The Old and the New Magic

by Henry Ridgely Evans

(Mr. Wm. G. Robinson.)

Robinson was born in New York City, April 2, 1861, and received a common school education. He started life as “a worker in brass and other metals,” but he abandoned the profession of Tubal Cain for conjuring. After the death of Herrmann, Robinson went as assistant to Leon Herrmann for several seasons, and then started out to astonish the natives on his own account, but without any appreciable success. Just about this time there came to the United States a Chinese conjurer named Ching Ling Foo, with a repertoire of Oriental tricks. One of them was the production of a huge bowl of water from a table-cloth, followed by live pigeons and ducks, and last but not least a little almond-eyed Celestial, his son. This was but a replica of the trick which Phillippe learned from the Chinese many years ago. Foo’s performances drew crowds to the theatres. It was the novelty of the thing that caught the public fancy. In reality, the Mongolian’s magic was not to be compared with that of Herrmann, Kellar, or Goldin. Beneath the folds of a Chinese robe one may conceal almost anything, ranging in size from a bedpost to a cannon ball. When Foo’s manager boastfully advertised to forfeit $500 if any American could fathom or duplicate any of the Celestial’s tricks, “Billy” Robinson came forward and accepted the challenge. But nothing came of it. Foo’s impressario “backed water,” to use a boating phrase. Robinson was so taken with Ching Ling Foo’s act that he decided to give similar séances, disguising himself as a Chinaman. Under the name of Chung Ling Soo he went to England, {281} accompanied by his wife and a genuine Chinese acrobat. He opened at the Empire Theatre, and not only reproduced Foo’s best tricks but added others of his own, equally as marvelous. His success was instantaneous. Theatrical London went wild over the celebrated Chinese wizard, and gold began to flow into the coffers of the Robinson ménage. So well was the secret kept that for months no one, except the attachés of the theatre, knew that Chung Ling Soo was a Yankee and not a genuine Chinaman. The make-up of himself and wife was perfect. Robinson {282} even had the audacity to grant interviews to newspaper reporters. He usually held these receptions at his lodgings, where he had an apartment fitted up à la Chinois; the walls hung with silken drapery embroidered with grotesque dragons. The place was dimly lit by Chinese lanterns. Propped up on silken cushions, the “Yankee Celestial” with his face made up like a finely painted mask, sipped his real oolong, and laughed in his capacious sleeves at the credulity of the journalistic hacks. He gave his opinion on the “Boxer” trouble, speaking a kind of gibberish which the previously tutored Chinese acrobat pretended to interpret into English. Gradually it leaked out in theatrical circles that Chung Ling Soo was a Yankee, but this information never came to the public ear generally.

At the close of the “Boxer” uprising the real Ching Ling Foo had returned to his beloved Flowery Kingdom, loaded down with bags full of dollars extracted from the pockets of the “Foreign Devils,” yclept Americans. Under his own vine and bamboo tree he proceeded to enjoy life like a regular Chinese gentleman; to burn joss sticks to the memory of his ancestors, and study the maxims of Confucius. But the longing for other worlds to conquer with his magic overcame him, and so in the year 1904 he went to England. Great was his astonishment to find that a pretended Mongolian had preceded him and stolen all of his thunder. In January, 1905, Robinson was playing at the Hippodrome, London, and Ching Ling Foo at the Empire. There was great rivalry between them. The result was that Foo challenged Soo to a grand trial of strength, the articles of which appeared in the Weekly Despatch. “I offer £1,000 if Chung Ling Soo, now appearing at the Hippodrome, can do ten out of the twenty of my tricks, or if I fail to do any one of his feats.”

A meeting was arranged to take place at the Despatch office, on January 7, 1905, at 11 a. m. The challenged man, “Billy” Robinson alias Chung Ling Soo, rode up to the newspaper office in his big red automobile, accompanied by his manager and assistants. He was dressed like a mandarin. The acrobat held over his master’s head a gorgeous Chinese umbrella. Robinson gave an exhibition of his skill before a committee of newspaper {283} men and theatrical managers. Foo came not. The next day arrived a letter from Ching Ling Foo’s impressario saying that the Mongolian magician would only consent to compete against his rival on the following condition: “That Chung Ling Soo first prove before members of the Chinese Legation that he is a Chinaman.” This was whipping the Devil (or shall I say dragon?) around the stump. The original challenge had made no condition as to the nationality of the performers.

The Despatch said: “The destination of the challenge money remains in abeyance, and the questions arise: ‘Did Foo fool Soo? And can Soo sue Foo?’ ” {284}

The merits of this interesting mix-up are thus summed up by Mr. John N. Hilliard, in an editorial published in the Sphinx, Kansas City, Mo., March 15, 1905:

“While we do not take the controversy with undue seriousness, there is an ethical aspect in the case, however, that invites discussion. In commenting disparagingly on the professional ability of the Chinese conjurer, in belittling his originality and his achievements in the magic arts, Mr. Robinson (Chung Ling Soo) is really throwing stones at his own crystal dwelling place. Despite the glowing presentments of his press agent, one single naked truth shines out as clearly as a frosty star in a turquoise sky. It is violating no confidence to assert that had it not been for Ching Ling Foo, the professional status of Mr. William E. Robinson, masquerading as a Chinaman, and adopting the sobriquet of ‘Chung Ling Soo,’ would be more or less of a negative quantity to-day. Ching Ling Foo, the genuine Chinaman, is indisputably the originator, so far as the Western hemisphere is concerned, at least, of this peculiar act, and Robinson is merely an imitator. Robinson is shrewd and has a ‘head for business.’ He doubtless realizes, as well as his critics, that in the dress of the modern magician he would not be unqualifiedly successful, despite his skill with cards and coins and his knowledge of the art. The success of Ching Ling Foo in this country was his opportunity. Adopting the dress and make-up of a Mongolian, and appropriating the leading features of Ching’s act, he went to Europe, where the act was a novelty, and scored a great success. Of course, from a utilitarian point of view, this success is legitimate; but in the light of what the American magician really owes to the great Chinese conjurer, it is ridiculous for Robinson to pose as ‘the original Chinese magician,’ and for him to say that Ching Ling Foo is ‘a performer of the streets,’ while he is the ‘court magician to the Empress Dowager.’ This may be good showmanship, but it is not fair play. The devil himself is entitled to his due; and, the question of merit aside, the indubitable fact remains that it is Ching Ling Foo who is the ‘original Chinese magician,’ while ‘Chung Ling Soo’ is an imitator of his act and a usurper in the Oriental kingdom. {285} But outside of the ethical nature of the controversy, we refuse to take it seriously.”

A LONDON SIGN BOARD OF CHUNG LING SOO.