city of Montreal. The streets are narrow, but clean, and well built of
stone. Most of the suburban streets and villa residences are "frame
buildings," but there are many handsome villas of stone about the base
of the "mountain." I visited the principal buildings and the Cathedral
of Notre Dame, ascended to the top of the Bell Tower, looked down upon
the city, and had a fine view of its splendid quays and magnificent
river frontage, and across the country southwards for a great distance,
as far as the Adirondack Mountains, where the Hudson River bubbles into
existence at Hendrick Spring, whence it creeps and gathers strength as
it glides and falls and rushes alternately until it enters the Atlantic
below New York, over three hundred miles south of its source. But the
mountain at the back of Montreal prevented my seeing anything beyond the
city in that direction. I afterwards ascended the mountain, from the
summit of which I could see an immense distance up the river, far beyond
Lachine, and across the St. Lawrence, and southwards into the "States."
Being homeward bound, and having no desire at that time to prolong my
stay in the western hemisphere, I did not wait to obtain any photographs
of Montreal or the neighbourhood; but, taking ship for old England, I
leave the lower St. Lawrence and its beauties; Quebec, with its glorious
associations of Wolfe and the plains of Abraham, its fortifications,
which are now being so fully described and discussed in the House of
Commons, and the Gulf of the St. Lawrence, where vessels have sometimes
to be navigated from the "masthead," in consequence of the low-lying sea
fog which frequently prevails there. A man is sent up "aloft" where he
can see over the fog, which lies like a stratum of white cloud on the
gulf, and pilot the ship safely through the fleet of merchantmen which
are constantly sailing up and down while the river is open. The fog may
not be much above the "maintop," but is so dense it is impossible to see
beyond the end of the "bowsprit" from the deck of the ship you are
aboard; but from the "masthead" the "look-out" can see the highland and
the masts and sails of the other ships, and avoid the danger of going
"ashore" or coming into collision by crying out to the man at the wheel
such sea phrases as "Port," "Starboard," "Steady," &c.; and when
"tacking" up or down the gulf, such as "luff," "higher," "let her off."
Indeed, the whole trip of the St. Lawrence--from Lake Ontario to the
Atlantic--is intensely exciting. While off the coast of Newfoundland, I
witnessed one of those beautiful sights of nature in her sternest mood,
which I think has yet to be rendered in the camera--icebergs in the
sunlight. A great deal has been said about their beauty and colour, but
nothing too much. Anyone who saw Church's picture of "The Icebergs,"
exhibited in London last year, may accept that as a faithful reflection
of all their beautiful colours and dreadful desolation. All sailors like
to give them as wide a "berth" as possible, and never admire their
beauty, but shun them for their treachery. Sometimes their base extends
far beyond their perpendicular lines, and many a good ship has struck on
the shoal of ice under water, when the Captain thought he was far enough
away from it. The largest one I saw was above a hundred feet above the
water-line, and as they never exhibit more than one-third of their
ponderous mass of frozen particles, there would be over two hundred feet
of it below water, probably shoaling far out in all directions. We had a
quick run across the Atlantic, and I landed in Liverpool, in the month
of November, amid fog, and smoke, and gloom. What a contrast in the
light! Here it was all fog and darkness, and photography impossible.
There--on the other side of the waters--the light is always abundant
both in winter and summer; and it is only during a snow or rain storm
that our transatlantic brother photographers are brought to a
standstill.--_Photographic News_, 1865.
PHOTOGRAPHIC IMPRESSIONS.
The Hudson, Developed on the Voyage.
"We'll have a trip up the Hudson," said a friend of mine, one of the
best operators in New York; "we'll have a trip up the Hudson, and go and
spend a few days with the 'old folk' in Vermont, and then you will see
us 'Yankees'--our homes and hospitalities--in a somewhat different light
from what you see them in this Gotham."
