 |
|
Originally
published in another form in the book, "Panorama of Magic"
In the Westcar Papyrus (which is now housed in the Bode Museum in East Berlin) there are several excellent stories of the "wizards" of the Nile. One such story was about Cheops, who built the Great Pyramid at Gizeh. He was intrigued by the fantastic tales he had heard about Dedi of Ded-snefru. Dedi's most famous act of conjuring was the beheaded goose. He decapitated the head of a goose, put the head on the east side of the pillared hall, the body some distance away on the west side. He pronounced his magic words. Suddenly, the goose was whole again. The king called for an encore. This time Dedi used a pelican. Even in the days of the pharaohs, conjurers never performed the same trick twice in exactly the same way. This, of course, is a cardinal principle of conjuring, and should be headed by every neophyte in the trade. You will find, as you search through the annals of history, Eunios, a Syrian, who was "gifted" with the ability to breathe fire like a dragon (about 135 B.C.) Alciphron of Athens wrote an eye-witness account of a cups and balls performance more than 1,700 years ago: "A man came forward and placed on a three-legged table three small dishes, under which he concealed some little white round pebbles. These he placed one by one under the dishes, and then, I do not know how, he made them appear all together under one. At other times he made them disappear from beneath the dishes and showed them in his mouth. Next, when he had swallowed them, he brought those who stood nearest him into the middle, and then pulled one stone from the nose, another from the ear, and another from the head of the man standing near him. Finally he caused the stones to vanish from the sight of everyone. He is a most dexterous fellow and even beyond Eurybates of Oechalia, of whom we have heard so much." Alciphron confessed the feat "rendered me almost speechless and made me gape with surprise." Joseph of Ulm included a cups and balls conjuror in his 1404 drawing, and which is preserved in the Tuebingen University library in Germany. Historically, the cups and balls routine (more than any other feat) caught the fancy of many artists. Hundreds of woodcuts, prints, and paintings show it being performed through the years. Hieronymus Bosch (c. 1460-1516) made the most famous painting. As his magician diverts the audience a thief takes advantage of the moment to lift an astonished spectator's purse. Joseph of Ulm included a cups and balls performer in a drawing showing the influences of the moon. His 1405 manuscript is in the library of the University of Tuebingen. Another fifteenth-century artist made a woodcut of a similar scene for his Wirkungen der Planeten, which was issued about 1470. Some histories provide us with information about Apollonius of Tyana, who flourished in the first century A.D. He was said to be such a remarkable conjurer that he was worshiped as a deity and temples were built in his name. (Well, who knows - people will usually do anything or say anything to attract attention.) They say (whoever "they" may be) that he not only made the wedding feast of Menippus vanish, but he conjured away the guests as well. He was tied securely before Emperor Domitian of Rome (an exceedingly evil emperor), and escaped by the simple act of vanishing completely. Then there was Lamblichus who walked in the air, ten cubits above the ground, as casually as if he were strolling in a park. Looks like modern day conjurers will have to tip their hat to Lamblichus for "doing that first." During this airy promenade, he further astonished those who saw him by changing the color of his clothes. Zedekiah, who performed before royalty in the ninth century, pleased his audience by conjuring up a garden filled with flowers and ripe fruit trees in mid-winter. He also cut up a man and put him back together. Both of these feats could have been done by known methods. But his piece de resistance, the old books say, was to swallow a gladiator on horseback, plus a cart of hay and, for a tidbit at the end, the driver of the hay cart and his horses. He must have had a wonderful appetitive! In the early Christian era the Church was critical of all demonic magic that passed itself off as entertainment. It was not as though Christians thought entertainment was evil, but certainly throughout the years of "superstition" and other manipulating tactics that arose during the rise of the Roman Catholic Church, Christianity was opposed to anything that was not glorifying to God. Magic, being associated in any way with the devil, satan or Lucifer, would obviously be detested (and for good reason!), but magic as entertainment (like the cups and balls routine) was something that entertained harmlessly. As with anyone given over to "superstitions" and afraid of things they do not understand, as late as 1066, sleight of hand performers were not permitted to settle in some French towns. Louis IX, more than 140 years later, tried to banish magicians and tumblers from France. He