THE first conjurer I ever set eyes upon was that Royal wizard Dr. Holden, who, previous to my seeing his performance, had had the honour of appearing before Queen Victoria. Boylike, I was more impressed, I am afraid, by his shiny silk hat and fur-lined overcoat. I took his magic as being perfectly natural to such a resplendent human being.

He gave us an hour's performance after afternoon school one day. Admission was one penny, and I vividly remember two tricks that he did. One was blood writing on the arm, introduced, I believe, by Dr. Lynn, and the other was the production of a growth of flowers. Such flowers I had never seen before growing out of one pot: emerald-green leaves and a posy of the most highly coloured blossoms it is possible to imagine. They were grown in a vase of sawdust, covered by a highly decorated cone, into which was dropped pieces of blazing paper by way of forcing the culture.

I suppose I was too young then to be inoculated with the craze for magic; in any case, it didn't affect me at the time any more than the potter and his wheel that I saw at the same school; yet a few years later I did the same thing with flowers myself. I remember a bit of my patter at the time was a quotation running thus: "If in this weary world of ours, we could reject the weeds and keep the flowers, what a heaven on earth we'd make it!"

Two or three years later I had begun to take up magic in the true sense of the word. My interest had first been aroused by a shilling trick seen in a shop window. I had had an afternoon off from my work, which work I heartily disliked, and as I strolled along the squares of Bloomsbury that hot summer day I was wondering what on earth I could do to change my life, building castles in the air with little foundation of hope.

I came into Oxford Street, and there in a shop window opposite Mudies' Library, with the name of "Joseph Bland" on the door, I saw a glittering array of strange objects. One of them was ticketed, "This egg will disappear, 1s." It looked quite a commonplace, unintelligent egg sitting in a cup, and it started me wondering how such a thing could be. I went in the shop and bought it, and was shown the way it worked.

I took that egg and cup home and began showing it to my brothers and sisters. It caused such a sensation in the home circle that on my next afternoon "off" I made straight for that magic shop and spent all my pocket money in acquiring small tricks.

The shop is now a bird shop. On the death of Joseph Bland it was taken over by Hamley's for a few years. But to this day there still lingers some of the old decorations round the window-frame through which I used to gaze. A few doors from Bland's there was another conjurer's shop belonging to Herr Proskaeur. (You will note they were nearly all Doctors, Professors, or Herrs; some were also Colonels and Lieutenants.) This shop was not nearly so gorgeous, but much cheaper, and I therefore soon began to patronize it.

One day when I was there buying the "penny" that went through the neck of a bottle, I noticed a little man in the comer of the shop furtively watching the proceedings, and when I left he followed me. Accosting me, he asked if I wanted any more tricks, as he had some good ones to sell. He promptly proceeded to produce from his pocket a small tumbler, and, with water from an adjacent fountain, he showed me the dissolving penny. This was the best small trick I had seen up till then, and it really puzzled me.

However, I reluctantly explained to the little man that I had no money left save fourpence. This he offered to accept for the secret, and, as I closed with the bargain promptly, he taught me the trick there and then on the refuge in the middle of Oxford Street.

Shortly after this I was walking along Euston Road one evening, when, to my delight, I came across a conjurer performing outside a shop. He was doing the "Ariel Mint" and "Chinese Rings". For the former he was using the lately neglected coin-wand. A crowd was watching him, and we were all invited inside afterwards to see greater marvels at the fee of one penny each. The inside of the shop was draped with scarlet turkey twill. After showing us a few more tricks he introduced a lady, and together they gave an excellent "second sight" performance.

I soon introduced myself to this gentleman, whose stage name was Kasper, alias the "Great Court Conjurer". He was very interested in me, especially when I told him I was out to buy tricks. He asked me to come and see him the next Sunday, when I acquired, amongst other things, the "Rising Cards" for 4s. 6d. This procedure went on for several weeks, I attending as many of his performances as I possibly could. Then one Sunday, having told me he was going away to Nottingham, he offered to teach me many more if I could persuade an artist friend of mine to paint a certain picture for him.