So it was arranged, and on the day appointed we walked down Broadway,
turned down Courtland Street to the North River, and went on board the
splendid river steamer _Isaac Newton_, named, in graceful compliment,
after one of England's celebrities. Two dollars (eight and fourpence)
each secured us a first-class passage in one of those floating palaces,
for a trip of 144 miles up one of the most picturesque rivers in
America.
Wishing for a thorough change of scene and occupation, and being tired
of "posing and arranging lights" and "drawing a focus" on the faces of
men, women, and children in a stifling and pent-up city, we left the
camera with its "racks and pinions" behind, determined to revel in the
beautiful and lovely only of nature, and breathe the fresh and
exhilarating air as we steamed up the river, seated at the prow, and
fanned by the breeze freshened by the speed of our swift-sailing boat.
Leaving New York, with its hundred piers jutting out into the broad
stream, and its thousand masts and church spires on the one side, and
Jersey City on the other, we are soon abreast of Hoboken and the
"Elysian Fields," where the Germans assemble to drink "lager beer" and
spend their Sundays and holidays. On the right or east side of the river
is Spuyten Duyvil Creek, which forms a junction with the waters of the
Sound or East River, and separates the tongue of land on which New York
stands from the main, making the island of Manhattan. This island is a
little over thirteen miles long and two and a half miles wide. The Dutch
bought the whole of it for L4 16s., and that contemptible sum was not
paid to the poor, ignorant, and confiding Indians in hard cash, but in
toys and trumpery articles not worth half the money. Truly it may be
said that the "Empire City" of the United States did not cost a cent. an
acre not more than two hundred and fifty years ago, and now some parts
of it are worth a dollar a square foot. At Spuyten Duyvil Creek Henry
Hudson had a skirmish with the Indians, while his ship, the _Half Moon_,
was lying at anchor.
Now we come to the picturesque and the beautiful, subjects fit for the
camera of the photographer, the pencil of the artist, and the pen of the
historian. On the western side of the Hudson, above Hoboken, we catch
the first glimpse of that singular and picturesque natural river wall
called the "Palisades," a series of bold and lofty escarpments,
extending for about thirty-five miles up the river, and varying in an
almost perpendicular height from four to over six hundred feet, portions
of them presenting a very similar appearance to Honister Craig, facing
the Vale of Buttermere and Salisbury Craigs, near Edinburgh.
About two and a half miles above Manhattan Island, on the east bank of
the Hudson, I noticed a castellated building of considerable
pretensions, but somewhat resembling one of those stage scenes of
Dunsinane in _Macbeth_, or the Castle of Ravenswood in the _Bride of
Lammermoor_. On enquiring to whom this fortified-looking residence
belonged, I was told it was Fort Hill, the retreat of Edwin Forest, the
celebrated American tragedian. It is built of blue granite, and must
have been a costly fancy.
Now we come to the pretty village of Yonkers, where there are plenty of
subjects for the camera, on Sawmill River, and the hills behind the
village. Here, off Yonkers, in 1609, Henry Hudson came to the premature
conclusion, from the strong tidal current, that he had discovered the
north-west passage, which was the primary object of his voyage, and
which led to the discovery of the river which now bears his name.
At Dobb's Ferry there is not much to our liking; but passing that, and
before reaching Tarrytown, we are within the charming atmosphere of
Sunnyside, where Washington Irving lived and wrote many of his
delightful works. Tarrytown is the next place we make, and here, during
the war for independence, the enthusiastic but unfortunate soldier,
Major Andre, was captured; and at Tappan, nearly opposite, he was hung
as a spy on the 2nd of October, 1780.
