Transcription
My lords and gentlemen, I confess to some embarrassment upon this occasion, speaking as I do for the first time in public and in the presence of so distinguished a company. I feel greatly honored by your presence here tonight, a company distinctly representative in its character.
This is what the guests of Colonel George Guro would have heard on the 5th of October 1888. That evening, they were invited to an extraordinary dinner that showcased the wonders of modern technology. The host of the event was a machine, and one of the guests attended from the other side of the Atlantic, present only through his disembodied voice.
The invention that made this possible was the phonograph, originally unveiled a bit over 10 years earlier by Thomas Edison. It was the first machine capable of both recording and playing back sound. As a novelty, it generated enormous excitement, but the first model had a number of flaws that prevented it from being commercially viable. Only now had a new, so-called perfected phonograph been developed, and as Edison's London agent, it was up to Guro to promote the invention in Britain.
His favorite way of doing this was by demonstrating it to famous and influential people, who would get to hear recordings of Edison and various other celebrities before being offered to leave a message of their own. In this way, Guro ended up preserving the voices of many prominent Britons of the 19th century, some of whom were born over 200 years ago. Although a large number of these recordings have since been lost or severely damaged, the ones that do remain are among the oldest pieces of audio we can still hear, and through them, the voices of the Victorians continue to echo.
The new phonograph was completed at breakneck speed in June of 1888. Edison called together his veteran assistants and informed them that they were expected to stay on the job with him day and night until the new machine had been brought up to certain standards. What followed was a 72-hour marathon work session, by the end of which the perfected phonograph could be unveiled.
The reason for the hurry was the need to compete with a graphophone, a rival talking machine created by Alexander Graham Bell and his associates at the Volta Laboratory in Washington, D.C. Goro had repeatedly warned Edison about its development, and his constant prodding was partially responsible for the rapid development of the new phonograph. In response, after the final sprint to complete it was over, this photo was taken to commemorate the occasion. It shows an exhausted Edison surrounded by his team, and standing front and center on the table is the machine they’d been working on. The white cylinders scattered next to it were one of the main improvements brought to the new model. Whereas the original phonograph had indented sound on sheets of tin foil, the perfected phonograph engraved it on cylinders of wax, which allowed for much more durable recordings of higher quality. Also present in the picture is George Guro, who can be seen sitting to the right. He had traveled all the way from Europe to encourage work on the phonograph and immediately arranged to have the machine sent back to England, where he would promote it on behalf of Edison.
There could hardly have been a more fitting person for this task. Born in Niagara Falls, New York, he was the son of Francois Guro, a Frenchman who had sailed to America in 1839 to promote the then newly invented daguerreotype process. The next year, he’s believed to have sold the first ever camera in the United States to the photographer Samuel Morse. Now, almost half a century later, George Guro was bringing a great American invention back to Europe, which did for sound what the camera had done for light; thereby, his family history had gone full circle.
On the 26th of June, the phonograph was safely delivered to Guro’s home in Upper Norwood, South London, named Little Menlo after Edison’s original laboratory. This all-electric, neo-medieval mansion functioned as a sort of show home and was filled to the brim with the latest high-tech gadgets. The compound was not only one of the first in the country to provide electrical lighting but also boasted the ability to clean the Colonel’s boots and scrub his carpets all by electricity. When the door to a room was opened, the lights would automatically turn on, and there was even a direct telephone connection to the nearby Crystal Palace, allowing the gentleman to listen to weekly concerts that were held there live from the comfort of his home.
Every 3 years, the Palace would host a series of especially spectacular performances known as the Triennial Handel Festival, held in memory of the 18th-century composer. It typically lasted for several days and featured massive choirs and orchestras performing to tens of thousands of spectators. As luck would have it, one of the Handel Festivals took place just around the time when the phonograph arrived in 1888, providing a perfect opportunity to demonstrate and try out the device. So, on the 29th of June, Guro brought the machine to the Palace and, with the help of Edison employee Hugh Dey Hamilton, recorded a performance of Israel in Egypt that was being held that day.
