_The British Association--The late Professor Tyndall--His Belfast
address--The centre of strict orthodoxy--The indignation of the
pulpits--Worse than atheism--Biology and blasphemy allied sciences--The
champion of orthodoxy--The town is saved--After many days--The second
visit of Professor Tyndall to Belfast--The honoured guest of the
Presbyterians--Public opinion--Colour blindness--Another meeting of the
British Association--A clever young man--The secret of the ruin--The
revelation of the secret--The great-grandfather of Queen Boadicea--The
story of Antonio Giuseppe--Accepted as primo tenore--The birthday
books--A movable feast--A box at the opera--Transferable--The discovery
of the transfers--An al fresco operatic entertainment--No harm done._
THE annual meetings of the British Association for the Advancement
of Science can be made quite as delightful functions as those of the
British Medical Association, if they are not taken too seriously; and I
don’t think that there is much likelihood of that happening. I have
had the privilege of taking part in several of the dances, the garden
parties, and the concerts which have taken place under the grateful
protection of science. I have also availed myself of the courtesy of
the railway companies that issued cheap tickets to the various places of
interest in the locality where the annual festivities took place under
the patronage of the British Association. The only President’s address
which I ever heard delivered was, however, that of Professor Tyndall at
Belfast.
I was little more than a boy at the time, and that is probably why I was
more deeply interested in Biology and Evolution than I have been in more
recent years. It is scarcely necessary to say that Professor Tyndall’s
utterance would take a very humble place in the heterodoxy of the
present day, for the exponents of theology have found it necessary to
enlarge their borders as the century draws to a close, and I suppose
that if poor Tyndall had offered to lecture in St. Paul’s Cathedral his
appearance under the dome would have been welcomed by the authorities,
as it certainly would have been by the public. But Belfast had for
long been the centre of strict orthodoxy, and so soon as the address of
Professor Tyndall was printed a great cry arose from every pulpit. The
excellent Presbyterians of Ulster were astounded at the audacity of the
man in coming into the midst of such a community as theirs in order to
deliver an address that breathed of something worse than the ancient
atheists had ever dreamed of in their most heterodox moments. If the man
had wanted to blaspheme--and a good _primâ facie_ case was made out in
favour of the assumption that he had--could he not have taken himself
off to some congenial locality for the purpose? Why should he come to
Belfast with such an object? Would the town ever get rid of the stigma
that would certainly be attached to it as the centre from which the
blasphemies of Biology had radiated upon this occasion?
These were the questions that afflicted the good people for many days,
and the consensus of opinion seemed to be in favour of the theory that
unless the town should undergo a sort of moral fumigation, it would not
be restored to the position it had previously occupied in the eyes of
Christendom. The general idea is that to slaughter a pig in a Mohammedan
mosque is an act the consequences of which are so far-reaching as to be
practically irreparable; the act of Professor Tyndall at Belfast was of
precisely this nature in the estimation of the inhabitants.
Fortunately, however, a champion of orthodoxy appeared in the form of a
Professor at the Presbyterian College who wrote a book--I believe some
copies may still be purchased--to make it impossible for Tyndall or any
other exponent of Evolution to face an audience of intelligent people.
This book was the saving of the town. Belfast was rehabilitated, and the
people breathed again.
But the years went by; Darwin’s funeral service was held in Westminster
Abbey, and Professor Tyndall’s voice was now and again heard like an
Alpine echo of his master. In Belfast a University Extension Scheme was
set on foot and promised to be a brilliant success--it collapsed after
a time, but that is not to the point. What is to the point, however, is
the fact that the inaugural lecture of the University Extension series
was on the subject of Biology, and the chosen exponent of the science
was Professor Tyndall. He came to Belfast as the honoured guest of the
city--it had become a city since his memorable visit--and he passed
some days at the official residence of the Presbyterian President of
the Queen’s College, who had been a pupil at the divinity school of
the clergyman who had written the book that was supposed to have
re-consecrated, as it were, the locality defiled by the British
Association address of 1874.
