WE were nearly six weeks in the Havana, being detained by Lord Durham's illness. I provided myself with a capital Spanish master, and made the most of him. This, as it turned out, proved very useful to me in the course of my future travels. About the middle of March we left for Charlestown in the steamer ISABEL, and thence on to New York. On the passage to Charlestown, we were amused one evening by the tricks of a conjuror. I had seen the man and his wife perform at the Egyptian Hall, Piccadilly. She was called the 'Mysterious Lady.' The papers were full of speculations as to the nature of the mystery. It was the town talk and excitement of the season.
This was the trick. The lady sat in the corner of a large room, facing the wall, with her eyes bandaged. The company were seated as far as possible from her. Anyone was invited to write a few words on a slip of paper, and hand it to the man, who walked amongst the spectators. He would simply say to the woman 'What has the gentleman (or lady) written upon this paper?' Without hesitation she would reply correctly.
The man was always the medium. One person requested her, through the man, to read the number on his watch, the figures being, as they always are, very minute. The man repeated the question: 'What is the number on this watch?' The woman, without hesitation, gave it correctly. A friend at my side, a young Guardsman, took a cameo ring from his finger, and asked for a description of the figures in relief. There was a pause. The woman was evidently perplexed. She confessed at last that she was unable to answer. The spectators murmured. My friend began to laugh. The conjuror's bread was at stake, but he was equal to the occasion. He at once explained to the company that the cameo represented 'Leeder and the Swan in a hambigious position, which the lady didn't profess to know nothing about.' This apology, needless to say, completely re-established the lady's character.
Well, recognising my friend of the Egyptian Hall, I reminded him of the incident. He remembered it perfectly; and we fell to chatting about the wonderful success of the 'mystery,' and about his and the lady's professional career. He had begun life when a boy as a street acrobat, had become a street conjuror, had married the 'mysterious lady' out of the 'saw-dust,' as he expressed it - meaning out of a travelling circus. After that, 'things had gone 'ard' with them. They had exhausted their resources in every sense. One night, lying awake, and straining their brains to devise some means of subsistence, his wife suddenly exclaimed, 'How would it be if we were to try so and so?' explaining the trick just described. His answer was: 'Oh! that's too silly. They'd see through it directly.' This was all I could get out of him: this, and the fact that the trick, first and last, had made them fairly comfortable for the rest of their days.
Now mark what follows, for it is the gist and moral of my little story about this conjuror, and about two other miracle workers whom I have to speak of presently.
Once upon a time, I was discussing with an acquaintance the not unfamiliar question of Immortality. I professed Agnosticism - strongly impregnated with incredulity. My friend had no misgivings, no doubts on the subject whatever.
Absolute certainty is the prerogative of the orthodox. He had taken University honours, and was a man of high position at the Bar. I was curious to learn upon what grounds such an one based his belief. His answer was: 'Upon the phenomena of electro-biology, and the psychic phenomena of mesmerism.'
His 'first convictions were established by the manifestations of the soul as displayed through a woman called "The Mysterious Lady," who, &c., &c.'
When we have done with our thaumaturgist on board the ISABEL, I will give another instance, precisely similar to this, of the simple origin of religious beliefs.
The steamer was pretty full; and the conjuror begged me to obtain the patronage of my noble friend and the rest of our party for an entertainment he proposed to give that evening.
This was easily secured, and a goodly sum was raised by dollar tickets. The sleight-of-hand was excellent. But the special performance of the evening deserves description in full. It was that of a whist-playing dog. Three passengers - one of us taking a hand - played as in dummy whist, dummy's hand being spread in a long row upon the deck of the saloon cabin. The conjuror, as did the other passengers, walked about behind the players, and saw all the players' hands, but not a word was spoken. The dog played dummy's hand. When it came to his turn he trotted backwards and forwards, smelling each card that had been dealt to him. He sometimes hesitated, then comically shaking his head, would leave it to smell another. The conjuror stood behind the dog's partner, and never went near the animal. There was no table - the cards were thrown on the deck. They were dealt by the players; the conjuror never touched them. When the dog's mind was made up, he took his card in his mouth and laid it on the others. His play was infallible. He and his partner won the rubber with ease.
Now, to those ignorant of the solution, this must, I think, seem inexplicable. How was collusion managed between the animal and its master? One of the conditions insisted upon by the master himself was silence. He certainly never broke it. I bought the trick - must I confess it? for twenty dollars. How transparent most things are when - seen through! When the dog smelt at the right card, the conjuror, who saw all four hands, and had his own in his pocket, clicked his thumb-nail against a finger-nail. The dog alone could hear it, and played the card accordingly.
