Etc., etc.

Etc., etc.

Etc., etc.

Etc., etc.

Christian names, towns, animals, fishes, shape, etc., can also be arranged in the same manner.

The next process, after committing such grouped subjects to memory, is to study a code for numbers, which you will easily acquire in one lesson, the only difficulty you will find being in the rapid application of it. The numbers will be represented by letters thus:—

If one figure only is required the interlocutor will ask for the figure; if two figures he will ask for the number; if three he will precede his question with ‘good,’ and the clairvoyant will know that he has entered into hundreds. If there are four figures he will say, ‘Very good,’ and that will indicate thousands; if five, ‘Very good, sir,’ or ‘madam,’ equivalent to tens of thousands. For six figures ‘good again,’ hundreds of thousands; and ‘If you please’ will act as a full stop. Example: ‘Tell me now, if you please, what figures there are here?’—t m n (132) precede the full stop of ‘If you please,’ and the interlocutor has dropped the ‘good,’ which would have warned the clairvoyant that three figures had to be deciphered. Again, ‘There are figures here. Very good. Find the numbers, can you?’ ‘Yes,’ says the clairvoyant, taking the first four initial letters after ‘Very good;’ ‘eight thousand one hundred and twenty-seven;’ and great is the marvel of the audience thereat.

The last and most difficult problem of all appertaining to our subject—though, luckily, the most easily dispensed with for private performance—is the abstruse Alphabet, by which the clairvoyant may learn the name of a person or gain other particulars in a way quite unsuspected by the spectators. This is managed by taking B to represent A, C to stand for B, and so on, always being one letter in advance of the ordinary alphabet, save in the variations noted below. Thus—

To illustrate this, say the interlocutor has an address card with ‘William Brown’ printed upon it; he would first ask the Christian name by the grouping process, and then, to get at the surname might say, ‘Come, speak plainly at once, if you please, the gentleman’s name?’ C S P A O is translated into BROWN by the above system, and the answer is correct. This transposition of letters, as we have said, is very difficult, but if once acquired, brings the reward of being eminently puzzling with it.

In addition to all here set forth, the ‘cue’ is frequently given to the clairvoyant in a very simple manner as, ‘Is it large or small?’ ‘It is small.’ ‘Plain, or with stones?’ ‘There are stones in it.’ ‘Is it gold?’ ‘No; only gilt.’ ‘Does this belong to a gentleman or a lady?’ ‘To a lady.’ Besides this, intonations, dwellings upon certain words, a hesitating cough, or an apparently chance remark let fall to one of the audience, conveys much to the initiated, and allows of that variation which is so necessary in public exhibitions to prevent persons getting at the secret. One very old and extremely useful form of question—generally used at the close of an entertainment—is the Sequence, the interlocutor touching various articles worn or held in his immediate neighbourhood, and rapidly receiving replies from the clairvoyant, though his questions are of the simplest. This is done by numbering a set of such general articles as are sure to be met with. Thus, if it is wet weather, overcoats and umbrellas will be plentiful; if fine, sticks, parasols, and fans will be in the ascendant. Let three or four codes be arranged for these, so as to vary the sequence and avoid detection, thus:—

At a drawing-room entertainment such articles as we have here provided for would be quite out of place, as your visitors are not likely to carry their cloaks, hats, canes, or even opera-glasses with them. In such cases you can arrange with your clairvoyant five minutes before performance in what sequence you will take the more prominent articles on or about those ‘in front.’

A ‘head’ is chosen as the finale, so as to bring the curtain down with éclat, as the interlocutor can ask, ‘How many hairs are there on it?’ and the ready answer of, say, ‘Three thousand five hundred and sixty-five,’ will cause a hearty laugh. Besides this, all through the ‘business’ the person who interrogates will endeavour to amuse as well as to mystify his audience, to which end what is professionally known as his ‘patter’ (talk) is interlarded with ‘wheezes’ (jokes), and seemingly impromptu wit often of the most studied and built-up character. Some public performers also employ confederates, who lend an added wonder by producing very curious and out-of-the-way documents or other things, all of which, having been carefully studied beforehand, the clairvoyant can give full particulars of. The practice is, however, reprehensible; the art is sufficiently puzzling without such adventitious aids, and the secret is sure to leak out, when those who have been unable to fathom the business will jump to the conclusion that much more is due to confederacy than has really been the case.

Having gone through the drudgery, the hard study necessary to the full comprehension of the art, we now reach a stage when it may be put into practice, and can do nothing better than give an imaginary performance to show the application of the principles previously laid down.

A nice little speech will introduce yourself and confederate, the usual way being to modestly disclaim the supernatural for the wonders you are about to work. Suppose your assistant to be a young lady, she is blindfolded, and you proceed to business by requesting assistance from the spectators by the loan of any article they would wish to be described by your clairvoyante.