explained that they encouraged evil habits and tastes among his people. This doe snot mean that these "magicians" were not distasteful - Louis may have been justified in his actions. You know, there is always a rotten apple that spoils the bunch! Maybe they did just that. Zeito, court conjuror to good King Wenceslaus of song and story, is said to have gulped down a rival performer after a quarrel, leaving only his dirty boots. Later he brought him back, unharmed. Perhaps the saying "the hand is quicker than the eye" owes its origin to Mr. Roger Bacon. Early in the thirteenth century he wrote of "men who create illusions by the rapidity of the movements of their hands." He also noted that "wonderful things that do not exist" could be simulated "by the assumption of various voices or the use of subtle apparatus, or by performing in the dark, or by means of confederacy." Early in the fifteenth century a German girl in Cologne performed tearing a handkerchief into pieces, then making it whole again. This is the same kind of conjuring that is accomplished today and "marketed" so well as if things are bright and new. A century later the magician Triscalinus hocus-pocused the rings from the fingers of one of Charles IX's courtiers. The entire audience said that they saw the rings whiz through space to the magician. Such men became known as "legitimate deceptionists." The British magician Banks and his "talking" horse Morocco staggered seventeenth-century audiences. Morocco "talked" by stomping his hoof to answer questions. The quadruped could indicate immediately the number of pence in any silver coin tendered his master. The horse gave equally quick and correct evaluations in France, the answers tallying with the current rate of exchange. Later "talking" horses played cards with spectators and learned to drink the company's health. The most patriotic was "The Military Horse of Knowledge." If Mr. Henley, his British owner, remarked that the stallion should serve the King of France or the King of Spain, the horse would bare his teeth and seize his master roughly by the arm. When, however, it was suggested that he fight for the British sovereign, the animal would demonstrate his enthusiasm by rearing back on his hind legs "and returning thanks." Sadly, little is known about the first magicians on the North American continent. The chronicler of Hernando Cortes' expeditions in Mexico noted that the Indians there were familiar with conjuring. Mention was made of a magician puppeteer, a member of Cortes' retinue, who entertained at night during the trek to Honduras in October, 1524; but neither the performer's name nor the tricks he exhibited were recorded. Several water spouters gained fame in the mid-seventeenth century. After drinking a quantity of lukewarm water, they would lift their heads and eject streams of wine from their pursed lips. Other conjurers showed their skill with the cups and balls along with their more spectacular spouting stunts. Floram Marchand of Tours learned the human fountain technique from Manfre. He enjoyed a considerable success on the continent and so impressed two Englishmen that they brought him to London. Once they tumbled to "Le Grand Boyeur's" methods however, they called him "a moist cheat" and, in 1650, published The Falacie of the Great Water-Drinker Discovered, explaining his secrets. Further, they announced that they, Thomas Peedle and Thomas Cozbie, would demonstrate the deception to all who would come to their "lodgings at the Widow Oilman's house in Golden-lane." Convenient eh? Another eminent water
wizard of the time was Filippo Giuliani. The water-spouting
demonstration was most effective in the open air, where the sun would
cause the streams to sparkle. Someone devised a metal mouthpiece which
permitted the more Even more unusual than
the water spouter was the stone eater. Yes, that's right, these
conjurers ate stones instead of color-changing a card. The first
on record swallowed thirty-six pieces of gravel, weighing three pounds,
in Prague in 1006. The most noted, an Italian called Battalia, was said
to enjoy three pecks of pebbles daily during his performances in London
in 1641. When he shook his body, an impressed spectator wrote, you could
hear the stones "rattle as if they were in a sack." A doctor vouched
that every three weeks Battalia would void sand, after which he would be
ready for more pebbly meals. Yes, crazy, but still, in the day,
quite amazing. As late as 1788 a stone eater could still draw the
curious in London. "The Original Stone Eater—The Only One in the World"
appeared every day except Sunday at Mr. Hatch's trunk-making shop on the
