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JUXE 8, 1883.J THE PHOTOGRAPHIC NEWS 357 This we do; the time is twenty-seven seconds. We begin to think that the smell of wet collodion was not fancy, after all. It is rather cold in the studio, and the bareness of the apartment adds, no doubt, to the feeling of inhospi tality, while we wait, on the invitation of the assistant, to see how the plates turn out. But, uncomfortable as the feeling is, we feel that we are better off here than downstairs in the grand reception room, where there might, perhaps, be further inducements to part with out money. So we tarry without complaining. “ Thank you, the plates will do very well. We will send you a proof in about a week.” W e go downstairs, wishing the colouring young lady good morning. The reception room doors are still wide open as we pass them, but we have a predilection for the open air, and so we walk out as soon as we can. Next week will appear No. VI., “An Electric Light Portrait.” MOUNTAINS IN PHOTOGRAPHY. BY M. BURTON. “ Why do photographs never give an idea of the height of mountains?” is a very frequent question from the un initiated. One indignant photographer answers, “Because artists have corrupted the eye of the public by representing them two or three times their real height." But certainly this is an exaggeration of the power of painters to educate the public eye, for, so far as my own experience goes, the ordinary man judges pictures by their likeness to what he knows of nature, though he may not have seen anything more of a mountain than Hampstead Hill; besides, the best artists do not exaggerate mountains when they give them a principal place in their pictures, though they may often paint a distant hill that ought, if measured trigono metrically, to be the size of a pin’s head, as big as a button, more by accident than for the sake of effect. Before proceeding to real enquiry on the subject, I should like to limit the first popular statement that photo graphs always make mountains look too small. I have seen photographs which gave mountains as much of their true grandeur as any simple pictorial representation does, but these were either subjects in which nature had offered such a singularly perfect piece of composition (technically so called) as one cannot often expect to meet with, or in which the mountains were very subordinate to the fore ground, showing a little more than a faint line in the sky. These exceptional successes most distinctly show us the way by which general success may be attained. The im pression of the height of mountains does not depend upon the angle they subtend to the eye, or a mole-hill would often literally look larger; it depends upon the appear ance of distance, and this is attained by perspective, linear or serial. Linear perspective is that which can be carried out by mere lines, without any shading whatever, and can therefore be more than realized by photography. It gives impressions of distance by the well-known perspective law of converging lines, and if a familiar object occurs, the mind unconsciously performs the calculation, that as the size of a house near the eye is to that of one just within the range of vision, so must the mountain, if it could be seen near, be to its faint image in the distance. In the same way, a river winding up a valley, or a long succession of hills, gives an irresistible impression of distance, how ever slight or imperfect the representation of them may be. In the rare cases in which landscapes are represented in mere outline, linear perspective is taken full advantage of, even if the circumstances of the individual scene have to be entirely altered for the purpose. But the photo grapher is condemned to accuracy, and the instances in which nature manages his composition perfectly for him are so rare, that if he had to limit himself to them, he would do better to devote his camera to other subj ects. It must be borne in mind that unfamiliar objects will not have at all the same effect in perspective as familiar ones. Even when looking at a real scene, people often mistake woods for clumps of furze, or boulders for gravel, and diminish their distance accordingly. This is the reason for often introducing a human figure in pictures where it is positively repugnant; it gives a distinct measure of size. Aerial perspective is a power much less generally acknowledged than linear perspective. It is much less systematic—indeed, it is impossible to give rules for it—but it is very much used by artists, especially by those who depict mountains. It really consists in the modification of light and shade produced by the atmosphere, and should be carefully distinguished from colour, though it seldom is. As a rule, all shadows become less deep and distinct as they retreat from the eye, but the extent to which they do so depends entirely upon the state of the atmosphere ; and the same influences which modify light and shade frequently modify colour also, thus giving rise to the popular impression that the effect of distance is due to colour, especially that it is due to blue. Photographers who accept this view must resign them selves to not photographing mountains till colour photo graphs can be obtained ; but it is a pity they should do so. It is true that blue is generally the colour found in greatest strength and purity in a distant landscape, especially in that clear state of the air which allows us to see really distant objects ; but by sunset light the extreme distance is often of a crimson or yellow colour, witho t a shade of blue in it; yet it does not look near. On the other hand, an artist will paint a blue bell in the immediate foreground with the very same colours as he used for his remote horizon, yet it does not look distant. It is quite common, in clear grey weather, to see very distant objects much the colour of a platinum print. This aspect of nature is not popular amongst painters. Not only pictures, but mountains themselves, depend largely for their effect on accidents of atmosphere. I believe, indeed, that the reputation of our Scotch and Welsh hills is due almost entirely to the thick and varying atmosphere which makes them look distant, and therefore high. It is true that they do occasionally shine out in extreme clearness, but the natives are too well trained by the frequent mist to do anything but rejoice in seeing their giants distinctly for once; and strangers who see them under these rare circumstances generally think them very small. In the same way Scotch people who are touring in less misty lands sometimes say, what is the good of know ing that mountains are high, if they look like stone walls at one’s side? So far as I know, no other hills of their size have such a varying atmosphere, and consequently such a mountainous effect, as the Scotch Highlands. But if the representation of mountains depends upon light and shade, in which photography has pre-eminent powers, why does it not succeed with it ? As I have said, it does sometimes succeed in giving a great impression of atmosphere, but in these cases the mountains occupy a very insignificant place in the picture. They have, in fact, just as much importance as mountains really have to the eye when it is fixed on a village some distance in front of them, without the imagina tion giving quite so much help as it does when one is actually in the neighbourhood of a great mountain. Where photography does not, as a rule, succeed, is in representing mountains in the middle distance as the principal object in the picture, and this I take to be due to the impossibility of much “composition,” and to the invariable practice of photographing them in very clear weather. Painters rarely represent mountains in their very clearest aspect, and when they do, either sacrifice the appearance of height to some other charm, or make use