All of the cylinders from this occasion were thought to have been lost until the 1980s, when three of them miraculously resurfaced in the archives of the BBC. When played, they revealed the eerie and hauntingly beautiful voices of 4,000 people singing to us from a long-gone age. Many of them will have been dead for over 100 years by now and lived closer to the time of Handel than to the present day. Even the building they performed in was lost almost 90 years ago when a fire reduced it to rubble. But for a fleeting moment on that day in the summer of 1888, an impression of their voices was captured by the phonograph, which can still be heard.
Attempting to record an entire orchestra for one of the galleries in this massive building was a bold idea, but even when the hall was filled with the voices of thousands of singers, the machine could only pick up a faint trace of them. The phonograph clearly still had its limits, but luckily, Guro’s subjects could usually be a lot closer to it.
Back at Little Menlo, he soon began his custom of entertaining distinguished guests, whom he plied with wine before inviting them to record their voices. At least in the beginning, the machine was operated by Hamilton, who had been the one to bring it over from America, although Guro soon learned to master it himself. Judging from old photographs, many of the recording sessions seemed to have taken place in a large music room known as the Minstrel Gallery. It was equipped with two grand pianos and an organ, and, like the rest of the house, featured various memorabilia from the Civil War, reminders of Guro’s time in the Army. Having immediately enlisted when the war broke out, he won a Medal of Honor for bravery at the Battle of Honey Hill in South Carolina, which was fought in 1864 as part of Sherman’s March to the Sea. He also received a brevet rank of Lieutenant Colonel at the age of just 22, although after the war, the “lieutenant” part was quietly dropped. He became universally known as Colonel Goro and made the most of his status as a war hero in launching a business career that eventually led him to London. Even now, in the late 1880s, he would usually don his cavalry uniform and corps badges while demonstrating the phonograph to guests over dinner.
The most well-known of these demonstrations took place on the 5th of October 1888 and involved a special experiment. In preparation for that evening, Guro and one of his guests, called Alexander Broadley, had prerecorded all of the speeches and announcements that would have normally been made in person for playback at the correct moments. The goal was to see if the phonograph could take over the roles of host and toastmaster and whether people could be made to respond to prerecorded instructions and speeches in the same way they would have responded to the real thing.
After what, by all accounts, was a fine dinner, the cylinders began to be played, and, at least according to the preface of the official transcript, the visitors were left completely stunned when, for the first time ever, a social event was coordinated by a machine. Quote: “The phonograph, standing upon a table behind the host, gave forth aloud the following toasts and speeches with perfect distinctness and fidelity to nature, especially as regards the tones and mannerisms of the professional British toastmaster, so as to paralyze the company that the electrical energy of a Daniell primary battery had to be applied to the guests to restore their mental and physical equilibrium.”
The first cylinder began with a short introduction by Goro, which is what we heard at the beginning of this video. He then went on to say a few words about each of his guests, which included, among others, the journalist, author, and dramatist Edmund Yates, the famous composer Sir Arthur Sullivan, and news correspondent Joseph Parkinson, who had reported on the laying of the transatlantic telegraph cable back in 1866.
The rest of the prerecorded cylinders went something like this: First, Broadley would call for silence and wait for Guro to introduce a toast to a guest; then he would formally announce the toast and order the guests to charge their glasses for it. Often, he would add the expression “bumpers,” meaning “to the brim.” This was followed by cheering while the toast was being drunk, after which the phonograph would be stopped and the guest in question could speak. For example: “Here is the toast to Mr. Yates. Silence, gentlemen, silence, if you please. Mr. Ed—my lords and gentlemen, being myself a complete failure as an after-dinner speaker, I better than anyone else can appreciate the treat which you are about to enjoy in listening to the eloquence of one of England’s most famous after-dinner speakers, Mr. Edmund Yates, upon whom the phonograph now calls to speak in response to the toast to Literature, which I now ask you to drink, gentlemen. The toast is Literature, coupled with the name of Mr. Yates. Charge your glasses, gentlemen. Papers, if you please.”