This incident appears to me to be noteworthy--almost as noteworthy as
the reception given in honour of Monsieur Emile Zola in the Guildhall
a few years after Mr. Vizetelly had been sent to gaol for issuing a
purified translation of a work of Zola’s.
I think it was Mr. Forster who, in the spring of 1882, when Mr. Parnell
and his friends were languishing in Kilmainham, said that the Irish
Channel was like the water described by Byron: a palace at one side,
a prison on the other. The Irish members left Kilmainham, and in a few
hours found themselves in Westminster Palace--at least, Westminster
Palace Hotel.
Public opinion knows but the two places of residence--a palace and a
prison. When a man leaves the one he is considered fit for the other.
Public opinion knows but black and white, and vacillates from one to the
other with the utmost regularity.
The only constant thing in the world is change.
*****
At another meeting of the British Association I was a witness of a
remarkable piece of cleverness on the part of a young man who has
since proved his claim to be regarded as one of the most adroit men in
England. Among the excursions the chief was to the locality of a ruin,
the origin of which was, like the origin of the De la Pluche family,
lost in the mists of obscurity. The ruin had been frequently visited
by distinguished archæologists, but none had ventured to do more than
guess--if one could imagine guesswork and archaeology associated--what
period should be assigned to the dilapidated towers. It so happened,
however, that an elderly professor at the local college had, by living
laborious days, and mastering the elements of a new language, succeeded
in wresting their secret from the lichened stones, and he made up his
mind that when the British Association had its excursion to the ruin, he
would reveal all that he had discovered regarding it, and by this _coup
de théâtre_ become famous.
But the clever young man had an interesting young brother who had gained
a reputation as a poet, and who dressed perhaps a trifle in excess
of this reputation; and when the old professor was about to make his
revelation regarding the ruin, the clever young man put up his brother
in another part of the enclosure to recite one of his own poems on
the locality. In a few moments the professor, who had commenced
his discourse, was practically deserted. Only half a dozen of the
excursionists rallied round him, and permitted themselves to be
mystified; the cream of the visitors, to the number of perhaps a
hundred, were around the reciter on an historic hillock fifty yards
away, and his mellow cadences sounded very alluring to the few people
who listened to the jerky delivery of the lecturer in the ruin.
But the clever young man did not yield to the alluring voice of his
brother. He had heard that voice before, and was well acquainted with
its cadences. He was also well acquainted with the poem that was
being recited--he had heard it more than once before. What he was not
acquainted with was the marvellous discovery made by the professor who
was in the act of revealing it to ten ears--that is allowing that
only one person of those around him was deaf. The clever young man sat
concealed behind a wall covered with ivy and listened to every word of
the revelation. When it was over he unostentatiously joined the crowd
around his brother, and heard with pleasure that the delivery of the
poem had been very striking.
“But we must not waste our time,” said the clever young man, with
the air of authority of a personal conductor. “We have several other
interesting points to dwell upon”--he spoke as if he and his brother
owned the ruins and the natural landscape into the bargain. “Oh, yes, we
must hurry on. I do not suppose there is any lady or gentleman present
who is aware of the fact that we are within a few yards of the place
where the great-grandfather of Queen Boadicea lies buried.”
A murmur of negation passed round the crowd.
“Follow me,” said the clever young man; and they followed him.
He led them to the very place where the professor had made his
revelation, and then, standing on a portion of the ruined structure,
he gave in choice language, and with many inspiring quotations from
the literature of the Ancient Britons, the substance of the professor’s
revelation.
For half an hour he continued his discourse, and quite delighted every
one who heard him, except, perhaps, the elderly professor. He was among
the audience, and he listened, with staring eyes, to the clever young
man’s delightful mingling of the deepest archaeological facts with
fictions that had a semblance of truth, and he was speechless. The
innocent old soul actually believed that the clever young man had
surpassed him, the professor, in the profundity of his researches into
the history of the ruin; he knew that the face of the clever young
man had not been among the faces of the few people who had heard his
revelation, but he did not know that the clever young man was hidden
among the ivy a few yards away.
When the people were applauding the delightful discourse, he pressed
forward to the impromptu lecturer and shook him warmly by the hand.
