SO WE returned to London Town with hopes of youth afire. We took a modest house in Ashmore Road, Kilburn, close to one occupied by Le Roy.

At this time conjuring was still booming on the halls. Bautier was doing his new cocoon, in which he took a small frame covered with tissue paper and hung it upon a tape stretched across the stage. This tape was hung on posts with counterweights, so that the slightest weight showed. Having hung the frame up, he proceeded to draw a rough representation of a silkworm, then drew a line round it in oval shape. He clapped his hands and the tissue paper burst, and a large orange-coloured cocoon appeared; he took the frame away and the cocoon remained suspended on the tape. He then wheeled a cup-shaped stand underneath it and lowered the cocoon into this stand, and from the cocoon there gradually emerged a beautiful human butterfly. It was one of the most charming illusions he ever presented.

Later on I saw him perform at the Egyptian Hall a pretty illusion called "The Captive's Flight". He gave out a carpet-covered board for examination, about 18 inches square. This he laid down on the floor of the stage and put on top of it a large wire cage, rather the shape of a parrot cage, and big enough to hold a person in a crouching position. He introduced a "leetle dove", his wife, dressed in wings to represent a bird. She slipped into the cage and he hid the whole contrivance with a silk cover shaped to fit the cage. Almost immediately he whisked it away, and nothing but an empty space was left.

Trewey also appeared on the Halls about this time with his new Shadow Show Silhouettes, formed by the hands. Previous to this he had only done juggling and "Twenty Faces Under One Hat", twisting a ring of felt into different shapes to suit various faces. Trewey was indeed a lesson to any aspiring student. He was the most graceful juggler I ever saw, and his stage deportment and showmanship were beyond reproach.

I first saw him at the Oxford, where he had a backcloth painted with a peculiar perspective view of tables, so that a painted row of tables on the scene merged into a row of real tables on the stage, giving the illusion of a stage crowded with hundreds of tables loaded with handsome apparatus. Later on he went to the other extreme and had one handsome table, more like a box on four legs, very ornate, concealing all his paraphernalia inside the box. Trewey used to do some wonderful work with coins and glass bottles.

At the Aquarium I met the famous Professor Field, who had a stall there, a sort of magic shop, where he sold tricks after exhibiting them himself. He did them very beautifully; they seemed so easy in his hands that they sold readily to aspiring students. Sometimes he gave more elaborate performances on the big stage, generally concluding with a weird-looking skull which was resting on a sheet of glass and covered by a glass dome. In this state of isolation and insulation it expressed answers to questions

"Yes", was a nod, "No", was a shake.

At this juncture my wife strongly advised me to give up the Midgets, as I was having no chance of showing my conjuring. So when their London dates were finished I said good-bye to the Midgets and began my own siege of London Town.

I decided to take a step that had been formulating in my mind for a long time. This was to provide myself with a business manager, for I found it impossible to walk into an agents' office and tell them how wonderful I was. I sadly wanted a trumpeter. I had previously been introduced to Mr. Augustus Pereno, who had been interpreter to the Midgets on the Continent, and who was a charming personality. He spoke seven languages, including Chinese.

Augustus Pereno with Chang, the Chinese giant

We made a mutually beneficial contract, by which he was to act as agent and business manager and was to receive for his services one-third of my takings. This may appear rather a large share to give an agent, but it proved a wise business step. I could now make an attack on different quarters which I could not have approached alone. Mr. Pereno was an excellent manager, and if he had one fault, it was that he was far too optimistic, looking at everything through rose-coloured spectacles. His first step was to interview Maskelyne, who received him favourably and listened to his eulogies of my performance, but told him that Mr. Charles Morritt had a permanent engagement with him, and that therefore there was no possible hope of engaging my services. The music-halls all seemed booked up and we had to turn for the time being to private engagements to keep the pot boiling.

