I couldn't help but squeeze in one more item before the end of November. 
This article is from the November 1854 issue of "The Photographic and Fine 
Art Journal" (Vol. VII, No. 11) pg. 324-6.  Although the article itself
provides no indication as to the author, page 352 of the same issue names
John F. Fitzgibbon as the source: "Mr. Fitzgibbon has returned from his
tour among the backwoodsmen of Western Missouri and Arkansas. . .Two of
his sketches of life in the woods will be found in the present number." 
- - - - - - - - - -

DAGUERREOTYPING IN THE BACK WOODS.
Transcribed from a Daguerreotypists' Journal.

   "That's the chap--him with the white hat, fat and short like our old 
sow.  Stand back, boys, and let me talk to the image man.  Hello stranger, 
are you him?"
  "Whom do you mean, my friend?"
  "Well, now, I didn't say I was your friend, but, howsever, we wants to 
know if you are the Doggerytype man that sent them big bills out here--hold 
on, I'll show you one on 'em," at the same time diving his hand into his 
coat-tail, he pulled out one of my large posters.
  "I profess to be the artist, gentlemen, and shall be at your service 
shortly."
  "Bill, you here them big words?  Send for Caleb's larnin book till we 
know what he's comin over us."
  Such was the reception I received at a small town called Sovreignville, 
near the borders of Missouri, Arkansas, and the Cherokee Nation.  The crowd 
consisted of a motley group of half-breeds and whites of both sexes, that 
came crowding round as I alighted from my wooden elliptic spring wagon.
  Shortly afterwards I took a stroll over the town.  It was what is 
generally denominated a "one horse town," and I would think a tolerably 
small pony at that.  Two stores, one grocery, a stable, and four dwellings, 
made up the sum of its buildings.  I was searching for a room for 
operations, and in passing I was accosted by an old chap with "what are you 
a hunting for, stranger?"
  "Nothing but light," I replied.
  "Why, you're not blind, I don't think; I see plenty of light."
  "You don't understand me, my friend.  I am looking for a room suitable 
for taking daguerreotype pictures in,--a room with a good light."
  "Oh, I reckon you's the great little man what's a gwine to take off our 
heads with a chimera.  Maybe I can fix you off,--my darter Polly's got a 
bed-room.  Polly can gin up her bed and sleep on a pallet.  You won't take 
pictures by night, will you, stranger?"
  "No, not Daguerreotypes."
  "Well, Polly axed me when you come to get her fizzyogerny took, so you 
must close the bargain with her 'bout the room."
  Polly and myself soon "struck a trade, and I began arrangements for 
operations.  In the course of a few hours I announced myself as ready to 
take likenesses of all that wished them.  In a short time my room was 
crowded.  All the cases for exhibition on the table were opened and 
re-opened a thousand times; the contents of my trunk turned over and over, 
the camera scrutinized before and behind.  Thinks I this is all talk and no 
cider; and I asked if there was any lady or gentleman present that wanted a 
picture?  A dead silence ensued; then a titter.  At length one of the chaps 
spoke up to his sweetheart, "Betse, spose you have your pretty taken."
