The photographic news

• Bandzählung: 29.1885
• Erscheinungsdatum: 1885
• Sprache: Englisch
• Signatur: F 135
• Vorlage: Hochschule für Grafik und Buchkunst Leipzig
• Digitalisat: Hochschule für Grafik und Buchkunst Leipzig
• Digitalisat: SLUB Dresden
• Rechtehinweis: Public Domain Mark 1.0
• URN: urn:nbn:de:bsz:14-db-id1780948042-188500006
• PURL: http://digital.slub-dresden.de/id1780948042-18850000
• OAI: oai:de:slub-dresden:db:id-1780948042-18850000
• Sammlungen: LDP: Historische Bestände der Hochschule für Grafik und Buchkunst Leipzig
• Sammlungen: Fotografie
• Bemerkung: Seite I-II fehlen in der Vorlage. Paginierfehler: Seite 160 als Seite 144 gezählt.
• Strukturtyp: Band

• Digitalisat: SLUB Dresden
• Strukturtyp: Ausgabe

Avgust 28, 1885.j THE PHOTOGRAPHIC NEWS. 555 Eastern Railway Company’s steamer Princess of Wales, as she placidly glides up the lazy river. “I don’t know; one international exhibition is very like another—all more or less huge bazaars.” “ But the photographs—they should be seen.” Yes, of course ; it was clearly our duty as photographers to go and see the photographs. But, apart from the photo graphs, 1 think wo both “funked” the Exhibition, and when I suggested we should “ do ” it on our return journey from Brussels, Boscombe agreed with a look of intense relief. F'orthe next twenty-four hours we resolutely discarded the subject of photography. We knew we should have enough of it and to spare in the Exhibition, and the “shop” was sunk completely and absolutely. A saunter through the Musa 1’lantin, by far and away the most interesting thing to be seen in Antwerp, and yet generally missed by the tourist; a stroll in the cathedral, where all was activity, preparing for the grand religious fetes which were to begin on the following day; a visit to the old prison on the river bank, with its noisome dungeons and blood-curdling collection of ghastly instru ments of torture ; and a delightful lunch near the Place Verte (mem. always try native dishes, wherever you may happen to be ; in nine cases out of ten they are good ; we had goulasch, a species of beef saute, flavoured with a suspicion of garlic and a peculiar kind of pepper), made up a good morning’s work. To Brussels in the afternoon ; a drive through the higher part of the city, where the elastic air gives one a new zest for life ; an excellent table d' hole, with one dish at least which will live in our memories—hot boiled fresh beef, cucumber salad, and tomato sauce (try it, and you will say there is not a more perfect combination in the whole range of gastronomic art); a capital open air orchestral concert at the Wawx-Hall (fort suivis par le monde elegant, as the guide-book has it) ; a peep into a couple of the cafes chantant (a little of these go a long way), and then to bed. We are somewhat grave the next morning. The journey back to Antwerp, and the serious businessof the Exhibition, have to be undertaken. “ Wo shall get to the Exhibition a little after eleven,” says Boscombe ; “and as the boat doesn’t start till four, we shall have plenty of time to examine the photographs thoroughly.” We are both quiet and resigned. Having made up our minds to do our duty by the photographs, of course there is no more to be said. We arrive at the Station du Nord, and somehow miss the express. We take the next, a slow train, timed to reach Antwerp at a quarter past eleven. It starts at the very tick of the time advertised—a quarter to ten. Ho W admirable is the punctuality of the Belgian railways, we say; so much better than in England I Naturally, we are prepared for the train stopping at all the stations, but scarcely so for its stopping beticeen them as well. After several of these gratuitous delays, we reach Malines, an hour lite. A mile or so from Malines comes a good long rest of three-quarters of an hour. The train is full of holiday folk, and they take matters very easily. Most of the passengers turn out of the carriage, and we get a little insight into continental manners, to which in stantaneous photography alone could do justice. Just as a few are beginning to contemplate picnicing—notably one old lady who has bad thrown to her a pistolet and a couple of hard boiled eggs—the engine gives three warning screeches, and instantly there is a stampede into the carriages. This