One morning Pereno burst in upon me with a new idea. "I want you to go to a lunatic asylum," he said. I asked him what grounds he had for such a step, and it then appeared, to my relief, that it was only to give an entertainment there. This was such a success that the medical superintendent recommended me to other asylums. At that time I gave entertainments at most of the mental hospitals in Britain, followed by visits to hydropathic establishments and hotels in fashionable districts.

It was during a visit to the Royal Hotel at Bournemouth that I first met that great little sportsman, Harry Preston. He greatly encouraged me, and foretold the success that came later. Giving entertainments at hotels was a new stunt at that time. Payment was made by collections from the visitors, and in some cases amounted to handsome sums. As my manager was successful in booking fairly consecutive dates, I made a really good thing of it for a time until the business became overcrowded and proprietors were sadly disappointed by the self-styled entertainers that began to clamour for dates.

While at one hotel in Beaumaris, Wales, Sir Richard Bulkeley saw me, and as the Queen of Rumania, Carmen Sylva, was visiting his house in a few days' time, he sent me a telegram, which reached me at Llandudno, asking if I would appear before the Queen on a certain date. This I did with complete success. Benson, the jubilee Plunger, who lost a large fortune in a record time on the sport of kings, suggested that I should have the telegram framed and labelled "The Royal Command". This, I fear, was a mild deception on the public, who, as no name was mentioned on the telegram, naturally took it as a reference to Queen Victoria.

After this--perhaps in retribution--misfortune overtook me, and I had a serious bout of rheumatic fever in 1889. It attacked me and laid me low on Christmas Day, just the busiest season of the year, when every day was booked for some weeks ahead with children's parties and other engagements. It was a great blow to our finances, and soon afterwards, for economy's sake, my manager and I took a house together at Dawes Road, Fulham, where we had separate flats, our respective wives doing the catering on alternate weeks with a friendly rivalry to see who could do it the cheapest.

Pereno now seriously began to attack the music-halls, and each day he would come back with a tale of a fortune round the corner, but there was nothing tangible for some time. At last he came back with the joyful news that he had booked me for an extra turn on a Saturday night at Gatti's Music-Hall, under the arches, of Villiers Street, Strand. There was no fee attached to this, as it was in the nature of a trial performance. The management had promised that if I was received favourably by the audience it would mean a booking for the Charing Cross House, also Gatti's, in Westminster Bridge Road. Here was the opening at last that I had been so long awaiting.

I invited my mother and father and all available brothers and sisters to come and support me on the great night, with strict instructions to applaud me at every opportunity. I gave the show a ten-minutes turn, and it was so well received that a fortnight's booking was secured six months ahead. I was so overjoyed with this opening of the gate to fortune, as it seemed to me, that I invited the whole family to supper at Monico's, where I received the congratulations of my manager, who painted the future in vivid colours.

During the next six months I am afraid we rather rested on our oars. We did, however, remember to invite all and sundry to see the performance at Gatti's during the week I was to be there. At last the long-looked-for date approached, and a week before I was to open I went down to look at the hall in Westminster Bridge Road, introduced myself to the manager, and informed him I was opening the following week there. "Not here, my boy," he said.

I told him I had a contract to that effect. He replied: "Then you haven't read it. As a matter of fact, you have broken it by not sending in your bill matter a fortnight ahead of the opening date." Of course I had left this matter to my manager, and he, alas, had overlooked it. Unfortunately, as the contract included both halls, I lost both engagements by this oversight. There was nothing for it but to go back to the lunatic asylums and hydros. Public fame seemed as far off as ever.

Meanwhile I had got to know Mr. Douglas Beaufort, a Society entertainer, who later took lessons from me, although at that time he was an ardent follower of Bertrarn's. One day I went to the Waterloo Panorama, a very fine representation of the field of Waterloo after the battle. This place of amusement was situated near where Westminster Cathedral now stands. Attached to this Panorama was a large tea-room, and at one end there was a stage on which a drawing-room entertainment took place.

