The bridegroom jumped from his seat, and with one foot trod upon it. To the amazement of all it moaned in a human voice, “Alas, now I am dead!” The groom stepped back, my friend stooped to the floor, and, instead of a toad, picked up a snow-white glove. Taking the bride’s handkerchief, he wrapped the glove in it, and placing the handkerchief before the bride, he murmured, like the famous Bosco, the magic Italian formula, “Spiriti miei, ubbidite!” And when one of the guests had unfolded the handkerchief, he found there a pair of choice gold ear-rings,—my friend’s gift to the bride.
To prove the death of a sparrow, pigeon, hare, mole, or some other little animal, and then with a penknife cautiously to take out its brain from the skull, replace it with a perfumed piece of cotton, and then to order the animal slowly to wake up to life as though it were reviving from a swoon, and afterward to jump up and fly or flee away, is a feat of escamotage well enough known; but my friend would perform it in so many ways that it interested even those spectators who had many times seen like experiments.
It would need a thick book to exhaust his répertoire; but from the few examples I have mentioned, it will be seen that he could honorably compete with the most skilful escamoteurs. His main efforts, however, were directed toward summoning spirits. His apparatus and the means he employed were concealed even from me. Once he told me if I wished to see any historical personage, that he would call him. I named Napoleon I.
Several nights had passed, but Napoleon did not put in an appearance; once, however, after I had forgotten the promise of my friend, I was awakened from sleep by a gentle tapping at my door. Rising I rubbed my eyes; but as the tapping was repeated I asked, “Who is that?” No one answered, the door quietly opened, and in stepped, with a grave gait, Napoleon I., just as I had oftentimes seen him pictured,—in a gray coat, white breeches, with high riding-boots, and the historical three-cornered hat. Silently he walked to the window, and back to the door. I wanted to address the vision, but did not; and as a curiosity I must confess that to this day I do not know why I did not.
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