JOHN WERGE.

Originally published in the “Photographic News,” “British Journal of Photography,” Photographic Year-Book, and Photographic Almanac.

PICTURES OF NIAGARA.

Taken with Camera, Pen, and Pencil.

Many very beautiful and interesting photographic views of Niagara Falls, and other places of romantic and marvellous interest, have been taken and exhibited to the world. Indeed, they are to be seen now in almost every print-seller’s window; and in the albums, stereoscopes, or folios of almost every private collector. But I question very much if it ever occurred to the mind of anyone, while looking at those pictures, what an amount of labour, expense, and danger had to be endured and encountered to obtain them—“the many hairbreadth ’scapes by flood and field,” of a very “positive” character, which had to be risked before some of the “negatives” could be “boxed.” Doubtless Mr. England, Mr. Stephen Thompson, and Mr. Wilson have many very vivid recollections of the critical situations they have been in while photographing the picturesque scenery of the Alpine passes of Switzerland, and the Highlands and glens of Scotland.

Mr. Stephen Thompson has narrated to me one or two of his “narrow escapes” while photographing his “Swiss scenes,” and I am sure Mr. England did not procure his many and beautiful “points of view” of Niagara Falls without exposing himself to considerable risk.

I had the good fortune to be one of the earlier pioneers, in company with a Yankee friend, Mr. Easterly, in taking photographs of the Falls; and my recollections of the manner in which we “went about,” poised ourselves and cameras on “points of rock” and “ledges of bluffs,” and felled trees, and lopped off branches overhanging precipices, to “gain a point,” even at the distant date are somewhat thrilling. To take a photograph of what is called “Visitors’ View” is safe and easy enough. You might plant a dozen cameras on the open space at the brink of the “American Fall,” and photograph the scene, visitors and all, as they stand, “fixed” with wonder, gazing at the Falls, American, Centre, and Horseshoe, Goat Island, and the shores of Canada included, for this point embraces in one view all those subjects. But to get at the out-of-the-way places, to take the Falls in detail, and obtain some of the grandest views of them, is a very different matter.

I remember, when we started, taking a hatchet with us, like backwoodsmen, to take a view of Prospect Tower, on the American side of the great Horseshoe Fall, how we had to hew down the trees that obstructed the light; how we actually hung over the precipice, holding on to each other’s hands, to lop off a branch still in sight where it was not wanted. The manner in which we accomplished this was what some bystanders pronounced “awful.” I hugged a sapling of a silver birch, growing on the brink of the precipice, with my left arm, while friend Easterly, holding my right hand with one of the Masonic grips—I won’t say which—hung over the precipice, and stretching out as far as he could reach, lopped off the offending branch. Yet in this perilous position my lively companion must crack his joke by punning upon my name, and a Cockney weakness at the same time, for he “guessed he was below the werge of the precipice.” The branch down, and we had resumed our perpendicular positions, he simply remarked, if that was not holding on to a man’s hand in friendship, he did not know what was.

But the work was not done yet; to get the view of the Tower we wanted, we had to make a temporary platform over the precipice. This we managed by laying a piece of “lumber” across a fallen tree, and, unshipping the camera, shoved it along the plank until it was in position, balancing the shore end of the plank with heavy stones. When all was ready for exposure, I went round and stood on the point of a jutting rock to give some idea of the great depth of the Fall, but I very nearly discovered, and just escaped being myself the plummet. In the excitement of the moment, and not thinking that the rock would be slimy and slippery with the everlasting spray, I went too rapidly forward, and the rock having a slight decline, I slipped, but was fortunately brought up by a juniper bush growing within a foot of the edge. For a second or two I lay on my back wondering if I could slide out of my difficulty as easily as I had slidden into it. In a moment I determined to go backwards on my back, hands, and feet, until I laid hold of another bush, and could safely assume a perpendicular position. After giving the signal that “all was right,” the plate was exposed, and I cautiously left a spot I have no desire to revisit. But it is astonishing how the majesty and grandeur of the scene divest the mind of all sense of fear, and to this feeling, to a great extent, is attributed the many accidents and terrible deaths that have befallen numerous visitors to the Falls.

The Indians, the tribe of the Iroquois, who were the aboriginal inhabitants of that part of the country, had a tradition that the “Great Spirit” of the “Mighty Waters” required the sacrifice of two human lives every year. To give rise to such a tradition, doubtless, many a red man, in his skiff, had gone over the Falls, centuries before they were discovered by the Jesuit missionary, Father Hennepin, in 1678; and, even in these days of Christian civilization, and all but total extirpation of the aboriginals, the “Great Spirit” does not appear to be any less exacting. Nearly every year one or more persons are swept over those awful cataracts, making an average of at least one per annum. Many visitors and local residents have lost their lives under the most painful and afflicting circumstances, the most remarkable of which occurred just before my visit. One morning, at daylight, a man was discovered in the middle of the rapids, a little way above the brink of the American Fall. He was perched upon a log which was jammed between two rocks. One end of the log was out of the water, and the poor fellow was comparatively dry, but with very little hope of being rescued from his dreadful situation. No one could possibly reach him in a boat. The foaming and leaping waters were rushing past him at the rate of eighteen or twenty miles an hour, and he knew as well as anyone that to attempt a rescue in a boat or skiff would be certain destruction, yet every effort was made to save him. Rafts were made and let down, but they were either submerged, or the ropes got fast in the rocks. The life-boat was brought from Buffalo, Lake Erie, and that was let down to him by ropes from the bridge, but they could not manage the boat in that rush of waters, and gave it up in despair. One of the thousands of agonized spectators, a Southern planter, offered a thousand dollars reward to anyone that would save the “man on the log.” Another raft was let down to him, and this time was successfully guided to the spot. He got on it, but being weak from exposure and want, he was unable to make himself fast or retain his hold, and the doomed man was swept off the raft and over the Falls almost instantly, before the eyes of thousands, who wished, but were powerless and unable, to rescue him from his frightful death. His name was Avery. He and another man were taking a pleasure sail on the Upper Niagara river, their boat got into the current, was sucked into the rapids, and smashed against the log or the rock. The other man went over the Falls at the time of the accident; but Avery clung to the log, where he remained for about eighteen hours in such a state of mind as no one could possibly imagine. None could cheer him with a word of hope, for the roar of the rapids and thunder of the cataracts rendered all other sounds inaudible. Mr. Babbitt, a resident photographer, took several Daguerreotypes of the “man on the log,” one of which he kindly presented to me. Few of the bodies are ever recovered. One or two that went over the Great Horse Shoe Fall were found, their bodies in a state of complete nudity. The weight or force of the water strips them of every particle of clothing; but that is not to be wondered at, considering the immense weight of water that rolls over every second, the distance it has to fall, and the depth of the foaming cauldron below. The fall of the Horse Shoe to the surface of the lower river is 158 feet, and the depth of the cauldron into which the Upper Niagara leaps about 300 feet, making a total of 458 feet from the upper to the lower bed of the Niagara River at the Great Horse Shoe Fall. It has been computed that one hundred million, two hundred thousand tons of water pass over the Falls every hour. The depth of the American Fall is 164 feet; but that falls on to a mass of broken rocks a few feet above the level of the lower river.

