NEARLY ten years ago I took lessons in landscape photography, and since
then have made hundreds of photographs of places rarely visited, of
strange people and wonderful vegetation, which have delighted the eyes
of many friends. Assuming that many members of the Reading Union will
wish to retain more permanent pictures of vacation scenes this summer
than can be carried in memory alone, I propose to show how they can do
this with little trouble and expense.
First, I must congratulate you upon your good fortune in being able
to enter upon the study of photography in the year 1882, rather than
twenty, or even ten, years earlier. In no other department of science,
except perhaps in electricity, has such an advance been made. It was
only in 1839 that Daguerre published his success in obtaining an image
on a silver plate, and in 1851 that the collodion process—that most
in use at the present day—was given to the world. But within the past
few years improvements have been made, by means of which the art is not
confined to professional workmen, but can be enjoyed by all the young
folks in the land.
I well remember the disadvantages attending outdoor photography, even
no longer ago than when I made my first attempts. By the collodion or
wet process it was absolutely necessary to carry a large trunk full of
chemicals and bulky apparatus. Among other things there was the “dark
tent;” in its most compact form it was a box, about two feet and a
half square, with curtains and aprons arranged so as to exclude all
_actinic_ or chemical light. After setting your camera in position and
focusing the picture, you had to retire into the dark tent, arrange
the curtains about you to exclude all outside light, and consequently
air, and then you coated the glass plate with collodion and dipped it
into the “silver bath” to make it sensitive to light. This operation
required several minutes, and if the day was hot and sultry, the
operator in the dark box was nearly suffocated before he emerged with
the prepared plate ready for the camera. After exposing this he was
obliged to hide himself again in that hot box full of chemical fumes,
and there “develop” the picture supposed to be upon the glass.
With the discovery that plates could be prepared ready for use at
any time, and that would remain sensitive to the action of light for
months, a new field was opened, in which any one could wander who had
the inclination. By this discovery all the bottles of chemicals, with
the dark tent and the clumsy apparatus, were done away with. Materials
for a hundred photographs can now be carried in a small valise or in an
ordinary trunk amongst clothes and books.
Though an amateur, and having no greater interest in photography than
arose from a desire to secure pictures of the spots I visited, I hailed
the appearance of the “dry plates” and their simpler mode of use, for
I was heartily tired of the old way. My fingers were always black with
silver stains, and my clothes streaked and stained with salts of iron
and soda. My accidents, from the tipping over of chemicals, and in
struggling over mountain roads and the beds of mountain torrents, were
more than I could count on my fingers. In Florida, whenever I crawled
into the dark tent—pitched, perhaps, on the border of a swamp or
in the deep woods—the mosquitoes and sand-flies would make furious
attacks upon my legs and nearly drive me wild, and I would be haunted
by fear of the snakes and alligators that might attack me in that
defenseless position—with my head in a sack and my hands employed.
One day an enormous old billy-goat, taking offence at the outlandish
appearance of my tent, as I was at work in it, half concealed from his
view, charged on it with such force as to knock us all in a heap. When
I had crawled out from the ruins, expecting to learn that an earthquake
had passed by, I saw that billy-goat standing calmly by, chewing his
cud, and shaking his head sidewise, as much as to say, “Get into that
box again, and I’ll knock you over a second time!” In the West Indies
it was always necessary to hire two negroes to carry my trunk, and as
they invariably bore their burdens on their heads, the silver solution
would sometimes leave a black streak down their faces, even darker
than their ebony countenances!
The new discovery did away with all this trouble. I was quick to see
this, and in one of my trips to the tropics carried a camera and
a stock of “dry plates.” Alas! I had too hastily adopted a crude
invention. I climbed mountains, descended into craters of volcanoes,
threaded tangled thickets, and penetrated to secluded valleys to
photograph new scenes with my new instrument. Having perfect faith in
the new invention, I did not test my plates with chemicals on the spot,
but kept them till I returned, and then gave them to the photographer
to manipulate. My carelessness was well rewarded, for of the nearly
one hundred plates, _not one_ contained a perfect picture. I was in a
condition then to sympathize with the great Audubon, who had a trunk
full of drawings, the result of a year’s labor, destroyed by mice.
Unlike him, I had not a sufficiently powerful incentive to repeat
my travels, and the anticipated pictures were gone forever. Nothing
daunted, I next year procured another machine and tried again, this
time in Mexico. In that year the inventor had not been idle, and I
informed myself upon the merits of his invention so that my results at
the end of the journey were such as greatly pleased me and my friends;
for from the plates of glass exposed to light in the camera flashed out
fac-similes of strange idols of stone, grand old ruins, snow-capped
volcanoes, valleys almost hid in dense vegetation, palms, tropical
plants, and the picturesque features of that strange country.
But, without further preface, let me tell you how you may take pictures
this summer without any of the hindrances that I had to encounter in my
first attempts.
The first thing needed is a camera, which in its simplest form is a
darkened box, with a lens in front, through which the scene is focused
upon a plate in its back—a plate of glass prepared with chemicals so
that its surface is sensitive to the light admitted through the lens.