The prerecorded cylinders ended with Guro proposing a toast to Edison, after which the guests were probably invited to meet the great inventor in voice through the medium of the phonograph. This was followed by an opportunity to record a message to him, which would be sent over to America. The most well-known of these recordings was made by Arthur Sullivan, who, showing his wit but also in a serious vein, prophesied the horrors of mass entertainment. “Little October 5th, 1888. From Guro: continuation of introduction of PR. Now listen to the voice of Sir Arthur Sullivan. Mr. This, my friend Edmund, has been a little incoh—is in confidence of the excellent dinner and good wi—he has done therefore I take you with excuses. He has his Lu interv—for myself I can only say that I am astonished and somewhat terrified at the result of this evening experiment, at the wonderful power you have developed, and terrified at the sour—that so much music may be put on record forever. But all the same, I think it is the most wonderful thing that I have ever experienced, and I congratulate you with all my heart on this wonderful discovery. Al. Sullivan.”
As Sullivan alluded to, the company was starting to feel the effects of all that fine wine. If we take the many “bumpers” toasts literally, Goro’s guests should each have drained a minimum of six full glasses by now. Perhaps that’s why, on the final cylinder, Broadley stumbles through his message to Edison, after which Guro nearly loses his composure introducing the last speaker. “I have had the privilege tonight of officiating as phonographic toastmaster, and when this instrument is introduced for that purpose, I shall claim to be the ancestor of a long line of house masters who, instead of discharging their functions uh in the present manner, have reest—phonograph for the expeditious uh fulfillment of those duties uh with which in this country we are sufficiently familiar. Uh, I can only express uh my great thanks to Colonel Guro for giving us the opportunity of witnessing your invention and express an Earnest—an Earnest hope that uh in the near future we may have again an opportunity of witnessing some experiment with the phra—a bar at law. Our next guest, to whom I will—in whom I will present to you, is Mr. J. C. Parkinson, whose name you will remember as an old telegraphist yourself, as having an early identification with that most important phase of telegraphy which now goes by the common name of Atlantic cable. Mr. Parkinson will I speak—”
It is a great privilege to have taken part this evening in this most interesting celebration. You have heard from our friends previously how deeply we are indebted to our host tonight.
The cylinder runs out midway through Parkinson’s message, with apparently no effort made to let him continue his speech on another one. Perhaps Goro and Hamilton had simply run out of blank cylinders at this point. They had recently requested a new batch from Edison, but it only arrived the next day.
Goro went on to hold many similar demonstrations, both at his home and at other social events, recording prominent Victorians in the process. To him, this was not just about business; he was genuinely fascinated by the idea of documenting voices for posterity and intended to compile a quote “phonogram album of the voices of the great of all nations, to include alike someday the voices of the living and the dead.” But the prospect of getting one chance to leave behind an impression of your voice could be a daunting one, and guests sometimes choked up when the moment finally came to speak. One such case was the actor Henry Irving, whose encounter with Guro is described as follows: “It is curious to see how the most distinguished speakers behave when they find themselves in front of the phonograph and speak into it. I was never so amazed as to see Mr. Irving attack the subject. He walked up to it with that air of confidence which characterizes Mr. Irving when he walks—when he stopped walking he found himself in front of the phonograph and began to talk into it. But it was not Irving in the least. Some of his oldest friends there said—said, ‘Why, my dear Irving, it was not you who spoke.’ And it was not Mr. Irving himself absolutely; he was frightened out of his own voice.”
Something similar happened to the poet Robert Browning when he was about to recite one of his works called “How They Brought the Good News from Ghent to Aix.” He couldn’t remember the words and eventually had to give up. The recording was made less than a year before his passing, and when it was played at the anniversary of Browning’s death in 1890, it was said to be the first time anyone’s voice had been heard from beyond the grave.