Then you go to work at once:—

Will you name this?—It is a ring.

Name the kind of ring?—It is a mourning ring.

Anything on it, please?—Yes, initials.

Be sure, if you please, and say what they are?—A. R.

Quite right. Can you tell this?—It is a watch.

Silver or gold?—Gold.

Anything on it?—Yes, there is a crest.

Quite correct. Now, the time, if you please, by it?—Twenty-one minutes to one.

Very good. Can you name this?—Yes, it is a coin.

What coin?—A sixpence.

The date, if you please? (The clairvoyante knows it is of this century, as only two letters are given.)—Eighteen hundred and eleven.

Can you tell this, please?—It is a medal.

Please name the metal?—Bronze.

Does she know? If you please to ask the young lady I have no doubt she will tell you the campaign it is for, sir. (Here the interlocutor, in speaking to the owner of medal, has given the cue to the clairvoyante by d s k, which stand for CRI.) When the question is put, she says, ‘It is a Crimean medal.’

Now, there is an initial here; tell me that.—M.

Look now, if you please, at the number of the regiment.—The fifty-second.

Will you look here, please?—You now have a flower.

What flower?—Lily of the valley.

What name has this?—It is a cigarette.

What is here?—A pen-knife.

Now, how many blades are there?—Two.

Very easy. Pray view only here, if you please, and tell me the name engraved upon the handle?—The name is Young.

What material is the handle made of?—Pearl.

What is this?—A pocket-book.

Anything here, please?—There is a letter inside.

Quite correct. If you please, tell me the initials of the person to whom it is addressed?—P. B.

What is this, now?—A railway season ticket.

Can you tell the month it expires in?—Here the clairvoyante takes c for the seventh month and answers ‘July.’

Very good. Be so kind, now, if you please, as to give us the number of it?—Nine thousand and seventy-two.

Will you tell this, please?-It is a brooch.

Anything in it, please?—A child’s portrait.

Anything in it, now, at the back?—Yes, hair.

What colour is it?—Brown.

What is this for?—To smoke. It is a cigar; you can have it.

Is that right, sir? Thank you! What kind of cigar is it?—A Manilla.

Do you know what this is for?—That would also suit you; it is a cane!

Thank you, miss, you are very kind! Tell this.—That is a hat.

Can you tell the colour?—White.

And this?—A parasol.

Name the colour.—Blue.

Name the material of the handle, please.—Ivory.

And this?—That is a programme.

And this?—An opera-glass.

This?—A stick.

This?—A flower.

Do you know what flower?—Yes; a camellia.

This?—An eye-glass.

This?—A breast-pin.

This?—A fan.

This?—A chain.

Find the carat?—The clairvoyante knows that f stands for 8, and answers ‘Eighteen.’

This?—That is a glove.

Do you know the colour?—Black.

And this?—A head.

Anything in it?—No.

And so the curtain comes down with a hearty laugh at the unfortunate wight whose cranium is thus stigmatised as empty!

Two other Systems.

An ‘Ex-conjurer,’ who has treated of The Secret of Second Sight in Scribner’s, says he was inducted into its mysteries twenty years since by a Polish Jew who claimed to have invented the system; or, at least, he had ‘treamed it’ (dreamed it), and that it was he who gave the code to Robert Heller. As to the first of these statements, the inventing, or ‘treaming’ it, we know that the Polish Jew perverted the truth, ‘Clairvoyance’ having been practised with success before he was born: for the second, we shall find from a portion that has gone before and some to follow that Heller’s code differed widely from ‘Ex-conjurer’s,’ whose system may be described as the triplet and spelling code. For the triplets he gives a long list of numbered articles, arranged alphabetically, such as follow:—

For the first article in the triplet the performer merely gives the cue to the number; to the second he adds here, and to the third that.

To work in with these he has also a numbered alphabet, both letters and figures being represented by certain words as below:—

This code ‘Ex-conjurer’ illustrates. ‘Do you see (W) what is this? Come (A), Let us know? (T), Hurry up (C), Answer (H).’ Surely this seems much too roundabout a way of getting at such an ordinary article as a watch! Nor does that of triplets offer great advantages, besides which the words or phrases chosen to represent letters and numbers come in awkwardly—and even offensively to an English ear—as will be apparent in the following extracts:—

‘Suppose a glove is offered. This is the first article of the fortieth triplet. The question would be “Tell us (4) what this is, there (0).”

‘Should the second article in the fifteenth triplet be offered, the question would be either, “Here, what’s this? Go on (15);” or, “Come (1), what’s this here? Well (5)?” and the answer in either case a button-hook.’

