If any one wants to become thoroughly acquainted with the weaknesses and
frailties of humanity, just let him become a camera carrier, in “all
that the word implies,”--and he will enter a school, wherein he will
learn more of the different phases of human nature in one lesson than he
has during the last ten years of his life. No other vocation, if we
except that of the live newspaper reporter, offers the same advantages
in this biological study. Varied indeed are the experiences and
vicissitudes of the amateur photographer, whether the camera bearer
carries the latest Universal, with aluminium mounting, or rejoices in a
Premium Pinhole outfit, he experiences the same annoyances and
disappointments. Ignorant and unreasonable people are sure to be met
with on an outing, and, worse than all, he has frequently to suffer for
the sins of some rude member of the guild who has been there before him.
Experiences like these are but too apt to discourage persons of a
nervous or sensitive temperament; the picture, however, is not all
shadows. There is often a bright side for the camera bearer, especially
if he be susceptible of the humorous. Photographically speaking, the
writer, in addition to such annoyances as double exposures,
unaccountable fog, forgetting to draw the slide, put plates in the
holder, or take the cap off, to say nothing of neglecting to insert the
stop, has met with many rebuffs and disappointments on his outings,
through meeting with ignorant or unreasonable people, in all such cases
his rule has been always to look upon the comical side of the situation,
and try to achieve his object, bringing into play his common sense, tact
and knowledge of human nature, generally with the result of obtaining
the coveted negative.
The trouble, however, does not always lay in the strangers we meet in
our travels; the fault too often is with the camera bearer. There is a
class of persons, largely represented among the guild of amateur
photographers, who presume entirely too much on their wealth or social
standing, and who at home pride themselves on their good breeding and
polite manners, claiming to be within the so-called exclusive social
circles or sets; yet they no sooner get away from the restraint of their
immediate surroundings, such as a photographic outing affords, than they
seem to forget that at least a little courtesy is due the strangers on
whose premises they trespass. The dweller in a picturesque tumble-down
shanty, or custodian of an old colonial or religious land mark, no
matter in how humble circumstances of life they may be, have rights
guaranteed them under the law, which even the exclusive amateur is bound
to respect. One specimen of this kind will often spoil the game for all
amateurs for some time to come. We will give a few instances which have
come under our notice.
Early last spring two prominent members of the Quaker City Camera Club
concluded to photograph an historic old church in one of the German
counties (so-called) in our state. The place was rather difficult of
access, being away from the usual lines of modern travel, so extensive
preparations were made. The day proved all that could be desired. A team
had been telegraphed for, and met the pair at the nearest railroad
station. When the spot was reached the outfits were quickly unpacked and
set up. No permission was asked, nor notice was taken of flower-beds
trampled over, or other damage done. Then the bell of the parsonage was
rung,--the clergyman answered the call in person. The spokesman, great
in his own importance, asked for the keys of the church, as they wished
to photograph it. The dominie answered, with an unmistakable
Pennsylvania Dutch accent, that the sexton lived about a half a mile
down the road. The reply was, that as he had a key it did not suit them
to run after the sexton. Well, one word brought on the other, and the
parley ended with the clergyman saying, “You will please excuse me; I
got no time to fool with such nonsense, and I can’t be bothered with
opening the church for every fool photographer who chooses to come out
here from town; please go about your business, if you have any.” The
interview closed with the threat by the parson to use a hoe-handle over
the next photographers who should come to bother him with their
intrusiveness. Our two amateurs packed up their outfits and beat an
ignominious retreat, going back to Philadelphia with temper ruffled and
object unaccomplished.
A few days after this episode one of the twain, wishing to have some
sport at our expense, suggested to the secretary of the Leopardville
Camera Club the advisability of a trip to the adjoining county, and
securing for him a set of negatives of the old landmark. We knew nothing
of what happened, and consequently, owing to our innocence and
unsophisticated nature, we unconsciously fell into the snare that our
kind friend laid for us on the first fine day. We made an early start.
We went merrily over hill and dale, not dreaming of trouble. When within
half a mile of the church, we stopped at a roadside inn to water our
horse and inquire our way. We remembered the hostler, who, while
reigning up, caught a glance at our outfit. To our surprise, he broke
out with, “Say, Mishter, vas you a fotegraf feller?” “Why?” we queried.