I had gone there especially to see Beaufort, who was performing in this room. He saw me in the audience, came up to me and asked me to see him afterwards. When we had shaken hands, he said: "Are you engaged next Saturday?" I told him I was not, without looking at my book, for I could all too easily remember the few dates I had booked. "Well, " said he, "Will you do me a great favour

Will you come here and deputize for me on that day?"

He went on to tell me he had a more lucrative engagement offered him, and that the Waterloo Panorama wasn't paying and was on its last legs. I gladly agreed, and took down particulars. When I arrived there on the following

Saturday with my manager I gave the first performance, and then went to the front to watch the rest of the show, which was given by Ben Nathan and Gintaro, a Japanese boy juggler, by whose performance I was much impressed.

When I went round for my second turn, Ben Nathan, who had just gone into partnership with Didcot, the famous agent, told me that Didcot was in the house with Newson Smith, who was acting as liquidator to the Panorama Company. But, what was more important to me, he was also managing director of the London Pavilion, Tivoli, and Oxford. Here at last was a bit of luck for us. I explained the situation to my manager, and the upshot of it was that Newson Smith arranged to give me a show at the London Pavilion the following Saturday. It was not to be an audition, but a trial show on the usual programme, and Didcot was to act as agent.

Thus, quite by accident, I obtained the opening I had been striving for for years. In due course I appeared at the London Pavilion. This time I invited no friends to see my triumph. I had an excellent time allotted to me on the bill, sandwiched between Dan Leno, who was the great "star" of the time, and Albert Chevalier, the coster comedian, who was also giving his trial turn in music-hall work. He had previously been an actor, and only did the coster songs at smoking concerts and private parties. Didcot booked me that night for three years' work at the London Pavilion and Oxford, that is, eight weeks at each place in each year, and each week I was to receive £8. Not much money, but good, what there was of it. Above all, it was a start.

Years afterwards I was able to keep a promise I made to Gintaro, that if ever I had an opportunity of engaging a juggler he should have an offer from me. I was able to offer him engagements in Maskelyne and Cooke's Company which lasted some months, greatly to our mutual benefit.

The next magician I have memories of was Imro Fox, a comic conjurer. He was a merry fellow indeed, who displayed feats of magic in such quick succession that he almost took one's breath away. In a few seconds he did a trick that another conjurer would take ten minutes over, and he was the first conjurer I saw do this quick-fire stuff with small tricks, as Goldin did afterwards with larger illusions. Fox's biggest offering was the trick with the cannon-ball and vase, which is described by Robert Houdin. Fox first appeared at the Empire, Leicester Square, and was very popular while in this country.

As to my own affairs, after the London Pavilion engagement I did not set the Thames on fire as I had hoped to do. I was still looked upon as a nice "fill up" turn, and, as I had nothing really original to offer, engagements were intermittent. However, I was appearing at the best halls, such as the Royal, Holborn, now called the Empire, and also some of the best ones in the provinces, including the Alhambra, Brighton, then the only music-hall in the town.

Here we came across some very bad lodgings. My manager used to do the marketing, and one day he sent in a joint of mutton to be roasted. When it was served we found it flavourless, and in fact it had such a peculiar nontaste about it that he asked the little girl who brought the dish up how the mutton had been cooked. "Oh," replied the girl, "it was well cooked, sir. Mother boiled it first, and the soup we had for our dinner was lovely."

Then I made my first trip abroad. I was engaged for the Ronacher Theatre, Vienna, for a month, at the increased salary of £25 a week, to give my usual turn of conjuring and hand-shadows. This was a great adventure to me.

