The latter measures the floor with his eye, and answers, "About twelve foot." Solomon thumps his cane against the floor once more, looks bereft of all the pleasure he ever possessed on earth, and moving up to Levi, says:—
"No, that's not the roight answer."
"Well," says Levi, "I'd loike to know what is the diff'rince betwane you an' a jackass?"
"No diff'rince," shouts Solomon, throwing up his hands, and coming down the stage shaking with laughter. Suddenly the fact dawns upon him that he has made a mule of himself. His face assumes a bewildered expression, and he hastily returns from the scene followed by Levi McGinnis, while the orchestra strikes up a lively air in anticipation of the encore which is to call the comedians out to do a wild Irish reel.
This is a fair sample of the dialogue indulged in by a team of Irish comedians of average ability, and the reader will at once understand from it what ridiculous and almost disgusting language and incidents are made use of to raise a laugh, and how very easy it is to please a variety theatre audience. Pat Rooney's shrug of the shoulders and Land-League phiz, or somebody else's queer walk becomes the rage, and immediately there are a hundred weak and pitiful imitators. So, too, with such a dialogue as the foregoing; it seems to "catch on" with the public, and every Irish comedian on the stage must appropriate at least a portion of it,—and usually the very worst portion. It is safe to assume that the variety stage to-day has no so-called North of Ireland Irishman who does not fling at least a half-dozen of the sorry witticisms I have here given, at the heads of his audience. There is no law against it,—no protection for the patrons of the theatres, who can do nothing else than to grin and stand it,—and therefore the Irish comedian and his "chestnuts" forever flourish in this land of the free and home of the brave.
CHAPTER XXX.
THE BLACK ART.
The black art, as the art of magic is termed, has arrived at a degree of perfection that is amazing. The magicians of the Orient for a long time were held up as superior to any rivals outside their country. They sat in the streets, and without paraphernalia caused flowers to burst from pots of earth and spring into instantaneous growth; they had their then wonderful basket trick, in which a boy, having entered a basket, to all appearances just large enough to receive him, remained there while the magician ran his sword through the basket in all directions, after which the boy came forth unharmed; there were sword swallowers among them, and altogether their skill in and knowledge of the art of mystifying was considered beyond reproach. The Chinese, too, profess to be good jugglers and magicians, and so they are. But the Europeans and the Americans have stepped in, and the Hindoo and the Chinaman may now go to the rear in magic. Houdin, Heller, Macallister, and Hermann have done tricks far superior to anything the Eastern wonder-workers are capable of, either in the way of mechanical intricacy or manual dexterity. The latter feature is cultivated entirely, and you no longer see the magician's stage covered high and low with glittering paraphernalia, whose brightness was beautifully set off by the black velvet hangings in the background. Now there is nothing presented to the view of the audience except a small table in the centre of the stage. Taking Mr. Hermann, for example: This magician comes out in full evening dress, with coat sleeves pushed back revealing his immaculate shirt cuffs and gorgeous sleeve buttons. Whatever articles he will inject into his tricks he carries in the capacious pockets of his coat or in the palm of his hand. He introduces himself pleasantly to the audience in his broken English, and at once the performance begins. From that time on until the last illusion is given the audience remains in darkness as to his methods. He seldom leaves the stage, going only up to the last entrance, where, by standing against the projecting wing his confederate can fill his pockets with what he needs. A magician's coat looks like a very common-place effort at the swallow-tail article. That's all it is exteriorly, but if you get a glimpse of the side the lining is on, you will find from eight to a dozen large and small pockets in the garment. Two of the pockets are huge affairs, running from the front edge back under the arms, thus leaving a wide mouth, so that large articles can quickly be dropped into them.
Hermann is a great trickster, not only on the stage, but off. He walked into a barber-shop in Memphis one day, went up to the place where the razors were kept, and taking up one, calmly cut his throat, standing before the glass after the gash had been made, and with evident pleasure regarding the profuse flow of blood from the wound. The barbers and their customers ran wildly into the streets yelling like a tribe of Feejees around a barbecue of roast missionary. They called the police, and raised a small riot in their immediate neighborhood. The police came and entered the shop, only to find Hermann coming forward to greet them, laughing and remarking that it was only a little practical joke. There was not the slightest sign of any wound upon his throat, and it was only when the barbers were told that it was Hermann, the magician, that they could be brought to believe that he had not really cut his throat through, and then by some wonderful healing art closed the gap again.