced under the Red Terror, and suffered death by the guillotine, in 1793. When the warrant for his execution was read to him, he remarked, with a smile, “That is the first paper I cannot conjure away.”

III.

I now come to the Count Edmond de Grisy, Pinetti’s great rival in the field of conjuring.

The duel for supremacy between these eminent magicians is told in the chapter on Pinetti. The father of De Grisy, the Count de Grisy, was killed at the storming of the Tuilleries, while defending the person of his king, Louis XVI, from the mob. Young De Grisy was in Paris at the time, and, profiting by the disorders in the capital, was enabled to pass the barriers and reach the small family domain in Languedoc. Here he dug up a hundred louis, which his father had concealed for any unforseen accident; to this money he added some jewels left by his mother. With this modest sum, he proceeded to Florence, where he studied medicine, graduating as a physician at the age of twenty-seven. He became a professional magician, and had an adventure at Rome which is well worth relating. He was requested to perform before Pius VII, and ransacked his brains to devise a trick worthy of a Pope. On the day before the mystic séance he happened to be in the shop of a prominent watchmaker, when a lackey came in to ask if His Eminence the Cardinal de

’s watch was repaired. {20}

“It will not be ready until this evening,” answered the watchmaker. “I will do myself the honor of personally carrying it to your master.”

The lackey retired.

“That is a handsome watch you have there,” said De Grisy.

“Yes,” replied the jeweler, “it is valued at more than ten thousand francs. It was made by the celebrated Bréguet. Strangely enough, the other day I was offered a similar timepiece, by the same artist, for one thousand francs.”

“Who was he?” asked the Count.

“A young prodigal and gambler, belonging to a noble family, who is now reduced to selling his family jewels.”

Like a flash of lightning, a scheme for working a splendid mystification passed through De Grisy’s mind. He nonchalantly said:

“Where is this young rake to be found?”

“In a gaming house, which he never quits.”

“Well, then, I will buy this masterpiece of Bréguet’s. Have the kindness to purchase it for me, and engrave upon it the Cardinal’s coat-of-arms, so that it will be a replica of His Eminence’s chronometer.”

The jeweler, assured of De Grisy’s discretion and honor, though probably suspecting the use to which the timepiece would be subjected, immediately left his shop, and returned after a little while with the gambler’s watch.

“Here it is,” he cried. “To-night I shall have it ready for you.”

At the appointed hour he brought the two watches for De Grisy’s inspection. They were facsimiles. The conjurer took his purchase, and the next day appeared at the pontifical palace, where a most distinguished audience greeted him. The Pope sat on a raised dais; near him were the cardinals in their brilliant robes of crimson.

After performing a series of magical feats, De Grisy came to his pièce de résistance. The difficulty was to obtain the loan of the Cardinal’s watch, and that without asking him directly for it. To succeed the conjurer had recourse to a ruse. At his {21} request several watches were offered to him, but he returned them as not suited to the experiment.

“I desire a timepiece that will be easily identified. I should prefer one of rather large size,” said De Grisy.

“Cardinal,” said His Holiness, “oblige me by lending your watch to M. de Grisy.”

With great reluctance the Cardinal de

handed his precious chronometer to the conjurer. It seems he set great value on its exaggerated size, alleging, with considerable show of reason, that the works acted better in a large case.

In order to prove the solidity and excellence of the chronometer, De Grisy let it fall to the ground. A cry of alarm arose on all sides. The Cardinal, pale with rage, bounded from his chair, exclaiming: “This is a sorry jest, sir!”

“Do not be alarmed, monsignor,” said De Grisy, “the watch will escape scathless from its many trials.” He handed the broken timepiece to the Cardinal. “Do you recognize this as your watch?”

The prelate gazed anxiously at the coat-of-arms engraved inside of the case, and replied, with a profound sigh:

“Yes, that is my watch.”

“You are certain of it?”

“Quite certain! But I seriously doubt your power to restore it.”

“We shall see!” said the conjurer.

De Grisy’s assistant now brought in a brass mortar and pestle. The watch was cast into the mortar and pounded to atoms. Some magic powder was poured into the receptacle and a torch applied. There was a detonation, followed by a cloud of smoke. The spectators were invited to examine the ingot of gold—all that remained of the precious chronometer. Pius VII peered curiously into the mortar. De Grisy, seizing the opportunity, adroitly popped the duplicate timepiece into a pocket of the Pope’s robe. At the proper moment he pretended to pass the ingot into the pontiff’s pocket, which resulted in the discovery of the Cardinal’s watch, made whole again. This clever trick created a great sensation in Rome, and drew crowds to De Grisy’s performances. Poor De Grisy seemed doomed to {22} misfortune. His young son was killed accidentally by a spectator, during an exhibition of the pistol trick at Strasburg. A real bullet got mixed up with the false bullets, and was loaded into the weapon. De Grisy was tried and convicted of “homicide through imprudence,” and sentenced to six months’ imprisonment, during which time his wife died. On his release, he assumed the name of Torrini, which was that of his brother-in-law and faithful assistant. He retired to the provinces of France, and never appeared again in the large cities. He died a brokenhearted man at Lyons.

