“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 protégés! 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, Phœnix-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.