In This Issue
In This Issue
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Magic in October: 1926 and 1951
Magic in October: 1926 and 1951
If you picked up the October 1926 issue of The Sphinx, you would find many of the biggest names in magic filling its pages: Harry Houdini was breaking records and packing theaters, Adelaide Herrmann was trying to rebuild her career after a devastating fire, and a young Dai Vernon was already being called one of the greatest card magicians who ever lived.
But perhaps my favorite story in the issue concerned something that had happened more than two decades earlier, when a magician managed to fool the President of the United States–and apparently delighted him in the process.
When Theodore Roosevelt Went to See Kellar
When Theodore Roosevelt Went to See Kellar
Former S.A.M. President Oscar S. Teale shared a letter written by President Theodore Roosevelt to his son Kermit on January 18, 1904. Roosevelt described taking in a performance by Harry Kellar, one of the most famous magicians of his generation.
It was a cold winter weekend in Washington. Roosevelt and his wife Edith had been horseback riding through Rock Creek, and after lunch Edith took Ethel, Archie, and Quentin, each accompanied by a friend, to see Kellar perform. Roosevelt went along but had presidential work waiting for him and had to leave before the performance was halfway over. He admitted, however, that he was “as much interested as any of the children.”
Apparently, he had good reason.
During one trick, Ethel Roosevelt loaned Kellar her gold ring. It was mixed with rings borrowed from five other girls, and all six were apparently pounded to pieces, loaded into a pistol, and fired toward a collection of boxes. When the boxes were opened, five of the rings were found, each tied around a rose.
Ethel’s ring was missing.
The Roosevelt family, c. 1903. In January 1904, Theodore and Edith Roosevelt took Ethel, Archie and Quentin to see Harry Kellar perform. Library of Congress, Prints and Photographs Division.
Harry Kellar, c. 1902. This Strobridge Lithograph Company poster depicts the magician at about the time the Roosevelt family attended his performance in Washington. Library of Congress, Magic Poster Collection.
Kellar simply moved on to his next trick, using what Roosevelt described as a remarkable bottle from which many different liquids could be poured. At the conclusion, the bottle somehow produced a live white guinea pig, “squirming and kicking,” with Ethel’s missing ring tied around its neck with a pink ribbon.
Roosevelt thought the animal looked “exactly like Admiral Dewey.” This wasn’t a comment on the appearance of the famous admiral. The Roosevelt children had a collection of guinea pigs with some wonderfully distinguished names, including Admiral Dewey, Fighting Bob Evans, Bishop Doane, and Dr. Johnson.
Kellar wasn’t finished. The guinea pig was wrapped in paper and handed to Ethel. When she opened the package, the guinea pig had disappeared. In its place was a bouquet of roses–and her ring.
More than twenty years later, the story was still good enough for Teale to share with readers of The Sphinx. It is also a wonderful reminder that even the President of the United States could forget about work for a while when Harry Kellar was performing.
Houdini at the Height of His Fame
Houdini at the Height of His Fame
Of course, the name dominating the magic world in October 1926 was Harry Houdini. Reading the issue today carries an eerie feeling because Houdini was still at the height of his career. No one reading those pages could have known that he would be dead by the end of the month.
That summer Houdini had challenged the claims of Rahman Bey, an Egyptian performer who said unusual powers allowed him to remain sealed underground without air. Houdini intended to demonstrate that such feats depended upon controlled breathing and physical conditioning rather than supernatural abilities.
On August 5, Houdini was sealed inside an airtight iron coffin and submerged in the swimming pool at New York’s Shelton Hotel. He remained there for about an hour and a half before emerging. Contemporary newspaper accounts reported the stunt extensively, and Houdini considered the experiment important enough to suggest that what he learned might someday help people trapped with limited oxygen.
Meanwhile, his stage career was booming. Houdini opened his fall tour at Boston’s Majestic Theatre with a two-week engagement, but business was so strong that a third week was added. Sphinx columnist W. C. Dornfield marveled at Houdini’s ability to dominate newspaper coverage, comparing his gift for publicity with that of P. T. Barnum.
His show continued to change as well. One unusual new effect involved alarm clocks that vanished one at a time and then reappeared strung along a silk ribbon. At the same time, Houdini was still supporting the larger magic community. During an engagement in Worcester, Massachusetts, local magicians visited him for advice about organizing a club. With Houdini’s encouragement, the Worcester Magicians' Club was organized.
All of this makes the October issue particularly poignant today. Houdini wasn’t slowing down or fading from public attention. He was still creating, touring, promoting, organizing, and making headlines.
On October 31, 1926, Harry Houdini died at the age of 52.
Adelaide Herrmann Starts Again
Adelaide Herrmann Starts Again
Another story in the October issue concerned Adelaide Herrmann, the legendary “Queen of Magic” and widow of Alexander Herrmann, better known as Herrmann the Great.
On September 7, a catastrophic fire struck the New York warehouse where Herrmann stored her show. Her equipment, illusions, costumes, and other theatrical property were destroyed, and animals used in her act were killed. The loss forced her to cancel her scheduled Orpheum vaudeville tour.
For a performer who had spent decades building a major theatrical production, it could easily have marked the end of her career.
Herrmann had other ideas.
She wrote to The Sphinx thanking friends throughout the magic world for their expressions of sympathy and announced that she was already working on a new act–one she hoped would be “bigger and better than ever.” She added that she believed her late husband would have expected nothing less of her.
