Charles DeForest Fredricks

Fredricks!  The mere writing of his name elicits the strongest feeling of bon joie within me!  He was as much an adventurer as he was an artist and, with the first anniversary of his passing near, I think of him and his travels often.  How I miss his letters and when fate would allow, our meetings and his colorful tales.

I first encountered Charles DeForest Fredricks in 1842 or thereabouts.  A young man of 20, the son of a German shop keeper, he was at that time employed in the banking business and by his account, withering on the vine by sheer boredom!  He had of course taken note of the emergence of the new method of portraiture and came to me seeking instruction.

Upon acquaintance, I found his nature to be so affable and direct that I took him on straight away in a part time capacity, finances being as tenuous as they were then.  The balance of his working day being secured at Anthony's establishment in the manufacture of casings for future daguerreotype portraits.

No sooner had our business alliance and friendship taken bond was he off on the first of his many travels!  Indeed, it could be said that Fredricks was, among many of his titles, the first daguerreian missionary!  On that day when many of us saw him off on board a ship bound for Venezuela, he brought with him a camera and equipment necessary to produce the first images ever to be made there and through-out Central and South America!

Year after year, I would receive intermittent but always intriguing letters from him.  Amazing tales of living among the aboriginals and long, arduous days and nights spent in the jungles of the Amazon.  Thievery and river pirates were as frequently reported as those of our own common criminal gangs of the five points and tenderloin districts.  On occasion, he would turn up in New York to recover his health from living in such unhygienic circumstances only to return there once more.

However, despite all adversity, his enterprise did find a way to flourish and before long he had established offices in Buenos Aires, Argentina and Havana, Cuba where his product was judged among the earliest and still to this day, the very best of it's class.

A letter from him arrived in 1852 or '53 announcing his return to New York and we were once again in a partnership!  This however turned out to be as temporary an arrangement as wanderlust got the better of my friend once again and he was off to Paris where he soon set up a studio.

August 1854 Humphrey's Journal of the Daguerreotype & Photographic Arts

While there, he became acquainted with Talbot's ongoing efforts towards advancing our profession and, in 1855, he returned to our partnership and brought with him the crowning achievement of his career, the carte des visite process.

It wasn't very long before these photographic cards were considered de rigueur among one and all.  Always considering the possibilities towards advancement, larger sized cards were brought to market, one of them being the cabinet card in fashion to this very day!

As it is with all well established friendships, the fact that our business partnership dissolved did little to diminish our mutual fondness for one another's company.  By the end of the 1850's, Fredricks' own galleries at 585 and 587 Broadway were among the most frequented and prosperous of any in New York!

His building was as grand as the man who operated it!  An immense edifice to the art!  In fact, that is what he called it - Fredricks' Photographic Temple of Art!  A sweeping, lantern-lit arch announced it as such on the very buildings' exterior!  And to top it all, an eagle sat perched atop a large camera, overseeing the throngs who passed through the threshold and the traffic below.

I have counted many successful men as my friends.  None closer to me than C.D. Fredricks.

Fredricks' Galleries at 585 & 587 Broadway

"Father?" "Yes, Ben."  "I want to come to work with you."

He was always ambitious, my son Ben.  Always in motion.  As a child he was difficult to photograph as he simply would not be still for the pose.  Nothing seemed to hold his gaze for the time needed to capture his likeness.  Even my gentle admonishments received little attention.

As he grew older, he became more aware of the position of prosperity my profession had brought upon our household.  We lived well.  His sister and he had, within reason, all they could desire.  I say within reason as I did try to raise them in a Christian manner.  Weekly Friends meetings were attended and an attempt at instilling the theology of love and service was endeavored.

Still, the physical wealth was apparent.  The carriages and horses, our homes on Fifth Avenue and Henry Street in Brooklyn, all appointed and outfitted with the latest and finest that New York City had to offer.  Phebe doted on them far too much.  And there was her sister Charlotte and their mother Lavina living with us.  There were Irish housemaids too.  All of them conspiring to coddle and fawn over both Ben and Mattie in the most obscene manner!

I had many a conversation with one and all about the way my children were being attended to and my objections to such.  Nods of acquiescense and assurances of being more stern with them were received and still, within hours, the over-indulgence would continue.  I must confess, I myself had a difficult time adhering to my own rigidity.  Ben was, is my son and Mattie my dearest daughter!  As children and even today, there is not a mean spirited aspect about them and nothing their father wouldn't do to help them.

