8th June, 1852. Taunton.
I have been prevailed upon to travel to Taunton, an excursion I undertook with the deepest reluctance. The occasion was a series of lectures hosted by the Somerset Archaeological and Natural History Society, the chief attraction being a rather dry discourse on Roman pottery shards unearthed near Bridgwater. My true reason for attendance, however, was the persistent urging of Dr. Caldwell, who insisted it was my duty as a man of learning to show my face. I suspect his true motive was simply to secure a companion for the journey.
The day took a turn for the worse. Among the presentations was a demonstration of the modern art of calotypy by a certain Mr. Elias Blackwood of Bath, a photographer of considerable local enthusiasm. Caldwell, with a gleam in his eye I have come to mistrust, saw his opportunity. He cornered me beside a display of fossilised ammonites and presented his case with the unassailable logic of a prosecuting barrister.
“Bennet,” he began, “this is not a matter of vanity. It is for the scientific record. A man of your standing… a naturalist of your dedication… a photographic record must be made for posterity!”
I attempted to counter that posterity has managed perfectly well without a likeness of me thus far and is unlikely to suffer for its continued absence. A record of what, precisely? The slow erosion of one’s patience? But Caldwell was resolute, framing the ordeal as a contribution to the Society’s archives—an objective, scientific document. It was a flawed argument, but to continue the debate would have been more exhausting than to submit. I acquiesced.
The procedure itself is remarkably uncomfortable. One is conducted into a room suffused with a chemical miasma and made to sit immobile while the head is secured by a cold, metallic instrument of torture resembling a blacksmith’s clamp. I felt less a gentleman sitting for a portrait and more a specimen being prepared for dissection. Mr. Blackwood, a man with a great deal of earnestness and a very small sense of irony, assured me he was “capturing the very essence of my soul.” I have strong suspicions that he succeeded only in capturing the essence of my profound irritation and a longing for a glass of sherry.
I was commanded to remain perfectly still for a period of stillness that would have been sufficient for the careful annotation of the antennae on a fully mature Carabus violaceus. I passed the time by mentally cataloguing the flaws in Mr. Blackwood’s optimistic assertions about his art.
The resulting image is a hazy, brownish affair. I have the appearance of a geological formation that has been subjected to significant weathering, my expression one of stern disapproval, as if I had just discovered a fraudulent entry in a botanical index. Caldwell professed himself delighted with this “capture of my true character.” I have left the piece of paper in his possession. For science, it is of little value.
On the journey home, my mood was somewhat restored by the sight of a Cinnabar moth (Tyria jacobaeae) resting upon a stalk of ragwort. A flash of crimson and black, its design unambiguous and its purpose clear. Nature presents her truths with a clarity Man has yet to master with all his contrivances.
Editor’s Note: The calotype referenced in this entry is, to our knowledge, the sole authenticated likeness of Bradbury Bennet. It was found among Dr. Henry Caldwell’s estate papers in Bath, confirming Bennet’s claim that he “left the piece of paper in his possession.” Bennet’s description of the image as a “geological formation” is a characteristically droll observation on the calotype process which, unlike the mirror-sharp daguerreotype, produced a softer, textured image from a paper negative.
The back of the cardboard mount bears a pencilled inscription, almost certainly in Caldwell’s hand, which perfectly captures the spirit of the occasion: “B. Bennet, Esq. - A rare specimen, captured at last.” - Dr. E. Reed