The true history of the ghost

by John Henry Pepper

Lord Westbury commenced by alluding to the drawing brought forward by the Plaintiffs, and said, “I have examined the affidavit and the drawings, and find it is as nearly as possible a copy of the Defendant’s own drawing deposited in confidence in the archives of the Patent Office, and when I visit that establishment will take care to enquire who has presumed to allow the Plaintiffs permission to copy the Defendant’s original drawing of the apparatus used to show the ghost. I well remember,” continued his Lordship, “being taken to the house of Belzoni, the distinguished traveller, and seeing an effect no doubt somewhat similar to that produced by the Defendant’s apparatus, but I could not for one moment compare the toy of Belzoni with the refined and complete contrivances used by the Defendant at the Royal Polytechnic. An affidavit has been put in by the Plaintiffs, sworn to by a person calling himself a ‘nigger minstrel.’ He is elsewhere denominated an ‘Ethiopian Serenader,’ who had seen the Defendant’s ghost shown years ago—a very respectable man, no doubt, in his vocation; but to put the evidence of such a person against the affidavits of Michael Faraday, Sir David Brewster, and Professor Wheatstone, is a manifest absurdity. I, therefore, rule that the Great Seal of England be at once attached to the Defendant’s patent, and that the Plaintiffs do pay the costs.”

After certifying for the costs and having a little conversation with my solicitor and self, his Lordship withdrew, and we all went back to town. The reader can imagine my feelings of joy at the successful upshot of this trial when he learns that I had already received large sums for licences which I must have refunded if the case had gone against me.

For many years the ghost at the Polytechnic pursued its successful career, and earned £12,000 in a comparatively short space of time. I received an illuminated address of thanks, with a handsome honorarium, from the directors, and subsequently they presented my bust in marble to my late dear wife, with a letter from the Rev. J. B. Owen, M.A., the highly-gifted chairman of the old Royal Polytechnic.

Very few persons could understand how the ghost was produced, although many persons wrote about and explained it; even the distinguished philosopher, Michael Faraday, when I took him behind the scenes, said, with his usual love of truth: “Do you know, Mr. Pepper, I really don’t understand it.” I then took his hand, and put it on one of the huge glass plates, when he said, “Ah! now I comprehend it; but your glasses are kept so well protected I could not see them even behind your scenes.”

METEMPSYCHOSIS.

Since the ghost was produced at the Polytechnic years ago, the author has visited America, and seen not only the chief cities of the United States of America, but also those of patriotic Canada; and about ten years ago, paying a casual visit to Messrs. Walker, the eminent organ builders, he enquired of Mr. James Walker what he had done with a model shown him during the height of the popularity of the ghost, by which an empty glass goblet, or one full of water, was gradually filled with, or changed into, wine (or coloured water resembling it), thus unwittingly and apparently embodying or putting into an illustrated form the miracle of the conversion of water into wine.

I was too busy and too well paid at the time to think of a new illusion, but I praised it much, and said if not confined to too small stage limits, it was certainly as good, if not better, than the ghost illusion.

The time had now arrived when the London world was ready for something new (as commercial men would say) in the ghost line, and although Mr. James Walker, with the modesty of a truly scientific man, disclaimed the merit due to his invention, he did at last, at my request, throw himself, with the author, heart and soul into the production of the new illusion, which we called Metempsychosis. We now took out a patent for the new optical wonder, and having thus secured the invention from that piracy and robbery which too often dog the otherwise successful steps of inventors, causing nearly every patent to be called by the legal fraternity a damnosa hereditas, we looked about for a good place—hall or theatre—where the illusion could be started. None better could be thought of than the old Royal Polytechnic, where we offered at a moderate sum per week to produce it, paying for every stick, decoration, or engraved looking-glass ourselves. But it appeared that the funds of the institution were so reduced—it was supposed, by the immense expenditure on armies, warlike material, and ladies’ legs required to produce a work emulating friend Barnum’s gigantic “Nero,” and called, with an alarming stretch of imagination, the “Siege of Troy,” or “Destruction of Troy”—that the directors were unable to guarantee the weekly salary Mr. James Walker and myself demanded. Luckily for us, a percentage on the gross receipts was suggested, and brought in a great deal more money to our exchequer than the modest weekly salary would have given us. The public came in goodly numbers to see the new optical wonder, and all went well as long as the author remained in London and could devote his time and energies to the daily exhibition; but the time was now drawing rapidly near when, according to contract, he must leave for Australia.

Professor Pepper has invariably told his numerous patrons that, although obliged to keep secret for a reasonable time all optical illusions that he produced, he would ultimately tell the public all about it.