The best thing about ‘Ex-conjurer’s’ paper is the suggestive ‘tag,’ or speech at the end of the performance. Our aspirants for ‘clairvoyant’ fame may be able to take a hint from it:—

‘Now, how is this done? Well, I don’t mind telling you, with the express understanding that it goes no farther. It is neither mesmerism, spiritism, ventriloquism, rheumatism nor any other ism. It is brought about by the action of arcane-dynamics, subjectively submitted to the action of the passive agent, and the result, as you have seen, is a stentonophonic reproduction of the original idea. I’m afraid it’s not yet quite clear to some of you. Well, then, in other words, it’s a system of mental telephony. When an article is offered to me, I seize it; and then my assistant, he sees it. Ah! you smile—you understand it; but, remember, not a word outside as to how it is done!’

The real second-sight, as practised by such eminent professors of the art as Houdin and Heller, is greatly superior to ‘Ex-conjurer’s’ code, and is contained partly in our instructions, and more exhaustively in a work recently published. In this the code for figures is arranged exactly in the same way as that given by us; with the addition that the word ‘Quick’ is used to give notice of fractions. Then if the interlocutor says, ‘Tell, now!’ the blindfolded wonder-worker knows the initials indicate 1 and 2; therefore, by aid of the preliminary warning, he (or she) ascertains that ¹⁄₂ is meant. Thus, if one-seventh had to be signalled, after ‘Quick!’ the cue might be given by saying, ‘Tell correctly, if you please, what other numbers are there.’

The work now under consideration, in addition to a code for spelling words the same as we have given, has also codes for money, coins, cards, colour, dates, etc., quite different from those in the preceding pages, and well worth perusal before any particular system is fixed upon.

The book concludes with an observation that an exhibitor of second sight will as likely as not tell you that this or that system is not the one by which his ‘clairvoyant’ reads mentally; and here the professor may speak quite truly. Nevertheless—and this point cannot be too frequently insisted upon, because abnormal, and even supernatural, power is frequently spoken of in connection with second sight—there is nothing in the mystery that cannot be solved with a little patience and perseverance; and you may feel satisfied that by a code and by that alone—word-signals carefully studied and rehearsed between the clairvoyant and the interlocutor—do all the seeming wonders come to pass.

‘Unconscious Counting.’

We cannot more suitably conclude this chapter than by referring to an ingenious article some time ago on ‘unconscious counting’ in the Gartenlaube, in which the writer, Herr W. Preyer, points out that the ability possessed by any one of ordinary intelligence to distinguish three, four, or even five objects at a glance, and without being conscious of counting them, may by practice be perfected to such a degree that it becomes quite as easy to count ten objects as it is to count three, and that it is possible to give the exact number up to thirty objects at a single glance. As an example of the latter attainment, the writer points to the well-known arithmetician Dase, who died in 1861, and who declared that he could count thirty objects of the same kind as quickly and easily as other people could count three or four. The truth of the assertion was often proved when Dase, with lightning rapidity, gave the correct number of a herd of sheep, of the books in a library, or the window-panes in a large house. The test of how far any one can count at a glance is easily made by putting several small objects, such as coins, pins, or matches, under a sheet of paper, then lifting the paper for a second and looking at the objects, and, after covering them again, give an estimate as to the number. At first it will be found difficult to fix the number if there are more than from three to five objects, but the eye becomes very soon accustomed to distinguish between larger numbers, so that after a short time eight or nine objects will be counted by the eye with the same facility. Care should, however, be taken that the counting is not done consciously, for that would take far too much time; the number of objects should only be valued.

The mistakes which are at first frequently made in this guessing game will become rarer and rarer, and almost anybody can become an expert in rapid counting up to ten objects; after that it becomes more difficult. The sensation, says Herr Preyer, of a person practised in unconscious counting, when looking attentively at larger numbers of objects, is that their number shoots rapidly through the head. To acquire this method of counting black spots should be made on white square pieces of cardboard, first symmetrically and in small numbers, as, for instance, the following:—

Afterwards their number may be increased and their position altered. It will also be good practice to open a book, cover part of the page, rapidly look at the lines left uncovered, and to guess at their number. It is astonishing how soon the eye gets accustomed to the numbers. The more advanced ‘unconscious counter’ should practise on spots not regularly arranged, which is much more difficult at first. Herr Preyer concludes his interesting article with the remark that unconscious counting, like all other oft-repeated processes, such as lifting the hat as a token of salutation, becomes at last an entirely mechanical process.

CHAPTER LVIII.—SPIRITUALISM AT HOME.
By Dr. Stradling.

Spiritualism does not in reality mean conjuring; of course you all know that. But the term has now come to be familiarly applied to a certain class of performances, without any pretence of supernatural aid or deceit, and arose in this way. Some twenty-five years ago several people—the celebrated Davenport Brothers among them—appeared in this country and America, and gave entertainments at which they exhibited some very extraordinary and, at that time, novel effects of a magical character, the leading features being their release from cords which had been bound, knotted, and sealed upon them by members of the audience, leaving the knots and seals unbroken; causing inanimate objects to fly about and musical instruments to sound when it appeared impossible for any one to have touched them; and divining numbers and sentences which had been written down privately, unseen by them.