All the world knows the unfortunate connection between Benedict Arnold,
the American traitor, and Major Andre, the frank, gallant, and
enterprising British officer; so I shall leave those subjects to the
students of history, and pass on as fast as our boat will carry us to
the next place of note on the east bank of the river, Sing Sing, which
is the New York State prison, where the refractory and not over honest
members of State society are sent to be "operated" upon by the salutary
treatment of confinement and employment. Some of them are "doing time"
in _dark rooms_, which are very unsuitable for photographic operations,
and where _a little more light_, no matter how yellow or non-actinic,
would be gladly received. The "silent cell" system is not practised so
much in this State as in some of the others; but the authorities do
their best to _improve the negative_ or refractory character of the
_subjects_ placed under their care. It is, however, very questionable
whether their efforts are not entirely _negatived_, and the bad
character of the subject more _fully developed_ and _intensified_ by
contact with the more powerful _reducing agents_ by which they are
surrounded. Their prison is, however, very pleasantly situated on the
banks of the Hudson, about thirty-three miles above New York City.
Opposite Sing Sing is Rockland Lake, one hundred and fifty feet above
the river, at the back of the Palisades. This lake is celebrated for
three things--leeches and water lilies in summer, and ice in winter.
Rockland Lake ice is prized by the thirsty denizens of New York City in
the sultry summer months, and even in this country it is becoming known
as a cooler and "refresher."
Nearly opposite Sing Sing is the boldest and highest buttress of the
Palisades; it is called "Vexatious Point," and stands six hundred and
sixty feet above the water.
About eleven miles above Sing Sing we come to Peekskill, which is at the
foot of the Peekskill Mountains. Backed up by those picturesque hills it
has a pretty appearance from the river. This was also a very important
place during the wars. At this point the Americans set fire to a small
fleet rather than let it fall into the hands of the British.
A little higher up on the west side is the important military station of
West Point. This place, as well as being most charmingly situated, is
also famous as the great military training school of the United States.
Probably you have noticed, in reading the accounts of the war now raging
between North and South, that this or that general or officer was a
"West Point man." General George M'Clellan received his military
education at West Point; but, whatever military knowledge he gained at
this college, strengthened by experience and observation at the Crimea,
he was not allowed to make much use of while he held command of the army
of the Potomac. His great opponent, General Lee, was also a "West Point
man," and it does not require much consideration to determine which of
the "Pointsmen" was the smarter. Washington has also made West Point
famous in the time of the war for independence. Benedict Arnold held
command of this point and other places in the neighbourhood, when he
made overtures to Sir Henry Clinton to hand over to the British, for a
pecuniary consideration of L10,000, West Point and all its outposts.
A little higher up is Cold Spring, on the east side of the Hudson; but
we will pass that by, and now we are off Newburg on the west bank. This
is a large and flourishing town also at the foot of high hills--indeed,
we are now in the highlands of the Hudson, and it would be difficult to
find a town or a village that is not _backed up_ by hills. At the time I
first visited these scenes there was a large photographic apparatus
manufactory at Newburg, where they made "coating boxes," "buff wheels,"
"Pecks blocks," &c., on a very extensive scale, for the benefit of
themselves and all who were interested in the "cleaning," "buffing," and
"coating" of Daguerreotype plates.
Opposite Newburg is Fishkill; but we shall pass rapidly up past
Poughkeepsie on the right, and other places right and left, until we
come to Hudson, on the east side of the river. Opposite Hudson are the
Catskill Mountains, and here the river is hemmed in by mountains on all
sides, resembling the head of Ullswater lake, or the head of Loch Lomond
or Loch Katrine; and here we have a photographic curiosity to descant
upon.
Down through the gorges of these mountains came a blast like the sound
from a brazen trumpet, which electrified the photographers of the day.
Among these hills resided the Rev. Levi Hill, who lately died in New
York, the so-called inventor or discoverer of the Hillotype, or
Daguerreotypes in natural colours. So much were the "Daguerreans" of New
York startled by the announcement of this wonderful discovery, that they
formed themselves into a sort of company to buy up the _highly coloured_
invention. A deputation of some of the most respectable and influential
Daguerreotypists of New York was appointed to wait upon the reverend
discoverer, and offer him I don't remember how many thousand dollars for
his discovery as it stood; and it is said that he showed them specimens
of "coloured Daguerreotypes,"--but refused to sell or impart to them the
secret until he had completed his discovery, and made it perfect by
working out the mode of producing the only lacking colour, chrome
yellow. But in that he never succeeded, and so this wonderful discovery
was neither given nor sold to the world. Many believed the truth of the
man's statements--whether he believed it himself or not, God only knows.
