sleigh ride; and I think there is nothing more delightful, when the wind
is still, than to skim along the ice in the bright, winter sunshine,
behind a pair of spanking "trotters." The horses seem to enjoy it as
much as the people, arching their necks a little more proudly than
usual, and stepping lightly to the merry sound of the sleigh bells.
At this time of the year large sleighs, holding fifteen to twenty
people, and drawn by four horses, take the place of steamers, omnibuses,
and ferry boats. The steam ferries are housed, except at New York, and
there they keep grinding their way through the ice "all winter," as if
they would not let winter reign over their destinies if they could help
it. Large sleighs cross and recross on the ice higher up the Hudson, and
thus keep up the connection between the various points and opposite
shores. As the mercury falls the spirits of the people seem to rise, and
they shout and halloo at each other as they pass or race on the ice.
These are animated scenes for the skill of a Blanchard or any other
artist equally good in the production of instantaneous photographs.
Another of the scenes on the Hudson worthy of the camera is "ploughing
the ice." It is a singular sight to an Englishman to see a man driving a
team of horses on the ice, and see the white powder rising before the
ice-plough like spray from the prow of a vessel as she rushes through
the water, cutting the ice into blocks or squares, to stow away in
"chunks," and afterwards, when the hot sultry weather of July and August
is prostrating you, have them brought out to make those wonderful
mixtures called "ice-creams," "sherry-cobblers," and "brandy-cocktails."
The Hudson is beautiful in winter as well as in summer, and I wonder its
various and picturesque beauties have not been photographed more
abundantly. But there it is. Prophets are never honoured in their own
country, and artists and photographers never see the beauties of their
country at home. I am sure if the Hudson were photographed from the sea
to its source it would be one of the most valuable, interesting, and
picturesque series of photographs that ever was published. Its aspects
in summer are lovely and charming, and the wet process can then be
employed with success. And in winter, though the temperature is low, the
river is perfectly dry on the surface, the hills and trees are
glistening with snow and icicles, the people are on the very happiest
terms with one another, and frequently exhibit an abundance of dry, good
humour. This is the time to work the "dry process" most successfully,
and, instead of the "ammonia developers," try the "hot and strong" ones.
With these few hints to my photographic friends, I leave the beauties of
the Hudson to their kind consideration.--_British Journal of
Photography_, 1865.
PICTURES OF THE POTOMAC IN PEACE AND WAR.
When first I visited that lovely region which has so recently been torn
and trampled down--blackened and defaced by the ruthlessness of
war--peace lay in the valleys of the Potomac. Nothing was borne on the
calm, clear bosom of the broad and listless river but the produce of the
rich and smiling valleys of Virginia. Its banks were peaceful, silent,
and beautiful. The peach orchards were white with the blossoms that
promised a rich harvest of their delicious fruit. The neat and pretty
houses that studded the sloping boundaries of the river were almost
blinding with their dazzling whiteness as the full blaze of the sun fell
upon them. Their inhabitants were happy, and dreamt not of the storm so
soon to overtake them. The forts were occupied by only a few, very few
soldiers. The guns were laid aside, all rusty and uncared for; and
pilgrims to the tomb of Washington, the good and great, stopped on their
return at Fort Washington to examine the fortifications in idleness and
peaceful curiosity. The Capitol at Washington echoed nothing but the
sounds of peace and good will. The senators of both North and South sat
in council together, and considered only the welfare and prosperity of
their great confederation.
The same harmonious fellowship influenced the appearance and actions of
all; and at that happy conjuncture I made my first acquaintance with
Washington, the capital of the United States. I shall not attempt a
description of its geographical position: everybody knows that it is in
the district of Columbia, and on the banks of the Potomac. It is a city
of vast and pretentious appearance, straggling over an unnecessary
amount of ground, and is divided into avenues and streets. The avenues
are named after the principal States, and take their spring from the
Capitol, running off in all directions in angular form, like the spokes
of a wheel, the Capitol being the "angular point." The streets running
between and across the avenues rejoice in the euphonious names of First,
Second, and Third, and A, B, and C streets, the straight lines of which
are broken by trees of the most luxurious growth all along the
side-walks. These trees form a delightful sun-shade in summer, and have
a very novel and pleasing effect at night, when their green and leafy
arches are illuminated by the gas lamps underneath.