His request concerned me.  At 20, I had hoped he would continue in his education at the university.  Explore what interested him and have at it with the same level of enthusiasm that had come upon me in the early days of my studies with Morse and Draper.  I said as much to him in reply.

"Father, I want to come to work with you.  I have been to your studios.  I have observed the photographic process with you and your employees.  I understand as well as anyone, the nature of your business.  Who better than your son to bring on?"

My ambivalence surely must have stung him for I saw it on his face and in his reasoning.  Still, a sense of foreboding hung over me.  A fear that life had come too easily for my Ben and the implications of what might arise as a result of it worried me.

If I was to object to his entering into my business, I might lose him altogether.  If I brought him on as he seemed inclined to believe as rightfully befitting, I would further pacify him.

From my study, I sat and looked out my window upon the muted coming and going of hansom cabs and omnibuses making their awkward, twisting way along Henry Street, Brooklyn in the year 1857.

Gazing up into my son's young face and nodding with assent, I suggested he plan on making the morning ferry to 349 Broadway though both he and I would do as much on our own, not together.  There would be no nepotism attached to this position.  No patronage.

It was then that he smiled.  That warm smile that I've seen cross his face in either actual kindness and gratitude or, as in so many instances, whenever he had received his way.  He began to take his leave when I offered a final reproof.

"And Ben, you will be working for me, not with me."

From the 1857 Trow's New York City Directory

It was Phebe of course, to initially see the changes coming over me and before it was fully recognized for what it was, I very nearly died.

I believe I may have already mentioned the dangerousness of my profession.  In the early days most especially.  The volatility of the various chemicals we daguerreians used combined with the always present oil lamp, stove or other heat source contributed to numerous outbreaks of fire.  In fact, in the very same year my mind and body began to fail me, a fire broke out in the studios of Mr. Whitehurst which I would eventually purchase and renovate for my very own.

Fire had nothing to do with my own infirmity, however.  The source of my ailment was that of a much more insidious nature.  One that provided nothing in the way of fair warning.  None of man's senses could detect it and it came as a result of my obstinant refusal to follow the suggestions that other pioneers in this new venture had been so kind to proffer.

Even my dear old friend and colleague S.D. Humphrey, a fine daguerreian in his own right and one of our earliest editors and advocates for the establishment of our industry had warned me each time he came by my studio at 189 Broadway.  Still I would not listen.  I would like to think this was the last vainglory to inhibit me from my ability to live as my creator would see fit to have me to do so.  I do know a hard lesson was taught and ever afterwards adhered to.

While this occurred in '52, it should be pointed out that the photographic process was, even 12 years on, still in it's infancy.  Changes to methods were always being adopted however the one constant and the one I failed to implement was the need for a ventilating hood in developing the plates over a bath of warm mercury.

It was the mercury or more precisely, the clear, odorless, tasteless vapor of warming mercury.  Hours upon hours.  Days.  Weeks.  Years passed while i stood over the bath of warm mercury, developing my daguerreotypes.  Ignorant of what was occurring to me until the symptoms became horribly apparent.

My years of semi-retirement have provided me with sufficient reading time and lately I have been enthralled by what I read of the advances in medicine and specifically man's attempt to understand the nature of dreams.  This fellow Freud and his colleagues and their interests in what they call psychoanalysis.  All very intriguing to me as I do recall battling a form of madness in the early stages of what I would eventually realize was my mercury poisoning.

I remember early on how easily my attention would wander and how easily frustrated I became.  Headaches, dizziness and forgetfullness plagued me.  It became necessary for me to write copious notes and instructions in order to complete even the simplest of tasks.

I am by nature, as my long list of family, friends and colleagues would I'm certain swear to, fond of company and full of the enjoyment of life and all it has to offer.  This is why, in the early weeks and months of that dynamic year, Phebe began to take note of the changes manifesting within me.

I grew short tempered and withdrawn.  I had no interest in the society of others.  I became the opposite of what I had always been!  What confounded those who I came into contact with was my very own inability to recognize these changes.  I dare say Phebe and all who knew me became convinced I was going mad!

