Has it ever occurred to the reader to ask himself why rain appears to fall in streaks though it arrives at earth in drops? Or why the glowing end of a charred stick produces fiery lines if waved about in the darkness? Common sense tells us the drop and the burning point cannot be in two places at one and the same time. And yet apparently we are able to see both in many positions simultaneously.

This seeming paradox is due to “persistence of vision,” a phenomenon that has attracted the notice of scientific men for many centuries. Persistence may be briefly explained thus:—

The eye is extremely sensitive to light, and will, as is proved by the visibility of the electric spark, lasting for less than the millionth part of a second, receive impressions with marvellous rapidity.

But it cannot get rid of these impressions at the same speed. The duration of a visual impression has been calculated as one-tenth to one-twenty-first of a second. The electric spark, therefore, appears to last much longer than it really does.

Hence it is obvious that if a series of impressions follow one another more rapidly than the eye can free itself of them, the impressions will overlap, and one of four results will follow.

(a) Apparently uninterrupted presence of an image if the same image be repeatedly represented.

(b) Confusion, if the images be all different and disconnected.

(c) Combination, if the images of two or a very few objects be presented in regular rotation.

(d) Motion, if the objects be similar in all but one part, which occupies a slightly different portion in each presentation.

In connection with (c) an interesting story is told of Sir J. Herschel by Charles Babbage:—[4]

“One day Herschel, sitting with me after dinner, amusing himself by spinning a pear upon the table, suddenly asked whether I could show him the two sides of a shilling at the same moment. I took out of my pocket a shilling, and holding it up before the looking-glass, pointed out my method. ‘No,’ said my friend, ‘that won’t do;’ then spinning my shilling upon the table, he pointed out his method of seeing both sides at once. The next day I mentioned the anecdote to the late Dr. Fitton, who a few days after brought me a beautiful illustration of the principle. It consisted of a round disc of card suspended between two pieces of sewing silk. These threads being held between the finger and thumb of each hand, were then made to turn quickly, when the disc of card, of course, revolved also. Upon one side of this disc of card was painted a bird, upon the other side an empty bird-cage. On turning the thread rapidly the bird appeared to have got inside the cage. We soon made numerous applications, as a rat on one side and a trap on the other, &c. It was shown to Captain Kater, Dr. Wollaston, and many of our friends, and was, after the lapse of a short time, forgotten. Some months after, during dinner at the Royal Society Club, Sir Joseph Banks being in the chair, I heard Mr. Barrow, then secretary to the Admiralty, talking very loudly about a wonderful invention of Dr. Paris, the object of which I could not quite understand. It was called the Thaumatrope, and was said to be sold at the Royal Institution, in Albemarle Street. Suspecting that it had some connection with our unnamed toy I went next morning and purchased for seven shillings and sixpence a thaumatrope, which I afterwards sent down to Slough to the late Lady Herschel. It was precisely the thing which her son and Dr. Fitton had contributed to invent, which amused all their friends for a time, and had then been forgotten.”

The thaumatrope, then, did nothing more than illustrate the power of the eye to weld together a couple of alternating impressions. The toys to which we shall next pass represent the same principle working in a different direction towards the production of the living picture.

Now, when we see a man running (to take an instance) we see the same body and the same legs continuously, but in different positions, which merge insensibly the one into the other. No method of reproducing that impression of motion is possible if only one drawing, diagram, or photograph be employed.

A man represented with as many legs as a centipede would not give us any impression of running or movement; and a blur showing the positions taken successively by his legs would be equally futile. Therefore we are driven back to a series of pictures, slightly different from one another; and in order that the pictures may not be blurred a screen must be interposed before the eye while the change from picture to picture is made. The shorter the period of change, and the greater the number of pictures presented to illustrate a single motion, the more realistic is the effect. These are the general principles which have to be observed in all mechanism for the production of an illusory effect of motion. The persistence of vision has led to the invention of many optical toys, the names of which, in common with the names of most apparatus connected with the living picture, are remarkable for their length. Of these toys we will select three for special notice.

In 1833 Plateau of Ghent invented the phenakistoscope, “the thing that gives one a false impression of reality”—to interpret this formidable word. The phenakistoscope is a disc of card or metal round the edge of which are drawn a succession of pictures showing a man or animal in progressive positions. Between every two pictures a narrow slit is cut. The disc is mounted on an axle and revolved before a mirror, so that a person looking through the slits see one picture after another reflected in the mirror.

