caused to flow into an even coat over the
surface of the glass, and the excess was
poured off at another corner. To do this
by a few left-handed movements without
causing any ripple upon the collodion
adhering to the glass is really very difficult.
This done, the plate was left till the ether
had almost evaporated, and deposited a film
of gun-cotton—which is in fact a delicate
paper—spread evenly over the surface of the
glass. The glass covered with this delicate
paper, before it was yet quite dry, was
plunged carefully into a pan or bath,
containing a solution of nitrate of silver, about
eight grains of it to every hundred of
distilled water. In about two minutes it was
taken out, and ready for the camera. It
was a sheet of glass covered with a
fine film of cotton-paper impregnated with
nitrate of silver, a colourless salt blackened
by light.

It was removed in a dark frame to the
camera. Then an assistant, opening a book,
assumed an attitude and sat for his picture.
In a few seconds it was taken in the usual
way, and the glass carried again into the
operator's room. There it was dipped into
another bath—a bath of pyrogallic acid
—and the impression soon became apparent.
To bring it out with greater force it was
then dipped into a second and much weaker
bath of nitrate of silver. The image was
then made perfect; but, as the light parts
were all depicted by the blackest shades,
and the black parts were left white, the
courteous assistant was there represented as
a negro.

That negro stage was not of course the
finished portrait, it was "the negative"—or
stereotype plate, as it were—from which, after
it had been fixed with a solution of the
sulphate of the peroxyde of iron, any number
of impressions could be taken. For it is
obvious that if a plate like this be placed on
sensitive paper, and exposed to daylight, the
whole process will be reversed. The black
face will obstruct the passage of the light
and leave a white face underneath, the white
hair will allow the light to pass, making
black hair below, and so on. Impressions
thus taken on paper, and afterwards fixed,
may either serve for portraits, as they are,
or, like the silver plates, they may be
coloured.

The paper processes, of which we say so
little, are in fact practically the most important
branches of the art of the photographer.
For it is not only or indeed chiefly by the
reproduction of our own features that we
bring photography into the service of our
race. One application of the art has
produced an apparatus which enables many
natural phenomena to register themselves.
Mr. Brooke's little cylinder of photographic
paper, revolving in measured time under
a pencil of light thrown from a small
mirror attached to a moving magnet or an
anemometer, tells for itself the tale ot every
twelve hours' work, and has already superseded
the hard night-work that was necessary
formerly at the Greenwich, and at other great
observatories. Photography already has been
found available by the astronomer; the moon
has sat for a full-face picture, and there is hope
that in a short time photographic paper will
become a common auxiliary to the telescope.
History will be indebted to photography for
fac-similes of documents and volumes that
have perished; travellers may bring home
incontestible transcripts of inscriptions upon
monuments, or foreign scenery. The artist
will no longer be delayed in travelling to
execute his sketches on the spot. He can
now wander at his ease, and bring home
photographic views, from which to work, as
sculptors from the model. Photography is a
young art, but from its present aspect we
can judge what power it will have in its
maturity. The mind may readily become
bewildered among expectations, but one thing
will suggest many. We understand that a
catalogue of the national library of Paris has
been commenced, in which each work is
designated by a photographic miniature of its
title-page.

      THE BALLAD OF THE GOLD-DIGGER

                              I.

      OUR future bright, our spirits light,
           We bade farewell to home;
       With many more, we hove from shore,
           And cross'd the salt sea foam.

      Four months of weary voyage past,
           We reach'd that wondrous land,
       Where rivers from their mountain hearts
           Fling gold upon the sand.

      Then side by side our work we plied,
           Merrily day by day—
      From pale dawn-light till fall of night,
           When the river-mists rose grey.

      A happy land it seem'd to me
           Till dash'd with wickedness;
       For, all around, the sands were bright,
       (Like the Milky Way in a moonless night)
           With small stars numberless.

      The very dust beneath our feet
           Was rich with priceless gold:
       Where'er we walked, we trod on wealth
           That never could be told.
       From far-off caves the river waves
           Their endless tribute roll'd.

      Old Saturn's reign seem'd come again:
           At first, we had no brawl,
       No deep-laid stealth for the gain of wealth—
          There was enough for all.

      Oh Heaven! what gladness fill'd my heart,
           And lit like fire mine eye!
       On burning clouds of gold, at night,
           In dreams, I seem'd to lie.