Strand. This stone eater Two of the most unusual magicians of all time appeared in Germany early in the eighteenth century. Johannes Brigg had no legs and only one hand. And you thought the Erdnase change was hard! Despite these tremendous handicaps he acquired rare skill with the cups and balls and also played several musical instruments. Brigg worked balanced on a pillow behind a table. Using his handless arm to move his conjuring equipment and his good right hand to perform the necessary sleights, he developed a technique which many wizards with two hands envied. Even more curious was Matthew Buchinger, "The Little Man of Nuremberg." A mere twenty-nine inches high, he had neither hands, legs, nor thighs. He was born June 2, 1674, the last of nine children. Early in life he played the flute, trumpet, and dulcimer. Eventually he even mastered the bagpipes. Using the fin-like extremities which served as his arms, he became a fine penman. He also drew landscapes, portrait sketches, and coats of arms. He had a knack for card playing and dice games, could play ninepins and shave himself without aid. During his performances of magic, Buchinger presented the cups and balls, tricks with birds, and feats with apparatus. His charm of manner made onlookers forget his infirmities. In 1716 he showed at the Duke of Marl-borough's Head in London and after that exhibited in other taverns and show rooms. Besides his performing activities, he lived a full life. However, poor choices pressed him to marry four times and had eleven children. He died in 1722. Other magicians without legs and with digital deficiencies appeared from time to time, but none came close to the celebrity of "The Little Man from Nuremberg." It was long believed that the magicians of several centuries ago were all mountebanks who traveled from town to town with the humblest of equipment, performing for the most part at marketplaces, fairs, and taverns. But then as now magic fascinated men in all strata of life. A Spanish knight, Damautus, performed for Charles V, King of Spain and Holy Roman Emperor, when Duke Francesco Sforza visited the court. He showed several solid, separate metal rings, then tossed them in the air. When he caught them they were linked in a chain—a classic feat, the origin of which is generally credited to the Chinese. The most distinguished
magician of the sixteenth century was Hieronymus Scotto. He was equally
talented as a diplomat. King James of England in his Daemonology (1599)
commented on Scotto's skill at conjuring with cards and dice.
Scotto once promised to produce the likeness of the most beautiful woman
in Cologne as Gebhard Truchsess von Waldburg, the archbishop of the
city, gazed in his magic mirror. After appropriate mystic passes and
strange words, a lovely face appeared on the surface of the glass. The
archbishop looked—and fell in love! The face enchanted him. He
eventually found its owner, Countess Agnes von Mansfeld, paid her ardent
court, and married her. Some writers claim that this alliance
brought on the bloody Cologne War. Was it a shrewdly executed diplomatic
maneuver that caused Scotto to conjure up the Countess' face, or just a
whim of fate? Isaac Fawkes, the most noted of the conjurors who had booths at the British fairs, saved £10,000—a fabulous sum then—from his earnings. A Fawkes advertisement said: "He takes an empty bag, lays it on the Table and turns it several times inside out, then commands 100 Eggs out of it and several showers of real Gold and silver, then the Bag beginning to swell several sorts of wild fowl run out of it upon the Table. He throws up a Pack of Cards, and causes them to be living birds flying about the room. He causes living Beasts, Birds and other Creatures to appear upon the Table. He blows the spots of the Cards off and on, and changes them to any pictures." All of this—plus the antics of a posture maker —for a mere shilling! At the height of the Bartholomew Fair season Fawkes gave as many as six shows a day. One of his most puzzling feats was to cause an apple tree to blossom and bear fruit in less than a minute (didn't Edward Norton do that in the 2006 film "The Illusionist". Oh, that's right - it was an orange tree. So much for originality!). Christopher Pinchbeck, Sr., a Fleet Street clockmaker with a flair for the construction of unusual mechanisms, was the genius behind Fawkes's apparatus. One of his masterpieces was featured in 1727. An advertisement described it: "the Temple of Arts, with two moving pictures, the first being a Consort of Musick performed by several figures playing on various instruments with the greatest Harmoney and truth of time, the other giving a curious prospect of the City and Bay of Gibraltor, with ships of war and transports in their proper motions, as tho' in real action; likewise the Spanish troops marching thro' Old Gibraltor. Also the playing of a Duck in the river, and the Dog diving after it, as natural as tho' alive. In this curious piece there are about 100 figures, all of which show the motions they represent as perfect as the life; the like of it was never seen in the world." When Isaac Fawkes died in
1731, his son carried on the family tradition, and a Christopher
Pinchbeck, Jr., followed his father as a master craftsman. Verse
of a sort drew attention to another Bartholomew Fair wizard: It
will make you laugh, it will drive away gloom, To see how the egg it
will dance around the room, And from another egg a bird there will fly.