These things they professed to do, not by their own skill and dexterity, but by the aid of ‘spirits’ over whom they declared themselves to have control; and the whole was accompanied with a lot of nonsense in the shape of luminous ‘manifestations’ in the air when the gas was turned out (for darkness was indispensable), and ‘spirit-writings’ on slates and sheets of cardboard—messages, supposed to come from the unseen world, scrawled in a shocking bad hand that any boy would be ashamed of! Nevertheless, a great deal that was done was new and very clever, and had it only been honestly acknowledged to be the result of sleight-of-hand, the performers would certainly have earned and well deserved the reward of success.

But though people go to see conjuring perfectly prepared and willing to be deceived—if that can be called deception which is openly avowed to be misleading—they do not like to have their common sense insulted by irreverence, such as these spiritualists were guilty of in pretending to call up the dead; and a strong feeling of indignation soon set in against the imposture and all who practised it.

Clever as the exhibitions were, also, one or two slips were made which were fatal to them, though it does not ruin a straightforward conjurer to have a trick accidentally discovered now and then. For instance, on one occasion, a dreadful fiery hand, pale and deathly, though glowing with light, was seen sweeping through the air, high overhead, rushing from end to end of the room with a swiftness that no being could have possessed unless provided with wings, and at times descending to give somebody a cold, clammy touch on the cheek. One, bolder than the rest, had the courage to seize this hand, and, in spite of all opposition, insisted on retaining it until the gas was turned up, when the spirit-hand was found to consist of an old white kid glove, stuffed with damp tow and rubbed with phosphorus, suspended at the end of a cord, and waved overhead by means of a long fishing-rod, which folded up in short joints adapted for the ‘medium’s’ pocket!

Furthermore, professional conjurers were put on their mettle, and very quickly showed that they could do, not only the same things, but much more wonderful ones of a similar character in the full glare of the gaslight, without any aid from spirits. The mysterious cabinet, which took such a prominent part in the Davenports’ programme, was soon robbed of its mystery; and in 1865 Professor Pepper—whose name you will remember in connection with ‘Pepper’s Ghost’ at the Polytechnic—invented and patented a piece of apparatus, such as the spiritualists had never dreamed of, called the ‘Cabinet of Proteus.’

The ‘mediums’ have long since retired into comparative obscurity, and now limit their manifestations to displays in private; but they still have a number of followers who are ready to believe that what occurs at these gatherings is really the work of invisible spirits, because they do not see how else it can be done. I heard a famous conjurer say the other day, at the close of his entertainment, ‘If I have been able to deceive and perplex you; if I, telling you beforehand that the effects I was about to produce are the result of mere trickery and quickness of hand, challenging your detection in the full light of the room, have succeeded in making you, watchful and alert to find me out, imagine that black was white, and have convinced you that seeing is not always believing, how much more might a skilful impostor mystify a lot of superstitious people, already frightened out of their wits by fear, in a dark chamber with accomplices!’

When, therefore, we read now of a spiritualistic séance given in public, or of Messrs. Maskelyne and Cooke’s spirit manifestations, we understand the term to have reference to feats of that description, which originated in the above manner; and in telling you how you may exhibit a little ‘Spiritualism at Home’ to your friends, you will now see that I do not intend that you should even pretend to have anything to do with supernatural causes, but only to perform some very astonishing tricks on the same principle as you have been taught to make a halfpenny vanish and reappear.

Modern effects of this kind, as they are presented on the stage, demand, as a rule, not only great dexterity and years of practice, but the use of elaborate and costly apparatus and the help of skilled assistants. All sorts of ingenious mechanism, for which patents are often taken out—electricity, pneumatics, chemistry, optics, magnetism, and nearly every science and art—are pressed into the service, and the floor, the walls, the platform, and the ceiling may be riddled with wires and traps and springs, for anything you know to the contrary; or the lady and gentleman—or even the little boy or girl—sitting beside you may be confederates. Now, if you will carefully carry out the directions which I am about to give you, you will be able to do the following things—founded on the very essence of professed spiritualism—viz., the rope-tying, the ringing of bells and beating of tambourines without visible agency, mysterious writing, and secret reading—in your own or anybody’s room, in the presence of any number of spectators, in the full light, without preparation, without practice, without assistants or accomplices, without sleight-of-hand, and without any apparatus, except (for one trick) a very simple article, which any boy can make for himself in a few minutes.