Excepting the Capitol, White House, Court House, Post Office, Patent
Office, and Smithsonian Institute, there is nothing in the city of
photographic interest. The "United States," the "National," and
"Willards," are large and commodious hotels on Pennsylvania Avenue; but
not worth a plate, photographically speaking, unless the landlords wish
to illustrate their bar bills. The Capitol is out of all proportion the
largest and most imposing structure in Washington--it may safely be said
in the United States. Situated on an elevated site, at the top of
Pennsylvania Avenue, it forms a grand termination to that noble
thoroughfare at its eastern extremity. The building consists of a grand
centre of freestone painted white, surmounted by a vast dome of
beautiful proportions. Two large wings of white marble complete the
grand facade. Ascending the noble flight of marble steps to the
principal entrance, the great portico is reached, which is supported by
about eighteen Corinthian columns. The pediment is ornamented with a
statue of America in the centre, with the figures of Faith on her left,
and Justice on her right. On each side of the entrance is a group of
statuary. On one side an Indian savage is about to massacre a mother and
her child, but his arm is arrested by the figure of Civilization. On the
other side the group consists of a man holding up a globe, representing
Columbus and the figure of an Indian girl looking up to it.
The large rotunda, immediately underneath the dome, is divided into
panels, which are filled with paintings, such as the "Landing of the
Pilgrim Fathers," "The Baptism of the Indian Princess Pocahontas," and
other subjects illustrative of American history. On either side of the
Rotunda are passages leading to the House of Representatives on the one
side, and the Senate Chamber on the other. Congress being assembled, I
looked in to see the collective wisdom of the "States" during a morning
sitting. In many respects the House of Representatives very much
resembled our own House of Commons. There was a Mr. Speaker in the
chair, and one gentleman had "the floor," and was addressing the House.
Other members were seated in their desk seats, making notes, or busying
themselves with their own bills. In one essential point, however, I
found a difference, and that was in the ease of access to this assembly.
No "member's order" was required. Strangers and "citizens" are at all
times freely admitted. There is also a magnificent library, which is
free to everyone.
During the Session there is Divine service in the Senate Chamber on
Sunday mornings. On one occasion I attended, and heard a most excellent
discourse by the appointed chaplain. The President and his family were
there.
In some side offices, connected with the Capitol, I found a government
photographer at work, copying plans, and photographing portions of the
unfinished building, for the benefit of the architects and others whose
duty it was to examine the progress of the works. From this gentleman I
received much courteous attention, and was shown many large and
excellent negatives, all of which were developed with the ordinary iron
developer.
I next visited the Patent Office, and the museum connected therewith,
which contains a vast collection of models of all kinds of inventions
that have received protection--among them several things, in apparatus
and implements, connected with photography. The American patent laws
require a model of every new invention to be lodged in this museum,
which is of immense value to inventors and intending patentees; for
they can there see what has already been protected; and as the Patent
Office refuses to grant protection to anything of a similar form, use,
or application, much litigation, expense, and annoyance are saved the
patentees. Our Government would do well to take a leaf out of "Brother
Jonathan's" book on this subject; for not only is there increased
protection given to inventors, but the fees are considerably less than
in this country.
The presidential residence, called the White House, was the next
interesting subject of observation. It is situated at the west end of
Pennsylvania Avenue, and a good mile from the Capitol. The building is
of white marble, and of very unpretending size and architectural
attractions, but in every respect sufficient for the simple wants of the
chief magistrate of the United States, whose official salary is only
twenty-five thousand dollars per annum.
During congressional session the President holds weekly _levees_; and
one of these I determined to attend, prompted as much by curiosity to
see how such things were done, as desire to pay my respects.
Accordingly, on a certain night, at eight o'clock precisely, I went to
the White House, and was admitted without hesitation. On reaching the
door of the reception room, I gave my card to the district marshal, who
conducted me to President Pierce, to whom I was introduced. I was
received with a hearty welcome, and a shake of the hand. Indeed, I
noticed that he had a kindly word of greeting for all who came. Not
having any very important communication to make that would be either
startling or interesting to the President of the United States, I bowed,
and retired to the promenade room, where I found numbers of people who
had been "presented" walking about and chatting in groups on all sorts
of subjects--political, foreign, and domestic, and anything they liked.
Some were in evening dress, others not; but all seemed perfectly easy
and affable one with another. There was no restraint, and the only
passport required to these _levees_ was decent behaviour and
respectability. There was music also. A band was playing in the
vestibule, and everyone evidently enjoyed the _reunion_, and felt
perfectly at home. Never having been presented at court, I am not able
to make any comparison _pro_ or _con_.
There is also an observatory at Washington, which I visited;
but not being fortunate enough to meet the--what shall I say?
"astronomer-royal," comes readiest, but that is not correct: well,
then, the--"astronomer republic," I did not see the large telescope
and other astronomical instruments worked.