Of all the people that Goro brought to the machine, the most important must have been William Gladstone, referred to as the “Grand Old Man,” or alternatively “God’s Only Mistake” by his opponents. Gladstone was a Liberal politician who served as Prime Minister for four non-consecutive terms and is often ranked by historians as one of the greatest statesmen in British history. Born in 1809 to Scottish parents, he was an almost exact contemporary of Abraham Lincoln, but still had his last term in office ahead of him when he agreed to leave the following message to Edison in 1888. Sadly, he is nearly drowned out by all of the background noise, but if you listen closely, especially towards the end of the message, you can still make out the voice of William Gladstone. “Glon, 18 December 1888. Edison. From Col. Guro: introducing Mr. Gladstone. This phonograph salutation—the latest born of your—of American genius, bends its knee of steel and bows its neck of iron in reverential heed before the veteran statesman of England, Mr. Gladstone. The phonograph, and through the medium of the phonograph, Mr. Edison. Now, Edison, listen to a voice that has electrified its generation—the voice of William Gladstone. The record of [Applause] in my power I to say that the voice [Music] only of an—the employment of which has been over-tried, yet I offer to you as much as I possess and so much as old age with the utmost satisfaction and being to the instruction and that I have received from your marvelous in—as to the Future consequences it is impossible to anticipate them all. I see is the wonder upon wonder are opening before us. Your great—is leading the way in the important work of invention. Are we wish it well and to you as one of his greatest celebrities allow me to offer my hearty good wishes and Earnest prayer that you may long live to witness triumphant all that happen to the wellbeing of that life.”
William Gladstone was a political hero on both sides of the Atlantic, and it had been Edison’s dearest ambition from the very start to have cylinders of the old man’s voice sent back to him in New Jersey. With this in mind, Goro dispatched the recording to America after just a few days, along with others made over the preceding six months. With the end of the year approaching, he also took the opportunity to send a personal message to the inventor. The result is the oldest known recording of a Christmas greeting in existence. “Dec. 20th. Um, please receive the united good wishes of myself and my family to you and your family, with the best hope for a Merry Christmas and a Happy New Year to you all. With my regard to all the boys in the laboratory and tell them I hope they’re not—join the spree! A Merry Christmas and a Happy New Year to you all.”
The following year, Goro expanded his operations. He opened dedicated phonograph offices on Northumberland Avenue, near Trafalgar Square, and assembled a team of seven skilled phonographers, or recordists, who traveled across the country to promote the device. One of them, a certain C. Johnston, went on to record another of the most famous Victorians in 1890: Florence Nightingale, remembered as a social reformer and as the founder of modern nursing. Nightingale rose to prominence during the Crimean War when she organized care for wounded British and Allied soldiers, working at the temporary military hospital established in Constantinople. She significantly reduced death rates by improving hygiene and living standards. Nightingale alludes to this time in her message, where she mentions the Battle of Balaclava, whose wounded soldiers overwhelmed the facility just days after her arrival in early November 1854. It was recorded at her house near Hyde Park in London and announced by recording manager Mary Helen Ferguson. The building has since been demolished, but this photo, taken in the last year of her life in 1910, gives us an idea of what it looked like. “Project [Applause] 1890. When I am no longer even—just—and I hope my voice—they take me—the great bre—of my—my dear old—of Sala—and bring than [Music]…”
This recording was part of an effort to help raise money for the veterans of the Charge of the Light Brigade at the Battle of Balaclava. In what went down as one of military history’s great blunders, the Brigade mounted a frontal assault against heavily defended Russian troops backed up by artillery. The suicidal attack was the result of a misunderstood order from the commander-in-chief and led to around 40% of the Brigade being either killed or wounded. Its members were praised for their valor in carrying out their orders regardless of the risk. So, when in 1890 it was discovered that many of the veterans were destitute, a public scandal broke out in response. The St. James’ Gazette set up a relief fund, and Guro arranged to make three charity recordings to support it. The message by Florence Nightingale was one of them. Lord Tennyson made another, in which he recited his famous poem about the charge. Unfortunately, the cylinder was badly damaged by mold when his grandson stored it next to a radiator, and the words are now barely intelligible. The third recording, however, is in better condition and features one of the actual veterans, a trumpeter called Martin Lanfrie. He is said to have sounded the famous charge and is heard reenacting it on his bugle. “I am ly one of the surviving trumpeters in Charge of the Light Brigade. B—I am now going to sound the bugle that was sounded in water L—and sound the charge as was sounded at Balaclava on that very same bugle on the 25th of October 1854. Record made at Edison House, Northumberland Avenue, London, August the 2nd, 1890.”