“Sir!” he cried, “you have in you the stuff that goes to make a great
archæologist. I have worked at nothing else but this ruin for the last
eight years, and yet I admit that you know more about it than I do.”
“Oh, my dear sir,” said the clever young man, “the world knows that in
your own path you are without a rival. I am content to sit at your feet.
It is an honourable position. Any time you want to know something of
this locality and its archæology do not hesitate to command me.”
*****
The only rival in adroitness to the young man whose feats I have just
recorded was one Antonio Giuseppe. I came upon this person in London,
but only when I was in Milan did I become acquainted with the extent of
his capacity. One of the stories I heard about him is, I think, worth
repeating, illustrating, as it does, the difference between the English
and the Italian systems of imposture.
Antonio Giuseppe certainly was attached to the State Opera Company, but
it would be difficult to define with any degree of exactness his duties
in connection with that Institution. He had got not a single note in his
voice, and yet--nay, on this account--he had passed during a season at
Homburg as a distinguished tenor--for Signor Giuseppe was careful to
see that his portmanteau was inscribed in white letters of considerable
size, “Signor Antonio Giuseppe, State Opera Company.” He gave himself as
many airs as a professional--nay, as an amateur, tenor, and he was thus
assigned the most select apartment in the hotel during his sojourn, and
a large folding screen was placed between his seat at the _table d’hote_
and the window. There was, indeed, every excuse for taking Signor
Giuseppe for a distinguished operatic tenor. He spoke all European
languages with equal impurity, he went about in a waistcoat that
resembled, in combination of colours, the drop scene of a theatre, he
wore a blue velvet tie, made up in a knot to display a carbuncle pin
about the size of a tram-car light, and his generosity in wristband
was equalled only by his prodigality of cigarette paper. These
characteristics, coupled with the fact that he had never been known to
indulge in the luxury of a bath, gave rise to the rumour that he was the
greatest tenor in Europe; consequently he was looked upon with envy by
the Dukes with incomes of a thousand pounds a day, who were accustomed
to resort for some months out of the year to Homburg; while Countesses
in their own right sent him daily missives expressive of their
admiration for his talents, and entreating the favour of his autograph
in their birthday books. Poor Signor Giuseppe was greatly perplexed by
the arrival of a birthday book at his apartment every morning; but so
soon as its import was explained to him, he never failed to respond to
the request of the fair owners of the volumes. His caligraphy did not
extend beyond the limits of his autograph, and his birthday seemed to be
with him a movable feast, for in no two of the books did his name appear
on the pages assigned to the same month. As a matter of fact, it is
almost impossible for a man who has never been acquainted with his
father or mother, to know with any degree of accuracy the exact day
on which he was born, so that Signor Giuseppe, who was discovered by a
priest in a shed at the quay at Leghorn on St. Joseph’s day, was not to
blame for his ignorance in respect of his nativity.
Of course, when Mr. Fitzgauntlet, the enterprising impresario of the
State Opera, turned up at Homburg in the course of a week or two, it
became known that whatever position Signor Giuseppe might occupy in the
State Opera Company, it was not that of _primo tenore_, for the most
exacting impresario has never been known to include among the duties of
a _primo tenore_ the unpacking of a portmanteau and the arrangement of
its contents around the dressing room of the impresario. The folding
screen was removed from behind Signor Giuseppe on the day following
the arrival of Mr. Fitzgauntlet at Homburg, and from being _feted_ as
Giuseppe the tenor, he was scorned as Giuseppe the valet.