Let me first describe the effect of the performance, without any explanation as to how it is done—that is to say, as it will appear to your audience. You give some one a piece of ordinary tape or ribbon, which they can examine as closely as they please. One end of this ribbon, which is about two feet and a half long, is now tied firmly around your wrist. Placing your hands behind your back, you then allow the other end to be fastened around the other wrist in like manner. Thus your hands are tied behind your back, each being secured separately, to prevent the possibility of either slipping out, and the knots, or ends, are then sealed with sealing wax and stamped with a crest or private mark for identification afterwards. Sitting on a chair at the farther end of the room, with your back turned to the company, you pass your arms over the back of the chair, so that all may see the ribbon and seals; and while in this position you invite a spectator to step forward and tie his handkerchief around the cross-bar of the back of the chair, including the ligature which joins your two wrists, knotting the handkerchief tightly and sealing it as well.

So that you are now practically tied to the chair, with your hands fastened together behind you. Two of your audience then hold up a table-cloth or open newspaper in front of you as a temporary screen—of course giving their word not to look behind while so doing; a few bars of mysterious music are played on the piano; in a minute, at a signal from you, the newspaper is snatched away, and you are seen sitting in precisely the same attitude and bound as before, but with your coat removed and lying across your knees! Knots and seals are all discovered on examination to be firm and intact, nor does the cross-bar or any other portion of the chair ‘unship.’

No assistant could have approached you without being seen, and your coat can be passed round, to show that there is nothing peculiar in its construction. You can, if you please, be screened once more for a minute, and put it on again, and the second time you may be found standing beside the chair, entirely free from it, yet having your hands secured as tightly as ever behind your back, and leaving the sealed and knotted handkerchief undisturbed around the cross-bar. This, performed in a dark cabinet, was Ira Davenport’s great feat.

But you may elaborate this much further, and just as easily give some ‘manifestations’ which are truly astounding. The principle which lies at the bottom of it all is very little known, even among professional wizards, and not one person in ten thousand would as much as guess at it. Your hands are tied and secured to the chair in the same manner as last described; but now, in addition, you have your legs and ankles bound to the legs of the chair, and a rope or strap passed around your body. Perfect strangers may do all the tying, and everything is sealed.

This time you had better have a regular screen—a sheet or tablecloth thrown across a clothes-horse makes the best possible—and let it be so arranged that, while hiding your body, it leaves your feet visible. They can therefore see for themselves that you never move from the chair for a single instant, even if it were possible to do so. Handkerchiefs around the ankles will be better seen than cords or ropes. The screen must stand well out in the room, so that there may be no suspicion of a confederate ‘lending you a hand’ from any door. On a small table, concealed by the screen, but quite out of your reach, even if your hands were free, are placed a bell, a tambourine, an umbrella, and a slate or sheet of blank paper.

A few seconds after the clothes-horse has been pulled in front of you—or rather behind you and in front of the audience, for you are sitting with your back towards them—the bell is heard to ring violently, and the umbrella, open, rises above the screen, dancing up and down in time to the music of the piano, presently hitching itself on the top rail. Then your coat comes flying over, and the tambourine is thumped and rattled, the bell never ceasing to ring energetically. Finally you give a shout, as agreed upon, the screen is quickly drawn aside, the bell and tambourine are seen to fall from somewhere—where, nobody can tell—and roll clashing and clattering over the floor before the eyes of all. The umbrella is open, your coat is off, the slate or paper is covered with writing. Yet not a single knot is untied nor a single seal broken: you are in exactly the same position as at first, and none of the articles show any trace of wax or thread. Bear in mind, too, that the spectators have had your feet, the legs of the chair, and those of the table, in full view the whole time, and will have seen that none of them moved in the slightest degree.

The mysterious reading or calculation may be done in conjunction with this, or as a trick by itself. When you have the method which forms its foundation, you can arrange its effect in a dozen different ways, according to your fancy. Perhaps the best and least complicated form is, before you are tied up, to pass round half a dozen slips of paper or cardboard, with a lead pencil, requesting each of the six people to whom they are distributed to write a number—any number they please—thereon in legible figures, secretly. The slips are collected in an envelope, fastened, and brought to you, and you entrust them to the ‘best arithmetician’ in the room, when the rest of the audience have decided who that lucky individual may be, to be opened and added together, without declaring their total or mentioning a word about them, whilst you are behind the screen. Then the number discovered on the sheet of paper or slate will prove to be the exact amount, or the tambourine may fly over and fall before them with the sum total mysteriously inscribed upon it—even before the arithmetician has added the numbers together. Or, as I say, this may constitute an experiment of itself, and the total may be found on a card hitherto blank, or written inside the lining of somebody’s hat, which is placed upon the owner’s head and retained there before the slips are even passed round. Or, before the total is declared, it may be written down privately by the one who has made the addition, the cards burnt, and the ashes rubbed on the performer’s bare arm; when, in the midst of the bluish smudge they produce, the amount will appear in figures of inky blackness.