My business, so vibrant up to now, began to fail.  Colleagues much concerned; the Anthonys, Humphrey, Snelling even my new friend and soon to be business partner, C.D. Fredricks, all became concerned.  It was as if the Jeremiah Gurney they had known for years had been replaced by an unruly doppelganger.  I have no doubt that had my symptoms not evolved into that of a more visable nature, I would have found myself committed to the lunatic asylum on Blackwell's Island.

The manifestation to outward physical deterioration did occur however and hideously so.  I will spare the reader the specifics only to say it was grotesque in every sense of the word.  Very quickly, my Phebe and those whom I have counted as my friends and colleagues, then as they continue to be now, were fortified to recognize the symptoms as poisoning by exposure to mercury and sought out my much needed medical assistance right away.

I sit here in the early morning hours of April 1895, looking back more than 40 years ago.  A more humble and grateful servant to my creator, I strive to be.

From the April 15 1852 edition of Humphrey's Journal of Photography

Humphrey's Journal of Photograpy May 1852

The first warm day of spring!  Together with my Mattie and our young relation, little Miss Elizabeth May Possons, we walk down into the village for some early afternoon ice cream and a chance to take in the first signs of the crocus emerging from under the last of the season's snow.

She is a lovely girl, our Ellie May is, if I am not too prideful to say.  She is quiet though.  And thoughtful.  She has taken to her great uncle (great, great uncle?  I can't recall) with an uncommon fashion.  I'm not certain why this is so but the answer never needs to be defined.  Our family is large and there are many generations who have stayed and built their families here.  It is the primary reason why my daughter and I chose to come back here after all those years in Manhattan.  Family.

I settle onto a bench out in front of the Chinese laundry and shoo the girls off to go about there way.  A kiss on the cheek from both and they're off to wander about the various shops.
From somewhere off, I can hear the strains of the village brass band practicing for the upcoming season of outdoor concerts.  They're taking a run at one of the popular Sousa Marches.  How an old man like me enjoys the new maestro is a bit unbecoming but I don't mind admitting it.

Bundled up and feeling the warmth of the sun on my raised face, my eyes closed contentedly, I begin to think of the strange life I've lived.  Two lives really.  Or perhaps many lives!  I'm dozing as I so often do now.  I breathe in the fresh, cool air.  The peal of children's laughter and their mothers' voices.  Men in passing conversation with other men and the sound of horses chuffing and the creak of wagons.

My thoughts are upon Ellie May.  How she reminds me of Mattie in her temperament.  And then it occurs to me that Ellie May is at the same age that Mattie was when I had her pose for the Anthony's prize daguerreotype.  Of course!  I smile at the memory as it plays out upon my eyelids.

And then its on me.  Such joy and such sorrow!

He had been a neighbor of ours during our time living in Brooklyn.  John Faris.  A young Scotsman who had emmigrated to this country along with his two brothers to begin new lives for themselves.  Industrious, intelligent and devout as his nationality is known for with a polite charm and a tousel of red hair.

As he had his brothers and no other family here in America, my darling Phebe made it her responsibility to look after "the boys", as she called them from the moment we became acquainted with them.  Family dinners and holiday occasions became the routine.  Phebe doted on them like their own mother would and I can most certainly say I took to them with all the enjoyment that my very own Ben -

Oh, but it does pain me that Ben and I have grown so distant.  But that is a story for another day.

Years passed and the relationship between Mattie and John blossomed.  Phebe was the first to see it.  Long before they were anything but two playful, teasing young people, squabbling for each other's attention, Phebe told me she had a premonition. And I knew better not to take my wife's intuitions lightly!  She had that way of knowing all too often.  And there came a time when she confided in me her belief and hope that our loving daughter and this young man may see themselves grow to be as one.

It did of course come to pass however our Phebe would not live to see it.  Once more, a tale for another day.

In time, he and his brothers' industry began to pay off and they found themselves partners in a wholesale concern.  Agents brokering merchandise throughout New York and New Jersey.  When his finances and future was secured, he did come to me to ask my permission in marriage to Mattie.  It was one of the proudest and happiest times of all of our lives!  On a crisp, late October morning in 1862 we celebrated the joy of seeing Mattie and John Faris married.

The Church of the Messiah as it appeared in October 1862

From the October 29 1862 NY Times

The happiness and love between the two was never in short order.  Of course there was sadness too.  As much as there was the desire to have a family of their own, this was never to come about.  Acceptance and the belief in leaving such answers as why to the all knowing sustained the both of them through this and all trials.  Even, as it would come to be, in the worst of such trials.