A few seconds of time is generally sufficient for the transmission
of an impression to this plate, and before and after that “exposure”
it must be kept away from all light until the “latent image”—the
picture we cannot yet see—has been brought out and “fixed” by means
of chemicals. This forms the “negative,” which is to the finished
photograph what an engraved block is to the engraving on paper. To
obtain this negative is your first object; having got this, you may
produce from it as many prints as you like, at very little cost, either
by taking it to a photographer, or by continuing the process and
printing them yourself.
While there are several instruments in the market with which the
negative can be taken, most of them are so costly as to be beyond the
reach of a boy or a girl with a limited supply of pocket money for a
vacation trip; hence I shall choose one that is not only very cheap,
but which I know by experiment will perform the work for which it
is intended. It is the invention of a young man who has a practical
knowledge of photography, and is called the “tourograph.”
At first sight it is a small mahogany box, eight by ten inches broad,
with a strap by which one can carry it. But by pulling out a slide in
front a lens is revealed; and by drawing out another slide on the top
an inner box is shown full of negative plates. This smaller box is
fitted in position on top of the larger one, so that the plates, one at
a time, can be dropped into a carrying-rack turned by a screw, in the
dark chamber below. This plate having been placed in focus, the lens is
uncapped for a few seconds, then recapped, and the glass is returned to
the box above, where it is kept till evening, or until a favorable time
for development. In this way all the plates—eight or ten—in the box
may be exposed, and their places filled with fresh ones later on.
The camera is supported upon a tripod, or three-legged stick, which can
be closed up until not much larger than an alpenstock.
This is the outline of the mechanical operation necessary to secure
the negative. The plates, being ready prepared and packed in little
boxes of a dozen each, are transferred to the camera at night, or in
a dark room by day, by the aid of a _red_ light. This is obtained by
placing a roll of red or orange-colored paper—made expressly for this
purpose—around a lamp or candle, as the light that shines through a
medium of this color is _non-actinic_, or without the power to produce
chemical change in the very sensitive plates. You now have a plate with
a latent image of the picture you desire to retain; this plate must
pass through a chemical operation before that image will appear.
Imagine yourself in a darkened room illuminated only by the _red_
light, with a plate in your hand on which you fondly hope there is a
duplicate of the scene before which you had set up the instrument. To
all appearances it is a plate of plain glass, one side covered with
a film of gelatine, and if you hold it to the light nothing appears
to indicate the change that has taken place in that film since it was
exposed to the light. The question is, how to bring that picture out
from its hiding-place. First, you must have a shallow pan at hand, and
place yourself near a good supply of water. Into the pan you pour the
chemicals previously mixed, necessary for the _development_ or bringing
out of the hidden image. These chemicals are, oxalate of potash and
protosulphate of iron. To simplify matters, the inventor of the
tourograph puts up these chemicals in papers, so that you only have to
put into four ounces, or a gill, of water[D] one paper of the potash
and another of iron; mix well, and the solution is ready for the plate.
This must be placed in the tray with the film side up, and the solution
flowed over it. When completely covered, let it remain, and carefully
watch the development.
[D] The operator should bear in mind that old saying, “A pint’s a
pound, the world around,” then he will remember that it contains
sixteen fluid ounces, four ounces to the gill, &c.
This is the period of greatest anxiety for the young operator, for it
is the critical stage of the proceedings. A few seconds will determine
whether you have a picture before you, or merely a square of plain
glass. Gradually the details unfold themselves: the “high lights” or
white portions first, then the “half tones” or grades of shadow, then
the deeper shades of foliage or objects feebly lighted. When the view
has come out distinct, seems to progress no farther and to gradually
fade away to a deep brown, you have got out all it is possible to
obtain from that exposure, and the plate must be removed from the
solution, and chemical action arrested by washing in clear water.
Now you have before you tangible evidence of success, but your picture
is not complete; it is dull, perhaps obscure, and if exposed to the
light of day would quickly vanish. It must now _fixed_ in another
solution and in another dish. The “fixing solution” is made by
dissolving half an ounce of hyposulphite of soda in five or six ounces
of water. Into this place the developed plate, and allow it to remain
until all the whitish film is dissolved away. If both operations are
faithfully performed you will have, on taking the plate from the
solution and holding it to the light, a brilliant picture on glass—the
_negative_—with all the lights and shadows reversed, the white
portions quite opaque, and the dark parts almost transparent.
Now wash very thoroughly in clear water, beneath a tap if possible, or
by pouring a gentle stream over the glass for a few minutes, in order
to remove every trace of superfluous chemical substance that might work
injury. As a precaution against the possible peeling of the film, it
is well to dip the negative in a strong solution of alum and water,
then wash again, and set up to dry in a slanting position, with the
film side next the wall. When perfectly dry a coat of photographic
varnish, furnished with the chemicals, is flowed over the coated side
of the glass, and the impression is securely fixed, ready for use
in printing. Having secured the negative, your object is virtually
attained: the possession of a souvenir of a vacation ramble, a favorite
view, or of a picturesque camping-place. If it were my negative, I
should take it to some good photographer, and let him prepare from it
the prints I wanted, as that expense is small, and involves a good deal
of labor for the amateur. But I suppose my readers will wish—as I did
years ago—to see the whole process, and to make their own prints or
paper pictures.