So much for ‘Spiritualism at Home,’ as viewed from the ‘front.’ Now come behind the scenes and learn the modus operandi. It will not involve a very lengthy description.

The whole of the coat-stripping, bell-ringing, tambourine-beating, umbrella-opening, and other manœuvres executed under shelter of the screen depend upon the fact that it is actually possible to remove one hand from the tape or ribbon which is bound around the wrist and to replace it again without untying the knot! To understand this, just tie one end of a piece of cord around anything—say, the leg of a chair; that will, no doubt, be firm and secure enough. But now proceed to fasten the other end round the other leg, and you will perceive, on considering the matter, that you have only one end to tie with, instead of two as before. The other end is fixed, and cannot be made use of, so that, tie as you will, you can only form a series of loops—in nautical phrase, ‘half-hitches’—around one straight piece. What is the consequence? Why, that these loops, being nothing more than so many rings strung on the line which comes from the other leg of the chair, can be slid backwards and forwards along it. When you have tied the second leg up tightly and neatly, and to all appearance as securely as the other, you have only to slip these rings, or knots, back towards the first leg, to allow of the second being drawn out, and on replacing it again you slide them back against it as firm as ever, having untied nothing.

This is precisely what you do with the last-tied wrist behind the screen, except that it is much more easily accomplished in this case than with the leg of a chair, because you can relax the long piece, and so give yourself more space by bringing the hands a little nearer to each other. It is difficult to comprehend this from a written description, and a diagram would be of little use to illustrate it, but you will see it readily on following out the successive steps just mentioned.

Let us go through the trick for the sake of noting one or two little points which require some care. Tape is better than string or rope, and ribbon is best of all, because, from the silk in its composition, it is slippery, and will glide smoothly, without requiring to be tugged, or being in danger of getting ‘jammed.’ The first wrist is tied before you; the manner in which it is done does not concern you, though you could, if need be, ‘capsize’ an ordinary knot—reef or granny—and convert it into the same condition as that applied to the second wrist. This, however, will be quite unnecessary. Nevertheless, you had better observe the mode in which this first knot is tied, for this reason: it would be possible for some skilful person—a sailor, for instance—to put a ‘clove hitch,’ or some other nautical complication, around the second wrist, which could not be manipulated in the way described. You are not likely to meet with anybody who will treat you so, and of course, in speaking of knots, one means the ordinary arrangements, such as nine hundred and ninety-nine people out of a thousand will tie.

But if you should find somebody who is clever and ill-natured enough to try to baffle you, let him tie away to his heart’s content on the first wrist, then, ‘to show there is no deception or confederacy,’ move on to some one else for the second. The best way is always to go to a lady; probably she will only tie a simple bow at first, which you will pull open at once, making a great merit of scorning to take advantage of such a thing, and requesting, for your own satisfaction, to be secured in a manner which will leave no doubt in the minds of the audience, etc., etc. The second wrist is tied behind your back, and when both are thus encircled a straight piece, about one foot in length, will connect the two hands.

But how about the seals? You will perceive that the knots in both cases lie close against the flesh, and it is only possible to put on the merest dot of wax—and this on the loops themselves—without burning the skin. Thus they will carry the seal unbroken with them as they slip backwards and forwards. But since there is, even so, a chance of your getting scorched, it is better in every way to request that an end of about two inches long be left in each case—you can adjust it yourself with the first wrist, as a pattern for the second—explaining your reason, and have this sealed down to the long piece which intervenes. You can have the end of it sewn as well if you like. The more you are apparently hampered by precautions and impossibilities the more wonderful and impressive the feat becomes, and it must be evident to all that the knots cannot be untied when the ends are made fast without breaking the seals.

The handkerchief around the cross-bar of the chair, like the ankle-fetters and ropes around the body in the more elaborate version of the trick, are merely for the sake of effect, and are of no consequence to you at all; but be sure to draw just as much attention to these as the other, and lay as great stress on their being sealed.

Now I think you see how to proceed. Directly you are hidden by the newspaper catch hold of the knots last tied with the fingers of the opposite hand, and slide them gently outwards from the wrist towards the seal. This will enlarge the loop by a good inch or an inch and a half—more than enough to enable you to withdraw the hand. The arms are now free from one another, the ribbon with the enlarged loop at the end of it dangling from the first-tied wrist. This is pulled through the loop of the handkerchief, the coat quickly removed, and the whole process then simply reversed—the arms brought together behind the chair again, ribbon passed through loop of handkerchief, hand passed into the noose, and knots slipped back to the skin, tighter than ever. Putting on the coat is managed just in the same way. If you want to appear freed from the chair, do not pass the ribbon within the handkerchief in replacing your hand; or you may produce a most puzzling result, if you like, by twisting it around the cross-bar instead.

