The Emperor of Fire versus the Italian Salamander

The two marvels of 1858

The summer of 1858 brought two unique sensations to London. The less pleasant of the two was the so-called Great Stink, a vile smell caused by the accumulation, over many years, of sewage and industrial pollution in the River Thames. The muck, it was reported, stood six feet deep along the banks. Combined with unusually hot weather and low river levels, the unbearable stench caused vomiting and fainting, and was so bad that it was even proposed that Parliament should make a temporary move to less odiferous surroundings.

The second marvel was to be found at the Cremorne Pleasure Gardens situated close to the Thames at World’s End, which was then the unfashionable end of Chelsea. Cremorne, a popular destination during summer seasons from 1845 until 1872, provided something for everyone: a theatre, circus performances, marionette shows, American-style bowling, dancing, eating and drinking. And for those of a fleshly inclination, there was the company of sex workers, an entertainment that guaranteed the gardens their infamy.

The Italian Salamander appears at Cremorne

In July 1858 top-hatted gentlemen sweating in the exceptional summer heat, and accompanied by women perspiring in bonnets and voluminous crinolines, hurried towards the Ashburnham Grounds at Cremorne to see the Italian Salamander’s death-defying act. Dressed in a bulky costume, and with his head and face protected by a helmet, the Salamander walked slowly into what appeared to be a raging inferno. This was in fact two iron-framed cages joined in the form of a cross with arms about twelve feet long, seven feet high and a mere three feet wide, which were ‘completely covered with light brushwood and shavings’ and which ‘upon being ignited, [the Fire King] enters and deliberately walks therein, traversing the burning avenues’. He then performed his grand finale — a jig to the tune of ‘The Girl I left Behind me’ — before stepping out of the blazing cages.

The remarkable fellow would then prove that he had escaped the flames unscathed by removing his helmet to reveal a handsome, if somewhat sweaty, face. He was twenty-six years old, and his name, in the most common of its numerous forms, was Signor Cristoforo Buono Core. As for his stage names, Fire King is self-explanatory, but the origin of Italian Salamander is more surprising and ancient. It was long believed that the salamander — not the man but the small amphibian with undulating tail — was impervious to fire and could even extinguish flames. In reality, amphibious salamanders live in damp woodlands, streams and ponds. They are not remotely fireproof.

Now Signor Cristoforo Buono Core was quite different from the traditional fire artistes, or salamandiers, who might be seen in circus and fairground shows. They typically walked barefoot on hot coals, ate fire, and even rubbed parts of their unprotected flesh with red-hot metal implements. Cristoforo, on the other hand, was modern. He claimed that his act was not the result of magic or trickery but was based on scientific principles. He was an inventor and had developed a range of fireproof clothing that might entertain — and possibly make him a bob or two — but might also do humanity some good.

This outfit might well have made of asbestos, or, at least, painted with a solution containing asbestos. If so, the Salamander’s claims for an original invention were rather hollow, as the properties of this fibrous fireproof mineral had been recognised for millennia, even as far back as the Stone Age, when people living in Finland used it to strengthen earthenware pots. It was also familiar to the Greeks — they gave it its name — as well as to the Chinese and the Mongols. Later the Italians experimented with asbestos in bank notes and paper. By the 1850s the Parisian fire brigade had begun using it their jackets and helmets.

Maybe and maybe not a Neapolitan soldier

Signor Cristoforo Buono Core was born in Naples in South Italy, which, at the time, was a part of the Kingdom of the Two Sicilies. Contemporary newspapers report that he was once a soldier in the Neapolitan army, and travelled to both Smyrna and Alexandria, where he witnessed terrible fires that resulted in heavy loss of life. Horrified by what he had witnessed, he spent the next four years developing fireproof clothing to guard against disasters such as these, and was rewarded for his efforts by Sa’id Pasha, the ruler of Egypt. By 1858, owing to his involvement in political intrigues either in Egypt or, possibly, in his native Italy, he had been forced to take refuge in England.

Actually, the validity of these claims is suspect. In the 1850s the Neapolitan army concentrated its efforts at home, and there were no major fires in either Smyrna or Alexandria. It is likely that Cristoforo, working as a travelling performer, picked up these exotic backstories along the way and adopted them for publicity purposes.

Enter Francisco Filliponi — the Emperor of Fire

While at Cremorne in the spring of 1858, Cristoforo engaged Francisco Filliponi, a thirty-year-old Sicilian, to prepare his fireproof outfit. The costume consisted of a jacket, trousers, gloves and head covering, all made from canvas painted with a reddish-white paste that presumably contained asbestos. In addition, he protected his eyes with goggles made of mica, and wore wooden clogs on his feet. After two weeks Filliponi’s work was found wanting and he was dismissed.

By the time of the 1859 season, they appear to have made up. Filliponi was again Cristoforo’s assistant, paid five shillings a day plus his board and lodging. He would also receive some of Cristoforo’s old costumes, and having been taught the tricks of the trade, he would then set up as a fire performer himself, the only catch being that as a ‘franchise’ he was expected to send Cristoforo a share of his future professional earnings. By the middle of June 1859, Filliponi began to seek solo engagements by advertising his services in the Era newspaper.

Behind the scenes there were rumours of tension between the men. Was it that Cristoforo, the King of Fire, objected to his apprentice adopting the more impressive soubriquet the Emperor of Fire? Was it because Filliponi had told his intimates that Cristoforo was not the inventor of the fireproofing substance he laid claim to, but someone they had both worked for, Goncalves Smith, and had even threatened to stab Cristoforo with a poignard or sharp dagger? Was it burning rage or flaming jealousy that finally saw the Emperor of Fire accuse the Italian Salamander of attempting to poison him?