One skilful Daguerreotypist, in the State of New York, assured me he had
seen the specimens, and had seen the rev. gentleman at work in his
laboratory labouring and "buffing" away at a mass of something like a
piece of lava, until by dint of hard rubbing and scrubbing the colours
were said to "appear like spirits," one by one, until all but the
stubborn chrome yellow showed themselves on the surface. I could not
help laughing at my friend's statement and evident credulity, but after
seeing "jumping Quakers," disciples of Joe Smith, and believers in the
doctrine of Johanna Southcote, I could not be much surprised at any
creed either in art or religion, or that men should fall into error in
the Hillotype faith as easily as into errors of ethics or morality. I
was assured by my friend (not my travelling companion) that they were
beautiful specimens of colouring. Granted; but that did not prove that
they were not done by hand. Indeed, a suspicion got abroad that the
specimens shown by Mr. Hill were _hand-coloured_ pictures brought from
Europe. And from all that I could learn they were more like the
beautifully coloured Daguerreotypes of M. Mansion, who was then
colourist to Mr. Beard, than anything else I could see or hear of. Being
no mean hand myself at colouring a Daguerreotype in those days, I was
most anxious to see one of those wonderful specimens of "photography in
natural colours," but I never could; and the inventor lived in such an
out-of-the way place, among the Catskills, that I had no opportunity of
paying him a visit. I have every reason to believe that the
hand-coloured pictures by M. Mansion and myself were the only Hillotypes
that were ever exhibited in America. Many of my coloured Daguerreotypes
were exhibited at the State Fair in Castle Garden, and at the Great
Exhibition at New York in 1853. But perhaps the late Rev. Levi Hill was
desirous of securing a posthumous fame, and may have left something
behind him after all; for surely, no man in his senses would have made
such a noise about Daguerreotypes in "natural colours" as he did if he
had not some reason for doing so. If so, and if he has left anything
behind him that will lead us into nature's hidden mine of natural
colours, now is the time for the "heirs and administrators" of the
deceased gentlemen to secure for their deceased relative a fame as
enduring as the Catskill Mountains themselves.
The Katzbergs, as the Dutch called the Catskill Mountains, on account of
the number of wild cats they found among them, have more than a
photographic interest. The late Washington Irving has imparted to them
an attraction of a romantic character almost as bewitching as that
conferred upon the mountains in the vicinity of Loch Lomond and Loch
Katrine by Sir Walter Scott. It is true that the delicate fancy of
Irving has not peopled the Katzbergs with such "warriors true" as stood
"Along Benledi's living side;"
nor has he "sped the fiery cross" over "dale, glen, and valley;" neither
has he tracked
"The antler'd monarch of the waste"
from hill to hill; but the war-whoop of the Mohegans has startled the
wild beasts from their lair, and the tawny hunters of the tribe have
followed up the trail of the panther until with bow and arrow swift they
have slain him in his mountain hiding place. And Irving's quaint fancy
has re-peopled the mountains again with the phantom figures of Hendrick
Hudson and his crew, and put Rip van Winkle to sleep, like a big baby,
in one of nature's huge cradles, where he slept for _twenty years_, and
slept away the reign of good King George III. over the colonies, and
awoke to find himself a bewildered citizen of the United States of
America. And the place where he slept, and the place where he saw the
solemn, silent crew of the "Half Moon" playing at ninepins, will be
sought for and pointed out in all time coming. And why should these
scenes of natural beauty and charming romance not be photographed on the
spot? It has not been done to my knowledge, yet they are well worthy the
attention of photographers, either amateur or professional. We leave the
Catskill Mountains with some regret, because of the disappointment of
their not yielding us the promised triumph of chemistry, "photography in
natural colours," and because of their beauty and varying effects of
_chiaroscuro_ not having been sufficiently rendered in the monochromes
we have so long had an opportunity of obtaining in the camera.