The zoetrope, or Wheel of Life, which appeared first in 1860, is a modification of the same idea. In this instrument the pictures are arranged on the inner side of a hollow cylinder revolving on a vertical axis, its sides being perforated with slits above the pictures. As the slit in both cases caused distortion M. Reynaud, a Frenchman, produced in 1877 the praxinoscope, which differed from the zoetrope in that the pictures were not seen directly through slits, but were reflected by mirrors set half-way between the pictures and the axis of the cylinder, a mirror for every picture. Only at the moment when the mirror is at right angles to the line of sight would the picture be visible. M. Reynaud also devised a special lantern for projecting praxinoscope pictures on to a screen.

These and other somewhat similar contrivances, though ingenious, had very distinct limitations. They depended for their success upon the inventiveness and accuracy of the artist, who was confined in his choice of subject; and could, owing to the construction of the apparatus, only represent a small series of actions, indefinitely repeated by the machine. And as a complete action had to be crowded into a few pictures, the changes of position were necessarily abrupt.

To make the living picture a success two things were needed; some method of securing a very rapid series of many pictures, and a machine for reproducing the series, whatever its length. The method was found in photography, with the advance of which the living picture’s progress is so closely related, that it will be worth while to notice briefly the various improvements of photographic processes. The old-fashioned Daguerreotype process, discovered in 1839, required an exposure of half-an-hour. The introduction of wet collodion reduced this tax on a sitter’s patience to ten seconds. In 1878 the dry plate process had still further shortened the exposure to one second; and since that date the silver-salt emulsions used in photography have had their sensitiveness to light so much increased, that clear pictures can now be made in one-thousandth of a second, a period minute enough to arrest the most rapid movements of animals.

By 1878, therefore, instantaneous photography was ready to aid the living picture. Previously to that year series of photographs had been taken from posed models, without however extending the choice of subjects to any great extent. But between 1870 and 1880 two men, Marey and Muybridge, began work with the camera on the movements of horses. Marey endeavoured to produce a series of pictures round the edge of one plate with a single lens and repeated exposures.[5] Muybridge, on the other hand, used a series of cameras. He erected a long white background parallel to which were stationed the cameras at equal distances. The shutters of the cameras were connected to threads laid across the interval between the background and the cameras in such a manner that a horse driven along the track snapped them at regular intervals, and brought about successive exposures. Muybridge’s method was carried on by AnschÜtz, a German, who in 1899 brought out his electrical Tachyscope, or “quick-seer.” Having secured his negatives he printed off transparent positives on glass, and arranged these last round the circumference of a large disc rotating in front of a screen, having in it a hole the size of the transparencies. As each picture came opposite the hole a Geissler tube was momentarily lit up behind it by electrical contact, giving a fleeting view of one phase of a horse’s motion.

The introduction of the ribbon film in or about 1888 opened much greater possibilities to the living picture than would ever have existed had the glass plate been retained. It was now comparatively easy to take a long series of pictures; and accordingly we find Messrs. Friese-Greene and Evans exhibiting in 1890 a camera capable of securing three hundred exposures in half a minute, or ten per second.

The next apparatus to be specially mentioned is Edison’s Kinetoscope, which he first exhibited in England in 1894. As early as 1887 Mr. Edison had tried to produce animated pictures in a manner analogous to the making of a sound-record on a phonograph (see p. 56). He wrapped round a cylinder a sheet of sensitized celluloid which was covered, after numerous exposures, by a spiral line of tiny negatives. The positives made from these were illuminated in turn by flashes of electric light. This method was, however, entirely abandoned in the perfected kinetoscope, an instrument for viewing pictures the size of a postage stamp, carried on a continuously moving celluloid film between the eye of the observer and a small electric lamp. The pictures passed the point of inspection at the rate of forty-six per second (a rate hitherto never approached), and as each picture was properly centred a slit in a rapidly revolving shutter made it visible for a very small fraction of a second. Holes punched at regular intervals along each side of the film engaged with studs on a wheel, and insured a regular motion of the pictures. This principle of a perforated film has been used by nearly all subsequent manufacturers of animatographs.

To secure forty-six negatives per second Edison invented a special exposure device. Each negative would have but one-forty-sixth of a second to itself, and that must include the time during which the fresh surface of film was being brought into position before the lens. He therefore introduced an intermittent gearing, which jerked the film forwards forty-six times per second, but allowed it to remain stationary for nine-tenths of the period allotted to each picture. During the time of movement the lens was covered by the shutter. This principle of exposure has also been largely adopted by other inventors. By its means weak negatives are avoided, while pictures projected on to a screen gain greatly in brilliancy and steadiness.