"Look'ere," I remember him saying, "if you'll get your friend to do me a picture according to my orders, I'll give the 'ole game away to yer."

The offer seemed so generous that I at once closed with it. I had occasionally taken a young artist with me to see the show, and the "Great Court Conjurer" had been very interested in watching him while he sketched. I wished that there might be no misunderstanding between the "Great Court Conjurer" and myself, so I went back to him and asked him what he meant by "giving the whole game away".

"Why, I'll teach yer all the bloomin' tricks there ever was, is, or could be," he said.

"All those I've seen you perform; I asked eagerly.

"Yes," he replied, "all of 'em, and a lot more."

I was so delighted at the prospect of learning the complete art of conjuring (I have since discovered that one has never learnt all there is to learn about conjuring) that I rushed off at once to my artist friend and begged him to begin a picture there and then. I forget what I promised him for his work, but I know that he considered the sum insufficient. He pointed out that by simply putting his brush on a small canvas a few times he was going to make my fortune. Therefore I ought to pay handsomely,

"You may be quite sure," he said, "that a man like your friend the conjurer is no fool. If he had ever thought of being a fool he would never have been a conjurer. Well, then, since he is no fool, his opinion is worth having; and if he has seen, from the few sketches I have made at his place, that my work is good, you may be quite sure that it is very good; otherwise he would not offer to give away all the secrets of his work for one small picture from me. Why, man, your fortune's made! In exchange for one small picture from me you learn all there is to learn about conjuring from a master of the art."

Inexperienced as I was, I had my doubts about the "Great Court Conjurer" being a master of the art; but I did not discuss the point, and eventually we came to terms.

"What sort of a picture do you think he wants?" asked the artist.

"I don't know. He said a picture 'to my orders'."

"Oh," said the artist, "I expect he wants a little landscape or something of that sort to hang outside his place as an attraction to the public. You know," he added confidently, "I always thought that conjurer was a cut above the ordinary conjurers; he has refined tastes, you may depend upon it."

Seeing that I was striving every day to become a conjurer myself, I thought this was rather unkind, but I was so anxious not to deter my friend from painting the picture that I refrained from starting a discussion about conjurers and their refinement--or lack of it.

"I've come to paint that picture for you," said my friend, the artist, as we entered the shop in which the "Great Court Conjurer" performed.

"And when it's done you won't forget your part of the bargain?" I put in.

"No, I won't forget-when it's done," he added meaningly.

"Oh, I can do it for you," said my artist, somewhat haughtily.

"Very well, then," said the "Great Court Conjurer"; "now what I want is this."

He proceeded to explain at great length the kind of picture he required, and I can see now the long series of different expressions that flitted across my artist's face as the old showman spoke. At the beginning my friend just stuttered out "Oh!" at the end of each sentence, but towards the close he seemed to have recovered his presence of mind, and he began to argue with the conjurer.

"But I would much rather paint you a picture of my own making," he said.

"No," said the conjurer, "I don't want none of your landscapes" (he put two adjectives before landscapes), "or seascenes, or portraits, or anythink--except just the picture I told you of. Is it a deal?"

The artist said he would think it over for half an hour. I could not blame him; for certainly the picture that the "Great Court Conjurer" required was no ordinary picture.

The scene was to be the largest state-room in Windsor Castle. The two principal figures in the picture were to be the "Great Court Conjurer" and his wife. The lady was to be sitting on the throne, her eyes were to be bandaged, and the "Great Court Conjurer" was to be holding-up a pocket-handkerchief. The picture, according to the man's own directions, was to be called: "What 'ave we 'ere? The State Performance."