But in regarding Signor Giuseppe as nothing beyond the valet to the
impresario the sojourners at the hotel were as greatly in error as in
accepting him as the tenor. To be sure Signor Giuseppe now and again
discharged the duties that usually devolve upon the valet, but the
scope of his duties extended far beyond these limits. It was his task
to arrange the _claque_ for a new _prima donna_, and to purchase the
bouquets to be showered upon the stage when the impresario was anxious
to impress upon the public the admirable qualities possessed by a
_débutante_ whose services he had secured for a trifle. It was also
Giuseppe’s privilege to receive the bouquets left at the stage door by
the young gentlemen--or the old gentlemen--who had become struck with
the graceful figure of the _premiere danseuse_ or perhaps _cinquantième
danseuse_, and the emoluments arising from this portion of his duties
were said to be equal to a liberal income, exclusive of what he made
by the disposal of the bouquets to the florist from whom they had been
originally purchased. This invaluable official also made a little money
for himself by his ingenuity in obtaining the photographs and autographs
of the chief artists of the company, which he distributed for sale every
evening in the stalls; but not quite so profitable was that part of his
business which consisted in inventing stories to account for the absence
of the impresario when tradesmen called at the State theatre with their
bills; still, the thoughtfulness and ingenuity of Signor Giuseppe were
quite equal to the strain put upon them in this direction, and Mr.
Fitzgauntlet had no reason to be otherwise than satisfied. When it is
understood that Giuseppe transacted nearly all their business for the
chief artists in the company, engaged their apartments, and looked after
their luggage when on tour in the provinces, it will readily be believed
that he had, as a rule, more money at his banker’s than any official
connected with the State Opera.
The confidence which had always been placed in Signor Giuseppe’s
integrity by the artists of the company was upon one occasion rudely
shaken, and the story of how this disaster occurred is about to be
related. Signor Giuseppe did a little business in wine and cigars,
principally of British manufacture, and he had, with his accustomed
dexterity, hitherto escaped a criminal prosecution under the Sale
of Drugs Act for the consequences of his success in disposing of his
commodities in this line of business. He also did a little in a medical
way, a certain bottle containing a bright crimson liquid with a horrible
taste being extremely popular among the members of the extensive
chorus of the State Opera. When a “cyclus” of modern German opera was
contemplated by Mr. Fitzgauntlet, Giuseppe increased his medical stock,
feeling sure that the result of the performances would occasion a run
upon his drugs; but the negotiations fell through, and it was only by
the force of his perseverance and persuasiveness he contrived to get rid
of his surplus to the gentlemen who played the brass instruments in the
orchestra. It was not, however, on account of his transactions in the
medical way that he almost forfeited the respect in which he was held
by the artists, but because of the part he played with regard to the
disposal of a certain box of cigars. After the production of the opera
_Le Diamant Noir_, Signor Boccalione, the great basso, went to Giuseppe,
saying,--
“Giuseppe, I want your advice: you know I have made the success of the
opera, but I do not read music very quickly, and Monsieur Lejeune has
had a good deal of trouble with me. I should like to make him some
little return; what would you suggest?”
Giuseppe was lost in thought. He wondered, could he suggest the
propriety of the basso’s offering the _maestro di piano_ a case of
Burgundy--Giuseppe had just received three cases of the finest Burgundy
that had ever been made in the Minories.
“A present to the value of how much?” he asked of Signor Boccalione.
“Oh,” said the basso airily, and with a gesture of indifference, “about
sixty francs. Monsieur Lejeune had not really so much trouble with
me--no one else in the company would think of acknowledging his
services, but with me it is different--I cannot live without being
generous.”
Giuseppe mused.
“If the signor would only go so far as seventy francs, I could get him a
box of the choicest cigars,” he said after a pause; and then he went
on to explain that the cigars were in the possession of a friend of his
own, whom he had passed into the opera one night, and who consequently
owed him some compliment, so that the box, which in the ordinary way of
business was really worth eighty francs, might be obtained for seventy.
The generosity of the basso, however, was not without its limits; it
would, sustain the tension put upon it by the expenditure of sixty
francs, but it was not sufficiently strong to face the outlay suggested
by Giuseppe..
“Sixty francs!” he cried, “sixty francs is a small fortune, and I myself
smoke excellent cigars at thirty. I will give no more than sixty.”
Giuseppe did not think the box could be purchased for the money, but he
said he would try and induce his friend to be liberal. The next day he
came to Signor Boccalione with the box containing the hundred cigars of
the choicest brand--the quality of the cigars will be fully appreciated
when it is understood that the hundred cost Giuseppe originally close
upon thirteen shillings.