I may here remark that I revisited Vienna twenty-five years later with a two-hours' show, and, strangely enough, this was the only place in the world in which I ever performed out of Great Britain. We broke the journey at Paris, where we spent two or three days, and the first place I visited was the Théâtre Robert Houdin, where I saw an excellent performance by M. Du Perrey, including several of Robert Houdin's original conceptions performed with the same apparatus as the master himself used. I cannot pretend to remember all the tricks I saw him do, but his performance lasted a couple of hours and was intensely interesting.

I saw another two-hours' performance in Vienna by a clever amateur, but, alas, I have forgotten his name. I remember only that he did the production of fish-bowls from a cloth, though this production could not compare with what I saw Hartz do at the Japanese Village in Knightsbridge some few months later.

Strangely enough, in Vienna I made a big success, chiefly, I think, because of my utter ignorance of the language and my floundering attempts to make myself understood. I remember losing my way one day in the town and seeing a man standing on some steps at a very German-looking house, smoking a big German pipe. I attempted to ask him in German the way back to the theatre, and after two or three fruitless attempts I spoke to him in English. He slowly took the pipe out of his mouth, looked benignly down upon me from his superior height, and slowly said in perfect English: "Why the h-- didn't you say that before?"

While in Vienna I was made an honorary member of the Nachtfalter Club, which was a great honour at the time. I also gave many private performances and lessons, and altogether had a wonderful time, but towards the end of my stay I had another bout of rheumatism, and arrived back in London looking and feeling a wreck.

Here I have an awful confession to make--I did not invent the Thimble Trick, although it is credited to me by Professor Hoffman. He made this mistake because I told him that I first introduced the trick to England, which was true. It was shown to me in Vienna by Baron Canitz, who took lessons from me there.

My next engagement was at the Oxford. I duly opened there, and rehearsed my usual act of conjuring and shadowgraphy. I was a stranger to this house, although the contract was made when I opened at the London Pavilion. I was received by a new manager, Mr. Brighten, who remarked: "Your act is shadowgraphy, isn't it?" When I told him I wanted to do conjuring as well, he referred me to the contract, which stated merely "Shadowgraphist". This I heartily contested, and persisted in presenting my act as usual.

Two or three nights afterwards a rabbit that I was about to vanish slipped from my fingers and dropped on to the floor of the stage. This caused a murmur of disapproval from the audience, and when I got to my dressing-room I found a note from the manager to the effect that I had broken my contract and my services would no longer be required.

This was a great blow to me; it meant the cancelling of the entire twenty-four-weeks' engagement. My agent appealed in every possible way to get him to rescind his decision, but it was useless, I had to pack up and go. The night after I left, Imro Fox appeared. I found out afterwards that the manager had made a contract with him from the beginning, but he could not put two conjurers on the bill. My insistence on doing conjuring instead of what the contract stated had proved my undoing.

At this hall I saw George Robey's first appearance. He brought the house down with a song called "Simple Pimple".

The above contretemps taught me always to have the contract made in the exact terms, especially mentioning the time the act takes and of what it consists, and any other requirements.

Soon after I found a fresh engagement at the Royal, now called the Holborn Empire, then under the management of the genial Sam Adams. It was here I introduced a really new trick, which my friend G. W. Hunter had defied me to do in a specified time: namely, make a cardboard tube, push a handkerchief through it, and in the process change the colour of the handkerchief. I did this the first time with three handkerchiefs, passing each one through the tube singly and unrolling the paper and showing it empty after each transformation.

Now the music-hall engagements seemed to slacken off, and once more I had to go into the country, favouring such places as Matlock, Bath, and Buxton, in search of health as well as money. About this time my manager had a more lucrative business offered him, so we decided to part company, and made amicable arrangements to that effect.

I tried everywhere to get a cure for my rheumatism, and it was indirectly through conjuring I found it. Sidney Fielder, a conjurer I had got to know during previous visits to Portsmouth, invited me to spend a week-end with him, and, seeing how ill I was, asked me to consult his doctor, an old military medico practising at Southsea, who gave me some physic that seemed to act like magic. Within three months I was better than I had ever been before.