  "No, Bill, you front the glass awile, and see how it works on you."
  "I golly," says Bill, "I'll try it.  Is thar any danger of the machines' 
bustin, stranger?  I've heard you've got an all-fired lot of chemicals and 
acids in thar."
  "No danger in the world, sir.  All you have to do is to keep still for a 
few seconds."  I then began to place him in position--
  "Hold on here, stranger, none of your steel traps and triggers 'bout my 
head."
  "Softly, my friend, I am only placing your head in the rest for the 
purpose of keeping you steady."
  "Hold on, I tell you, you're not a gwine to screw me up: I'm not the sort 
to be screwed, I can tell you, and if you don't quit, I'll slope."
  I then explained as distinctly as I could the nature of the operation, 
and Bill became easy.  His position was taken again, and I was just about 
to draw the slide from the plate when he cried out, "Betse, whar's the meal 
bag?"
  "Keep very still and quiet now, if you please," said I.
  "Whar's the meal bag, Betse?" cried Bill again.  "stranger, thar was a 
dogerytype man here from Maysville, that made Reuben Frother's face right 
black on one side, and several of their faces black the same way.  Now me 
and Betse fetched the meal bag along to whiten one side of our faces, so 
when the machine works on us we'll be the same thing on both sides."  So 
slap, slap, went the meal bag on the side of his face, and Bill "agreed to 
be dratted if both sides would'nt be white now."  I said not a word--in 
fact I was amused beyond laughing, and quietly carried on the process.  The 
whole crowed had great faith in the meal bag arrangement.  The artist who 
had visited them had indeed only given them half pictures.
  In a few moments the picture was produced.  I did not show it to my 
sitter, for the reason that I hold it for Barnum, who when he beholds it 
will dance, shed tears of joy, and thenceforth regard me as his Magnus 
Apollo, his greatest benefactor.
  After a good deal of trouble, I explained to my patrons that the black 
pictures were not the result of the camera but of the operator, and that I 
would produce them pictures as white as they wanted.
  At another trial (without the meal bag) I succeeded in a fine likeness of 
Bill, who exclaimed, on seeing it, "Stranger, you're the greatest dogman 
that's bin in these parts.  Jump in here, Betse, and let's have you."
  Betse sat down, and Bill wanted to look at her through the instrument.--I 
permitted him, as soon as I got the focus adjusted.
  "Look out, stranger," said Bill, when he peeped in, "your noggin's in 
danger.  Turn that hogany box over, Betse is bottom upwards.  I don't 'low 
sich jokes as this stranger.  Betse aint to be turned up that way.  Over 
with her!"
  "My friend, says I, Miss Betsey is in no danger.  Her position is caused 
by the instrument," and after a considerable explanation, convinced him 
that I was not intending to make game of his girl.
  Betse's likeness was obtained, "right side up," and Bill was 
overjoyed.--The crowd was highly pleased, and went away as the sun 
declined, with the promise to devote to-morrow to my services; and I 
thought that night as I cast myself, wearied with the day's exertions, on 
my bed, "Jordan is a hard road to travel."

