IN 1902 I visited Manchester to produce my magical sketch "The Honeysuckle and the Bee", which I had named after a song that was very popular at the time. I invented the illusions and plot, and Mr. Squires, then our acting manager, wrote the words. I afterwards rewrote the sketch and named it "The Enchanted Hive". [The script of this sketch appears in the Appendix. ] Never before had I attempted anything so ambitious, and I paid for the production myself, intending, if I failed, to bear the loss myself. If I succeeded, I was to charge the firm with the item and add the sketch to our repertoire.

I wanted to surprise my partners with the work. Fortunately the production was successful beyond expectations. The first intimation Mr. Maskelyne had was an excellent notice in the Manchester Guardian, which I forwarded to him the day after presentation. A letter from Mr. Maskelyne followed, which very strongly reprimanded me for producing a sketch without his knowledge. I protested that I had the right as managing partner to make what I considered a perfectly legitimate hit off my own bat for the good of the firm.

The author presenting "The Sylph" illusion in which a woman
is suspended in mid-air

During this same tour we also introduced an illusion which I named "Sylph" in which a young girl was suspended in space, and while thus levitated a hoop was passed over her from head to foot. This was a simple version of the illusion which Mr. Maskelyne introduced into a sketch called "Trapped by Magic" in which he and I appeared as Japanese jugglers.

In this sketch I used, for the first time on any stage, a black art well, which Professor Hoffman had presented me with. He told me it was the joint invention of himself and Professor Hellis.

My table was covered with embroidery representing arum lilies, and the well was in between them. I used this for a combination with crystal balls and a decanter of wine. I multiplied the balls, pinched pieces off, thus making smaller ones, and finally passed one of the larger balls into the decanter of wine, which immediately became clear water, while the glass ball became ruby red and finally dropped through the bottom of the decanter.

Another very successful sketch was "St. Valentine's Eve", in which a suspended newspaper became a living Valentine. I include the script of this also in the Appendix.

Another illusion which I did for a short time was what I called "Two's Company, Three's None". I bought this from Servais Le Roy, who had previously used it on the halls under the title of "The Three Graces". It was a cabinet without a door; the back and side panels had smallish doors in them, and by pulling a string all these doors opened at once, thus showing right through the cabinet.

The procedure was first to revolve the cabinet, thus showing all sides of it (it stood up from the floor on a turntable); then to pull the string in the front, which opened six doors in sides and back; then I jumped into the cabinet, taking with me a black silk cloth which I unfolded and held up in front of myself, thus incidentally covering the aperture which formed the front entrance; I then dropped the cloth gently, and a human form appeared underneath which, with my assistance. hopped out of the cabinet, still covered with the black cloth, and hopped to the side of the stage.

This performance was repeated twice more, so at the finish we had produced three of these mysterious figures draped in black; there was a crash from the orchestra, and all threw off their veils, disclosing Faust and Mephistopheles.

Later on we were lucky enough to obtain the Chief's permission to play his oldest and most beloved sketches; these were, "Elixir Vitae", and "Will, the Witch, and the Watchman".

"Elixir Vitae" is, of course, well known as the most artistic form of the decapitation illusion ever presented. Mr. Maskelyne's part as the quack doctor was excellently taken in our company by Mr. F. A. Bowron; whilst the pageboy was acted by Mr. Alf Bert; and Mr. Cook, the countryman with the buzzing in his head, was understudied by Mr. Albert Booth.

In this sketch, it will be remembered, a countryman consults a quack doctor, who, after giving him a sedative which sends him to sleep in a chair, coolly cuts his head off and places it on a side table. With the help of the horrified pageboy he packs the decapitated body into a trunk, after emptying the pockets. During the doctor's temporary absence this headless body gets out of the box and walks about groping for its lost cranium, which talks to it from the side table and directs its movements. Finally, finding its head and tucking it under its arm, the body sits down on a stool and bemoans its semi-detached condition. On this tableau the curtain very considerately descends.

Then there was that rattling bit of fun and illusion "Will, the Witch, and the Watchman", in which a cabinet, representing a village lock-up or cage, is examined by a committee from the audience, who find nothing out of the ordinary about it. They are also asked to examine a polished mahogany box with a close-fitting canvas cover which can be placed upon it, and a simple length of rope. The committee are asked to remain on the stage and to take up any position they wish.