Our next effort was to get a view of the Centre Fall, or “Cave of the Winds,” from the south, looking at the Centre and American Falls, down the river as far as the Suspension Bridge, about two miles below, and the Lower or Long Rapids, for there are rapids both above and below the Falls. In this we succeeded tolerably well, and without any difficulty. Then, descending the “Biddle Stairs” to the foot of the two American cataracts, we tried the “Cave of the Winds” itself; but, our process not being a “wet” one, had no sympathy with the blinding and drenching spray about us. However, I secured a pencil sketch of the scene we could not photograph, and afterwards took one of the most novel and fearful shower-baths to be had in the world. Dressed—or, rather, undressed—for the purpose, and accompanied by a guide, I passed down by the foot of the precipice, under the Centre Fall, and along a wet and slippery pole laid across a chasm, straddling it by a process I cannot describe—for I was deaf with the roar and blind with the spray—we reached in safety a flat rock on the other side, and then stood erect between the two sheets of falling water. To say that I saw anything while there would be a mistake; but I know and felt by some demonstrations, other than ocular, that I was indulging in a bath of the wildest and grandest description. Recrossing the chasm by the pole, we now entered the “Cave of the Winds,” which is immediately under the Centre Fall. The height and width of the cave is one hundred feet, and the depth sixty feet. It takes its name from the great rush of wind into the cave, caused by the fall of the waters from above. Standing in the cave, which is almost dry, you can view the white waters, like avalanches of snow, tumbling over and over in rapid succession. The force of the current of the rapids above shoots the water at least twenty feet from the rock, describing, as it were, the segment of a circle. By this circumstance only are you able to pass under the Centre Fall, and a portion of the Horse Shoe Fall on the Canadian side. To return, we ascended the “Biddle Stairs,” a spiral staircase of 115 steps, on the west side of Goat Island, crossed the latter, and by a small bridge passed to Bath Island, which we left by the grand bridge which crosses the rapids about 250 yards above the American Fall. Reaching the American shore again in safety, after a hard day’s work, we availed ourselves of Mr. Babbitt’s kindness and hospitality to develop our plates in his dark room, and afterwards developed ourselves, sociably and agreeably, refreshing the inner man, and narrating our day’s adventures.

I shall now endeavour to describe our next trip, which was to the Canadian side—how we got there, what we did, and what were the impressions produced while contemplating those wonderful works of nature. In the first place, to describe how we descended to the “ferry” and crossed the river. On the north side of the American Fall a railway has been constructed by an enterprising American, where the “cars” are let down a steep decline by means of water-power, the proprietor of the railway having utilized the very smallest amount of the immense force so near at hand. Placing our “traps” in the car, and seating ourselves therein, the lever was moved by the “operator,” and away we went down the decline as if we were going plump into the river below; but at the proper time the water was turned off, and we were brought to a standstill close by the boat waiting to ferry us across. Shifting our traps and selves into the boat and sitting down, the ferryman bent to the oars and off we dashed into the dancing and foaming waters, keeping her head well to the stream, and drawing slowly up until we came right abreast of the American Fall; then letting her drop gently down the stream, still keeping her head to the current, we gained the Canadian shore; our course on the river describing the figure of a cone, the apex towards the “Horse Shoe.” Ascending the banks by a rather uphill road, we reached the Clifton Hotel, where we took some refreshments, and then commenced our labours of photographing the Grand Rapids and the Falls, from Table Rock, or what remained of it. On arriving at the spot, we set down our traps and looked about bewildered for the best point. To attempt to describe the scene now before us would be next to folly, nor could the camera, from the limited angle of our lens, possibly convey an adequate idea of the grandeur and terrific beauty of the Grand Rapids, as you see them rushing and foaming, white with rage, for about two and a half miles before they make their final plunge over the precipice. Many years ago an Indian was seen standing up in his canoe in the midst of these fearful rapids. Nearing the brink of the terrible Fall, and looking about him, he saw that all hope was lost, for he had passed Gull Island, his only chance of respite; waving his hand, he was seen to lie down in the bottom of his canoe, which shot like an arrow into the wild waters below, and he was lost for ever. Neither he nor his canoe was ever seen again. In 1829 the ship Detroit, loaded with a live buffalo, bear, deer, fox, &c., was sent over the Falls. She was almost dashed to pieces in the rapids, but many persons saw the remains of the ship rolled over into the abyss of waters. No one knew what became of the animals on board. And in 1839, during the Canadian Rebellion, the steamer Caroline was set fire to in the night and cast adrift. She was drawn into the rapids, but struck on Gull Island, and was much shattered by the collision. The bulk of the burning mass was swept over the Falls, but few witnessed the sight. Doubtless no fire on board a ship was ever extinguished so suddenly. The view from Table Rock is too extensive to be rendered on one plate by an ordinary camera; but the pantascopic camera would give the very best views that could possibly be obtained.