At an age when many performers would have retired even without such a disaster, Adelaide Herrmann chose to start over.
A Young Dai Vernon Makes His Mark
A Young Dai Vernon Makes His Mark
Another fascinating name turns up in the October 1926 Sphinx: Dai Vernon.
Today we think of Vernon as “The Professor,” one of the most influential sleight-of-hand magicians of the twentieth century. In 1926, however, Vernon was only 32 years old and was still establishing the reputation that would eventually make him a legend.
Apparently, he didn’t have far to go.
In his “Trooping Around in Magic” column, Max Holden described informal gatherings involving some of New York’s finest magicians, including Nate Leipzig, Al Baker, Sam Horwitz, and Vernon. Holden made an extraordinary declaration about the young card worker, calling him “absolutely the greatest card man of this or any other age.”
One of the effects attracting attention was Vernon’s “Slow Motion Card Vanish.” A selected card was pushed into the performer’s palm while the backs of the hands faced the audience. The hands were slowly turned over, the fingers spread, and the card had vanished. At command, it returned.
Apparently, the trick was impressive enough that other magicians were already trying to copy it.
In the same issue, William Meyenberg complained about a performer who had watched Vernon’s new vanish and then, only a few nights later, attempted to perform it before a gathering of magicians without permission. Arguments over magicians copying other magicians are certainly nothing new.
Vernon also had to make a living. Max Holden reported that he and Larry Gray were cutting paper silhouettes at club engagements, a reminder that even one of the greatest card magicians in history still had bills to pay.
Twenty-Five Years Later: Magic Meets Television
Twenty-Five Years Later: Magic Meets Television
Jump ahead 25 years to October 1951 and the magic business looked very different.
Vaudeville was disappearing and television was rapidly moving into American homes. For magicians, that created an entirely new opportunity—and an entirely new problem.
A touring magician could perform essentially the same act night after night as he moved from city to city. Television couldn’t work that way. The same audience could tune in every week.
That meant you needed material. Lots of it.
One of the best examples in the October 1951 issue of Genii was West Coast magician Eddie Silverman. His television program, It’s A Neat Trick, aired weekly on KTSL in Hollywood. Silverman had already been performing the show for several years, presenting about four tricks during each 15-minute broadcast.
Most remarkably, he tried never to repeat a trick.
Depending on how the performances were counted, reports credited Silverman with presenting hundreds of different effects on television—some estimates putting the total well above 600. Imagine having to come up with four tricks this Tuesday knowing that next Tuesday you couldn’t use any of them again.
Making the Commercial Part of the Magic
Making the Commercial Part of the Magic
Silverman also understood something that would become increasingly important in television: the sponsor didn’t necessarily have to interrupt the entertainment. The commercial could become the entertainment.
A 1949 review of It’s A Neat Trick described a particularly clever example involving sponsor M.J.B. Coffee. Silverman displayed a large M.J.B. advertisement featuring a woman and delivered the sponsor’s message. He then tore the advertisement into pieces. After joking that he should have saved the picture for a friend who might have liked it as a pin-up, Silverman waved his hand—and magically restored the advertisement.
The reviewer immediately recognized what Silverman had accomplished. Instead of stopping the show for an ordinary coffee commercial, he had turned the commercial itself into a magic trick. Viewers might forget another advertisement for coffee, but they were far more likely to remember watching the magician tear the ad apart and put it back together.
It was, appropriately enough, a pretty neat trick.
Silverman’s program attracted other major sponsors as well, including Pard Dog Food, Chicken of the Sea Tuna, and Mission Pack. Magic wasn’t simply entertainment anymore. It was helping sell products to a rapidly growing television audience.
The same transition was happening on the East Coast. New York viewers could watch programs such as The Magic Clown, while other magicians were finding regular television work in regional markets.
Television also changed the conditions under which magic was performed. Instead of playing to an audience sitting several feet away, performers now had a camera capable of bringing viewers remarkably close to their hands. Effects had to be visually clear, fit the new medium, and survive the unforgiving eye of the television camera.
Watch Magic on Television in 1951
Watch Magic on Television in 1951
Most live television from the early 1950s has disappeared, but remarkably, a complete 1951 episode of The Magic Clown survives and can still be watched today.
The 15-minute program provides a rare opportunity to see the kind of magic American television audiences were watching 75 years ago. It also demonstrates just how closely entertainment and advertising were intertwined during the earliest days of commercial television.
What a Difference 25 Years Made
What a Difference 25 Years Made
Looking at the October issues from 1926 and 1951 side by side captures a remarkable transition in magic.
In 1926, Harry Kellar’s performance for the Roosevelt family was still worth remembering, Houdini could fill theaters simply by arriving in town, Adelaide Herrmann was determined to rebuild a traditional vaudeville act, and Dai Vernon was astonishing fellow magicians in private gatherings with card sleights they could barely understand.
By 1951, a magician could walk into a television studio, stand in front of a camera, and perform for more people in 15 minutes than many of those earlier performers could have reached during an entire tour.
The technology had changed. The theaters were changing. Vaudeville was disappearing and television was arriving.
But one part hadn’t changed at all.
Whether it was Harry Kellar producing Ethel Roosevelt’s ring on a guinea pig in 1904, Dai Vernon making a card slowly disappear in 1926, or Eddie Silverman trying to come up with four more tricks for next Tuesday night’s television show in 1951, the challenge was still the same:
Find a new way to make people wonder, “How did he do that?”
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