The photographic galleries were all situated on Pennsylvania Avenue, and
they were numerous enough. At that time they rejoiced in the name of
"Daguerrean Galleries;" and the proprietor, or operator, was called a
"Daguerrean." Their reception rooms were designated "saloons," which
were invariably well furnished--some of them superbly--and filled with
specimens. Their "studios" and workshops behind the scenes were fitted
with all sorts of ingenious contrivances for "buffing" and "coating" and
expediting the work. Although the greatest number of mechanical
appliances were employed in the Daguerreotype branch of photography, art
was not altogether ignored in its practice. One house made a business
feature of very beautifully coloured Daguerreotypes, tinted with dry
colours, quite equal to those done in Europe. Another house made a
feature of "Daguerreotypes painted in oil;" and the likeness was most
admirably preserved. I saw one of the President, and several of the
members of Congress, which I knew to be unmistakable portraits. Although
the Daguerreotype was most tenaciously adhered to as the best means of
producing photographic portraits, the collodion process--or the
"crystaltype," as they then called it--was not neglected. It was used by
a few for portraits, but chiefly for views.
Having seen all that was worth seeing in the city, I made excursions
into the country, in search of subjects for the camera or pencil.
Georgetown, a little way from Washington, and its picturesque cemetery,
offer several pretty bits for the camera. Arlington Heights, the Long
Bridge, and many nooks about there, are sufficiently tempting; but of
all the excursions about Washington, Mount Vernon--a few miles down the
Potomac, on the Virginia side--is by far the most interesting. Mount
Vernon is the name of the place where General George Washington lived
and died, and is the "Mecca" of the Americans. Nearly every day there
are pilgrims from some or all parts of the States to the tomb of
Washington, which is in the grounds of Mount Vernon. They visit this
place with a kind of religious awe and veneration, and come from far and
wide to say they have seen it. For, in truth, there is little to see but
the strangest-looking and ugliest brick building I ever beheld, with
open iron gates that allow you to look into the darkness of the
interior, and see nothing. I took a view of the tomb, and here it is:--A
red brick building, squat and low, of the most unsightly design and
proportions imaginable--resembling one of our country "deadhouses" more
than anything else I could compare it to. It was stuck away from the
house among trees and brushwood, and in an advanced state of
dilapidation--a disgrace to the nation that had sprung from that great
man's honest devotion! Over the Gothic entrance is a white slab, with
the following inscription on it:--
"Within this Enclosure
Rest
the remains of
General George Washington."
The remains of "Lady Washington" lie there also; and there are several
white obelisks about to the memory of other members of the family.
The house itself is a "frame building" of two storeys, with a piazza
running along the front of it, and is on the whole a mean-looking
edifice; but was probably grand enough for the simple tastes of the man
who dwelt in it, and has hallowed the place with the greatness and
goodness of his life. The interior of the house looked as if it had once
been a comfortable and cozy habitation. In the hall was put up a desk,
with a "visitors' book," wherein they were expected to enter their
names; and few failed to pay such a cheap tribute to the memory of the
father of their country.
The grounds, which were full of natural beauties, had been allowed to
run into a state of wild tangle-wood; and I had some trouble to pick my
way over broken paths down to the riverside again, where I took the
"boat," and returned to the city, touching at Fort Washington on the
way. The day had been remarkably fine; the evening was calm and lovely;
the silence of the river disturbed only by the splash of our paddles,
and the song of the fishermen on shore as they drew in their laden nets;
and the moon shone as only she can shine in those latitudes. Nothing
could denote more peace and quietude as I sailed on the Potomac on that
lovely evening. There was such a perfect lull of the natural
elements--such a happy combination of all that was beautiful and
promising--it seemed impossible for such a hurricane of men's
passions--such yells of strife and shouts of victory, such a swoop of
death as afterwards rushed down those valleys--ever to come to pass.
Such sad reverse was, however, seen on my second visit to the Potomac.
The narration of the stirring scenes then presented will form a picture
less peaceful and happy, but unfortunately intensely real and painfully
true.
My second visit to the Potomac was paid after the lapse of several
years, and under very different circumstances. When the Capitol echoed
loudly the fierce and deadly sentiments of the men of the North against
the men of the South. When both had shouted--
"Strike up the drums, and let the tongue of war
Plead for our int'rest."
When the deliberations of the senators were "war estimates," arming of
troops, and hurrying them to the "front" with all possible despatch.
When the city of Washington presented all the appearance of a place
threatened with a siege. When every unoccupied building was turned into
barracks, and every piece of unoccupied land was made a "camp ground."
When the inhabitants were in terror and dismay, dreading the approach of
an invading host. When hasty earth-works were thrown up in front of the
city, and the heights were bristling with cannon. When the woods and
peach orchards on the opposite side of the Potomac were red with the
glare of the camp fires at night, and the flashing of bayonets was
almost blinding in the hot sun at noon. When the vessels sailing on the
river were laden with armed men, shot, shell, and "villainous
saltpetre." When the incessant roll of drums and rattle of musketry
deadened almost every other sound. When sentinels guarded every road and
access to the capital, and passports were required from the military
authorities to enable you to move from one place to another. In short,
when the whole atmosphere was filled with sounds of martial strife, and
everything took the form of desolating war.