Taking Table Rock as the centre, the entire sweep of the Fall is about 180 degrees, and stretching from point to point for nearly three-quarters of a mile—from the north side of the American Fall to the termination of the Horse Shoe Fall on the west side. The American and Centre Falls present a nearly straight line running almost due north and south, while the Great Horse Shoe Fall presents a line or figure resembling a sickle laid down with the left hand, the convex part of the bow lying direct south, the handle lying due east and west, with the point or termination to the west; the waters of the two American Falls rushing from east to west, and the waters of the Canadian Fall bounding towards the north. By this description it will be seen that but for the intervention of Goat and Luna Islands the three sheets of water would embrace each other like mighty giants locked in a death struggle, before they fell into the lower river. The whole aspect of the Falls from Table Rock is panoramic. Turning to the left, you see the American rapids rushing down furiously under the bridge, between Bath Island and the American shore, with a force and velocity apparently great enough to sweep away the bridge and four small islands lying a little above the brink, and pitch them all down on to the rocks below. Turning slowly to the right, you see the Centre Fall leaping madly down between Luna and Goat Islands, covering the Cave of the Winds from view. A little more to the right, the rocky and precipitous face of Goat or Iris Island, with the “Biddle Stairs” like a perpendicular line running down the precipice; and to the extreme right the immense sweeps of the Great Horse Shoe.

Doubtless this fall took its name from its former resemblance to the shape of a horse shoe. It is, however, nothing like that now, but is exactly the figure of a sickle, as previously described. Looking far up the river you observe the waters becoming broken and white, and so they continue to foam and rush and leap with increasing impetuosity, rushing madly past the “Three Sisters”—three islands on the left—and “Gull Island” in the middle of the rapids, on which it is supposed no man has ever trodden, until, with a roar of everlasting thunder, which shakes the earth, they fall headlong into the vortex beneath. At the foot of this Fall, and for a considerable distance beyond, the river is as white as the eternal snows, and as troubled as an angry sea. Indeed, I never but once saw the Atlantic in such a state, and that was in a storm in which we had to “lay to” for four days in the Gulf Stream.

The colours and beauty of Niagara in sunlight are indescribable. You may convey some idea of its form, power, and majesty, by describing lines and giving figures of quantity and proportion, but to give the faintest impression of its beauty and colours is almost hopeless. The rich, lovely green on the very brink of the Horse Shoe Fall is beyond conception. All the emeralds in the world, clustered together and bathed in sunlight, would fall far short of the beauty and brilliancy of that pure and dazzling colour. It can only be compared to an immense, unknown brilliant of the emerald hue, in a stupendous setting of the purest frosted, yet sparkling silver. Here, too, is to be seen the marvellous beauty of the prismatic colours almost daily. Here you might think the “Covenant” had been made, and set up to shine for ever and ever at the Throne of the Most Mighty, and here only can be seen the complete circle of the colours of the rainbow. I saw this but once, when on board the Maid of the Mist, and almost within the great vortex at the foot of the Falls. A brilliant sun shining through the spray all round, placed us in a moment as it were in the very centre of that beautiful circle of colour, which, with the thunder of the cataract, and the sublimity of the scene, made the soul feel as if it were in the presence of the “Great Spirit,” and this the sign and seal of an eternal compact. Here, also, is to be seen the softer, but not the less beautiful Lunar Rainbow. Whenever the moon is high enough in the heavens, the lunar bow can be seen, not fitful as elsewhere, but constant and beautiful as long as the moon is shedding her soft light upon the spray. On one occasion I saw two lunar bows at once, one on the spray from the American Fall, and the other on the spray of the great Horse Shoe Fall. This I believe is not usual, but an eddy of the wind brought the two clouds of spray under the moon’s rays. Yet these are not all the “beauties of the mist.” One morning at sunrise I saw one of the most beautiful forms the spray could possibly assume. The night had been unusually calm, the morning was as still as it could be, and the mist from the Horse Shoe had risen in a straight column to a height of at least 300 feet, and then spread out into a mass of huge rolling clouds, immediately above the cataracts. The rising sun shed a red lustre on the under edges of the cloud, which was truly wonderful. It more resembled one huge, solitary column supporting a canopy of silvery grey cloud, the edges of which were like burnished copper, and highly suggestive of the Temple of the Most High, where man must bow down and worship the great Creator of all these wondrous works. It is not in a passing glance at Niagara that all its marvellous beauties can be seen. You must stay there long enough to see it in all its aspects—in sunshine and in moonlight, in daylight and in darkness, in storm and in calm. No picture of language can possibly convey a just conception of the grandeur and vastness of these mighty cataracts. No poem has ever suggested a shadow of their majesty and sublimity. No painting has ever excited in the mind, of one that has not seen those marvellous works of God, the faintest idea of their dazzling beauties. Descriptive writers, both in prose and verse, have failed to depict the glories of this “Sovereign of the World of Floods.” Painters have essayed with their most gorgeous colours, but have fallen far short of the intense beauty, transparency, and purity of the water, and the wonderful radiance and brilliancy of the “Rainbow in the Mist.” And I fear the beauties of Niagara in natural colours can never be obtained in the camera; but what a glorious triumph for photography if they were. Mr. Church’s picture, painted a few years ago, is the most faithful exponent of nature’s gorgeous colouring of Niagara that has yet been produced. Indeed, the brilliant and harmonious colouring of this grand picture can scarcely be surpassed by the hand and skill of man.