John Faris was a temperate man in all matters including his taking of alcohol and rarely was the ocassion when I saw him do so.  In fact it often struck me as unusual, knowing how fond a Scot was for his native whiskey.  There were often times when men in my employ would show up for work having had the smell on them and it offended me to the point where I ordered them off my premises.  It was unhealthy and with all of the dangers that abounded within a photographic studio, it was too much to risk.  John Faris was never such an individual.

On an early summer afternoon in May of 1874, John set out for Jersey City.  A ferry to Manhattan, a short omnibus across town and another ferry to the Jersey side to pay a visit on an old business associate and friend.  Towards evening he began to make his return and then the worst of all horrible possibilities happened.

This fine man and loving husband, suffered a bout of apoplexy and fell to the ground, injuring himself quite violently.  He was found some time later by members of the local police department and taken for a common drunkard!  Brought to the police station, unable to speak on his own behalf, stripped of his belongings and locked away for hours, his cries for assistance unattended until, early the next morning he died of his injuries and illness.

From the May 30 1874 Brooklyn Eagle

It wasn't until later that evening that a Jersey City constable found it within himself to review my son-in-law's indentification papers found within his pockets and venture across to Brooklyn to tell John's brothers in a most vile and cursory way, to come retrieve his body.

My darling Mattie was inconsolable for many days afterwards while I and others suffered with outrage and indignation at the methods of the police department and in particular, one Captain Benson.  Had it not been for this man, Mattie's husband might well be alive today.  This man Benson's obstinance and ignorance was to blame!  I was determined to see justice served and have him removed from his position and department altogether.

Inquiries commenced including an autoposy on John to determine the cause of death which was as we had concluded all along, blood on the brain caused by a fall which in turn came as a result of sudden apoplexy!  And still, with this knowledge the case was dismissed as mysteriously as it was managed.  Carried out internally with no access provided for, to the family.  The police captain responsible allowed to remain at his post.

We buried John Faris on a late June evening that year in our family plot in Brooklyn's Green-Wood Cemetery.  The sun's warmth falling upon our tear-strewn faces.

It's Martha's hand I feel on the shoulder of my overcoat and Ellie May's hand covering mine as it rests upon my walking cane.  She smiles, looking up at me.  "Uncle, shall we go for ice cream now?"

I recall early on, a visit to my studio of a wild pack of young jackals.  Young men from Long Island who had taken the ferry across to Peck Slip and on up into Broadway.  There were three or four of them, the loudest being the smallest of course.  I don't remember his name but I do remember the lad whose image I captured that day.

His name was Caleb Edwards.  I remember it perfectly as he hailed from Jamaica, New York.  My beautiful Phebe had family not too far from there and when I laid eyes on him, I could see something of her in him.  Or maybe it was his resemblance to my brother Jacob.  He was the quietest of them.

The lot were a rowdy bunch and I heard them coming before they bounded into my rooms.  Quieting down as they surveyed my establishment, the pipsqueak wondered as to "how's a person goes about gettin' their p'rtrait taken."

I was myself, a young man once.  I realized that there were those who's heritage had much to be allotted for.  While my own familiar and religious upraising had provided me the means to converse in a more Christian manner, I displayed no ill will in repsonding to his crass choice of words.  I merely replied that the sitter should consider his pose, see that his personage was as he would like it captured and, once formalities had been arranged, the process would begin.

Pipsqueak continued to speak on behalf of the lot.  "See here" acknowledging the young Edwards with a nod of the head, "this hard case is Caleb Edwards.  Caleb's going to be the next champion of fisticuffs in America!  We're in town from over east across the river on Long Island.  We've scraped up enough money to pay for his portrait."

Needless to say, I was only too happy to oblige them.  Upon conducting the necessary items of business, I suggested the party take a seat while I conferred with the young pugilist.  It was difficult to get much out of him, including a display of emotion.  He was a cautious young man.  Slowly, I gained his confidence and he began to tell me of his personal life.

A mutual decision among the group had been to position the sitter in the formal pose of a bare knuckler.  The years of disciplined labor had certainly hardened Mr. Edwards.  His strength was unquestionable.  Arms taut, wrists and hands like steel cables.  Neck and head tanned from the sun's rays.  I offered him use of my comb to smoothen his hair and he kindly accepted.  It was only then that his countenance eased and a smile appeared across his handsome face.

