I LIKE to take the album old, with covers made of plush and gold—or
maybe it is brass—and see the pictures of the jays who long have gone
their divers ways and come no more, alas!
This picture is of Uncle James, who quit these futile worldly games full
twenty years ago; up yonder by the village church, where in his pew he
used to perch, he now is lying low. Unheard by him the church bell
chimes; the grass has grown a score of times above his sleeping form.
For him there is no wage or price, with him the weather cuts no ice, the
sunshine or the storm.
Yet here he sits as big as life, as dolled up by his loving wife, “to
have his picture took.” Though dead to all the world of men, yea, doubly
dead, and dead again, he lives in this old book. His long side whiskers,
north and south, stand forth, like mudguards for his mouth, his treasure
and his pride. With joy he saw those whiskers sprout, with glee he saw
them broaden out his face, already wide. In those sweet days of Auld
Lang Syne the men considered whiskers fine and raised them by the peck;
a man grew whiskers every place that they would grow upon his face, and
more upon his neck. He made his face a garden spot, and he was sad that
he could not grow whiskers on his brow; he prized his whiskers more than
mon and raised his spinach by the ton—where are those whiskers now?
Oh, ask the ghost of Uncle James, whose whiskers grew on latticed
frames—at least, they look that way, as in this picture they appear,
this photograph of yesteryear, so faded, dim and gray.
My Uncle James looks sad and worn; he wears a smile, but it’s forlorn, a
grin that seems to freeze. And one can hear the artist say—that artist
dead and gone his way—“Now, then, look pleasant, please!” My uncle’s
eyes seem full of tears. What wonder when, beneath his ears, two prongs
are pressing sore? They’re there to hold his head in place, while he
presents a smiling face for half an hour or more. The minutes drag—if
they’d but rush! The artist stands and whispers, “Hush! Don’t breathe or
wink your eyes! Don’t let your smile evaporate, but keep it rigid, firm
and straight—in it all virtue lies!”
It is a scene of long ago, when art was long and time was slow, brought
back by this old book; there were no anesthetics then, and horror filled
the souls of men who “had their pictures took.” Strange thoughts all
soulful people hold, when poring o’er an album old, the book of vanished
years. The dead ones seem to come again, the queer, old-fashioned dames
and men, with prongs beneath their ears!
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