“Per Bacco!” cried the basso, “Monsieur Lejeune should be a happy
man--he had hardly any trouble with me, now that I come to reflect. Oh,
I am the only man in the company who would be so foolish as to think of
a present--and such a present--for him.”
“Oh, Signor!” said Giuseppe, “such a present! The perfume, signor,
wonderful! delicious! celestial!” He then explained how he had persuaded
his friend, by soft words and promises, to part with the box for sixty
francs, and Signor Boccalione listened and laughed; then, on a sheet of
pink notepaper, the basso wrote a dedication, occupying twelve lines,
of the box of cigars to the use of the supremely illustrious _maestro di
piano_, Lejeune, in token of the invaluable assistance he had afforded
to the most humble and grateful of his friends and servants, Alessandro
Boccalione.
When Giuseppe promised to send the box to the maestro on the following
day he meant to keep his word, and he did keep it. On the same evening
he was met by Maestro Lejeune. The maestro looked very pale in the face.
“Giuseppe, my friend,” he said with a smile, “you were very good to me
upon our last tour, looking after my luggage with commendable zeal; I
have often thought of making you some little return. You will find a box
of cigars--one hundred all but one--on my dressing table; you may have
them for your own use.”
Giuseppe was profuse in his thanks, and, on going to the dressing-room
of the maestro, obtained possession once more of the box of cigars
he had sold to the basso. On the mat was the half-smoked sample which
Monsieur Lejeune had attempted to get through.
Not more than a week had passed after this transaction when Signor
Giuseppe was sent for by Madame Speranza, the celebrated soprano.
“Giuseppe,” said the lady, “as you have had twenty-seven of my
photographs within the past month, I think you may be able to help me
out of a difficulty in which I find myself.”
Giuseppe thought it rather ungenerous for a soprano earning--or at least
getting paid--two hundred pounds a week, to make any reference to such a
paltry matter as photographs; he, however, said nothing on this subject,
but only expressed his willingness to serve the lady. She then explained
to him what he knew already, namely, that she had had a serious
difference with Herr Groschen, the conductor, as to the _tempo_ of a
certain air in _Le Diamant Noir_, and that the conductor and she had not
been on speaking terms for more than a fortnight.
“But now,” said Madame Speranza in conclusion, “now that I have made the
opera so brilliant a success, I should like to make my peace with the
poor old man, who must be miserable in consequence of my treatment of
him,--especially as I got the best of the dispute. I mean to write
to him this evening, and send him some present--something small, you
know--not extravagant.”
“What would Madame think of the appropriateness of a box of cigars?”
asked Giuseppe after an interval of thought. “I heard Herr Groschen say
that he had just smoked the last of a box, and meant to purchase another
when he had the money,” he added.
“How much would a box of cigars cost?” asked the _prima donna_.
“Madame can have cigars at all prices--even as low as sixty-five
francs,” replied her confidential adviser.
“Mon Dieu! what extravagant creatures men are!” cried the lady.
“Sixty-five francs’ worth of cigars would probably not last him more
than a few months. Never mind; I do not want a cheap box,--my soul is
a generous one: procure me a box at sixty-six francs, and we will say
nothing more about the photographs.”
Signor Giuseppe said he would try what could be done. A man whom he had
once obliged had a sister married to one of the most intelligent cigar
merchants in the city; but he did not think he had any cigars under
seventy francs.
“Not a sou more than sixty-six will I pay,” cried the soprano with
emphasis. Giuseppe gave a shrug and said he would see what could be
done.
What he saw could be done was to expend the sum of twopence English in
the purchase of a cigar, to put in the centre of the package from which
the maestro had taken his sample, and to bring the box sealed to Madame
Speranza, whom he congratulated on being able to present her late enemy
with a box of cigars of a quality not to be surpassed in the island of
Cuba. The lady put her face down to the box and made a little grimace,
and Giuseppe left her apartment with three guineas English in his
pocket.
Two days afterwards he encountered Herr Groschen.
“Giuseppe,” said the conductor, “you may remember that when you so
cleverly contrived to have my luggage with the fifteen pounds of tobacco
amongst it passed at the Custom House I said I would make you a present.