The Queen and all the members of the Royal Family were to be sitting or standing near the two performers. The "Great Court Conjurer" stipulated that the likenesses should be good, that the men should have on military or naval uniforms, and that the ladies were to be wearing evening-dress and large quantities of diamonds. Orders and decorations were to be in great profusion, and the place was to be brilliantly lit by tall candles. On one side was to be a small table on which various flags, ribbons, and other articles used in the performance were to be prominently displayed. Some of the members of the Royal Family were to be applauding--some were to be open-mouthed with astonishment, and some were to be laughing behind gold fans studded with rubies and sapphires. In the distance there was to be a supper-table, sumptuously laid, with at least two dozen powdered footmen standing on either side. One footman, more gorgeous than the others, was to be standing near the conjurer's table. From the attitude of this special footman it was to be plain to everyone that he had been told off to act as the conjurer's assistant.

The "Great Court Conjurer" bargained for several other details, but they were comparatively unimportant. He was to have three large diamonds in his shirt, and a massive ring on the third finger of his right hand-the one that held the handkerchief. The conjurer's wife was to have an orange-coloured silk dress; on her left arm were to be three heavy gold bracelets, and on her right arm there was to be a mass of lighter bracelets set with various precious stones. Her fingers were, of course, to be covered with rings.

When the artist said that he would like to consider the offer for half an hour, he really meant that he wanted to find out how much money I would give him for the work.

It was pleasant to see the wonderful and rapid change that had come over the artist. He had often talked to me of loving art for art's sake, an occupation that he had hitherto followed quite easily, for his pictures had certainly never brought him in a halfpenny. Now that he had practically received his first commission, he soon forgot that there was to be no art in the composition of his picture, but he haggled with me over the price in a most inartistic--but very businesslike--fashion. I forget how much I offered him, but I know that he eventually agreed to accept it. I need scarcely add that we anticipated the "Drage" system of payments. I promised to wipe out the debt by monthly instalments.

I shall never forget that picture. The "Great Court Conjurer" insisted on seeing it every evening and giving the artist suggestions for its improvement. I remember well the look of dismay that came into the conjurer's face when he first saw the picture of himself holding up the handkerchief. The handkerchief painted by the artist was quite white. The conjurer suggested that it was too white. Could it not be toned down a little, so as to be more in keeping with the dove colour on the walls; When the artist refused to make the handkerchief grey, the conjurer suggested that a red pattern on the handkerchief would be better than a lain white one. So the "Great Court Conjurer" had the red pattern on his handkerchief, and he had a crimson silk handkerchief tucked into his waistcoat. When the picture was finished the conjurer said that he wished that it had been twice the size.

"You should have said so before," replied the artist gruffly.

"Well," said the conjurer, "if you'll make my hair a little bit longer, and make my moustache curl a little bit more upwards, I won't say anything more about it."

At last, then, the picture being finished, I was able to realize one of my ambitions. I was to find out how all the "Great Court Conjurer's" tricks were done. I went to him with a large notebook and said that if he would speak slowly I would write down all he had to say.

"You needn't trouble to write nothin'," he said with a grin. "You'll find out how to do all those tricks I've taught yer and sold yer, and all those tricks I do myself, and lots more of 'em--you'll find 'em all out if you'll get two books called Modern Magic by Professor Hoffman, and Houdin's Masterpieces. They're all explained there. Get the books and read them."

I have since had reason to be grateful for this advice, for one reading of these books opened up to me a new fairyland. I saw before me the road to success.

Soon after this I discovered England's home of mystery at the Egyptian Hall, Piccadilly, where Maskelyne and Cooke's gave shows twice daily. I shall never forget the joy the first performance gave me and the rapture, with which I saw their feast of magic. From then onwards Maskelyne and Cooke's was my Mecca, and I determined some day to appear behind the footlights of this hall of mystery. This was in 1883, and in 1893, after ten years of hard work, I had attained the object of my ambition.

After I had read and re-read Modern Magic many times I began to present programmes suitable for parties, etc. Of course I had to discard much of the apparatus I had acquired, and I discovered what an important factor in magic are the rules of dramatic art. From that time onward I never bought a trick until I had made the most careful consideration of its suitability.

