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and with all the impartiality of ignorance, I may venture the suggestion that something may be learned from the amateurs. Their photographs are not always perfect, and they make many blunders; but in their plates (however deplorably over-exposed or under-exposed) we often perceive a certain quality, not easily defined, - a distinction, a style, an unconventional suggestion of beauty, — which, as candid professionals are bound to admit, is not always to be had at six dollars the dozen. But this is a rather delicate topic, and the conclusion to which we are coming, that the unacknowledged rivalry of the amateur may be quietly operating as an incentive to intelligent effort for improvement all along the line, may as well, in deference to professional susceptibility, be put in the form of a question, Is it not so?

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An attempt to create works of art of a really high order, involving some invention, some literary and imaginative character, some poetical and historical appositeness, raises the question whether photography by its very nature be not hostile to the best pictorial expression of ideal motives?

Undoubtedly the greatest obstacle in the way of those who would elevate photography to the rank of a fine art is its realism.

"Realism," says Marcus Waterman, "fortunately does not exist, the realists to the contrary notwithstanding." What he means is that art cannot match nature, nor does he consider it desirable that it should do so. In this sense, realism does not exist, yet there is a quality in many works for which we have no better name. This quality, call it realism or what you will, is one of the most conspicuous characteristics of the photograph.

I do not wish to be misunderstood. Realism is not synonymous with truth. It is the letter that killeth. A literal imitation of nature may be of scientific value, but it has nothing to do with

art.

It may be said that a work of art ought simply to tell the truth. Yes, but why not look at the thing represented then, and do away with pictures? There are different ways of telling the truth. Many

honest fellows are dreadfully tiresome. But when Rembrandt speaks, do we not bow our heads in silence? Ah, that is the note of eloquence !

The trouble, then, with photography is that the photographer cannot freely infuse in his work, his own identity and feelings. In every form of pictorial art, the artist is more or less hampered by the mechanical part of his work. He wishes to express what he feels, but his materials, his implements are rebellious, and impair his utterance. At every stage in the complicated process of making a photograph, skill, experience, and judgment are required; there is not much time to think of anything but the workmanship; the subject is thoroughly master of the situation; iron conventionalities limit the range and crush the experimental spirit of the operator.

How shall the photographer emancipate himself so as to be able to give free expression to his taste, his fancy, and his sentiment?

Certainly not by continuing to take the portraits of the people who come to sit with their best clothes on, and to vacantly smile into his machine.

From every point of view, therefore, the substantial encouragement held forth by the Photographers' Association of America to its members, by annual offers of valuable awards for the best work in illustration, must be regarded, not only as an interesting novelty, but as a significant indication of a commendable desire for artistic progress, and an earnest endeavor to lift the photographers out of the ruts of commonplace and mechanical work. That the need of such progress is realized is a hopeful sign. It shows that the association recognizes the necessity of stimulating those æsthetic and intellectual phases of its members' calling which must be brought out and developed by all possible means in order to lift photography to a higher level.

The pathetic tale of Acadie offered a veritable embarrassment of riches to the illustrators of 1889. The poem itself is a constant succession of pictures, from that low-toned twilight landscape of the tranquil hamlet of Grand-Pré in the midst of its farms, with the thatched roofs, dormer

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windows, and projecting gables of its Norman cottages, and the "columns of pale blue smoke" which Longfellow was fond of bringing into his compositions as a sort of ornamental emblem of domestic comfort and felicity, a tableau quite in the manner of Jules Breton, -down to the umbrageous lagoons and bayous of Louisiana, where the exiles rowed their boat under branches of cypress and cedar through the "dark colonnades and corridors leafy" of the tropical forests; from that snug Acadian interior of Farmer Bellefontaine, where he sits singing in his arm-chair before the fire, while his daughter spins flax by his side, down to the melancholy scene in the Philadelphia almshouse, where the heroine, as a sister of mercy, moving among the dead and dying, at last, after so many weary years of search, finds her long-lost lover on his death-bed. In fact, the poem is too obviously pictorial to leave much room for the invention of the illustrator. In studying the picturesque capabilities of the subject, therefore, the brothers Rösch had but to select the most interesting and complete descriptive passages, and they had plain sailing before them.

They began by depicting Evangeline as she came from church on Sunday morning. They prepared a painted back ground representing the street of GrandPré.

All the outlines are so well filled in, that it might be said of this village street of Longfellow's as it was of Méryon's etching of a bridge, that it could be constructed according to his plans and specifications almost as well as if he had been

an architect. The model was then cos

tumed à la Evangeline, another detail of the mise-en-scène respecting which the poet left no room for doubt as to his intentions, for does he not expressly stipulate the whole scheme of dress: item, one Norman cap; item, one blue kirtle;

possess eyes as black as wild blackberries, and breaths, too, doubtless, as sweet "as the breath of kine that feed in the meadow." But a mere pretty girl of the everyday sort would hardly do to figure as Evangeline. Now, the model who posed for the Rösch brothers was a tall and well-formed young woman, of the brunette type, with a face of singular expressiveness and mobility, denoting intelligence and sensibility; and when it is considered how rare these characteristics are, it will be seen how fortunate and wise were these artists in their model. The first illustration depicts her as the poet describes her in the line: "Homeward serenely she walked with God's benediction upon her."

The

The lines of expression in the countenance bear out this idea of serenity and religious exaltation, and the conception is thus realized with a degree of success which is worthy of great praise. size of the original photograph is 171⁄2 x The painted background 211⁄2 inches. has an artificial look suggestive of stage scenery, which is at variance with the naturalism of the figure. This incongruity might have been somewhat mitigated by a more vigorous contrast of lights and darks in the background, or by making the light on the figure of Evangeline more subdued, to harmonize more closely with the quiet gray values of the landscape.

The second illustration refers to that

part of the poem in which Evangeline,

blacksmith, in Louisiana, steals out into the garden, in the evening, and passionately apostrophizes her

after her arrival at the home of Basil, the

absent lover. This is perhaps as beautiful as any passage in the poem. The description of the moonlight night and its influence upon loftiest and most inspired vein : the maiden's mood is in Longfellow's

Beautiful was the night. of the forest,

Behind the black wall

item, one chaplet of beads; item, one missal; item, one pair of antique earrings. What more practical "wardrobe list"-to borrow a phrase from the Tipping its summit with silver, arose the moon.

theatre could be desired? But the heroine herself was not so easily represented. There are, heaven be praised, plenty of fair maidens aged seventeen, and a reasonable proportion of them

On the river

Fell here and there through the branches a tremulous gleam of the moonlight,

Like the sweet thoughts of love on a darkened and devious spirit.

Nearer and round about her, the manifold flowers of the garden

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