After obtaining our views of the Grand Rapids and the Falls from Table Rock, we put up our traps, and leaving them in charge of the courteous proprietor of the Museum, we prepared to go under the great Horse Shoe Fall. Clothing ourselves in india-rubber suits, furnished by our guide, we descended the stairs near Table Rock, eighty-seven steps, and, led by a negro, we went under the great sheet of water as far as we could go to Termination Rock, and standing there for a while in that vast cave of watery darkness, holding on to the negro’s hand, we felt lost in wonder and amazement, but not fear. How long we might have remained in that bewildering situation it would be impossible to say, but being gently drawn back by our sable conductor, we returned to the light and consciousness of our position. The volume of water being much greater here than at the Cave of the Winds, and the spray being all around, we could not see anything but darkness visible below, and an immense moving mass before, which we knew by feeling to be water. There is some fascination about the place, for after coming out into the daylight I went back again alone, but the guide, hurrying after me, brought me back, and held my hand until we reached the stairs to return to the Museum. On our way back our guide told us that more than “twice-told tale” of Niagara and Vesuvius. If I may be pardoned for mixing up the ridiculous with the sublime, I may as well repeat the story, for having just come from under the Falls we were prepared to believe the truth of it, if the geographical difficulty could have been overcome. An Italian visiting the Falls and going under the Horse Shoe, was asked, on coming out, what he thought of the sight. The Italian replied it was very grand and wonderful, but nothing to the sight of Mount Vesuvius in a grand eruption. The guide’s retort was, “I guess if you bring your Vesuvius here, our Niagara will soon put his fires out.” I do not vouch for the truth of the story, but give it as nearly as possible as I was told. Returning to the Museum and making ourselves “as we were,” and comforting ourselves with something inside after the wetting we had got out, we took up our traps, and wending our way back to the ferry, recrossed the river in much the same manner that we crossed over in the morning; and sending our “baggage” up in the cars we thought we would walk up the “long stairs,” 290 steps, by the side of the railway. On nearing the top, we felt as if we must “cave in,” but having trodden so far the back of a “lion,” we determined to see the end of his tail, and pushing on to the top, we had the satisfaction of having accomplished the task we had set ourselves. Perhaps before abandoning the Canadian side of Niagara, I should have said something about Table Rock, which, as I have said, is on the Canadian side, and very near to the Horse Shoe Fall. It took its name from the table-like form it originally presented. It was formerly much larger than it is now, but has, from time to time, fallen away. At one time it was very extensive and projected over the precipice fifty or sixty feet, and was about 240 feet long and 100 feet thick. On the 26th of June, 1850, this tremendous mass of rock, nearly half an acre, fell into the river with a crash and a noise like the sound of an earthquake. The whole of that immense mass of rock was buried in the depths of the river, and completely hidden from sight. No one was killed, which was a miracle, for several persons had been standing on the rock just a few minutes before it fell. The vicinity is still called Table Rock, though the projecting part that gave rise to the name is gone. It is, nevertheless, the best point on the Canada side for obtaining a grand and comprehensive view of Niagara Falls.

The next scenes of our photographic labours were Suspension Bridge, the Long Rapids, The Whirlpool, and Devil’s Hole. These subjects, though not so grand as Niagara, are still interestingly and closely associated with the topographical history and legendary interest of the Falls. And we thought a few “impressions” of the scenes, and a visit to the various places, would amply repay us for the amount of fatigue we should have to undergo on such a trip under the scorching sun of August in America. Descending to the shore, and stepping on board the steamer Maid of the Mist, which plies up and down the river for about two miles, on the tranquil water between the Falls and the Lower Rapids, we were “cast off,” and in a little time reached the landing stage, a short distance above the Long Rapids. Landing on the American side, we ascended the steep road, which has been cut out of the precipice, and arriving at Suspension Bridge, proceeded to examine that wonderful specimen of engineering skill. It was not then finished, but the lower level was complete, and foot passengers and carriages could go along. They were busy making the railway “track” overhead, so that, when finished (which it is now), it would be a bridge of two stories—the lower one for passengers on foot and carriages, the upper one for the “cars.” I did not see a “snorting monster” going along that spider’s-web-like structure, but can very well imagine what must be the sensations of “railway passengers” as they pass along the giddy height. The span of the bridge, from bank to bank, is 800 feet, and it is 230 feet from the river to the lower or carriage road. The estimated cost was two hundred thousand dollars, about £40,000. A boy’s toy carried the first wire across the river. When the wind was blowing straight across, a wire was attached to a kite, and thus the connecting thread between the two sides was secured, and afterwards by means of a running wheel, or traveller, wire after wire was sent across until each strand was made thick enough to carry the whole weight of the bridge, railway trains, and other traffic which now pass along. We went on to the bridge, and looked down on the rapids below, for the bridge spans the river at the narrowest point, and right over the commencement of the Lower Rapids. It was more of a test to my nerves to stand at the edge of the bridge and look down on those fearful rapids than it was to go under the Falls. To us, it seemed a miracle of ingenuity and skill how, from so frail a connection, a mere wire, so stupendous a structure could have been formed; and yet, viewing it from below, or at a distance, it looked like a bridge of threads. During its erection several accidents occurred. On one occasion, when the workmen were just venturing on to the cables to lay the flooring, and before a plank was made fast, one of those sudden storms, so peculiar to America, came up and carried away all the flooring into the Rapids. Four of the men were left hanging to the wires, which were swaying backwards and forwards in the hurricane in the most frightful manner. Their cries for help could scarcely be heard, from the noise of the Rapids and the howling of the wind, but the workmen on shore, seeing the perilous condition of their comrades, sent a basket, with a man in it, down the wire to rescue them from death. Thus, one by one, they were saved. Leaving the Bridge, and proceeding to the vicinity of the Whirlpool, still keeping the American side of the river, we pitched the camera, not over the precipice, as I heard of one brother photographer doing, but on it, and took a view of the Bridge and the Rapids looking up towards the Falls, but a bend in the river prevented them being seen from this point. Not very far above the angry flood we saw the Maid of the Mist lying quietly at her moorings.