Then came the great day when my name was announced for an actual public performance. It was set forth on the programme as follows;

Mr. David Devant, the drawing-room delight, will give performances of magic at intervals. "When wizards wield wands without wicked witchery, Man's merrily 'mazed, mid much magical mystery."

The occasion was a bazaar, and the locale was a schoolroom in the Kentish Town Road. At the last performance on this, to me, memorable evening I noticed two conjurers of my acquaintance amongst the audience. They were Professor Era and Señor Elfredi--their ordinary names were Thomas Edmonds and Alfred Potter. Seated between them was a benign-looking gentleman who seemed to be taking a keen interest in the performance. At the close, all three stayed behind, and to my astonishment Mr. Edmonds introduced the stranger as Professor Hoffman. I forgot all about the pose of cool demeanour and calm which I had carefully practised on the stage; in the words of the song, "I gave him a slap on the back", and shouted out in my exuberance of spirit, "It was all through your book, Mr. Hoffman"--which was an awful accusation under the circumstances.

This vigorous assault knocked his glasses off, but he accepted my apologies and heartened me considerably by telling me that, in his opinion, if I went on as I had began, I would one day become a great conjurer.

Soon I got to know other conjurers, including the redoubtable Dr. Holden, whom I met at Frank Hiam's shop in Nile Street, City Road, where many conjurers met on Sunday evenings. This shop was, in fact, a sort of informal club, and it was there that I first met Servais Le Roy, who

was about my own age. We were great pals, and remain so to this day, having studied and struggled together. There was also a Dr. Harley, Lieut. Albini, Dr. Nix, Col. Meurice De Cone, and many others. My dear friend Henry Donn was often there; he will remember how Frank Hiam used to send us out in turn to fetch the light refreshments while he was in his glory showing us how the tricks he made ought to be presented.

I had the luck about this time to see a two-hours' performance by Professor Hellis, one of the most satisfying two-hours' performances I ever saw. Each trick or group of tricks was kept distinct, and the programme was perfectly balanced. One trick he made a great feature of was "The Egyptian Pocket". Carl Hertz, whose first performance in London I had the pleasure of seeing, also made a feature of this fine old trick. At that time no one did big illusions on the music-halls, but the advent of Bautier de Kolta's vanishing lady altered all this. It was imitated and was seen at all the halls. But as Maskelyne said in his advertisement at the time, "Imitations were like farthing dips compared to electric light."

Bautier once impressed upon me that a trick was no use without a surprise. The "Vanishing Lady" was one of the finest illusions I ever saw, for here was a surprise indeed. Bautier walked forward with a newspaper in his hand; this he unfolded and spread out in the centre of the stage. He then picked up a light, ordinary-looking chair, of which, by the way, he showed all sides, and placed it in the centre of the newspaper. He then handed a lady in and she seated herself on this chair. Bautier proceeded to cover her up with a piece of purple silk, pinning it round her head and shoulders, dropping the rest and draping it to the floor. No part of this silk was allowed to lie outside the newspaper.

There was a pause. Bautier came down the stage, looked at the draped figure, took hold of the silk with two hands--one about the waist and the other at the head--and threw the silk up into the air; it seemed to leave his hands in a flash. Both woman and silk had utterly disappeared. Again the chair was lifted off the newspaper, and in doing so Bautier showed it back and front. He then picked up the newspaper and folded it together.

Bautier's new experiments created a furore, and, together with the performances of Charles Bertram and Verbeck which preceded these, made a big boom in conjuring. Verbeck's first performances were given in the Prince's Hall, and those that followed by Charles Bertram were at St, James's Hall. Verbeck, however, did not stay long at the Prince's Hall, but moved into a smaller place which was called the Piccadilly Hall and was nearly opposite. Verbeck's séance was very striking because of the entire absence of apparatus. An added importance was given to the patter by an interpreter who translated every French phrase spoken by Verbeck into English.