Forgive me for my negligence all this time, and accept a box of choice
cigars, which you will find on my table. May you be happy, Giuseppe--you
are a worthy fellow.”
It is needless to say that Signor Giuseppe recovered his box. On the
hearth-rug lay a half-smoked specimen, and by its side the portion of
Madame Speranza’s letter to the conductor which he had used to light the
one cigar out of the hundred.
Before another week had passed, the same box had been sold to the tenor,
to present to Mr. Fitzgauntlet, who, on receiving it, put his nose down
to the package, and threw the lot into a corner among waste papers, and
went on with his writing. The box was rescued by Giuseppe, and presented
by him to the husband of Madame Galatini-Purissi, the contralto, in
exchange for three dozen copies of the fair _artiste’s_ portrait. Then
Signor Purissi sent the box to the flautist in the orchestra, who played
the obbligato to some of the contralto’s arias, and as this gentleman
did not smoke he made it over once more to Signor Giuseppe. As the box
had by this time been in the hands of every one in the company likely to
possess a box of cigars, Giuseppe thought it would show a grasping
spirit on his part were he to attempt to dispose of it again; so he
merely made up the ninety-nine cigars in packages of three, which he
sold to thirty-three members of the chorus at a shilling a head.
It so happened, however, that Herr Groschen, Signor Boccalione, and
Signor Purissi met in a tobacconist’s shop about a week after the final
distribution of the cigars, and their conversation turned upon the
comparative ease with which bad cigars could be procured. Herr Groschen
boasted how he had repaid his obligations to Giuseppe with a box of
cigars, which he was certain satisfied the poor devil.
“Corpo di Bacco!” cried the basso, “I bought a box from Giuseppe to
present to Maestro Lejeune.”
“And I,” said the husband of the contralto, “bought another from him.
Can it have been the same box?”
Suspicion being thus aroused, Boccalione sought out Monsieur Lejeune,
who confessed that he had given the box to Giuseppe; and Signor Purissi
learned from the flautist that his gift had been disposed of in the
same direction. The story went round the company, and poor Giuseppe
was pounced upon by his indignant and demonstrative countrymen, and an
explanation demanded of him on the subject of his repeated disposal of
the same box. Giuseppe was quite as demonstrative as the most earnest of
his interrogators in declaring that he had not disposed of the same box.
His friend had obliged him with several boxes, and he had himself been
greatly put about to oblige the ungrateful people who now turned upon
him. He swore by the tomb of his parents that the obligations he had
already discharged towards the ingrates would never be repeated; they
might in future go elsewhere (Signor Giuseppe made a suggestion as to
the exact locality) for their cigars; but for his part he washed his
hands clean of them and their cigars. For three-quarters of an hour
the basso-profundo, the soprano, and the husband of the contralto
gesticulated before Giuseppe in the portico of the Opera House, until
a crowd collected, the impression being general that an animated scene
from a new opera was being rehearsed by the artists of the State Opera.
A policeman who arrived on the scene could not be persuaded to take this
view of the matter, and he politely requested the distinguished members
of the State Opera Company either to move on or to go within the
precincts of the building. The basso attempted to explain to the
policeman in very choice Italian what Giuseppe had done, but he was so
demonstrative the officer thought he was threatening the police force
generally, and took his name and address with a view to issuing a
summons for this offence. In the meantime Giuseppe got into a hansom
and drove off, craning his neck round the side of the vehicle to make
a parting allusion to the maternity of the husband of the contralto, to
which the soprano promptly replied by a suggestion which, if true, would
tend to remove the mystery surrounding the origin of Giuseppe. A week
afterwards of course all were once again on the most friendly terms;
but Giuseppe now and again feels that his want of ingenuousness in the
cigar-box transaction well-nigh jeopardised the reputation for integrity
he had previously enjoyed among the principals of the State Opera
Company. He has been much more careful ever since, and flatters himself
that not even the _tenore robusto_, who is the most suspicious of
men, can discover the points on which he gets the better of him. As
a practical financier Signor Antonio Giuseppe thinks of himself as a
success; and there can hardly be a doubt that he is fully justified in
taking such a view of his career.