Anderson had an indomitable spirit which no misfortune could daunt. He received the “bludgeonings of Fate” like a hero, and was “Captain of his soul” through a thousand and one vicissitudes of life. He built on Glasgow Green one of the largest theatres in Scotland, and it was burnt to the ground, three months after its erection. A fortune was lost in the terrible fire. In 1851 he came to America and met with unbounded success. Returning to England in 1856, he engaged Covent Garden Theatre. In March of that year this great play-house was destroyed by fire, and Anderson lost his splendid and costly {174} apparatus. On top of this disaster came the bankruptcy of the Royal British Bank, and that event completely swallowed up the remains of the wizard’s fortune. But he was undaunted. Borrowing funds from his friends, he bought new paraphernalia, and toured the world. After an absence of five years he returned to England, January 11, 1863. He had traveled 235,000 miles and “had passed through his hands the enormous sum of £157,000 sterling.” He died at Darlington, Scotland, on Tuesday, February 3, 1874. In accordance with a wish expressed during his last illness, he was buried at Aberdeen, in the same grave with his beloved mother. No inscription on the tombstone records the fact that the Wizard of the North lies beneath.
What was the secret of Anderson’s success?
He was not a great magician in the sense of the word—that is to say, an adept at legerdemain, an original creative genius like Houdin, Robin, and the elder Herrmann. But he was an actor who played the role of necromancer with great effect. He surrounded himself with costly and brilliant apparatus which dazzled the eyes of the groundlings. His baggage weighed tons and filled many trunks and boxes. He believed in heavy artillery, like Napoleon I. The dashing Hussar style was not his. That branch of conjuring belongs to Frikell and De Kolta. Strange to say, in spite of the revolution in the art of magic since Anderson’s day, we are coming back to the big paraphernalia of the old school. The public is tired of small tricks. A discussion of this subject will be found in the article on Frikell.
I doubt whether a greater advertiser than Anderson ever lived. Bosco cannot be compared to him. Alexander Herrmann depended on his social qualities and his laughable adventures in street cars, cafés, and clubs to boom his reputation. Anderson adopted the methods of the patent-medicine manufacturers. He would have made an excellent advance agent for a new panacea. He literally plastered the streets and walls of London with his advertising devices. Some of them were highly ingenious and amusing and kept the public on the qui vive with excitement. In this line of puffing, people are willing to overlook charlatanry. One of his posters was a caricature imitation of the famous {175} painting, “Napoleon’s Return from Elba.” It was of gigantic size. Houdin describes it and other advertising schemes as follows:
“In the foreground Anderson was seen affecting the attitude of the great man; above his head fluttered an enormous banner, bearing the words ‘The Wonder of the World,’ while, behind him, and somewhat lost in the shade, the Emperor of Russia and several other monarchs stood in a respectful posture. As in the original picture, the fanatic admirers of the Wizard embraced his knees, while an immense crowd received him triumphantly. In the distance could be seen the equestrian statue of the Iron Duke, who, hat in hand, bowed before him, the Great Wizard; and, lastly, the very dome of St. Paul’s bent towards him most humbly.
“At the bottom was the inscription,
‘RETURN OF THE NAPOLEON OF NECROMANCY.’
“Regarded seriously, this picture would be found a puff in very bad taste: but, as a caricature, it is excessively comic. Besides, it had the double result of making the London public laugh, and bringing a great number of shillings into the skillful puffer’s pockets.
“When Anderson is about to leave a town where he has exhausted all his resources, and has nothing more to hope, he still contrives to make one more enormous haul.
“He orders from the first jeweller in the town a silver vase, worth twenty or twenty-five pounds; he hires, for one evening only, the largest theatre or room in the town, and announces that in the Wizard’s parting performance the spectators will compete to make the best pun.