We next turned our attention to the great Whirlpool, which is about a mile below Suspension Bridge. Photographically considered, this is not nearly of so much interest as the Falls; but it is highly interesting, nevertheless, as a connecting link between their present and past history. It is supposed that ages ago—probably before the word went forth, “Let there be light, and there was light”—the Falls were as low down as the Whirlpool, a distance of over three miles below where they now are, or even lower down the river still. Geological observation almost proves this; and, that the present Whirlpool was once the great basin into which the Falls tumbled. In fact, that this was, in former ages, what the vortex at the foot of the Great Horse Shoe Fall is now. There seems to be no doubt whatever that the Falls are gradually though slowly receding, and they were just as likely to have been at the foot of the Long Rapids before the deluge, as not; especially when it is considered that the general aspect of the Falls has changed considerably, by gradual undermining of the soft shale and frequent falling and settling of the harder rocks during the last fifty years. Looking at the high and precipitous boundaries of the Long Rapids, it is difficult to come to any other conclusion than that, ages before the red man ever saw the Falls of Niagara, they rolled over a precipice between these rocky barriers in a more compact, but not less majestic body. The same vast quantity of water had to force its way through this narrower outlet, and it doubtless had a much greater distance to fall, for the precipices on each side of the river at this point are nearly 250 feet high, and the width of the gorge for a mile above and below the Whirlpool is not more than 700 feet. Considering that the Falls are now spread over an area of nearly three-quarters of a mile, and that this is the only outlet for all the superfluous waters of the great inland seas of Canada and America—Lakes Superior, Michigan, Huron, and Erie—and the hundreds of tributaries thereto, it may easily be conceived how great the rush of waters through so narrow a defile must necessarily be; their turbulence and impatience rather aptly reminding you of a spoilt child—not in size or form, but in behaviour. They have so long had their own way, and done as they liked on the upper river and at the Falls, they seem as if they could not brook the restraint put upon them now by the giant rocks and lofty precipices that stand erect, on either side, hurling them back defiantly in tumultuous waves, seething, and hissing, and roaring in anger, lashing themselves into foam, and swelling with rage, higher in the middle, as if they sought an unpolluted way to the lake below, where they might calm their angry and resentful passions, and lay their chafed heads on the soft and gently heaving bosom of their lovely sister Ontario. It is a remarkable circumstance that the waters of the Rapids, both above and below the Whirlpool, in this defile are actually higher in the middle, by eight or nine feet, than at the sides, as if the space afforded them by their stern sentinels on each side were not enough to allow them to pass through in order and on a level. They seem to come down the upper part of the gorge like a surging and panic-stricken multitude, until they are stopped for a time by the gigantic precipice forming the lower boundary of the Whirlpool, which throws them back, and there they remain whirling and whirling about until they get away by an under current from the vortex; and, rising again in the lower part of the gorge, which runs off at right angles to the upper, they again show their angry heads, and rush madly and tumultuously away towards Lake Ontario. The bed of these rapids must be fearfully rugged, or the surface of the waters could not possibly be in such a broken state, for the water is at least 100 feet deep, by measurement made above and below the Rapids. But nobody has ventured to “heave the lead” either in the Rapids themselves or in the Whirlpool, the depth of which is not known. There is not much picturesque beauty at this point. Indeed, the Whirlpool itself is rather of a fearful and horrible character, with little to see but the mad torrent struggling and writhing in the most furious manner, to force its way down between its rocky boundaries. I saw logs of wood and other “wreck,” probably portions of canal boats that had come down the river and been swept over the Falls, whirling around but not coming to the centre. When they are seen to get to the vortex they are tipped up almost perpendicularly and then vanish from sight, at last released from their continually diminishing and circular imprisonment. It has sometimes happened that the dead bodies of people drowned in the upper part of the river have been seen whirling about in this frightful pool for many days. In 1841, three soldiers, deserters from the British army, attempting to swim across the river above these rapids, were drowned. Their bodies were carried down to the Whirlpool, where they were seen whirling about for nearly a fortnight. Leaving this gloomy and soul-depressing locality we proceeded for about half a mile further down the river, and visited that frightful chasm called Devil’s Hole, or Bloody Run. The former name it takes from a horrible deed of fiendish and savage ferocity that was committed there by the Indians, and the latter name from the circumstance of that deed causing a stream of human blood to run through the ravine and mingle with the fierce water of the Rapids. Exactly one hundred years ago, during the French and Canadian wars, a party of 250 officers, men, women, and children, were retreating from Fort Schlosser, on the Upper Niagara River, and, being decoyed into an ambush, were driven over into this dreadful chasm, and fell to the bottom, a distance of nearly 200 feet. Only two escaped. A drummer was caught by one of the trees growing on the side of the precipice, and the other, a soldier named Steadman, escaped during the conflict, at the commencement of the treacherous onslaught. He was mounted, and the Indians surrounding him, seized the bridle, and were attempting to drag him off his horse; but, cutting the reins, and giving his charger the “rowels deep,” the animal dashed forward, and carried him back in safety to Fort Schlosser. The Indians afterwards gave him all the land he encircled in his flight, and he took up his abode among them. In after years he put the goats on Goat Island—hence its name—by dropping carefully down the middle of the upper stream in a boat. After landing the goats he returned to the mainland, pushing his boat up the stream where the Rapids divide, until he reached safe water. The events of the foregoing episode occurred in 1765, and it is to be hoped that the Indians were the chief instigators and perpetrators of the massacre of Bloody Run.