Which makes the company all for to cry, "O rare Lane, cockalorum for
Lane! well done, Lane! You are the man." The prose on a herald was
equally boastful at Peckham Fair in 1787: "Mr. Lane, first Performer to
the King, will drive about 40 twelve-penny nails into any gentleman's
breeches, place him in a loadstone chair, and draw them out without the
least pain! He is, in short, the most wonderful of all wonderful
creatures the world ever wondered Gyngell, who appeared at Bartholomew
Fair early in the nineteenth century, was colorfully described by Edward
Stirling: "Monsieur Gyngell, emperor of cards, arch-shuffler, wizardlike
held his pack, cutting, dealing, shifting in his delicate hands
sparkling with diamonds (we thought them, but which were cut glass in
reality). With what a courtly air did Monsieur request the loan of a
hat, merely to boil a pudding in! "Sometimes, in dulcet tones he
would entice a shilling or a half-crown from a fair lady's purse, to be
cut in half by his mighty magic, and then to be reunited before our very
eyes. Incomparable Gyngell! Why, if you talk of attire neither Worth nor
Poole ever dreamt of so much elegance. Real ostrich feathers, three in a
jeweled cap—three! like a Prince of Wales; silk and satin dress,
spangles, lace, pink legs, milk-white face, with a touch of rose-colour;
smile bewitching, voice enchanting. ''He never asked for money, it
flowed into the ample pockets of his silken jerkin willy-nilly; such
were the necromancer's powers of persuasion over juvenile hoards and
savings." Highman Palatine, in 1763, challenged any performer in England to match his continental conjuring. One hundred guineas were to be offered to anyone who succeeded. His bills spoke in general terms about his deceptions because "Several Pretenders to the Art of Dexterity set forth a great many things in their Bills they know little of, yet He chuses to say as little as may be, and refers the rest to those who honour him with their Company, and doubts not of giving Satisfaction." A Frenchman, M. Boulevard, accepted Palatine's challenge in September, 1788. The night's receipts, rather than the 100 guineas, were the stake. The rival wizards met at Bush Tavern in Bristol for their battle of magic. Palatine with his conjuring "A-la-mode Italiano" and Boulevard with his "most ocular Demonstrations." Boulevard was declared the victor and he gave the prize money to the Marine Society. A German, Breslaw, was another outstanding performer of the period. His program included: "New amazing deceptions with pocket-pieces, rings, sleeve buttons, purses, snuff-boxes, swords, cards, hours, dice, letters, thoughts, watches, particularly with a leg of mutton." For many years he toured the British Isles to excellent returns. Then came a lean spell. In Canterbury he advertised a benefit show for the poor of the city. The receipts from it he distributed to the members of his company, "than whom none could be poorer," as he explained to the mayor. January 16, 1749 was a night long remembered by the Londoners who jammed into the New Theatre in the Haymarket, a night much discussed in the annals of British drama. They came, the men about town, the nobility, the tourists, the sensation-seekers, to see a man squeeze himself inside an ordinary wine bottle. Ridiculous? Impossible? They were there to see for themselves. The announcements also said that the man would play the music of every instrument on a common walking stick and, after the regular performance, conjure up phantoms which would reveal secret thoughts. Interesting too. "But, imagine! a man passing himself inside a bottle!" Six-thirty, curtain time, came and went. The crowd grew restless. By seven o'clock there were catcalls, hoots and shouts from the impatient audience. Canes thumped in unison on the floor. Feet stomped. Finally—a man parted the curtain on the stage. He held up his hand for silence. If the magician didn't appear, he said, all admissions would be refunded. This triggered a shouted comment from a joker that if the crowd would pay twice the regular price the magician would put himself inside a pint bottle instead of a quart. Some laughed, some shouted remarks of their own. The hubbub grew. A man in a box threw a lighted candle on the stage. The curtains caught fire. As the flame