Do not be ‘flurried’ or over-eager. Remember, if you took half an hour about it the performance would be just as mysterious and incapable of explanation. You may, however, apparently shorten the time employed in its execution by asking some young lady to oblige you with a little appropriate music as soon as the screen is raised. ‘Something very solemn and soothing—a little slower, if you please; thank you, that will do nicely’—working away all the time. ‘Now then, who’s got a watch? You have, sir? Has it a second-hand? Now, kindly tell me when one minute has expired,’ and so on, according to the amount of delay you require. Always take care that there is no light behind you, or the screen will become transparent; and place your chair where you will not be reflected in any looking-glass.

But the bell-ringing and tambourine-beating, combined with this, will absolutely astonish your friends, for this is what fills the public with greater wonder than anything else, even when performed by professional conjurers amidst all the appliances of a regular stage. For this you will want some instrument which can lie folded up inside your waistcoat (not coat); it must therefore be not more than a foot long when not in use, but capable of being expanded to such a length as will enable you to reach the articles on the table with it while still sitting on your chair—the distance is not likely to be more than four feet at the outside. Indeed, it is not necessary to have it so much, for everybody will be able to see that you do not move from the chair. This may consist either of a sort of fishing-rod of four pieces, or a jointed rod made to fold up by hinges on the same principle as a pocket foot-rule, so that the joints bend in one direction, but are stiff in the other. If either of these is used, there must be a crook at the end to hook up the umbrella and tambourine, and the bell must have a loop of string attached to it, unless you choose to have a line running through an eye, as with a regular fishing-rod, and angle for the articles with a noose. Much better, to my thinking, is that little bit of apparatus—commonly sold with boxes of toy-soldiers-known as ‘lazy-tongs.’ It is formed, as I dare say you know, by a number of X-shaped slips of wood, joined together at the extremities in a sort of lattice (XXXX). The rivets are loosely fixed, so that by pressing the arms of the end X together the whole shoots out to its full length, and, by separating them again, the ‘tongs’ fold up. You will see the same action exemplified in those ornamental lattice-fences which are made to surround flower-pots in a drawing-room. By means of this, the things on the table can not only be hooked, but pinched up if required, and can be rattled about there before they come near your hands. If writing-paper is used instead of a slate, a pellet of bees’-wax or a drawing-pin must be fixed at the end of the tongs.

Having freed your wrist as before, get hold of the bell first and seize the handle between your teeth, where you retain it the whole time, ringing it by shakes and nods of your head. Next bring over the umbrella and open it, causing it to appear above the screen and dance as described; you may even shoot it out beyond the side of the screen on the lazy-tongs, far beyond your arms’ reach, ‘even if they were not tied behind your back.’ Hang the umbrella on the top rail of the clothes-horse, and divest yourself of your coat, flinging it over. Then fetch the tambourine, ringing the bell as hard as you can all the while. Beat time to the piano for a few moments, making the umbrella dance again in unison. The tongs must hang on your arm when not wanted, for do not forget that the audience have a full view of the floor, and that if you drop anything you cannot pick it up again. To drop the lazy-tongs would reveal the secret entirely, but the other articles do not matter so much. Now if you are going to do any writing, get the paper or slate, the pencil will be in your waistcoat-pocket, and you can use the tambourine as a desk. Finally, tuck the latter under your chin, and roll the edge of the bell to and fro upon it while you tie yourself up again; give a shout, as the prearranged signal for somebody to remove the screen, releasing the bell and tambourine at the same instant. Down they fall, and go rolling and jingling over the floor before the spectators, and there you are, bound and strapped, as close a prisoner as ever!

I said you could do all this without practice, and so you can, since there is no sleight-of-hand or dexterity involved. But you had better rehearse once or twice privately before giving an exhibition, to see that you have everything in working order; by so doing you will acquire confidence, and produce your effects one after the other in a much shorter space of time, while you may hit on many others. For instance, if your table is one of those small, light, ornamental affairs resting on a single stem, you might cause it to rock violently by means of your tongs, and to ‘walk’ from one edge of the screen to the other, the audience being able to watch the motion of its feet. If you like you may even have your elbows secured to the back of the chair, and will still be sufficiently at liberty to do all but take your coat off. The great thing is to make all the effects fit in with one another compactly.

Some years ago a noted conjurer introduced a feature into his entertainment which, for a time, startled the public. He allowed himself to be handcuffed by any policeman present who would fetch a pair of Government handcuffs for the purpose; these were locked, and the key retained by the constable or some other member of the audience. The performer then stepped behind a curtain, and presently came out, still manacled, but minus his coat. But after a bit it suddenly occurred to some one that all the Scotland Yard handcuffs issued to the police were made on the same pattern, and that the magician had only to unlock them with a duplicate key kept in a little pocket at the back of his waistcoat!