While we were looking about the chasm to see if there were any fossil remains in the place, an unlooked-for incident occurred. I saw two men coming up from the bottom of the ravine carrying fish—and the oddest fish and the whitest fish I ever saw. The idea of anyone fishing in those headlong rapids had never occurred to us; but probably these men knew some fissures in the rocks where the waters were quiet, and where the fish put into as a place of refuge from the stormy waters into which they had been drawn. No wonder the poor finny creatures were white, for I should think they had been frightened almost out of their lives before they were seized by their captors. I don’t think I should have liked to have partaken of the meal they furnished, for they were very “shy-an’-hide” looking fishes. But soon we were obliged to give up both our geological studies and piscatorial speculations, for black clouds were gathering overhead, shutting off the light, and making the dark ravine too gloomy to induce us to prolong our stay in that fearful chasm, with its melancholy associations of dark deeds of bloodshed and wholesale murder. Before we gained the road the rain came down, the lightning flashed, and the thunder clapped, reverberating sharp and loud from the rocks above, and we hurried away from the dismal place. On reaching the landing stage, we took refuge from the storm and rain by again going on board the Maid of the Mist. She soon started on her last trip for the day, and we reached our hotel, glad to get out of a “positive bath,” and indulge in a “toning mixture” of alcohol, sugar, and warm water. We had no “gold” but our “paper” being good, we did not require any.

After a delightful sojourn of three weeks at the Falls, and visiting many other places of minor interest in their neighbourhood, I bade adieu to the kind friends I had made and met, with many pleasant recollections of their kindness, and a never-to-be-forgotten remembrance of the charms and beauties, mysteries and majesty, power and grandeur, and terror and sublimity of Niagara.—Photographic News, 1865.

PICTURES OF THE ST. LAWRENCE.

Taken in Autumn.

Photographs of the River St. Lawrence conveying an adequate idea of its extent and varied aspects, could not be taken in a week, a month, or a year. It is only possible in this sketch to call attention to the most novel and striking features of this great and interesting river, passing them hurriedly, as I did, in the “express boat,” by which I sailed from the Niagara River to Montreal. Lake Ontario being the great head waters of the St. Lawrence, and the natural connection between that river and Niagara, I shall endeavour to illustrate, with pen and pencil, my sail down the Niagara River, Lake Ontario, and the St. Lawrence. Stepping on board the steamer lying at Lewiston, seven miles below Niagara, and bound for Montreal, I went to the “clerk’s office,” paid seven and a half dollars—about thirty shillings sterling—and secured my bed, board, and passage for the trip, the above small sum being all that is charged for a first-class passage on board those magnificent steamers. I don’t remember the name of “our boat,” but that is of very little consequence, though I dare say it was the Fulton, that being in steamboat nomenclature what “Washington” is to men, cities, and towns, and even territory, in America. But she was a splendid vessel, nevertheless, with a handsome dining saloon, a fine upper saloon running the whole length of the upper deck, about two hundred feet, an elegant “ladies’ saloon,” a stateroom cabin as well, and a powerful “walking engine.” “All aboard,” and “let go;” splash went the paddle-wheels, and we moved off majestically, going slowly down the river until we passed Fort Niagara on the American side, and Fort George on the British, at the foot of the river, and near the entrance to the Lake. On Fort Niagara the “Star Spangled Banner” was floating, its bright blue field blending with the clear blue sky of an autumn afternoon, its starry representatives of each State shining like stars in the deep blue vault of heaven, its red and white bars, thirteen in number, as pure in colour as the white clouds and crimson streaks of the west. The mingled crosses of St. Andrew and St. George were waving proudly over the fort opposite. Brave old flag, long may you wave! These forts played their respective parts amidst the din of battle during the wars of 1812 and 1813; but with these we have neither time nor inclination to deal; we, like the waters of the Niagara, are in a hurry to reach the bosom of Lake Ontario. Passing the forts, we were soon on the expanse of waters, and being fairly “at sea,” we began to settle ourselves and “take stock,” as it were, of our fellow travellers. It is useless to describe the aspect of the Lake; I might as well describe the German Ocean, for I could not see much difference between that and Lake Ontario, except that I could not sniff the iodine from the weeds drying in the sun while we “hugged the shore,” or taste salt air after we were out in mid ocean—“the land is no longer in view.”

To be at sea is to be at sea, no matter whether it is on a fresh water ocean or a salt one. The sights, the sensations, and consequences are much the same. There, a ship or two in full sail; here, a passenger or two, of both sexes, with the “wind taken out of their sails.” The “old salts” or “old freshes” behave themselves much as usual, and so do the “green” ones of both atmospheres—the latter by preparing for a “bath” of perspiration and throwing everything down the “sink,” or into the sea; and the former by picking out companions for the voyage. Being myself an “old salt,” and tumbling in with one or two of a “fellow feeling wondrous kind,” we were soon on as good terms as if we had known each other for years. After “supper,” a sumptuous repast at 6 p.m., we went on to the “hurricane deck” to enjoy the calm and pleasant evening outside. There was a “gentle swell” on the Lake—not much, but enough to upset a few. After dark, we went into the “ladies’ cabin”—an elegant saloon, beautifully furnished, and not without a grand piano, where the “old freshes” of the softer sex—young and pretty ones too—were amusing themselves with playing and singing. An impromptu concert was soon formed, and a few very good pieces of music well played and sung. All went off very well while nothing but English, or, I should more properly say, American and Canadian, were sung, but one young lady, unfortunately, essayed one of the sweetest and most plaintive of Scotch songs—“Annie Laurie.” Now fancy the love-sick “callant” for the sake of Annie Laurie lying down to die; just fancy Annie Laurie without the Scotch; only fancy Annie Laurie in a sort of mixture of Canadianisms and Americanisms; fancy “toddy” without the whisky, and you have some idea of “Annie Laurie” as sung on board the Fulton while splashing away on Lake Ontario, somewhere between America and Canada. There being little more to induce us to remain there, and by the ship’s regulations it was getting near the time for “all lights out” in the cabins, we took an early “turn in,” with the view of making an early “turn-out,” so as to be alive and about when we should enter the St. Lawrence, which we did at 6 o‘clock a.m., on a fine bright morning, the sun just rising to light up and “heighten” all the glorious tints of the trees on the Thousand and One Islands, among which we were now sailing.