I cannot remember to any great extent the details of the show, but one of the best things Verbeck did was his "Thought Transference", in which he was assisted by Mademoiselle Marguerite. Another very striking experiment was with a wedding ring, which was borrowed, flattened by a hammer, crumpled up in a programme into a ball, and, on being touched with sealing-wax, became transformed into a securely sealed envelope, which, when broken open, was found to contain a second sealed packet. Another envelope was found inside this, and the ring was finally discovered in this third envelope. With the permission of the owner of the ring, the whole process was gone through again.

Verbeck also made popular the feat of causing twelve cards to depart from one's hand, one at a time, and travel invisibly by way of the sleeve into the opening of the waistcoat. He always concluded this experiment by causing the cards to diminish.

Charles Bertram was quite different in style. His manner was Bohemian and genial, whereas Verbeck was inclined to be Mephistophelian and serious. Bertram showed a series of drawing-room tricks devoid of apparatus, and his whole performance was merry and bright, full of life and colour.

The hall was arranged like a Society drawing-room. At the back of a small open platform stood a handsome folding screen; in front of this were a couple of gilt chairs and two gilt gipsy tables. These did not suggest conjuring-tables in any way, except that they were beautifully decorated, the tops being covered with plush, and round the edges were small festoons, hung in scollops. The colour, I remember, was peacock blue and cherry red alternately, and the effects were charming. The only other adjuncts were two banks of real flowers and a grand piano at which a lady presided. Large shaded lamps completed the picture.

Colour makes a wonderful difference to an entertainment, and I would impress upon any conjurer producing a show the importance of good colour schemes and the wisdom of avoiding ugly contrasts. In Victorian days colouring effects were very crude compared with what they are to-day, when one can see many beautiful examples of effective colour-combinations. My friend Gordon Powell once suggested to me as a colouring scheme for three handkerchiefs I wanted to use for an experiment, emerald green, scarlet and gold, with a border to each of the same coloured silk. Thus the gold was bordered with green, the red with the gold, and the green with the red, and it was surprising what a strikingly beautiful effect this made. Still more charming effects could be obtained by using the delicate pastel shades now in vogue.

The wrong colour scheme can ruin a show. This, in my opinion, is what happened to Verbeck's second séance in London, in which he produced a new programme. For this event he had his stage entirely draped in Cambridge blue. Had he been a large canary it would have been a suitable background, but as he was dressed in ordinary evening clothes it made him appear as a moving silhouette. The colour was much too effeminate and cold, and gave a totally wrong atmosphere to the performance.

The producer needs all the help he can get, whether he is producing a conjuring performance or any other form of stage spectacle. I myself found a valuable assistant in my wife, who had a much better colour-sense than I had, and she it was who designed all the colour schemes I used in later years. But my first fit-up was suggested by Bertram's tables, and was crimson and peacock blue. Another very successful one was peacock blue with an appliqué of autumn leaves, with a black carpet. Another one was red velvet with a deep gold fringe and gilt pillars. Yet another was black and orange draping and carpet, with side screens painted to represent Chinese lacquer; tableau curtains and borders decorated in gold, also in a Chinese style. The latter I found the most satisfactory "fit-up" I have ever had, and it answered most purposes.

It was about this time that I saw Bautier perform the second edition of his famous "Flying Birdcage", which he brought out to eclipse the imitators of his first cage.

The new version consisted of a round cage; the first one was oblong shaped, about the size of a large cigar-box, and this at that time was being imitated all over the place. The new cage looked perfectly natural; Bautier came forward holding it in one hand, and, standing almost on the rundown, he suddenly threw it in the air, where it disappeared like a flash. He then took off his coat and threw it to the audience for examination. When he took the coat back to the stage he reproduced the cage from the folds of the garment.

I have never seen this imitated. There is always a risk of hurting the bird used for this trick, but Bertram rectified this by allowing the bird to escape from the cage just before he was about to vanish it; the bird flew into the back of the hall, and Bertram remarked: "You have flown away, have you? Well, take the cage with you." Then he vanished the cage in the conventional way.