We reproduce on page 664 and
665 a number of photographs of the Battle of Antietam, taken by the well-known and
enterprising photographer, Mr. M. B. Brady, of this city. The following description of
these wonderfully lifelike pictures is from one who knew the ground:The first of these pictures—the large view of
Antietam creek and bridge, the crossing of which General Burnside effected at such a
fearful sacrifice of life—exhibits little or no traces of the conflict. The spot is
just as lovely and tranquil as when last we visited it. Artistically speaking, the picture
is one of the most beautiful and perfect photograph landscapes that we have seen. The tone
is clear and firm, but soft, and every object is brought out with remarkable distinctness.
Next to it is a smaller photograph, some seven inches square, which tells a tale of
desperate contention. Traversing it is seen a high rail fence, in the fore-ground of which
are a number of dead bodies grouped in every imaginable position, the stiffened limbs
preserving the same attitude as that maintained by the sufferers in their last agonies.
Minute as are the features of the dead, and unrecognizable by the naked eye, you can, by
bringing a magnifying glass to bear on them, identify not merely their general outline,
but actual expression. This, in many instances, is perfectly horrible, and shows through
what tortures the poor victims must have passed before they were relieved from their
sufferings.
Another photograph exhibits a deep trench or gully, one
side of which had been protected by a strong fence, the rails of which are seen scattered
about. Lying transversely in its depths, where they have evidently fallen in attempting to
cross, are piles of rebel dead, many of them shoeless and in rags. On the left bank are a
number of persons examining the spot with curious interest, visitors probably from some of
the Northern cities.
A poetic and melancholy interest attaches to the next
scene that we come to. There is such a dash of sentiment in it that it looks more like an
artistic composition than the reproduction of an actuality. A new-made grave occupies the
centre of the picture, a small head and foot board, the former with lettering, defining
its limits. Doubled up near it, with the features almost distinguishable, is the body of a
little drummer-boy who was probably shot down on the spot. How it happens that it should
have been left uninterred, while the last honors were paid to one of his comrades, we are
unable to explain. Gazing on the body, with a pitying interest, stands in civilian’s
attire one of those seedy, shiftless-looking beings, the first glance at whom detects an
ill-spent career and hopeless future. It is some time, perhaps, since that blunted nature
has been moved by such deep emotion as it betrays at this mournful sight.
We now pass on to a scene of suffering of another
character, where, under tents, improvised by blankets stretched on fence-rails, we see the
wounded receiving the attentions of the medical staff. Next to it is a bleak landscape, on
which the shadows of evening are rapidly falling, revealing, in its dim light, a singular
spectacle. It is that of a row of dead bodies, stretching into the distance, in the form
of an obtuse angle, and so mathematically regular that it looks as if a whole regiment
were swept down in the act of performing some military evolution. Here and there are
beautiful stretches of pastoral scenery, disfigured by the evidences of strife, either in
the form of broken caissons, dead horses, or piles of human corpses. In one place a
farm-house offers visible marks of the hot fire of which it was the centre, the walls
being battered in and the lintels of the windows and doors broken.