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Photography as a sport possesses this element in perfection. Those who love danger may find plenty of it in taking snap-shots of charging rhinoceroses, or flash-light pictures of lions and tigers in the jungle. Those who like hunting may find more genuine enjoyment in stalking deer for the purpose of taking the animal’s picture than they would get if they took his life. Those who care only to hunt landscapes—and in this class I include myself—can find all the sport they want in the less strenuous pursuit. There is not only the exhilaration of searching out the attractive scenes—the rugged mountain-peak; the woodland brook; the shady lane, with perhaps a border of white birches; the ruined castle; the seaside cliffs; the well-concealed cascade; or the scene of some noteworthy historical event—but the art of photography itself presents its own problems at every turn. To solve all these; to select the right point of view; to secure an artistic “balance” in all parts of the picture; to avoid the ugly things that sometimes persist in getting in the way; to make due allowance for the effect of wind or motion; to catch the full beauty of the drifting clouds; to obtain the desired transparency in the shadows—these and a hundred other considerations give sufficient exercise to the most alert mind and add to the never-ending fascination of the game.
I have noticed that the camera does not lure one into the beaten tracks which tourists most frequent. It is helpless on the top of a crowded coach or in a swiftly flying motor-car. It gets nervous when too many people are around, especially if they are in a hurry, and fails to do its work. It must be allowed to choose its own paths and to proceed with leisure and calmness. It is a charming guide to follow. I have always felt a sense of relief when able to escape the interminable jargon of the professional guides who conduct tourists through the various show places of Europe, and so far as it has been my fortune to visit such places, have usually left with a vague feeling of disappointment. On the other hand, when, acting under the spell of the camera, I have sought an acquaintance with the owner of some famous house and have proceeded at leisure to photograph the rooms and objects of interest, I have left not only with a sense of complete satisfaction, but with a new friendship to add to the pleasure of future memories.
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To visit the places made famous by their associations with literature and with history; to seek the wonders of nature, whether sublime and awe-inspiring, like the mountain-peaks of Switzerland and the vast depths of the Grand Cañon, or restful in their sweet simplicity like the quiet hills and valleys of Westmoreland; to see the people in their homes, whether stately palaces or humble cottages; to find new beauty daily, whether at home or abroad, in the shady woodland path, in the sweep of the hills and the ever-changing panorama of the clouds; to gain that relief from the cares of business or professional life which comes from opening the mind to a free and full contemplation of the picturesque and beautiful—these are the possibilities offered by amateur photography to those who will follow the lure of the camera.
II
LITERARY RAMBLES IN GREAT BRITAIN
II
LITERARY RAMBLES IN GREAT BRITAIN
I
Emerson said of the English people, “Every one of these islanders is an island himself, safe, tranquil, incommunicable,” and that “It is almost an affront to look a man in the face without being introduced.” Holmes, on the contrary, records that he and his daughter were “received with nothing but the most overflowing hospitality and the most considerate kindness.” Lowell found the average Briton likely to regard himself as “the only real thing in a wilderness of shams,” and thought his patronage “divertingly insufferable.” On the other hand, he praised the genuineness of the better men of England, as “so manly-tender, so brave, so true, so warranted to wear, they make us proud to feel that blood is thicker than water.” Longfellow met at dinner on two successive days what he called “the two opposite poles of English character.” One of them was “taciturn, reserved, fastidious” and without “power of enjoyment”; the other was “expansive, hilarious, talking incessantly, laughing loud and long.” All of this suggests that in attempting to write one’s impressions of the English or any other people, one must remember, what I once heard a Western schoolmaster declare with great emphasis—“some people are not all alike!”
I have but one impression to record, namely, that, almost without exception, the people whom we met, both in England and Scotland, manifested a spirit of helpfulness that made our photographic work delightful and led to the accomplishment of results not otherwise obtainable. They not only showed an unexpected interest in our work, but seemed to feel some sense of obligation to assist. This was true even of the policeman at the gate of the Tower of London, who, according to his orders, deprived me of my camera before I could enter. But upon my protesting, he referred me to another guardian of the place, and he to another, until, continuing to pass “higher up,” I was at last photographing everything of interest, including the “Beef-Eater” who obligingly carried my case of plates. Whenever difficulties arose, these helpful people always seemed ready with suggestions. It seemed to be more than courtesy. It was rather a friendly sympathy, a desire that I might have what I came for, and a kind of personal anxiety that I should not be disappointed.
An incident which happened at the very outset of our photographic experiences in England, and one which was responsible in large measure for much of the success of that undertaking, will serve as an example of the genial and sympathetic spirit which seemed to be everywhere prevalent. We had started to discover and to photograph, so far as possible, the scenes of George Eliot’s writings, and on the day of our arrival in London, my wife had found in the British Museum a particularly interesting portrait of George Henry Lewes. She learned that permission to copy it must be obtained from the Keeper of the Prints, and accordingly, on the following morning I appeared in the great room of the Museum where thousands of rare prints are carefully preserved.
Sir Sidney Colvin, the distinguished biographer of Robert Louis Stevenson, and the head of this department, was not in, but a polite assistant made note of my name and message, making at the same time an appointment for the next day. At the precise hour named I was present again, revolving in my mind the briefest possible method of requesting permission to copy the Lewes picture. Presently I was informed that Mr. Colvin wished to see me, and I followed the guide, mechanically repeating to myself the little formula or speech I intended to make, and wondering what luck I should have. The formula disappeared instantly as a pleasant-faced gentleman advanced with outstretched hand and genial smile, calling me by name and saying, “I have something I want to show you, if you would care to see it.” Considerably surprised, I saw him touch a button as he resumed—“It’s a picture of George Eliot—at least we think it is, but we are not sure—we bought it from the executor of the estate of Sir Frederic Burton, the artist.” Here the attendant appeared and was instructed to get the portrait. It proved to be a large painting in water-colors of a woman’s face, with remarkably strong, almost masculine features and a pair of eyes that seemed to say, “If any woman in the world can do a man’s thinking, I’m that person.” A letter received subsequently, in answer to my inquiry, from Sir Theodore Martin, who was a lifelong friend of the novelist as well as the painter, definitely established the fact that the newly discovered portrait was a “study” for the authorized portrait which Sir Frederic Burton painted. No doubt the artist came to realize more of the true womanliness of George Eliot’s character, for he certainly softened the expression of those determined-looking eyes.
After we had discussed the picture at some length, my new-found friend inquired about my plans. I told him I meant to visit, so far as possible, the scenes of George Eliot’s novels and to photograph all the various places of interest. “Of course you’ll go to Nuneaton?” he asked. “Yes,” I replied, in a tone of assurance; “I expect to visit Arbury Hall, the original of Cheverel Manor.” “I suppose, then, you are acquainted