For a brief moment in the late 1880s, George Guro was the toast of London. The naturally hearty and likable man used the fame accrued by being the sole owner of the phonograph to penetrate society to its highest levels. As a result, he became reluctant to actually fulfill his mission, which ultimately was to hire out phonographs to businesses as dictation machines. Instead, most of Goro’s efforts went to compiling his library of immortal voices. When Edison pressured him about the lack of progress, he cited fears that the machine was still not ready for commercialization, despite reported healthy trade in the United States. This was an unwelcome turn of events, but Guro had already bought the rights to commercialize the machine in Europe, so it was difficult.
For Edison to get rid of him in 1892, however, the Colonel was finally ousted in a coup. He doesn't seem to have been embittered by this and continued to hold stocks in Edison's companies for several years. Still fascinated by invention, he set up his own humble workshops in Brighton during the second half of the decade and financed the development of a device for amplifying sound. It was named the Gurophone and was demonstrated at the 1900 Paris Exposition.
Having withdrawn from business in 1903, Guru was appointed Governor-General of the Empire of the Sahara the following year. Located along the coast of Morocco, this would-be state had just been proclaimed by the eccentric French millionaire, Jacque Laori, who fancied himself as its Emperor. However, after angering the French government, he had been forced to set up his court in London's Seavoy Hotel instead, and the plan eventually fizzled out.
In his later years, Guru resided in France and Switzerland, where he died in 1912 at the age of 70. Although he never collected the voices of the great of all nations, the Colonel did leave behind a treasure of recordings featuring many of the most well-known names of Victorian Britain. But the most prominent Victorian of them all is missing. Despite having intended to do so, in the end, Guru never got the chance to record Queen Victoria. That honor instead went to Sydney Morris, an early investor in the British Graphophone Company, the rivals of Guro and Edison.
The recording was made possible by the fact that Morris had connections to the Royal Family. He had not only played rugby for England in those days—a fair indicator of elevated social status—but was also a close friend of Queen Victoria's French governess and an occasional visitor to the annual Royal summer party at Balmoral in Scotland. It was here that the recording was made in Autumn of 1888. Morris was sternly warned not to tour the country playing it, so the cylinder was of no commercial benefit to him or the company. But he proudly held on to it as his chiefest treasure and planned to eventually hand it down to his children as a family heirloom.
It's surprising, then, that the recording seemingly vanished after his death in 1929. Only in the 1970s, almost 50 years later, would hints about its whereabouts begin to appear. At that time, it was discovered that the estate of Sydney Morris had donated several items to the Science Museum in London, including one graphophone cylinder. Although there are no guarantees, it is considered reasonably likely to be the one made at Balmoral, and that the female voice heard on it is that of Queen Victoria.
As far as is known, the Queen only agreed to make one other recording in her lifetime, which was sent to the Emperor of Ethiopia. But, according to her wishes, it was destroyed immediately after being played to him. That leaves the cylinder from Balmoral as the only potential record of her voice. Over the years, it has been heavily damaged through repeated playing, and opinions vary on what exactly it says. But the words "Let me answer" and "I've never forgotten" can be most clearly made out. The subtitles I provided here show just one of many theories, and ultimately, the contents of the recording remain up for interpretation.
With that being said, here is the final voice of this video, possibly belonging to Queen Victoria. [Applause]