long rest is only the precursor of other rests, and every time the train pulls up, half the passengers take little excursions. One adventurous lady, who attempts to descend from the carriage unassisted, meets with a disastrous check. Her dress catching in the step, which is shaped like a pear, on purpose, it would seem, to cause catastrophes, she describes some wild convolutions in the air, and is neatly deposited on her back, with a dis closure of a good deal of violet-coloured stocking. Luckily she is not hurt, and doesn’t seem to mind the laugh at her expense. Then there are rumours that seven trains from Antwerp must pass us before we can get into the station. We count eight of these trains, and still we are resting. “Twelve o’clock,” Says Boscombe; “we shan’t have much time for the Exhibition. Must go direct to the photographs as soon as we get in.” “Yes,” I answer faintly. I am very empty, the tedious journey is exhausting, and two gentlemen in high Belgian caps and capes have smoked Belgian cigars all the way. Even the pleasure of imbibing a tiny drop of brandy and water, which happened to be at the bottom of my flask, is alloyed by a whisper which reaches us from the other end of the carriage, that “ these English cannot travel without drinking.” At last we get within the fortifications, and every time the train pulls up, a certain number get down and come back no more. They have set out to walk, as being the more expeditious way. At about half a mile from the station, we have a most tantalising stoppage. We make small bets whether we shall start in two, in five, in ten minutes. At the end of a quarter of an hour we give up betting as useless. By this time the exodus has amounted to two-thirds of the passengers, and finally we steam into the station at half past one, with about fifty people. We cab it to steam-boat quay, to deposit a box we have with us on board the steamer. The cocher coolly demands four shillings. We have nothing between a franc and a five-franc piece, and no energy to dispute the matter. I hand the rascal the five-franc piece, and depart. We set off for the Exhibition. Luckily it is near the quay, or luman nature, with a pair of new tight shoes, could never have survived a long walk on the abominable bakers’ loaves with which Antwerp is paved. I firmly believe this method of paving dates from the Spanish occupation of Antwerp, and was devised with fienlish ingenuity by the Inquisition, on purpose to torture the unfortunate Flemish heretics. The air of Antwerp is always close, relaxing, and fever suggesting. It is especially so at two o’clock to-day. “ Boscombe,” I say hoarsely, when we have passed through the turnstiles, “ food or photographs? ” He does not hesitate a second. “Food,” he gasps, “and bocks—plenty bocks." There is a big restaurant on our left. We make for it. A huge crowd is dining, but we find a vacant table. An etiolated visaged garcon, diminutive in stature, bears down upon us with alacrity. He sees we are English, and there fore liberal in pour boires. We order soup, and, true to our policy of national dishes, carbonade Flamenge, of the nature of which we are profoundly ignorant. The soup is weak, vapid, and lukewarm. No matter, we have that hunger in us, we would not take five pounds for it. Car bonade Flamenge turns out to be extremely like goulasch, but a little coarser. It is very good, and we marvel at the inconsistency of human nature which leads our Flemish neighbours almost to a man to choose biftek aux pommes. The bijteks are worthy of a passing word. They are dabs of meat, devoid of fat, browned to about an eighth of an inch each side; the interior is a mixture of the French colours—a reddish blue interspersed with minute specks of white. To eat a biftek in true Flemish fashion, you must grasp the fork firmly, dagger-wise, plunge it into the meat about the centre, and hold the biftek with all your strength against the plate. Then, with your knife, you proceed to hack the biftek into little pieces. So far as we observed, this is an operation demanding much muscular exertion, and I would advise no one not possessed of great strength to attempt a biftek aux pommes at the Exhibition Restaurant. I draw a veil over the number of bocks Boscombe con- sumed, and hasten on to the photographs.