Text: C. F. Briggs (?), Literary, Broadway Journal (New York), May 10, 1845, vol. 1, no. 19, p. ??

[page 296, column 2, continued:]

THE PENCIL OF NATURE. By H. Fox Talbot: London, 1844. Imported by Wiley & Putnam, 161 Broadway. Nos. 1 and 2.

This is the first attempt to publish a series of pictures, made entirely by Nature herself They are produced by the photographic process, and are of course as true, excepting in color, as truth herself. These reflections of Nature are fixed upon sensitive piper instead of metal plates, as in the Da-guerrian process; and each picture is an original work. The “Pencil of Nature” is a somewhat fanciful term, and not a very correct one, for these impressions partake of the character of a medallion more than of painting. But we are not disposed to pick differences about terms, the work itself is entitled to the highest consideration, and every one who inspects it will draw his own auguries of its influence on the imitative Arts. The author gives a very full and lucid statement of the first aiscovery of his art, and of the process by which it has been carried to its present high condition. By pure chance, Monsieur Daguerre has reaped nearly all the honors of the discovery which Mr. Fox Talbot made simultaneously with him. There are twelve plates in the two numbers of Mr. Talbot's publication, which very satisfactorily prove the importance of the art in giving actual views of almost any kind of still life. In making copies of architectu-I ral ornaments and pictures, it must be found of very great 1 advantage; and even in copying curious manuscripts and rare old books, it is found of great service, as may be seen from a fac-simile of a page of an old Norman-French book, containing the statutes of Richard the Second.

The view on the Boulevard at Parts, taken from one of the upper windows of the Hotel de Douvrea on the corner of the Rue de la Paix, is a most delightful picture which transports the spectator in a visit to the French Capital. It has nothing of the doubtful aspect or indistinctness of a painting, but is indeed. Paris itself. The street ha just been watered and is under repair, as seen by a coupe of wheel-barrows which stand in the fore ground. By the road side a row of Cittadines and Cabriolets are waiting, and a carriage is standing in the distance. It is the Broadway, as much as this is Broadway which we look into when we raise our head. But, goodness, what a range of fantastic chimney-pipes borders the horizon, forest of flues of all conceivable shapes. The corner house on the right hand is a bathing house, with “Bains” painted on the wall. Saving the mansion with a railing in front it looks for all the world like a New York house; we can look into the garret window and almost discern a Grisette at her employment. It is a cheap view of Paris.

The most charming of all the impressions however is the reflection of an English haystack, which brings us an English market scene as truly as though we were looking out of an English window upon an English farm-yard. The sunshine which falls upon it is English sun-shine; it has lighted up an object three thousand miles away, and now shines as brightly on our desk as it did a year ago in Somersetshire, or in pleasant Kent, for the locality of the haystack is not given. The book itself, considered merely as a book, is a rare specimen of luxurious publishing, and the ornament on the cover is worth to an ornamental artist, fur a study, more than its contents