While we explored various positionings, he offered me a glimpse into his world.

The son of a farmer, he had only the most rudimentary of schooling.  His father had no use for such matters and made it clear to young Caleb that he and his younger brother were needed on the fields rather than filling their minds with letters and numbers.  From the age of 10 he knew nothing of life other than tending the potatoes, corn and other sundry vegetables they managed to grow.

I thought of my own early years on my father's farm and how differently our circumstances had gone.  His escape from the drudgery would rely entirely on his fists.  I had hoped for his sake he could see himself through.

Once the mercury had settled on his daguerreotype, the lot of them were off.  I caught Caleb's eye as he was walking towards the stairs that would lead him out of my life.  There were thousands of them in the years to come.  A nod and a polite thank you crossed his lips and I never saw or heard from him again.

©The J. Paul Getty Museum

All throughout the winter of 1840 and in fact for the following two winters, I kept open my watch and jewelry repair shoppe on Maiden Lane while little by little, requests for portraitures began to pick up.  My neighbors, Mr. Bagley and Mr. Booth were both extremely kind as were all of the merchants on our block and they along with others were quick to offer their customers a recommendation to venture up to my studio to see for themselves, this new form of capturing ones likeness.

I was met with all forms of curious questions.  "Will it hurt?"  "Will I lose my soul?"  "Can the box see under my clothing?"  I dare say the least eager to sit were, at first, the ladies and the wealthy.  The former as they considered it too immodest and the latter as it seemed too vulgar!  Both would come around rather quickly though and in short order they became my very best clients.

These were difficult, long days.  Keeping both businesses open, not knowing whether to shutter one for the other or if either would survive to flourish!  In due time however, the decision would be made for me.  The little jewelry shoppe was failing.

It stung me to have to see it go.  A sentimental attachment that men of business should never entertain most assuredly, but it did sting.  While my father was the first to see the ambition in me, my mother saw the depth of emotion.  It wasn't so much a sense of failure that I felt in the spring of 1842 when I made arrangements to close business at that wonderful little establishment on Maiden Lane.  It was that I was saying goodbye for the very last time to a dear old friend.  A port who had provided safe harbor for myself and my family.

The unknown loomed ahead.

April 1842, NY Evening Post

New York City Hall April 24, 1865.  Photograph by J. Gurney & Son

Thirty years!

It is at once impossible to believe and yet all too easy to gain comfort from the fact, that it is almost thirty years to the day when Ben and I walked together up those steps and into City Hall.  We weren't alone of course.

On that particular morning thousands waited to gain entrance to the building.  Throngs milling about and soldiers everywhere!  Everywhere the eyes looked there was humanity.  All waiting to pay their respects to our dear, departed president.

I remember it all.  I remember how it had rained in the early morning hours on the day following his assassination.  How, when the news of his passing reached me that morning, the clouds had parted and rays of sunlight had come filtering across Broadway.  Church bells peeling the saddest of news.  Abraham Lincoln had been struck down by J. Wilkes Booth!  Booth!

It was Easter.  The first Easter of peace in four years.  Four years of murder and misery.  Our country laid exhausted, weakend by four long years of agony.  The prospect of a true and everlasting peace after all of the destruction and horrors we had experienced made our nation grateful and optimistic for the future.

Our leader, Father Abraham, as the negroes and children called him, admonished us when talk of punishment and retribution arose in those final months and weeks of the war.  He told us to embrace our brothers who had fought against us.  To lay away our differences once and for all time and return to a nation united.  His kindness seemed fathomless.

And all at once, shattered!  One last monumental orgy of death cast upon the very man who sought to forestall it.  By a New York actor!  My mind reels as it did the day the news reached me.

Walking to my studio that morning, I saw their faces.  People I passed were to a man, woman and child, stricken.  As if we were all in some crazy dream where the promise of a better future had been taken from us.  Snatched back!  We would return to a never ending battle of destruction and death.  I saw men in top hats and coats with the worry of the unknown about them.  Women, already weeping, children with their look of silent solemnity.  Negroes throwing themselves to the ground in abject despair.  All around me, the world had gone insane once more.

I recall it all as if it were this morning and yet I find myself thankfull that it isn't.  April of 1865 was a long, horrible affair.