Unidentified photographer / artist
1886, 10 April
A Tin-Type

Magazine page
Google Books
The Yale, Volume 22, No.643, April 10, 1886, p.181-182.
 
A TIN-TYPE.
 
What a mystic charm invests the precincts of the good old tin-type gallery. They are all alike these little dens, wherever one finds them be it beneath the elms of dear old Yale, or overhanging the roar and bustle of busy Broadway, or even tucked away in the obscurity of some peaceful hamlet far from the haunts of the dude and the dudine. Probably none of us but has taken his turn before the queer little battered camera. Perhaps the rumor of that downy shadow on our upper lip has been wafted to our best girl far away. She has expressed a desire to have positive ocular evidence, that she may glory with us in the new-found badge of manhood; then she will dream rosy day-dreams enlivened by sweet dalliance with taffy-tolu. She will picture the coming summer when we may wander away into the molten glory of the moonlight, we care not whither; and returning, may hang over the garden gate while she fondly gazes into our Yale-blue orbs and we tenderly whisper "Does our mustache scratch you dear?"
 
Fired with zeal in such good cause, we mount the crazy, narrow stairway, up, up, until we almost expect to meet good old St. Peter himself at the top. But instead we are ushered into a stuffy little waiting-room containing a large prize collection of portraits of ugly women and impossible men. We are not tempted to use the celluloid comb, toothless with age, or the combination blacking, clothes, nail and hair-brush of still more remote antiquity.
 
The murky air is redolent of chemicals and brings back painful recollections of many a bright afternoon spent in the musty laboratory, while we vainly longed for meanderings in the fresh spring woods and for the scent of the wild violets.
 
We are fast losing ourselves in revery when a shabby little old man, thinhaired and shiny, appears on the scene and remarks in a tired voice seventyfive cents, please.
 
The silver pieces which he tenders in change part reluctantly from his grimy fingers. His scraggy beard is sprinkled with gray and his shoulders have a weary droop; this we notice as he precedes us.
 
Presently we are "posed" in a most agonizing position on a picket fence. Our legs seem to become inextricably tangled. We begin to feel unhappy. The little man retires. He is obliged to prepare the plate; but that never could occupy so long a time.
 
We are convinced that he is seizing the opportunity to eat his luncheon if he indulges in such a luxury.
 
Ah, he returns! We assume a faraway expression; it is useless to attempt to look pleased.
 
The photographer murmurs mechanically, "Hold your chin a little higher; just a trifle more. There, now look at this, please." br> 
"This" is an object placed at an angle of 850 to our left; we are able to focus only one eye upon it; to the other it is invisible.
 
Again the little man vanishes. Meanwhile our celluloid collar has melted and run down inside our shirt-front.
 
Here he is at last! He brings the plate. Then he crawls into the camera.
 
We cannot chase away the unpleasant thought "What if he should smother in there and we be charged with his death." We feel that we are almost in the mood for such a crime.
 
Just as the strain is becoming unbearable we hear in muffled tones "Now set still." He pulls the string. We feel our face contract, a wild stare comes into our eyes, we gasp for breath. One awful moment of suspense, then the camera closes with a snap, so sudden that we lose our balance and slide off the fence, leaving a large piece of the breast of our best trousers hanging to a picket.
 
Then another long wait. We feel certain that he has slipped out by a back stairway to spend the seventy-five cents in beer. But no, he returns and hands over what! Not a portrait of ourselves ! No, never could we have looked like that. He is trying to palm off some back numbers on us, surely. Why, our mustache doesn't even show! But it is useless of course to bandy words.
 
Our wrath is smothered and we make our escape, vowing never to do it again no, not even to please our best girl. H.
 
LL/35320