Torrini was a skillful performer with cards, as Robert-Houdin testifies. He invented a trick which he called “The Blind Man’s Game of Piquet.” While blindfolded he would play piquet and defeat adepts at the game. This trick was one of the features of his entertainments, and always gained him great applause. The secret consisted in substituting a prepared pack for the ordinary pack used. After the spectator had shuffled the cards and handed them to Torrini to cut, the conjurer would rest his hand momentarily upon the pack, while he made some observation to his opponent. Then it was that the substitution was artfully effected by means of a “magic box,” which the pre­sti­di­gi­ta­teur had concealed in the sleeve of his coat. Pressure upon the table caused a spring in the box to shoot out a prepared pack of cards, while a pair of pincers at the same time seized the recently shuffled pack and drew it up into the hidden receptacle. This ingenious piece of apparatus Torrini had obtained from a gambler named Zilbermann.

While attempting to cheat an opponent, the apparatus had hung fire, and Zilbermann was detected in flagrante delicto. A duel was the result, and Zilbermann was mortally wounded. He sent for Torrini, whose conjuring abilities he greatly admired, and presented him with the box. Soon afterwards he died.

Torrini never used the apparatus except in his conjuring performances. He was a man of honor and not a chevalier d’industrie.

THE CHEVALIER PINETTI.

“The Age of Romance has not ceased; it never ceases; it does not, if we will think of it, so much as very sensibly decline.”—CARLYLE: The Diamond Necklace.

I.

Paris! Time—the latter half of the eighteenth century!

Louis XVI is on the throne of France, relieving the ennui of court etiquette by working at locksmithing. His beautiful consort, Marie Antoinette, amuses herself playing at dairy-farming,

la Watteau, in the gardens of the little Trianon. Dr. Guillotin, as yet, has not even dreamed of that terrible machine of wood and steel to be called by his name. Danton, Marat and Robespierre—the “bloody triumvirate”—are unknown to fame.

It is the age of powder and patches, enormous hoop-skirts, embroidered coats, lace ruffles, cocked hats, silk stockings and swords. Gentlemen meet and exchange snuff boxes; fight duels at times, despite the royal edict; indulge in grandiose gallantries. Noblemen in their coaches-and-four, on their way to Versailles (which to them is heaven on earth), drive recklessly through the narrow streets of the capital, splashing the pedestrians with mud from the kennels, and knocking down citizens with impunity. The aristocracy live to be amused.

Vive la bagatelle! is the watchword of the gentle born, and when the Chevalier Pinetti, knight of the German Order of Merit of St. Philippe, comes to town, there is a grand rush for seats at the theatre to see him perform. The Chevalier is the greatest conjurer of the age, also a learned student of physics and member of various scientific bodies in France, England and Germany. {24}

I have in my possession an old print, picked up in Paris, a portrait of the Chevalier. This picture is an allegorical affair. Two winged cupids are depicted placing the bust of Pinetti in the Temple of Arts. Strewn about the place are various instruments used in physics and mathematics. The motto appended to this curious print is as follows: Des genies placent le buste de M. le Professeur Pinetti dans le temple des arts, au milieu des instruments de physique et de mathematique. {25}

PINETTI

At Versailles the Chevalier is received with acclaim. His “shirt trick” produces a great sensation. Imagine whisking the shirt off a gentleman’s back without disturbing the rest of his clothing. But of that, anon! The “second-sight” of the Chevalier’s spouse savors of the supernatural; and his “ring and fish” feat is just too wonderful for anything. In short, the conjurer is voted to be very amusing; therefore, he should be patronized.

Pinetti was the prince of pre­sti­di­gi­ta­teurs of the eighteenth century. His life reads like a romance. After a brilliant, pyrotechnic career, he faded out into darkness. I have gathered my facts concerning him from old French and German brochures. Little or nothing is known about his ancestry, his youth and early experiences.

He may have purposely guarded the secret of his origin, being inordinately boastful. He thoroughly understood how to avail himself of all the arts of the toilet to appear much younger than, according to his contemporaries, he must have been in reality.

