The British Journal of Photography, No. 613, Vol. XIX, February 2, 1872

In Short

This issue serves as a technical and cultural ledger for the photography community of 1872. It functions as a hybrid of a scientific bulletin, a professional trade paper, and a social chronicle. Through detailed reports on chemical experiments, debates over artistic standards, and anecdotes from practitioners in the field, it captures a pivotal moment when the medium transitioned from an experimental craft into a pervasive global industry. It has lasted because it preserves the precise anxieties and technological inquiries of early photographers, grounding their world in hard data and tangible, everyday struggle.

The Story

The narrative of this volume begins with the microscopic and the chemical. It opens by debunking a “wonderful discovery” regarding glass plates, asserting that seasoned practitioners already understand the hygroscopic nature of photographic films. This sets the tone for a publication that values practical experience over theoretical posturing. The discourse quickly shifts from the studio to the laboratory, as contributors wrestle with the persistent, frustrating mystery of “blistering” on albumen surfaces. One writer, J. W. Gough, advances a fascinating, if elaborate, hypothesis linking this phenomenon to the behavior of gases in water and the buoyancy of ice, drawing parallels between the pores of paper and the natural world.

As the text progresses, the focus turns to the durability of the finished product. A contributor writing under the pseudonym “Don Quixote” launches a polemic against the use of mercury to tone transparencies. He dismisses the common belief that a good varnish can save these images from fading, warning readers that he has seen even the most meticulously prepared works vanish into invisibility. This section highlights the professional stakes of the era, where a photographer’s reputation hung entirely upon the chemical stability of their output.

Midway through, the perspective shifts from the darkroom to the landscape. P. Le Neve Foster takes the reader on a journey across the Alps, describing the nascent potential for travel photography. He critiques the lack of artistry in contemporary Italian landscape work, contrasting it with the superior compositions of established masters like Wilson and England. His travelogue also touches on the darker side of the trade: the sale of “fictitious” photographs of the recent siege of Paris, exposing the public’s appetite for staged, sensationalist imagery.

The latter portion of the volume is dominated by the intersection of photography and the law, specifically the high-profile Tichborne trial. The journal examines the forensic use of photography to identify individuals through the minute study of ears and thumbs. This highlights the medium’s growing role as a reliable witness, despite ongoing concerns about the potential for tampering with daguerreotypes.

The issue concludes with a blend of practical advice and communal exchange. Readers are offered a solution for cleaning albumen-fouled printing baths using camphor, while professional societies share news of exhibitions and lectures. The final pages are dedicated to a vibrant “Answers to Correspondents” section, where the editors field questions ranging from the construction of glass houses to the definition of a “pistolgram,” closing the loop on a community that is as curious as it is competitive.

How It Unfolds

Debunking the theoretical The issue opens with a sharp dismissal of a German researcher’s claims regarding film condensation, insisting that practical experience outweighs recent academic announcements. This establishes a precedent for prioritizing the "well-known" knowledge of the working photographer.

Investigating material failure Attention shifts to the technical battle against blisters on albumen paper, with writers proposing complex theories involving gas absorption and pore structures. The writing here is highly analytical, treating chemical failure as a mechanical puzzle to be solved.

The crusade against mercury A forceful argument is presented against the common practice of using mercury for toning, citing specific, failed experiments as evidence. This introduces a tone of professional warning, emphasizing the long-term fragility of early photographic materials.

Photography in the wild The narrative moves outward to a travelogue across the Alps, reflecting on the vast, untapped potential for landscape photography. This section bridges the gap between the photographer as a technician and the photographer as a witness to history.

The forensic turn The text transitions into the courtroom, analyzing how photographs were interrogated as evidence in the famous Tichborne case. It focuses on the minute, physiological details of ears and thumbs, showcasing photography’s emerging role in forensic identification.

A community of exchange The issue concludes with a practical guide for the studio, including advice on chemical maintenance and responses to reader queries. It reinforces the image of a tightly knit, global guild sharing tips across continents.

The People

The individuals appearing here are defined by their intense, often obsessive dedication to their craft. Herr Schultz-Sellack serves as the foil to the collective wisdom of the journal; he is the outsider who proposes a discovery that the establishment views as redundant. J. W. Gough emerges as a contemplative theorist, one who looks to the natural world—even to the formation of ice—to explain the complex, frustrating behaviors of chemicals. Don Quixote is the voice of the disillusioned professional, a man who has watched his work fade and is determined to warn others against the false security of varnishes. P. Le Neve Foster acts as the cultured observer, a man of letters who demands that photography rise to the level of true art, lamenting the absence of aesthetic judgment in foreign lands. Finally, the Attorney-General and the various medical experts in the Tichborne trial represent the era’s shifting reliance on the camera as a tool for objective truth, using the image to dissect the physical reality of the human body in a way that suggests a growing, almost desperate, faith in the photographic record.

In Its Own Voice

“If Herr Schultz-Sellack had endeavoured to make himself acquainted with the literature of photography he would scarcely have taken the trouble to publish the statement of a fact well known to all who have much experience in dry-plate work.”

The editors offer this assessment when dismissing a perceived redundancy in scientific reporting.

“Above all things, as you value your reputation, avoid the use of mercury for toning either lantern transparencies or photo-crayon pictures à la Sarony.”

This stark warning is issued by a contributor who believes the chemical process is fundamentally ruinous to long-term preservation.

“These, it is needless to say, were fictitious, carefully-arranged tableaux, but terribly natural, and greedily bought by tourists, the greater portion of whom never for one moment questioned the reality of the representation.”

A travel writer reflects on the deceptive nature of popular souvenir photography during the aftermath of the siege of Paris.

What It's Really About

At its heart, the book is about the struggle to master a volatile medium. It captures the tension between the desire for artistic expression and the reality of chemical instability. Underlying the technical advice is a fundamental question: how do we ensure that what we capture today remains tomorrow? The text reveals a profound anxiety regarding the permanence of the image, whether it is fading due to mercury toning or being manipulated by someone tampering with a daguerreotype. It is an exploration of the truth-value of the photograph, questioning whether the camera is a reliable historian or merely a tool that can be used to manufacture convincing, yet entirely fictitious, realities.

Why Read It Today

Reading this is like stepping into a Victorian laboratory that smells of silver nitrate and ozone. It will appeal to anyone fascinated by the history of technology or the slow, painstaking evolution of visual culture. You will experience the genuine excitement of a community that believed they were on the verge of perfecting the "looking-glass" picture.

Be prepared for the period-specific density of the prose; the technical language—concerning collodion, albumen, and antiseptic ratios—can be challenging, and the Victorian tendency toward lengthy, formal sentences requires a patient reader. You will encounter the casual, often blunt, elitism of the era, particularly in how the writers discuss foreign landscapes or "aboriginals." However, the reward is an intimate look at the human labor behind the image. The most striking element is the vivid, almost desperate urgency of the contributors, who were simultaneously pioneers of a revolutionary art form and tradesmen worried about their next batch of prints. It stays with you as a testament to the fact that every digital image you take today stands on a foundation of nineteenth-century trial, error, and meticulous documentation.