The capabilities of a long flexible film-band having been shown by Edison, he was not long without imitators. Phantoscopes, Bioscopes, Photoscopes, and many other instruments followed in quick succession. In 1895 Messrs. LumiÈre scored a great success with their Cinematograph, which they exhibited at Marseilles and Paris; throwing the living picture as we now know it on to a screen for a large company to see. This camera-lantern opens the era of commercial animated-photography. The number of patents taken out since 1895 in connection with living-picture machines is sufficient proof that inventors have either found in this particular branch of photography a peculiar fascination, or have anticipated from it a substantial profit.

A company known as the Mutoscope and Biograph Company has been formed for the sole object of working the manufacture and exhibition of the living picture on a great commercial scale. The present company is American, but there are subsidiary allied companies in many parts of the world, including the British Isles, France, Italy, Belgium, Germany, Austria, India, Australia, South Africa. The part that the company has played in the development of animated photography will be easily understood from the short account that follows.

The company controls three machines, the Mutograph, or camera for making negatives; the Biograph, or lantern for throwing pictures on to the screen; and the Mutoscope, a familiar apparatus in which the same pictures may be seen in a different fashion on the payment of a penny.

Externally the Mutograph is remarkable for its size, which makes it a giant of its kind. The complete apparatus weighs, with its accumulators, several hundreds of pounds. It takes a very large picture, as animatograph pictures go—two by two-and-a-half inches, which, besides giving increased detail, require less severe magnification than is usual with other films. The camera can make up to a hundred exposures per second, in which time twenty-two feet of film will have passed before the lens.

The film is so heavy that were it arrested bodily during each exposure and then jerked forward again, it might be injured. The mechanism of the mutograph, driven at regular speed, by an electric motor, has been so arranged as to halt only that part of the film which is being exposed, the rest moving forward continuously. The exposed portion, together with the next surface, which has accumulated in a loop behind it, is dragged on by two rollers that are in contact with the film during part only of their revolutions. Thus the jerky motion is confined to but a few inches of the film, and even at the highest speeds the camera is peculiarly free from vibration.

An exposed mutograph film is wound for development round a skeleton reel, three feet in diameter and seven long, which rotates in a shallow trough containing the developing solution. Development complete, the reel is lifted from its supports and suspended over a succession of other troughs for washing, fixing, and final washing. When dry the negative film is passed through a special printing frame in contact with another film, which receives the positive image for the biograph. The difficulty of handling such films will be appreciated to a certain extent even by those whose experience is confined to the snaky behaviour of a short Kodak reel during development.

The Mutoscope Company’s organisation is as perfect as its machinery. It has representatives in all parts of the world. Wherever stirring events are taking place, whether in peace or war, a mutograph operator will soon be on the spot with his heavy apparatus to secure pictures for world-wide exhibition. It need hardly be said that great obstacles, human and physical, have often to be overcome before a film can be exposed; and considerable personal danger encountered. We read that an operator, despatched to Cuba during the Spanish-American War was left three days and nights without food or water to guard his precious instruments, the party that had landed him having suddenly put to sea on sighting a Spanish cruiser. Another is reported to have had a narrow escape from being captured at sea by the Spaniards after a hot chase. It is also on record that a mutograph set up in Atlantic City to take a procession of fire-engines was charged and shattered by one of the engines; that the operators were flung into the crowd: and that nevertheless the box containing the exposed films was uninjured, and on development yielded a very sensational series of pictures lasting to the moment of collision.

The Mutoscope Company owns several thousand series of views, none probably more valuable than those of his Holiness the Pope, who graciously gave Mr. W. K. Dickson five special sittings, during which no less than 17,000 negatives were made, each one of great interest to millions of people throughout the world.

The company spares neither time nor money in its endeavour to supply the public with what will prove acceptable. A year’s output runs into a couple of hundred miles of film. As much as 700 feet is sometimes expended on a single series, which may be worth anything up to £1000.

The energy displayed by the operators is often marvellous. To take instances. The Derby of 1898 was run at 3.20 p.m. At ten o’clock the race was run again by Biograph on the great sheet at the Palace Theatre. On the home-coming of Lord Kitchener from the Soudan Campaign, a series of photographs was taken at Dover in the afternoon and exhibited the same evening! Or again, to consider a wider sphere of action, the Jubilee Procession of 1897 was watched in New York ten days after the event; two days later in Chicago; and in three more the films were attracting large audiences in San Francisco, 5000 miles from the actual scene of the procession!