Passing Coxsackie, on the west bank of the Hudson, and many pleasant
residences and places on each side of the river, we are soon at Albany,
the capital of the State of New York, and the termination of our voyage
on board the _Isaac Newton_. And well had our splendid steamer performed
her part of the contract. Here we were, in ten hours, at Albany, 144
miles from New York City. What a contrast, in the rate of speed, between
the _Isaac Newton_ and the first boat that steamed up the Hudson! The
_Claremont_ took over thirty-six hours, wind and weather permitting, to
perform the voyage between New York and Albany; and we had done it in
ten. What a contrast, too, in the size, style, and deportment of the
two boats! The _Claremont_ was a little, panting, puffing, half-clad,
always-out-of-breath sort of thing, that splashed and struggled
and groaned through the water, and threw its naked and diminutive
paddle-wheels in and out of the river--like a man that can neither
swim nor is willing to be drowned, throwing his arms in and out of the
water in agony--and only reached her destination after a number of
stoppings-to-breathe and spasmodic start-agains. The _Isaac Newton_
had glided swiftly and smoothly through the waters of the Hudson, her
gigantic paddle-wheels performing as many revolutions in a minute as
the other's did in twenty.
But these were the advanced strides and improvements brought about by
the workings and experiences of half a century. If the marine steam
engine be such a wonderfully-improved machine in that period of time,
what may not photography be when the art-science is fifty years old?
What have not the thousands of active brains devoted to its advancement
done for it already? What have not been the improvements and wonderful
workings of photography in a quarter of a century? What improvements
have not been effected in the lifetime of any old Daguerreotypist?
When I first knew photography it was a ghostly thing--a shimmering
phantom--that was flashed in and out of your eyes with the rapidity of
lightning, as you tried to catch a sight of the image between the total
darkness of the black polish of the silvered plate, and the blinding
light of the sky, which was reflected as from a mirror into your eyes.
But how these phantom figures vanished! How rapidly they changed from
ghostly and almost invisible shadows to solid, visible, and all but
tangible forms under the magical influence of Goddard's and Claudet's
"bromine accelerator," and Fizeau's "fixing" or gilding process! How
Mercury flew to the lovely and joint creations of chemistry and optics,
and took kindly to the timid, hiding beauties of Iodine, Bromine,
Silver, and Light, and brought them out, and showed them to the world,
proudly, as "things of beauty," and "a joy for ever!" How Mercury clung
to these latent beauties, and "developed" their charms, and became
"attached" to them, and almost immovable; and consented, at last, to be
tinted like a Gibson's Venus to enhance the charms and witcheries of his
proteges! Anon was Mercury driven from Beauty's fair domain, and bright
shining Silver, in another form, took up with two fuming, puffy fellows,
who styled themselves Ether and Alcohol, with a villainous taint of
methyl and something very much akin to gunpowder running through their
veins. A most abominable compound they were, and some of the vilest of
the vile were among their progeny; indeed, they were all a "hard lot,"
for I don't know how many rods--I may say tons--of iron had to be used
before they could be brought into the civilized world at all. But,
happily, they had a short life. Now they have almost passed away from
off the face of the earth, and it is to be hoped that the place that
knew them once will know them no more; for they were a dangerous
set--fragile in substance, frightful abortions, and an incubus on the
fair fame of photography. They bathed in the foulest of baths, and what
served for one served for all. The poisonous and disgusting fluid was
used over and over again. Loathsome and pestiferous vapours hovered
about them, and they took up their abode in the back slums of our
cities, and herded with the multitude, and a vast majority of them were
not worth the consideration of the most callous officer of the sanitary
commission. Everything that breathes the breath of life has its moments
of agony, and these were the throes that agonised Photography in that
fell epoch of her history.