It is believed that he first saw the light of day in 1750, in Orbitello, a small fortified town of about three thousand inhabitants, lying in the foothills of what was then the Grand Duchy of Tuscany.

He is first heard of while traveling through the provinces of Germany, in 1783. In 1784 he appeared in Paris, where he gave a series of performances, and exhibited several times before the court of Louis XVI with distinguished success. At this time the public showed a marked predilection for all kinds of mystical and inexplicable exhibitions, which had been awakened by the performances of various adventurers, like Cagliostro, St. Germain and Mesmer. Pinetti thoroughly understood how to make the most of this bent of the public mind, and succeeded in setting Paris in ecstasy, as well as becoming himself a model for all contemporary and succeeding necromancers, for a long time. Though without fine or regular features, his physiognomy possessed much distinction; while his manners were excellent. It is probable, however, that the latter were acquired rather than innate; for extremely bad taste is betrayed by his frequently wearing on the stage the uniform of a general, decorated with {26} numerous orders. This is an oddity with a fatal suggestion of charlatanism. He was given to vaunting, and was in no wise careful to adhere to the truth in com­mu­ni­ca­tions regarding his magical art. A vicious trait of his character was his readiness to adopt the most contemptible measures to free himself of the rivalry of another; and this unworthy characteristic undoubtedly led to his ultimate downfall.

II.

Pinetti’s repertory was very extended. However interesting it might be to pass in review the whole series of his feats, I must here limit myself to a few, which appear typical of him and of his public.

There was first the wonderful automaton known as “The Grand Sultan,” also called “The clever little Turk,” which was about forty centimeters in height, and which struck a bell with a hammer, or nodded and shook his head, in answer to questions propounded. “The golden head and the rings” was as follows: In a glass, the bottom of which was covered with coins, a previously shown, massive head was placed. A cover was then placed on the glass. The head answered yes or no to inquiries, or counted numbers by leaping in the glass. In a second glass borrowed rings were laid, which moved in unison with the head, as though by sympathy. The “Clever Swan” was put into a vessel of water, and varied its course according to the will of the onlooker. Moreover, when a spectator had drawn a card from a pack of inscribed cards, it spelled the word written thereon, by moving toward the appropriate letters, which were printed on strips of cardboard hung about the vessel.

A kind of sympathetic action is shown in the following experiment. A lighted lamp was deposited on a table. As soon as a spectator, stationed at a considerable distance, blew through a reed, the lamp was immediately extinguished. Another: a live dove was fastened, by means of two ribbons about its neck, to two opposite columns. On the instant when a picture of the dove, or even the shadow of the suspended bird, was pierced by a sword, the dove itself was beheaded, although it had not been disturbed, and the severed and still bleeding head, and the rest {27} of the body, fell separately to the ground. This experiment, called “Theophrastus Paracelsus,” recalls an old super­sti­tion, namely, that evil can be wrought upon a person by injury to a picture of him, accompanied by a spoken incantation. It is the so-called “Picture charm.”

Fettering and binding experiments were shown, but of a simpler nature than modern ones. To each leg of the magician was fastened a ring, and through each ring an iron chain was passed, its ends locked on a pillar. “The Prisoner” seemed aided by some external power to release himself, for in a very short time he was free from his bonds. More difficult was another experiment, wherein a chain was fastened by a strip of cloth directly about the leg, and secured to the pillar; but here also, a half minute sufficed the “Galley Slave” to free himself of the shackles. The most pleasing was the following trick: Pinetti allowed both thumbs to be tied together with a cord, and his hands, so bound, to be covered with a hat; hardly was this done than he stretched out his right hand, seized a flask of wine and drank to the health of the person who had tied him, and tossed the emptied glass to the ceiling, whence it fell as a ball of finely-cut paper. At the same instant, he allowed the hat to fall, and displayed his hands, still as closely bound as at the beginning of the experiment.[6] Also, the well-known trick, in which several borrowed rings are passed over two ribbon bands, the ends of which are knotted together and held by some of the spectators; nevertheless the rings can be drawn off without severing the ribbons. This was hardly new, but merely a variation of a trick described in 1690, in a work by Ozanam, in his Récréations Mathematiques, and exhibited by the jugglers of that time under the name of “My Grandmother’s Rose Wreath.” They made use of small balls, strung on two cords, from which they were withdrawn, notwithstanding that the cords were held by strangers. To-day this trick is explained in most books of games and amusements, which fact does not hinder the public from being quite as much astounded when the feat is performed

la Pinetti, with rings or a watch, accompanied by clever patter. {28}

[6] There is nothing new under the sun. A Japanese conjurer, named Ten-Ichi, at the present writing, is creating a sensation in our vaudeville theatres with this same thumb-tying trick.