One may easily weary of a series of single views passed slowly through a magic-lantern at a lecture or entertainment. But when the Biograph is flashing its records at lightning speed there is no cause for dullness. It is impossible to escape from the fascination of movement. A single photograph gives the impression of mere resemblance to the original; but a series, each reinforcing the signification of the last, breathes life into the dead image, and deludes us into the belief that we see, not the representation of a thing, but the thing itself. The bill of fare provided by the Biograph Company is varied enough to suit the most fastidious taste. Now it is the great Naval Review off Spithead, or President Faure shooting pheasants on his preserves near Paris. A moment’s pause and then the magnificent Falls of Niagara foam across the sheet; Maxim guns fire harmlessly; panoramic scenes taken from locomotives running at high velocity unfold themselves to the delighted spectators, who feel as if they really were speeding over open country, among towering rocks, or plunging into the darkness of a tunnel. Here is an express approaching with all the quiver and fuss of real motion, so faithfully rendered that it seems as if a catastrophe were imminent; when, snap! we are transported a hundred miles to watch it glide into a station. The doors open, passengers step out and shake hands with friends, porters bustle about after luggage, doors are slammed again, the guard waves his flag, and the carriages move slowly out of the picture. Then our attention is switched away to the 10-inch disappearing gun, landing and firing at Sandy Hook. And next, as though to show that nothing is beneath the notice of the biograph, we are perhaps introduced to a family of small pigs feeding from a trough with porcine earnestness and want of manners.

It must not be thought that the Living Picture caters for mere entertainment only. It serves some very practical and useful ends. By its aid the movements of machinery and the human muscles may be studied in detail, to aid a mechanical or medical education. It furnishes art schools with all the poses of a living model. Less serious pursuits, such as dancing, boxing, wrestling and all athletic sports and exercise, will find a use for it. As an advertising medium it stands unrivalled, and we shall owe it a deep debt of gratitude if it ultimately supplants the flaring posters that disfigure our towns and desecrate our landscapes. Not so long since, the directors of the Norddeutscher-Lloyd Steamship Company hired the biograph at the Palace Theatre, London, to demonstrate to anybody who cared to witness a very interesting exhibition that their line of vessels should always be used for a journey between England and America.

The Living Picture has even been impressed into the service of the British Empire to promote emigration to the Colonies. Three years ago Mr. Freer exhibited at the Imperial Institute and in other places in England a series of films representing the 1897 harvest in Manitoba. Would-be emigrants were able to satisfy themselves that the great Canadian plains were fruitful not only on paper. For could they not see with their own eyes the stately procession of automatic “binders” reaping, binding, and delivering sheaves of wheat, and puffing engines threshing out the grain ready for market? A far preferable method this to the bogus descriptions of land companies such as lured poor Chuzzlewit and Mark Tapley into the deadly swamps of “Eden.”

Again, what more calculated to recruit boys for our warships than the fine Polytechnic exhibition known as “Our Navy”? What words, spoken or printed, could have the effect of a series of vivid scenes truthfully rendered, of drills on board ship, the manning and firing of big guns, the limbering-up of smaller guns, the discharge of torpedoes, the headlong rush of the “destroyers”?

The Mutoscope, to which reference has been made above, may be found in most places of public entertainment, in refreshment bars, on piers, in exhibitions, on promenades. A penny dropped into a slot releases a handle, the turning of which brings a series of pictures under inspection. The pictures, enlarged from mutograph films, are mounted in consecutive order round a cylinder, standing out like the leaves of a book. When the cylinder is revolved by means of the handle the picture cards are snapped past the eye, giving an effect similar to the lifelike projections on a biograph screen. From 900 to 1000 pictures are mounted on a cylinder.

The advantages of the mutoscope—its convenient size, its simplicity, and the ease with which its contents may be changed to illustrate the topics and events of the day—have made the animated photograph extremely popular. It does for vision what the phonograph does for sound. In a short time we shall doubtless be provided with handy machines combining the two functions and giving us double value for our penny.

The real importance and value of animated photography will be more easily estimated a few years hence than to-day, when it is still more or less of a novelty. The multiplication of illustrated newspapers and magazines points to a general desire for pictorial matter to help down the daily, weekly, or monthly budget of news, even if the illustrations be imaginative products of Fleet Street rather than faithful to fact. The reliable living picture (we expect the “set-scene”) which “holds up a mirror to nature,” will be a companion rather than a rival of journalism, following hard on the description in print of an event that has taken place under the eye of the recording camera. The zest with which we have watched during the last two years biographic views of the embarkation and disembarkation of troops, of the transport of big guns through drifts and difficult country, and of the other circumstances of war, is largely due to the descriptions we have already read of the things that we see on the screen. And, on the other hand, the impression left by a series of animated views will dwell in our memories long after the contents of the newspaper columns have become confused and jumbled. It is therefore especially to be hoped that photographic records will be kept of historic events, such as the Jubilee, the Queen’s Funeral, King Edward’s Coronation, so that future generations may, by the turning of a handle, be brought face to face with the great doings of a bygone age.