He came, he sawed, he won the libel case – Frank McNally on a theatrical sensation in Waterford, 100 years ago

One of the lesser centenaries of 2026 involves a London libel case held 100 years ago this week, but arising from a night at the theatre in Waterford 15 months earlier.

It was a case of two halves – and not just because it centred on a then-new theatrical sensation in which a “magician” sawed through a box containing his glamorous female assistant.

There was also what the judge called an “incredible” disparity between the evidence for and against the plaintiff. Disagreements included the extent of trauma allegedly suffered by his assistant, although in neither version was it caused by a saw.

Reports of the show, carried first in the Evening Herald and reproduced in 10 other newspapers throughout Ireland and Britain, said the magician, Frederick Fant Abbott aka “Charcot”, was replicating an act he had already performed at the London Palladium.

Now it was the turn of audiences in the Waterford Coliseum Picture Theatre to be thrilled.

First, as usual, the lady was tied in three places – at the ankles, wrists, and neck – by audience volunteers. Then the cords were passed out through holes in the box, to be held by the same people. Alas, somewhere during this process, according to the reporter, things went awry: “Partly through the clumsiness of an[other] assistant and partly through the roughneck methods adopted by one of the committee selected to supervise the trick, a complete exposure of the stunt was witnessed by a wildly jeering and hooting audience.”

An errant volunteer had “insisted on tying a slip knot around the neck of the unfortunate lady”, despite her resistance. By the end of the act, fearing she had been strangled, Charcot’s male assistant hurriedly separated the two halves of the box, “revealing the lady curled up in one end”.

A “wild clamour” ensued in the audience, some of whom rose from their seats and hurled insults. When extricated from the box, meanwhile, the unsawn lady was “in a very distressed condition, and bursting into tears, disappeared in haste behind the wings”.

It was left then for the magician to do a disappearing trick. The report concluded: “Ordering a burst of orchestral music to cover the prevailing noise, Charcot and his [male] assistant feverishly bundled their properties off the stage and made a hurried exit.”

Irish theatre audiences of the period could indeed be notoriously volatile – as Sean O’Casey had found in Dublin earlier that same year.

But in this case, there was no political element – even if, in its coverage of the row, the Waterford News and Star saw fit to place the sawing-a-lady-in-two story alongside an editorial urging Irish politicians to unite against the evils of “partition”.

By 1926, the former shorthand expert had taken to sleight of hand... But he was still causing consternation to the press, if only in the libel courts

The source of the trouble at the Coliseum was one unnamed theatregoer, thought to be a seaman with drink taken. He thereby inadvertently answered a time-honoured musical question: “What shall we do with the drunken sailor?” (Don’t pick him as an audience participant in a conjuring act, for one thing).

But at the London hearing of October 26th, 1926, Fant Abbott claimed he had prevented the miscreant tying a slip knot, and the worst the man had done was pull the cord too vigorously.

Far from being distressed, the magician added, the female assistant had been singing “Show Me the way to Go Home” throughout the performance.

The pair restaged their act in court for judge and jury’s benefit, along with an explanation of the trick. Marketing secrets were also divulged.

[ Modern Ireland in 100 Artworks: 1926 – The Plough and the Stars, by Seán O’CaseyOpens in new window ]

Under cross-examination, the plaintiff revealed subtle changes to his act’s title, depending on where it was presented. In a “refined” district, it was “cutting a lady in half”. In a less refined one, it became “sawing a woman”.

Still performed with variations today, the illusion is itself little more than a century old, the first recorded performances of it dating from 1921.

One historian has suggested it and similar acts involving a woman in peril were a result of desensitisation caused by the first World War, and perhaps also a response to female emancipation. Whatever the reason, they became suddenly very popular in the 1920s.

For Fant Abbott, this was just the latest in a series of reinventions. More than 30 years earlier, in the 1890s, he had published the first of many books teaching a version of shorthand called Swiftograph.

By 1905, he was advertising himself as “The Great Hypnotist”, whose performances caused consternation to invited audiences drawn “from the pick of Medical Men and the Press of London”.

By 1926, the former shorthand expert had taken to sleight of hand instead. But he was still causing consternation to the press, if only in the libel courts.

Many people were brought from Waterford to testify at the London hearing, at which the judge was astonished that each side had been able to summon numerous witnesses for two starkly contrasting versions of an event.

The court accepted that the newspapers had run the report in good faith from a previously trustworthy source. The jury found for Fant Abbott, however, awarding £500 damages and his costs.