In spite of all these untoward events, I found photography actively
engaged in the city, in the camp, and on the field, fulfilling a mission
of mercy and consolation in the midst of carnage and tumult--fulfilling
such a mission of holy work as never before fell to the lot of any art
or art-science to perform. For what aspect of life is photography not
called upon to witness?--what phase of this world's weal or woe is
photography not required to depict? Photography has become a handmaiden
to the present generation--a ministering angel to all conditions of
life, from the cradle to the grave. An _aide-de-camp_ of the loveliest
character to the great "light of the world," humanizing and elevating
the minds of all, administering consolation to the sorrowing, increasing
the joy of the joyous, lessening the pangs of separation caused by
distance or death, strengthening the ties of immediate fellowship,
helping the world to know its benefactors, and the world's benefactors
to know the world. When grim death stalks into the gilded palaces of the
great and powerful, or into the thatched cottages and miserable
dwellings of the poor, photography is the assuager of the griefs of the
sorrowing survivors, and the ameliorator of their miseries, by
preserving to them so faithful a resemblance of the lost one. When the
bride, in her youth and loveliness, is attired for the bridal,
photography is the recorder of her trustful looks and April smiles, the
fashion of her dress, the wreath and jewels that she wore; and, come
what change in her appearance that may, the husband can look upon his
bride whene'er he likes in after years, as vividly and as distinctly as
on that day, connecting the present with the past with a kind of running
chord of happy recollections. Photography is now the historian of earth
and animated nature, the biographer of man, the registrar of his growth
from childhood to "man's estate," the delineator of his physical, moral,
and social progress, the book of fashion, and the mirror of the times.
The uses and applications of photography are almost indescribable;
scarcely an art, or a science, or a trade or profession that does not
enlist photography into its service. Photography does not merely pander
to the gratification of earthly vanity, but is an alleviator of human
misery. Photography enters our hospitals and registers faithfully the
progress of disease, its growth and change from day to day, until it is
cured, or ripe for the knife of the surgeon; its pictures are lessons to
the professor, and a book of study for the students, charts for their
guidance through the painful and tedious cases of others similarly
afflicted, teaching them what to do and what to avoid, to relieve the
suffering of other patients. Photography is dragged into our criminal
law courts, and sits on the right hand of Justice, giving evidence of
the most undeniable character, without being under oath, and free from
the suspicion of perjury, convicting murderers and felons, and
acquitting the innocent without prejudice; and in our courts of equity,
cases are frequently decided by the truth-telling evidence of
photography.
Astronomers, geographers, and electricians freely acknowledge how much
they are indebted to photography in making their celestial and
terrestrial observations. Engineers, civil and military, employ
photography largely in their plans and studies. Art, also, has recourse
to photography, and is the only one of the liberal professions that is
half ashamed to admit the aid it gains from the camera. If art admits it
at all, it is done grudgingly, apologetically, and thanklessly. But
there it is the old, old story of family quarrels and family jealousies.
Old art might be likened to an old aunt that has grown withered and
wrinkled, and peevish with disappointment, who, in spite of all her
long-studied rules and principles of light and shade, harmony of colour,
painting, "glazing," and "scumbling," has failed to win the first
prize--that prize which a woman's ambition pants after from the moment
she enters her teens until her dream is realized--that living model,
moulded after God's own image, which, not having won in her mature age,
she becomes jealous of the growing graces, the fresh and rollicking
charms, the unstudied and ingenuous truthfulness of form exhibited by
her niece. Old Art the aunt, Photography the niece. Readers, draw the
moral for yourselves.
I have digressed, but could not help it. Photography is so young and
lovely, so bewitchingly beautiful in all her moods, so fascinating and
enslaving--and she has enslaved thousands since she first sprung from
the source that gives her life. But to return to my theme.
The practice of photography, like the aspects of the country and
condition of the people, was changed. "Old things had passed away, and
all things had become new." The shining silver plates, buffing wheels,
coating boxes, mercury pans, &c., of the old dispensation had given
place to the baths, nitrate of silver solutions, and iron developers of
the new. Ambrotypes, or glass positives, and photographs on paper, had
taken the place of the now antiquated Daguerreotype. Mammoth photographs
were the ambition of all photographers. The first full-length life-sized
photograph I ever saw was in Washington, and was the work of Mr.
Gardner, the manager of Mr. Brady's gallery. But a more republican idea
of photography, which, strange to say, originated in an empire not
remarkable for freedom of thought, soon became the dominant power.
Cartes-de-visite, the many, ruled over mammoth, the few. The price of
mammoth photographs was beyond the reach of millions, but the prices of
cartes-de-visite were within the grasp of all; and that, combined with
their convenient size and prettiness of form, made them at once popular,
and created a mania.