My first care, on arriving at Paris, was to attend a performance of Comte’s, who had long lorded it in his theatre at the Gallery Choiseul. This celebrated professor was now resting on his laurels, and only performed once a week. The other evenings were devoted to the performances of his young actors, who were perfect prodigies. Many of my readers will remember his bills, with their singular announcement of the principal parts performed by M. ARTHUR, aged 5; MADEMOISELLE ADELINA, aged 4½; MADEMOISELLE VICTORINE, aged 7; little VICTOR, aged 6. These baby actors attracted the whole of Paris. Comte might have left the stage entirely, and contented himself with being manager and dry-nurse to these children of Thalia, for he possessed a very comfortable fortune; but he made it a point to appear at least once a week, from a double motive: his performances, owing to their rarity, always exercised a beneficial effect on the receipts; and, on the other hand, by continuing to act he prevented other professors of conjuring setting up in opposition to him. Comte’s tricks were all drawn from the same repertory I knew by heart; hence they had no great interest for me; still I derived some profit from attending his performances, for I was enabled to study the audience. I listened attentively to all said around me, and often heard very judicious remarks. These being generally made by persons not apparently gifted with great penetration, led me to the conclusion that the conjurer ought to distrust plain mother wit, and I worked out the problem to my own satisfaction: “that it is easier to dupe a clever man than an ignorant one.” This seems to be a paradox; but I will explain it. The ordinary man only sees in conjuring tricks a challenge offered to his intelligence, and hence representations of sleight-of-hand become to him a combat in which he determines on conquering. Ever on his guard against the honeyed words by means of which the illusion is produced, he hears nothing, and shuts himself up in this inflexible reasoning: “The conjurer,” he says, “holds in his hand an object, which he pretends he makes disappear. Well, whatever he may say to distract my attention, my eyes shall not leave his hand, and the trick cannot be done without my finding out how he manages it.” It follows that the conjurer, whose artifices are principally directed to the mind, must double his address to delude this obstinate resistance. The clever man, on the contrary, when he visits a conjuring performance, only goes to enjoy the illusions, and, far from offering the performer the slightest obstacle, he is the first to aid him. The more he is deceived the more he is pleased, for that is what he paid for. He knows, too, that these amusing deceptions cannot injure his reputation as an intelligent man, and hence he yields to the professor’s arguments, follows them through all their developments, and allows himself to be easily put off the right scent. Is not my problem proved?