The Last Supper — Francisco’s account

For all the rumoured friction, relations between the two men appeared harmonious on Monday 6 July 1859, which was Francisco Filliponi’s last day working at Cremorne. It was agreed that he would have an early dinner at Cristoforo’s lodgings in Riley Street, and then head to Kent, where he hoped to be engaged as a fire performer at the Tivoli Tavern in Gravesend.

After they had eaten, Cristoforo gave Francisco two shillings to go out to buy fruit for dessert. They ate strawberries with rum and sugar, and Cristoforo then asked Francisco to go to his own lodgings, which were a few doors away in Riley Street, to collect some pomade so they might make ‘a brilliant moustache.’ Francisco refused as he was not a man for pomade: he only used soap to sculpt his facial hair. Cristoforo asked him to go out and get some cherries.

By this time Francisco was beginning to think it odd that the Salamander seemed determined to get him out of the room, and his misgivings were confirmed, or so he would claim, when on his return with the cherries he found that the remaining strawberry in his glass of rum had changed colour. Cristoforo insisted that he eat it. And indeed, in spite of his misgivings, not to mention the fact that the strawberry tasted odd, Francisco did as he was instructed.

Francisco later reported that he then took a boat to London Bridge. From there he would travel to Gravesend, but on the way he felt a ‘pain in my breast and in my head, like as if I had received a stroke of a hammer’, and instead of going to Kent he returned to Cristoforo’s lodgings in Riley Street. The room was empty – the Salamander had gone to Cremorne – but his suspicions were aroused when he found more strawberries and rum tipped into the chamber pot. He was sure that he had been poisoned.

The case for the prosecution

Strangely, the person who reported the suspected poisoning was not Francisco but the alleged villain, Signor Cristoforo Buono Core. The Salamander had heard the rumours about him that were being spread abroad and he wanted them to stop. However, the hearing at the Westminster Police Court proved far from straightforward, not least because the interpreter who had been found for Francisco wanted to be a witness in the case and flounced out when told he could not be both.

The chief witness for the prosecution was a mysterious Italian called Davide Farini, or, depending on the newspaper account, Ravini, or even Robini. Davide claimed that Cristoforo, in best pantomime villain mode, had declared that Francisco had libelled him so severely in letters that he was no longer able to go to Paris, and for that ‘Francisco did not deserve to live and must die’. Davide then said that he had been given small bottles of poison to administer to Francisco, but had done nothing. Presumably the inference to be drawn from this assertion was that his inaction had obliged Cristoforo to attempt the poisoning himself.

Other seemingly damning evidence came from a chemist who had sold Cristoforo noxious substances, supposedly for his inventions, and the defendant in fact admitted to having once had arsenic in his possession, although he said that he no longer had it. It was not looking good for the Italian Salamander. Was a prison sentence waiting for him? Might he lose his lucrative engagement at Cremorne? Who might there possibly be to take his place?

Mrs Russell’s evidence

Step forward Mrs Charlotte Ellen Russell. She lived at 14 Riley Street with her family and ran a small shop on the ground floor. She also rented the first-floor drawing room to Cristoforo as a bedsit, and said that the strawberry dessert had been prepared in her presence. In fact she had provided the sugar when Cristoforo explained that this was how fruit was eaten in his country, and he had given her a serving, which she shared with her family without any ill effects.

Charlotte also contradicted Francisco’s testimony. His tale of snooping around Cristoforo’s room could not be true, she said, because the only way upstairs was through her ground floor shop, and she had been there all evening and had not seen him. As for the journey down the river to Gravesend, Francisco had actually decided not to go until the next day, and instead spent the early evening drinking at Cremorne with her husband. After closing the shop at 10pm, she joined them, and found Francisco merry. He was certainly not complaining of sickeness and even returned to Riley Street the following morning to have breakfast with Cristoforo.

The prosecution case weakened further when it was revealed the bottle of poison supposedly given to Davide had been sampled by a friend of Mr Simpson, the proprietor of the Cremorne – with no ill-effects. Davide was recalled, but it was found he had fled the country for Boulogne.

The tables are turned

The magistrate had heard enough.

Cristoforo was released and Francisco Filipponi was in turn arrested, charged and found guilty of perjury and conspiracy. He would serve twelve months’ hard labour in the Clerkenwell House of Correction. A group of friends made an unsuccessful attempt to exonerate him: they blamed Davide for deceiving him into thinking he was being poisoned. They also attempted to show that Cristoforo was dishonest and unreliable.

Four months after his release Franscisco was admitted to St Bartholomew’s Hospital suffering from pericarditis after rheumatoid arthritis. He died there aged only thirty-four, and his death certificate, rather poignantly, lists his occupation as ‘salamandier at Cremorne Gardens’. His burial place has not been traced.

Cristoforo after the court case

The court case and resulting newspaper publicity appear to have had no negative impact on Cristoforo, who spent the rest of the summer season at Cremorne.

Then in September 1859 he married Matilda Stugnell at St Martins in the Fields. He described himself as an ‘experimentalist in resisting fire’, and in time he and Matilda had many children. Seven are know by name — Albert, Gesu, Emilio, William, Jose, Santiago and Ricardo — and there may been more.

Cristoforo’s professional career took him abroad to Spain, Russia and America, sometimes in association with Astley’s Circus. The family would later relocate to Chile.