grew in intensity, there was a rush for the exits. Those who couldn't get out broke up the boxes and benches, pulled down the scenery, and started passing the debris out to the Haymarket, where a huge bonfire was started. The theatre staff watched in helpless confusion as the elaborate trappings went up in smoke. No one ever discovered who was responsible for the "Bottle Conjurer" hoax, though Samuel Foote and the Duke of Montague were prime suspects. The episode was a natural for the comedians of the time. Skits about it appeared in theatres; lampoons, cartoons, and broadsides were peddled in the streets. In one, a man promised to change himself into a rattle; in another it was announced that Sig. Capitello Jumpedo, a dwarf, "no taller than a common Tavern Tobacco Pipe" would "open his Mouth wide, and jump down his own Throat." On the continent, a fair performer did a brisk business by announcing that he would eat a man at every show. After a routine of more usual magic to put his audience in a receptive mood, the magician asked for a volunteer for his human supper. If no one volunteered, the showman had an easy out. If however someone did come forward, the performer covered his victim with salt and pepper, then smacked his lips and bit firmly on the volunteer's thumb. When the victim howled with pain, the showman blandly explained that naturally it was painful to be eaten alive. By the time he opened his mouth for a second bite, the man from the audience would be streaking for the nearest exit. This performer must have had a winning personality, for there is no evidence that angry audiences ever destroyed his booth or mobbed his platform. Gonin is the earliest
known name of a magician in France. At least three Gonins kept the name
in the public's mind. The first appeared early in the sixteenth century.
The second, said to be the son of the first, conjured a few decades
later. The third, in a wide-brimmed, plumed hat and with an ornate
ruffle around his neck and his sleeves rolled up to his elbows,
exhibited the cups and balls on the Pont Neuf early in the seventeenth
century. He had a handsome moustache and a flamboyant manner. Pinetti, who could pull
off a spectator's shirt without removing his coat, nail a chosen card to
the wall with a pistol shot, and conjure a borrowed ring in a locked box
into the bill of a bird, was the most important magician of the late
eighteenth century. Henri Decremps, Parisian lawyer and amateur conjuror, attempted to destroy Pinetti's reputation with a series of books which purported to explain the "pilferer's" methods. The attack backfired; the volumes were translated into many languages and increased the wizard's fame. Along with his feats of sleight of hand and second sight, Pinetti exhibited ingenious mechanical devices—the figure of a Turk which struck a bell to answer questions, a rifle which fired on his command, and an artificial bird which trilled any tune the audience suggested. When Pinetti performed at the Theatre do Salitre in Lisbon in 1791 he was, as usual, the object of controversy. The majority of his spectators thought his feats were prodigious. Some, however, resented his bombast. It was rumored that he was not the great inventor he claimed to be, but took his tricks from a book published in Paris by M. Decremps. Why, the critics said, he uses the same words that are in the book and decorates his theatre exactly like the engraved frontispiece of the Decremps volume. "Ah," his supporters answered, "but Pinetti was already an established performer when the book was published in 1784. Further, his best mechanical devices are not explained in the book." As a result a Portuguese edition of Decremps' La Magie Blanche Devoilee appeared. It was translated from the English version of the French. Two pamphlets were issued the same year, "Reflexoes sobre as Habilidades do Caval-heiro Pinetti" and "Ultimas Habilidades, Despedida, e Grande Automato do Cavalheiro Pinetti." But again the Decremps attack only put the magician more in the public eye, made him more of an attraction that everyone wished to see. In Russia Pinetti added ballooning to his experiments. There the emperor himself served as godfather for the magician's two children and there, it is said, he died in 1800. A satirical