In Boston we have the magic emporiums of W. D. LeRoy and C. Milton Chase; and in Chicago, that of A. Roterberg. Both LeRoy and Roterberg are fine sleight-of-hand performers. Mr. Roterberg is the author of a clever work on card conjuring, which ranks very high in the estimation of the profession, also several little brochures on up-to-date legerdemain. In Philadelphia, Mr. Thomas Yost, a veteran manufacturer of magical apparatus, holds forth. He has built many fine illusions and tricks. In London, we have the well-known firm of Hamley & Co.; in Paris, Caroly and De Vere. There is no dearth of periodicals devoted to the art of magic. Among the leading ones are: Mahatma, Brooklyn, New York; The Sphinx, Kansas City, Missouri; Magic and The Wizard, London; The Magician, Liverpool; L’Illusioniste, Paris; and Der Zauberspiegel, Berlin.
A DAY WITH ALEXANDER THE GREAT.
“Come, bring thy wand, whose magic power
Can wake the troubled spirits of the deep.”
HEMANS: Address to Fancy.
I.
They come back to me, those old days in the newspaper office in Baltimore. I can shut my eyes and see the long, dingy room with its ink-splattered tables and flaring gas jets. The printers’ devils rushing in and out with wet proof-sheets. Reporters come and go. Look! There is Joe Kelly, Lefevre, Jarrett and John Monroe. And here comes Ludlam, familiarly known as “Lud,” the prince of Bohemian newsgatherers; a cross between Dickens’ Alfred Jingle and Murger’s Rodolph. He is always “down on his luck,” but nothing can phase his natural gaiety and bonhomie. He snaps his fingers at Fate, and mocks at the world. On his death bed he made bon mots. Poor old Ludlam, he is forever associated with my introduction to Alexander the Great.
I look back across the years that separate me from my journalistic experiences, and see myself seated at a reporter’s table, on a certain morning in January, waiting for an assignment from the city editor; a fire, a murder, political interview, I knew not what, and therein lies the ineffable charm of newspaper reporting. Enter Ludlam, jaunty and debonaire. The snow encrusts his faded coat with powdery flakes. He strikes a theatrical attitude, and exclaims: “Philosophers say that the Devil is dead! Gentlemen, don’t you believe them. I have just had an interview with His Satanic Majesty, and he is very much alive. He was beautifully perfumed with sulphur (or was it cigarette smoke?); and wore a fur-lined overcoat. Coming from a tropical climate, {216} he finds this cold weather very disagreeable. He turned my watch into a turnip and back again. He took a roll of greenbacks from my coat pocket. That was sure enough witchcraft. I defy any other person than Beelzebub to get money from my clothes. He extracted a hard-boiled egg from my nose, and a rabbit from my hat. But seeing is believing. Here he is now!”
ALEXANDER HERRMANN.