It is impossible to form a correct idea of the width of the St. Lawrence at the head of the river. The islands are so large and numerous, it is difficult to come to a conclusion whether you are on a river or on a lake. Many of these islands are thickly wooded, so that they look more like the mainland on each side of you as the steamer glides down “mid channel” between them. The various and brilliant tints of the foliage of the trees of America in autumn are gorgeous, such as never can be seen in this country; and their “chromotones” present an insurmountable difficulty to a photographer with his double achromatic lens and camera. Imagine our oaks clothed with leaves possessing all the varieties of red tints, from brilliant carmine down to burnt sienna—the brightest copper bays that grow in England are cool in tone compared with them; fancy our beeches, birches, and ashes thick with leaves of a bright yellow colour, from gamboge down to yellow ochre; our pines, firs, larches, and spruces, carrying all the varieties of green, from emerald down to terra verte; in fact, all the tints that are, can be seen on the trees when they are going into “the sere and yellow leaf” of autumn, excepting blue, and even that is supplied by the bluebirds (Sialia wilsonii) flitting about among the leaves, and in the deep cool tint of the sky, repeated and blended with the reflection of the many-coloured trees in the calm, still water of the river. Some of the trees—the maples, for instance—exhibit in themselves, most vividly, the brightest shades of red, green, and yellow; but when the wind blows these resplendent colours about, the atmosphere is like a mammoth kaleidoscope that is never allowed to rest long enough to present to the eye a symmetrical figure or pattern, a perfect chaos of the most vivid and brilliant colours too gorgeous to depict. Long before this we had got clear of the islands at the foot of the lake and head of the river, and were steaming swiftly down the broad St. Lawrence. It is difficult to say how broad, but it varied from three to five or six miles in width; indeed, the river very much resembles the Balloch End, which is the broadest of Lochlomond; and some of the passages between the islands are very similar to the straits between the “Pass of Balmaha” and the island of Inchcailliach. The river is not hemmed in with such mountains as Ben Lomond and Ben Dhu, but, in many respects, the St. Lawrence very much resembles parts of our widest lakes, Lochlomond and Windermere. Having enjoyed the sight of the bright, beautiful scenery and the fresh morning air for a couple of hours, we were summoned to breakfast by the sound of the steward’s “Big Ben.” Descending to the lower cabin, we seated ourselves at the breakfast table, and partook of a most hearty meal. All the meals on board these steamers are served in the most sumptuous style. During the repast some talked politics, some dollars and cents, others were speculating on how we should get down the Rapids, and when we should make them. Among the latter was myself, for I had seen rapids which I had not the slightest desire to be in or on; and, what sort of rapids we were coming to was of some importance to all who had not been on them. But everybody seemed anxious to be “on deck,” and again “look out” for the quickening of the stream, or when the first “white lippers,” should give indication of their whereabouts. My fellow passengers were from all parts of the Union; the Yankee “guessed,” the Southerner “reckoned,” and the Western man “calculated” we should soon be among the “jumpers.” Each one every now and then strained his eyes “ahead,” down stream, to see if he could descry “broken water.” At last an old river-man sung out, “There they are.” There are the Longue Sault Rapids, the first we reach. Having plenty of “daylight,” we did not feel much anxiety as we neared them, which we quickly did, for “the stream runs fast.” We were soon among the jumping waters, and it is somewhat difficult to describe the sensation, somewhat difficult to find a comparison of a suitable character. It is not like being at sea in a ship in a “dead calm.” The vessel does not “roll” with such solemn dignity, nor does she “pitch” and rise again so buoyantly as an Atlantic steamer (strange enough, I once crossed the Atlantic in the steamship Niagara), as she ploughs her way westward or eastward in a “head wind,” and through a head sea. She rather kicks and jerks, and is let “down a peg” or two, with a shake and a fling. Did you ever ride a spavined horse down a hill? If so, you can form some idea of the manner in which we were let down the Longue Sault and Cedar Rapids and the St. Louis Cascades. One of our fellow passengers—a Scotchman—told that somewhat apropos and humorous story of the “Hielandman’s” first trip across the Firth of Forth in a “nasty sea.” Feeling a little uneasy about the stomach, and his bile being rather disturbed, the prostrate mountaineer cried out to the man at the “tiller” to “stop tickling the beast’s tail—what was he making the animal kick that way for?” And so, telling our stories, and cracking our jokes, we spent the time until our swift vessel brought us to a landing, where we leave her and go on board a smaller boat, one more suitable for the descent of the more dangerous rapids, which we have yet to come to.