broadside, obviously inspired by Pinetti's grandiose advertisements, was printed in London in 1792. It heralded the purported arrival of "Gulielmo Pittachio." A variation of the acoustical principle used hundreds of years before in ancient temples drew Paris throngs to see, or rather hear, "La Voix Invisible." One asked questions into the large end of a curved horn. The far end was inside an obviously empty, cage-like enclosure. Back through the horn came a gentle female voice with answers. De Philipsthal, in London in 1803, exhibited an optical illusion "Phantasmagoria," which would have assured him a swift denunciation from the superstitious and perhaps a date at the stake not too many years earlier. With a wave of his wand he apparently conjured up apparitions of the "Dead or Absent." De Philips-thai was wise enough to advertise that his illusion was designed "to expose the Practices of artful Impostors...and to open the Eyes of those who still foster an absurd belief in Ghosts or Disembodied Spirits." Like Pinetti, he showed "Mechanical Pieces of Art," such as a self-impelled windmill and an artificial peacock which spread its many-hued tail, drank, or nodded its head on cue from the wizard. Clockwork animals had
their appeal, but real animals which seemed to accomplish impossible
feats were much more intriguing to the average man. Many generations of
Englishmen paid their shillings to see the "Learned Pig" at Bartholomew
Fair. One pig looks pretty much like another so when a reigning porker
became too old to perform, another could take his place in the
exposition booth. The Mr. Nicholson who took a "Learned Pig" on
tour through Scotland in 1787 also advertised that he had taught a
turtle "to fetch," a hare to beat the drums and six turkeycocks to do a
lively country dance. Many a callous showman exhibiting dancing
chickens skipped the difficult training period and relied on a heated
metal "stage." The tender-footed birds "danced" on the hot plate to keep
from being burned. Bostonians saw their first pig pundit in January,
1798. William Frederick Pinchbeck claimed that his animal attraction had
been imported from England, by way of Philadelphia, for the whopping sum
of f 1,000. Realizing that canny Yankees might be leery of a
prodigious porker, Pinchbeck offered a money-back guarantee if anyone
could prove that his pundit was not a bonafide, in-the-flesh pig.
It was a safe offer. No one ever got a refund. Many dog wizards surpassed their other animal competitors. A prime favorite during the 1830's was Don Carlos, "The Double Sighted Dog." This clever spaniel's most amusing bit was indicating "the loveliest lady in the audience" and then "the gentleman most partial to the ladies." King William and the British Royal Family applauded him heartily at the Brighton Pavilion. Munito's performance was instructive as well as amusing. He spelled out answers to questions relating to geography, botany, and natural history with lettered cards. Parents brought their lackadaisical youngsters to see the dog perform as an object lesson. Munito had another claim to fame. The British Humane Society awarded him a medal "for having saved the life of a lady in a most extraordinary manner." He wore it proudly, attached to an ornamental collar. Munito's master was an
Italian named Signor Castelli. Another, earlier, Castelli had performed
his conjuring wonders in Italy in the late eighteenth century.
Still another Castelli, "Professor of Philosophical Amusements," toured
in Trinidad and Martinique in the 1820's. Among his features were: "The
Invisible Father," "The Pyramids of Egypt," "The Incomprehensible Snuff
Box," and "The Asiatic Dove." The Port-of-Spain Guardian reviewer
was most complimentary: "His powers are certainly extraordinary, and met
with all the success and approbation such a display merited." The king
of eighteenth-century fire eaters at the British fairs was Robert
Powell. He ate hot coals "as natural as bread," licked red-hot tobacco
pipes—aflame with brimstone— So there you have it - the most astounding historical feats of magic through the early years of the 19th century. What? You were looking for street magic and parlor tricks? We will have to save that for another article that covers from the later 19th century until today. And we shall... |