Then enters Daddy Gnarl and the Watchman, having custody of Will the sailor, followed by Dolly, his sweetheart. Will is thrust into the cage and locked up. Dolly is advised by Daddy to run home, which she pretends to do, shortly to return, after the departure of Daddy Gnarl. Then an old witch happens along, and, after having persuaded Dolly to cross her hand with a golden guinea, promises to bring her magic powers to bear on the situation, and, much to the consternation of the Watchman, Will disappears from the cabinet.

The Witch then conjures up a big black monkey, which capers about and so drives the poor Watchman to distraction that he locks up the Witch and shuts up the monkey, both of whom appear and disappear in a bewildering sequence. His shouts for help attract a friend of his, a Butcher, who derides his statements and says he will settle the matter by killing the monkey with his knife.

The monkey is too quick for him, however, and he only succeeds in cutting a piece of his tail off, which piece is so full of vitality that it dances all over the stage. Finally the Butcher ventures into the lock-up with the monkey. The Watchman springs his rattle and brings back Daddy Gnarl to adjudicate on matters, and, on gingerly opening the doors of the cabinet, the monkey and Butcher have disappeared and the Witch is there. She chuckles with glee and takes herself off, after offering some fiery snuff to Daddy. The monkey then returns in the custody of the Butcher, who has caught it at last. He calls for the box and forces the monkey to get inside it. Under the close surveillance of the committee it is locked up and covered with the canvas cover, which is laced tightly on it; furthermore, it is tied up with rope, and the committee are asked to make the knots and remember them. The monkey's body completely fills the interior, which prevents any part of the box collapsing, the bonds and cover preventing any part expanding. Thus imprisoned, the monkey is put inside the lock-up again.

The Watchman sends off to Daddy Gnarl and asks him to come and witness his triumph, but, alas, while he is congratulating himself on the safe capture of the monkey, a black arm is seen to emerge from a hole in the door, disproving his boastful words. The Butcher returns; they take the box out and find it quite light. However, the cover and rope are intact and apparently untouched. Nevertheless, when they are removed the box is found to be empty.

Now the Witch returns and sets Dolly in a ring which she draws upon the ground. Once more the doors of the lock-up are opened and Will the sailor is back again. The old Witch and Daddy Gnarl join in giving the young people their blessing, and the Watchman is glad to be finished with the whole business. While the curtain descends, the old Witch chortles with glee the following lines:

"God save the King, the bells shall ring
  For Dolly and Will the sailor."

However, it seemed difficult for some people to realize this, and one night a man got up in the audience and made an impassioned speech, protesting against the use of drugs for stage performances. I hadn't suspected for a moment the effect it would have upon certain persons, especially upon those who knew of the horrors of drug addiction. When I saw how seriously people took it, I altered the effect immediately, and ever afterwards pretended to send the lady to sleep by hypnotic passes.

A master of make-up: David Devant as a Chinese magician

"Orienta" was another successful item of these tours. Into this I introduced Chinese conjuring, made very popular in America by Ching Ling Foo, and in this country by Chung Ling Soo, who, incidentally, was not really a Chinaman at all, although an exceedingly clever magician. He could mimic Chinese manners to such perfection that when the original Ching Ling Foo came to England Chung Ling Soo actually challenged him as to who was the original Chinaman, and won the day in the public eye because it was beneath Ching Ling Foo's dignity to controvert his absurd statements. For "Orienta" I engaged Gintaro, the Japanese juggler, and so was able to keep the promise I made him years before.

One of the best pupils I ever had was an actor trained with Sir Barry Jackson's repertoire company. He proved an apt learner simply because he was used to working to cues and doing exactly what he was told, at the same time giving his action an artistic expression.

One of the cleverest pupils I had was a doctor that I met in my early days in Yorkshire. He was staying at the Hydro, and I was giving him daily lessons at a fee of one guinea per hour, which he paid cash down in gold and silver, a sovereign and a shilling. One day I was teaching him to conjure with coins, notably how to change a sovereign into a shilling, and when he handed me the fee as usual I pocketed it unsuspectingly.

When I reached home, I found I had two shillings--he had rung the changes himself! He was just the sort of man to make conjuring pay, but there is still honour among thieves, and I safely received the sovereign the next day.

I was not always as lucky, however, in receiving money due to me. The first time I met George Grossmith was on the top of a bus in Piccadilly, and I heard him explaining to the conductor that he had changed his clothes and left his money behind. I recognized the popular actor and asked to be allowed to come to the rescue, and paid the twopence required. This was my introduction to George Grossmith, and I have met him many times since, and whenever I do so I hold up two fingers, whereupon George grins--but he has never yet produced his tuppence!