“Vell, if you vas, tont go to der kärch up dere; der breecher letzt woch
putty near broke zwei fotegraf feller’s het’s up.” Here was a
revelation. Our nickel had been well invested. We made closer
inquiries,--from the description, we at once recognized our friend from
the Quaker City who had suggested our trip, and was no doubt chuckling
in anticipation of a countryman’s discomfiture. After a few moments’
thought we continued on our way. We met the dominie, and when we got
back to our home we had eight negatives, exteriors and interiors, in our
satchel. In one of the latter the dominie appears in the quaint old
pulpit. With our ten dollar outfit, by the use of civility, tact, and
common sense, we had accomplished that in which our predecessors had so
signally failed, mainly by not exercising the common civility due
towards a stranger.
Another case which came under our notice but a few weeks ago: In an
adjoining county there still exist several quaint old buildings, erected
during the middle of last century by a religious community, and used by
them until long after the Revolution. Owing to the curious architecture
and proximity to a summer resort, the property is often overrun by
visitors and sightseers, who run over the grounds, enter the houses,
intrude on the privacy of the inmates, as if they had no rights of their
own whatever, and in fact act as if the whole premises were public
property. The custodian or trustee of the property is a plain country
Dutchman, and keeps an especially sharp lookout for amateur
photographers, as the religious sect to which he belongs frowns down
portraiture of any kind. A few weeks ago a party of nine or ten persons,
ladies and gentlemen, made a pilgrimage to the old settlement under the
leadership of a well-known pulpit orator in Pennsylvania. Among the
party were several amateur photographers. When the party arrived at the
grounds they entered, without as much as asking permission, and at once
made themselves at home within the premises regardless of the inmates.
While the amateurs were setting up their cameras, the preacher was
airing his knowledge of the religious doctrines of the community which
flourished there in days gone by. While making these derogatory
allusions, the party had been joined by a stranger,--it was the trustee,
and who lost no time in introducing himself to the preacher. The two men
were a study for an artist. The preacher, who prided himself on his fine
physique, oratorial powers, and dignity, was the ideal picture of the
petted fashionable preacher of the present day. The other, a man of
medium height, bare-footed, unkempt; a straw-hat of last season’s
growth, a shirt of unbleached muslin, a pair of overalls, which hung by
a single “gallus,” completed his wardrobe; his language was pure and
unalloyed Pennsylvania Dutch.
In appearance the two men as they faced each other were as diametrically
opposite as the poles. The trustee, without any ceremony, asked the
preacher what he was doing there; the latter, looking down at the
speaker with contempt and scorn, and nettled at the interruption, curtly
told him to attend to his own affairs. This was more than the trustee
could stand, and he at once ordered the party to pack up and get out.
This in turn was too much for the preacher; so, turning to the trustee,
said, “My good fellow, you seem not to know whom you are addressing; I
am the Rev. Dr. ----, of ---- Church, in Philadelphia, and I wish you to
understand that you are in the presence of ladies and gentlemen, and I
would advise you to take yourself off without ado, as your presence here
is unwarranted, uncalled for, and distasteful to the persons present as
well as myself personally; and further, your appearance is hardly such
as would be permitted within the circles in which the ladies present are
in the habit of moving.” During this speech the trustee stood with mouth
and eyes wide open. The others of the party nodded approval as their
spiritual leader was delivering himself. One of the photographers was
trying to train his camera on the countryman, who had for a few moments
stood speechless. But it was only the calm before the coming storm. With
a bound the trustee kicked over the tripod and camera; then, turning to
the preacher in an unmistakable attitude, told him in his rich German
English, that he was on private property, tramping down a growing grass
crop, and if he and his crowd didn’t pack themselves off at once he
would arrest and fine the party for trespassing. “But, my good fellow,”
ventured the now crestfallen preacher. “Don’t speak to me!” was the
retort. “You claim to be a gentleman; maybe you try to be at home. But
if you were one, you would know better than coming with a crowd on
another’s place, where you have no business, without even asking
permission.” “But, my good man, we are willing to pay you if--” broke in
the preacher. “We don’t want your money. All I want is for you to go and
not bother us. Or do you want me to show you the way?” All this was said
in the rich vernacular peculiar to the locality. There was no help; the
trustee was on his own ground. So the party retreated and filed singly
over the old stile into the road. It would be hard to say which of the
party felt the sadder as they wended their way towards their conveyance,
the crestfallen preacher or the Rittenhouse amateur with his shattered
outfit.
This was but another instance where a little courtesy and politeness
would have saved humiliation and photographic disappointment.