From the ashes of this burning shame Photography arose, Phoenix-like,
and with Silver, seven times purified, took her ethereal form into the
hearts and _ateliers_ of artists, who welcomed her sunny presence in
their abodes of refinement and taste. They treated her kindly and
considerately, and lovingly placed her in her proper sphere; and, by
their kind and delicate treatment, made her forget the miseries of her
degradation and the agonies of her travail. Then art aided photography
and photography aided art, and the happy, delightful reciprocity has
brought down showers of golden rain amidst the sunshine of prosperity to
thousands who follow with love and devotion the chastened and purified
form of Photography, accompanied in all her thoughts and doings by her
elder sister--Art.
I must apologise for this seeming digression. However, as I have not
entirely abandoned my photographic impressions, I take it for granted
that I have not presumed too much on the good nature of my readers, and
will now endeavour to further develop and redevelop the Hudson, and
point out the many phases of beauty that are fit subjects for the camera
which may be seen on the waters and highland boundaries of that
beautiful river in all seasons of the year.
Albany is the capital of the State. It is a large and flourishing city,
and one of the oldest, being an early Dutch settlement, which is
sufficiently attested by the prevalence of such cognomens as
"Vanderdonck" and "Onderdunk" over the doors of the traders.
About six or eight miles above Albany the Hudson ceases to be navigable
for steamers and sailing craft, and the influence of the tide becomes
imperceptible. Troy is on the east bank of the river; and about two
miles above, the Mohawk River joins the Hudson, coming down from the
Western part of the State of New York. For about two hundred miles the
Hudson runs almost due north and south from a little below Fort Edward;
but, from the Adirondack Mountains, where it takes its spring, it comes
down in a north-westerly direction by rushing rapids, cascades, and
falls innumerable for about two hundred miles more through some of the
wildest country that can possibly be imagined.
We did not proceed up the Upper Hudson, but I was told it would well
repay a trip with the camera, as some of the wildest and most
picturesque scenery would be found in tracking the Hudson to its source
among the Adirondack Mountains.
I afterwards sailed up and down the navigable part of the Hudson many
times and at all periods of the year, except when it was ice-bound, by
daylight and by moonlight, and a more beautiful moonlight sail cannot
possibly be conceived. To be sailing up under the shadow of the
Palisades on a bright moonlight night, and see the eastern shore and
bays bathed in the magnesium-like light of a bright western moon, is in
itself enough to inspire the most ordinary mind with a love of all that
is beautiful and poetical in nature.
Moonlight excursions are frequently made from New York to various points
on the Hudson, and Sleepy Hollow is one of the most favourite trips. I
have been in that neighbourhood, but never saw the "headless horseman"
that was said to haunt the place; but that may be accounted for by the
circumstance of some superior officer having recently commanded the
trooper without a head to do duty in Texas.
My next trip up the Hudson was in winter, when the surface of the river
was in the state of "glacial," solid at 50 deg. for two or three feet
down, but the temperature was considerably lower, frequently 15 deg. and
20 deg. below zero--and that was nipping cold "and no mistake," making
the very breath "glacial," plugging up the nostrils with "chunks" of ice,
and binding the beard and moustache together, making a glacier on your
face, which you had to break through every now and then to make a
breathing hole.
On this arctic trip the whole aspect of the river and its boundaries is
marvellously changed, without losing any of its picturesque attractions.
Instead of the clear, deep river having its glassy surface broken by the
splash of paddle-wheels, it is converted into a solid highway. Instead
of the sound of the "pilot's gong," and the cries of "a sail on the port
bow," there is nothing to be heard but the jingling sound of the sleigh
bells, and the merry laugh and prattle of the fair occupants of the
sleighs, as they skim past on the smooth surface of the ice, wrapped
cosily up in their gay buffalo robes.