“All aboard,” and away we go again as fast as steam and a strong current can take us, passing an island here and there, a town or a village half French and English, with a sprinkling of the Indian tribes, on the banks of the river now and then. But by this time it is necessary to go below again and dine. Bed, board, and travelling, are all included in the fare, so everyone goes to dinner. There is, however, so much to see during this delightful trip, that nobody likes to be below any longer than can be avoided. Immediately after dinner most are on deck again, anxious to see all that is to be seen on this magnificent river. The sights are various and highly interesting to the mind or “objectives” of either artist or photographer. Perhaps one of the most novel subjects for the camera and a day’s photographing would be “Life on a Raft,” as you see them drifting down the St. Lawrence. There is an immense raft—a long, low, flat, floating island, studded with twenty or thirty sails, and half a dozen huts, peopled with men, women, and children, the little ones playing about as if they were on a “plank road,” or in a garden. It is “washing day,” and the clean clothes are drying in the sun and breeze—indicative of the strictest domestic economy, and scrupulous cleanliness of those little huts, the many-coloured garments giving the raft quite a gay appearance, as if it were decked with the “flags of all nations.” But what a life of tedious monotony it must be, drifting down the river in this way for hundreds of miles, from the upper part of Lake Ontario to Montreal or Quebec. How they get down the rapids of the St. Lawrence I do not know, but I should think they run considerable risk of being washed off; the raft seems too low in the water, and if not extremely well fastened, might part and be broken up. We passed two or three of these rafts, one a very large one, made up of thousands of timbers laid across and across like warp and weft; yet the people seemed happy enough on these “timber islands;” we passed them near enough to see their faces and hear their voices, and I regretted I could not “catch their shadows,” or stop and have an hour or two’s work among them with the camera or the pencil; but we passed them by as if they were a fixture in the river, and they gave us a shout of “God speed,” as if they did not envy our better pace in the least.

There is abundance of work for the camera at all times of the year on the St. Lawrence; I have seen it in summer and autumn, and have attempted to describe some of its attractions. And I was told that when the river—not the rapids—is ice-bound, the banks covered with snow, and the trees clad in icicles, they present a beautiful scene in the sunshine. And in the spring, when the ice is breaking up, and the floes piling high on one another, it is a splendid sight to see them coming down, hurled about and smashed in the rapids, showing that the water in its liquid state is by far the most powerful. But now we are coming to the most exciting part of our voyage. The steam is shut off, the engine motionless, the paddle-wheels are still, and we are gliding swiftly and noiselessly down with the current. Yonder speck on the waters is the Indian coming in his canoe to pilot us down the dangerous rapids. We near each other, and he can now be seen paddling swiftly, and his canoe shoots like an arrow towards us. Now he is alongside, he leaps lightly on board, his canoe is drawn up after him, and he takes command of the “boat.” Everybody on board knows the critical moment is approaching. The passengers gather “forward,” the ladies cling to the arms of their natural protectors, conversation is stopped, the countenances of everyone exhibit intense excitement and anxiety, and every eye is “fixed ahead,” or oscillating between the pilot and the rushing waters which can now be seen from the prow of the vessel. The Indian and three other men are at the wheel in the “pilot house,” holding the helm “steady,” and we are rushing down the stream unaided by any other propelling power than the force of the current, at a rate of twenty miles an hour. Now we hear the rushing and plunging sound of the waters, and in a moment the keen eye of the Indian catches sight of the land mark, which is the signal for putting the helm “hard a port;” the wheel flies round like lightning, and we are instantly dropped down a perpendicular fall of ten or twelve feet, the vessel careening almost on her “beam ends,” in the midst of these wild, white waters, an immense rock or rocky island right ahead. But that is safely “rounded,” and we are again in comparatively quiet water. The steam is turned into the cylinders, and we go on our course in a sober, sensible, and steamboat-like fashion. When we were safely past the rapids and round the rock, a gentleman remarked to me that “once in a lifetime was enough of that.” It was interesting to watch the countenances of the passengers, and mark the difference of expression before and after the passage of the rapids. Before, it was all excitement and anxiety, mingled with a wish-it-was-over sort of look; and all were silent. After, everybody laughed and talked, and seemed delighted at having passed the Lachine Rapids in safety; yet most people are anxious to undergo the excitement and incur the risk and danger of the passage. You can, if you like, leave the boat above Lachine and proceed to Montreal by the cars, but I don’t think any of our numerous passengers ever thought of doing such a thing. As long as ever this magnificent water way is free from ice, and the passage can be made, it is done. I don’t know that more than one accident has ever occurred, but the risk seems considerable. There is a very great strain on the tiller ropes, and if one of them were to “give out” at the critical time, nothing could save the vessel from being dashed to pieces against the “rock ahead,” and scarcely a life could be saved. No one can approach the spot except from above, and then there is no stopping to help others; you must go with the waters, rushing madly down over and among the rocks. The Indians often took these rapids, in their canoes, to descend to the lower part of the St. Lawrence; and one of them undertook to pilot the first steamer down in safety. His effort was successful, and he secured for his tribe (the Iroquois) a charter endowing them with the privileges and emoluments in perpetuity. I wish I could have obtained photographic impressions of these scenes and groups, but the only lens I could draw a “focus” with was the eye, and the only “plate” I had ready for use was the retina. However, the impressions obtained on that were so “vigorous and well defined,” I can at any moment call them up, like “spirits from the vasty deep,” and reproduce them in my mental camera.

The remaining nine miles of the voyage were soon accomplished. Passing the first abutment of the Victoria Bridge, which now crosses the St. Lawrence, at this point two miles wide, we quickly reached the fine quay and canal locks at Montreal, where we landed just as it was growing dark, after a delightful and exciting voyage of about thirty hours’ duration, and a distance of more than four hundred miles. Quick work; but it must be borne in mind how much our speed was accelerated by the velocity of the current, and that the return trip by the canal, past the rapids, cannot be performed in anything like the time.

On reaching the quay I parted with my agreeable fellow travellers, and sought an hotel, where once more, after a long interval, I slept under a roof over which floated the flag which every Englishman is proud of—the Union Jack.

Next morning I rose early, and, with a photographic eye, scanned the 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 £4 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 André, 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 André, 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 £10,000, 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 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.

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° for two or three feet down, but the temperature was considerably lower, frequently 15° and 20° 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.

The great excitement of winter in Canada or the States is to take a 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 façade. 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.