Now for the ‘Mysterious Addition,’ or ‘Spirit-writing.’ Six small pieces of cardboard or paper are distributed, and those to whom they are given are requested to pencil some number consisting of any figures they please. Let these people be separated as much as possible, ostensibly to show that there is no collusion, but really to prevent any comparing of notes; enjoin strict secrecy, too, as to the numbers written, for similar reasons. Let somebody collect the folded slips in one of those small envelopes such as are used for ‘Your change, with thanks,’ in shops, fasten it, and bring it to you. You go back to your table and lay it carelessly thereon, bringing forward your piece of ribbon instead, as though to save time; and while the first knot is being tied you ask, Who is the best arithmetician in the room? This being decided, you go back and get the envelope before the second wrist is tied, giving it to him with a pencil and plate, and bidding him, when he has added the six numbers together, to say nothing, but make a private memorandum of the amount, burn the slips on the plate, and keep the ashes for you.

In laying the little envelope ‘carelessly’ on the table, where you have your ribbon, candle, matches, plates, rope, sealing-wax, etc., in readiness, you are careless or careful enough to place it so that it shall be hidden by the rim of the plate, side by side with another little envelope of precisely similar appearance, also concealed by the margin of the plate. This second envelope contains six slips of paper or card, too, and on these you have written—in pencil, and in different ‘hands’—six numbers, the total of which is known to you. Let us suppose that you have put 209, 23, 1000, 7, 51, and 346; the sum of these is 1636, and is discovered to be such by the arithmetician—who, of course, is not chosen from among the six, ‘to prevent any deception,’ but is wholly independent of them—when you hand him this second envelope instead of the genuine one. Behind the screen, therefore, you have only to write 1636 on the slate or tambourine, which will be found to tally with his memorandum. Or, if you are doing this trick by itself, paint 1636 on your arm in glycerine with a fine brush, and let it dry in before commencing. This being transparent, will be quite invisible till the ashes are rubbed in, when the number will stand out jet black. You can vary this in a dozen ways, by writing the number and concealing it somewhere beforehand, since the amounts which the audience put down on their slips do not affect you at all. In every case it is well to have the slips burnt, and you can ask to have the numbers restricted within the hundreds—that is, in three figures—on the plea that it will otherwise be tedious to add up. Make your own amounts rather larger than those given above by way of example.

Of course no comparisons are made, or, even if any two or three did compare, no one can dispute the accuracy of the total, for no one knows what the numbers were beyond his or her own figures; and the addition is beyond suspicion when made by a representative whom the audience choose for themselves. But, you will ask, how is the first envelope concealed when you take up the plate to receive the ashes? Simply by having two plates, as though to provide against contingencies, and giving the upper one, using the other to stand the candlestick upon if you like, and pushing it back a few inches casually to cover what was behind it.

If you prefer it, you may take out your handkerchief and draw it lightly over your arm after it is bared while the slips are being collected; then throw it casually on the table beside the plate to serve as a mask; or you may have a few spare handkerchiefs ready on the table and dispense with the plate as a means of concealment altogether. You will draw attention to the fact that you have handkerchiefs wherewith you may be secured if nobody will lend them, but that of course you prefer to use borrowed ones. Conjuring tables with traps and shelves are utterly unnecessary for small articles which cannot be seen by those seated a little way off if the smallest projection intervenes.

Always have everything ready and in its place before commencing. If you have to leave the room for anything in the middle of a trick your audience suspect something, and the effect is spoiled. Make a list: candle in candlestick, matches, sealing-wax, ribbon, scissors (for cutting the knots at the conclusion), rope, strap, chair, tablecloth or newspaper, screen, bell, umbrella, slate, tambourine, lazy-tongs, pencil, small envelope, slips, plates, duplicate envelope. The last need give you no anxiety, you can have it in your match-box, if you please, and coolly put it in the desired position while standing with your back to the people, ‘setting’ your table before commencing.

Talking of ‘spirit-writing’ reminds me of an anecdote—a problem put before me the other day by a post-office boy which might well have perplexed the cleverest of conjurers. I was sending a paper which I had just written to the Editor of the Boy’s Own Paper, but was uncertain about the amount of postage, so I stepped into the office to have it weighed and get stamps. Manuscript for the press goes at book-post rate if the ends are left open, and ‘Manuscript’ is marked on the wrapper.

‘Printed matter?’ asked the youthful and conscientious official (evidently a new hand) to whom I handed the document, as he prepared to put it in the scales.

‘No; manuscript,’ I replied. ‘But it’s all the same; book-post tariff covers it.’

The boy was obviously not quite satisfied on this point, for, having weighed the packet, he referred to a big book, doubtfully. ‘Twopence-halfpenny,’ he presently decided; ‘it will go for twopence-halfpenny, provided there’s no writing inside!’

SECTION XI.
DIVERSIFIED DIVERSIONS.

YOUNG DOBBS’ HAT.
[A tragic story for Magic Lantern or Shadow Show.]