                   ---------

          THE "ARKANSAW TRAVELER" DAGUERREOTYPED.

  Who has not heard of the famous "Arkansaw Traveler?"  What would I not 
give, thought I, if I could only get his physiognomy for my gallery?  I had 
been traveling in south-west Missouri, north-west Arkansas, and the Indian 
Nation, on a professional tour.
  I had often asked the question, who is the 'Arkansaw Traveler?' and had 
never heard it answered.  His occupation, his residence, his habits, were 
all mysterious.  He was ubiquitous in his movements, as hard to be found as 
the man that struck Billy Patterson, yet celebrated everywhere.
  Whilst at Nesho, in Missouri, a small town about thirty miles from the 
Arkansas line, I gathered from expressions that dropped from divers pers  
ons, that he had been there, and that he had left with a Cherokee named 
Alberty for a great ball-play that was to take place near the line of the 
Cherokee, Osage, and Seneca Nations.  I determined to follow on, thinking I 
might be enabled to operate there successfully, and obtain perhaps the 
picture I so much desired.
  I arrived upon the ground.  The sun was retiring to his bed of grass 
behind a beautiful green knoll, far in the great ocean prairie that 
stretched limitless to the west.  The hum of voices arose on all sides; 
herds of ponies were grazing on the plain; the smoke of camp fires were 
rising like pillars of clouds to the heaven; night came one, and I retired 
to my pallet on the ground and anxiously wished for the morrow.
  It came, and all nature was astir.  Horses were scampering and neighing 
on all sides.  The language of four Nations was heard, and that of the 
Osages rose high above the rest, as they howled their morning prayers to 
the sun.  A faint south breeze and a cloudless sky, betokened a scorching 
day.
  As yet the scene was indescribably beautiful.  The shade of the walnut 
grove where I had encamped, was thrown far out upon the prairie; the waters 
of the rivulet that ran from the spring in the grove, ran dancing, and 
sparkling in the new sun-beams.
  I looked upon the savages that were encamped along the stream.  In a few 
short years they would all be gathered to their fathers.  Step by step they 
have receded from the advance of the pale faces.  Hunting ground after 
hunting ground has been assigned them, and they now scarce dare look 
eastward lest they should see the frontierman's cabin rise up before their 
eyes.
  One group encamped upon the ground particularly engrossed my attention. 
 A few naked, half-starved wretches, chiefs of one tribe, were listening to 
the wily words of a sleek, fat half-breed, who, caring nought for the blood 
in his veins except that it served to keep life in him, sought to impress 
the great value of the pittance offered by our Government for the land of 
their fathers, and this too in the face of the thousands and millions of 
acres of wild unoccupied lands within the bounds of the United States 
surveys.
  But to my object.  I had as yet seen nothing of the "Traveler," and I 
strolled throughout the encampment in search of him.  I was not successful. 
 The play was about to commence.  The Osages and Senecas were matched 
against the Cherokees--one hundred chosen warriors of the latter against a 
like number of their adversaries.  Yelling like fiends, stamping and 
shouting at every bound, they rushed up, naked, to the dividing line of the 
two parties.  They gave a salutation of defiance.  The ball was cast high 
in the air.  Slap, bang, thump, whoop--there flies the ball--out it goes, 
the Cherokees made the first count.  And so it continued throughout that 
sultry day till late in the afternoon, when Senecas and Osages threw up 
their sticks, and acknowledged the Cherokee's conquerors.
  As I passed from the scene of the play back to my camp, I paused to 
listen to the sound of a fiddle, upon whose strings some hand was "jerking 
a nasty bow."  There was a dance going on, at the place whence the music 
came.  Six or eight young Cherokee half-breed girls were hoeing it down 
with lusty might, face by three sturdy partners of the same tribe.
  As I drew nearer I saw the Arkansaw Traveler.  I knew him at a glance. 
 There needed no hand to point him out.  He was standing elevated on the 
stump of a lone tree that some of the campers had cut down.  Just as I got 
up to the crowd he finished his tune and descended for a "horn."  I 
immediately approached him, told him I was a daguerreotypist, and requested 
his picture.
  "Colonel," said he, "I've no time for pictering.  I'm a goin' to git up 
on that stump agin, and expect to fiddle there for half an hour.  If you 
can get anything out of me when I'm up there you can do so."
  I was but a short distance from my instrument and materials.  I 
immediately went to them, prepared a plate, and returned to the dance.  The 
fiddle was ringing with extra life.  The Arkansaw Traveler was playing his 
own tune, the Arkansaw Traveler, and the girls were hopping higher than 
ever.
  "You've got back, Colonel," said the Traveler.
  "Yes sir, and am ready now to begin operations," said I.
  (Hands round, gals!)
  "Colonel, I don't vally pictures much.  Howmsoever, if you can git 
anything from me as I go along, you're welcome to it.  (Down the middle 
Sakee and Jack!)  I wound'nt stop this tune now if General Jackson was to 
come along and want to take my image.  (Dance to head!)  Picters can't show 
the innard man, (turn partner!)  that's the part I vally; (shave it down!) 
 Why don't you let loose, Colonel? (All hands take seats on the log!)
  The tune was over, and the Traveler descended.  I advanced cautiously 
towards my object and explained to him why and how much I would appreciate 
the likeness of so noted a character.  He finally consented to sit.  I 
arranged his position on the stump, and succeeded in getting a brilliant, 
precious likeness.  I have it in my gallery.  It may be known by its 
peculiarities, at a glance.  A splendid buckskin hunting shirt, variegated 
and ornamented with many colored silks and several rows of broad fringe, a 
red calico shirt, black cloth pantaloons, a red sash, a Kossuth slouched 
hat and beaded moccasins--these formed his dress when he sat for my camera. 
 His countenance I need not, cannot describe.  But as it appears, hanging 
among the specimens of my gallery, I regard it as one of the most 
remarkable heads of the day.

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Posted for your enjoyment.     Gary W. Ewer     
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11-30-97