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The photographic news
- Bandzählung
- 24.1880
- Erscheinungsdatum
- 1880
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- Englisch
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- F 135
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- Hochschule für Grafik und Buchkunst Leipzig
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- Hochschule für Grafik und Buchkunst Leipzig
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- Bandzählung
- No. 1145, August 13, 1880
- Digitalisat
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Zeitschrift
The photographic news
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Band
Band 24.1880
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- Register Index 631
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Band
Band 24.1880
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386 THE PHOTOGRAPHIC NEWS. [AtGUST 13, 1880 contraction of the ring by cold may distort the lens uni formly, if its fit in the mount is accurate, merely altering the focus and disturbing the corrections of the instrument. If, however, the cell in which the lens may be mounted is not turned with extreme accuracy, or if the outside of the lens itself is not truly round, so irregular a distortion may arise as to altogether destroy the defining power of the combination to which the lens belongs. There is no question that the practice of burnishing lenses into their mounts has its disadvantages, for when this plan is adopted the operator has no easy remedy against a “frost-bound ” lens, excepting to keep the instrument warm during the time he is using it. If, on the other hand, the glasses are not cemented in their cells, they are liable not only to be mis placed by careless persons, but also to be distorted by being screwed down in their places by an undue degree of force. Lenses should generally be left just the least bit loose in their mounts—not quite enough to cause any possibility of shaking, but the right degree of looseness can generally be estimated by making an attempt to turn the lens in its setting. Few persons realise the ease with which glass bends and yields to pressure. PRINTS FROM OLD NEGATIVES. BY THE AUTHOR OF “ LOOKING BACK.” No. 8.—Only a TRAMP. This is a good negative. It is a bust. You will observe a few stains on the coat; they do not come from careless manipulation—they were on the coat when I made the negative. That in itself, combined with the haggard look, tells its tale. The sitter was “ only a tramp,” in the given language of this matter-of-fact world; he was weather beaten—he was in rags—he was starving—indeed, he was dying—when I made this negative; and do you know that this poor fellow was one of the cleverest boys at Blair’s College, and used to share the same bed with me in the dormitory ? That was five-and-twenty years ago. I can remember Dod Watson—I see him now with his bright eyes, his frank honest look, his strong form that could beat us at all athletic sports ; and now, when I look through this negative—when I see the hollow eyes—when I see the pinched look—it makes me feel sad. It brings back old times—the school days—those wild frolicking days that are never to be forgotten. But I must not write like this, I must try and be practical. I am afraid that I cannot say a great deal as regards the practical working of this nega tive. Indeed, I do not know if it is worth while for me to tell any of the little dodges of the old process—the wet collodion—when every one is on the move towards the dry plate work. Yet I hope that these little sketches of a time gone past will still find interest in the eyes of both old and young. They will remind the old worker of the time when he struggled hard against the stream ; when he had to work as a man can only work who means to get over the troubles that surround him ; when he had to work, not only for his bread and his family, but for the pure love of the business. That in my estimation is half the pleasure of life! Heaven help the poor fellow who labours at a business that his heart and soul repels. In the latter case— “I’d rather be The servile hind for hire, and eat the bread Of some man, scantly himself supplied, Than sov’reign empire hold o’er all the shades.” And to the younger members of our art they should prove interesting as mementos of the past, and—may I likewise hope ?—inculcate some good lesson that may prove beneficial to them through life. Now for my print. It was a sweltering day. 1 was manager of a studio in a certain city not a hundred miles from the town of Prince Bladud, and having a busy day—being disappointed in my dinner—was trying to recruit my exhausted powers by the potent charms of a glass of stout, when the youngest apprentice made his appearance. He had a grin all over his face—not a small one—which indicated that ho thought something witty was on the tapis. “ If you please, Mr. B., some one wants to see you.” “ Who is it ? ” “ Only a tramp!’’ was his grinning answer. My thought now was that my visitor was one of those poor forlorn wretches that you meet wandering slipshod all over the country, and thinking to make him happy by the present of a sixpence, 1 enjoined the boy to go and give him one. What was my amazement to hear, upon the lad's re turn, that the “ tramp ” did not call for charity ; but, learn ing that Geo. Bradforde was in the house, he wished parti cularly to see him. The poor fellow would not come up to the reception-room, so down I had to go to the lobby ; here I found the poor chap, ragged, haggard, and, as I said before, dying. I looked upon him rather indifferently at first, deeming him a stranger; for who could recognise in that poor wretch Father Gordon’s pride—the best scholar in the college—my old chum ? For a moment he looked at me, then, lowering his eyes, he cried more than spoke. “ Geo.’ 1 Geo.’! don’t you know me? ” Once before I had heard words like those, years ago, when 1 was wrecked at North Shields on the S.S. Stanley. 1 believe that I was one of the last on board, and to this moment I cannot tell how I got ashore. Enough if I say that the first words I heard from the lips of one near and dear to me were, “ Geo.’ 1 Geo.’! don’t you know me ? ” Those words used to ring through my ears night and morning. The despair and agony in the tones roused me from my lethargy, and I soon was able to tell her that I knew her; but they were as nothing compared to the tones of the tramp. In one second I had raised the lowered head ; I gazed in the sunken blue eyes ; there was a flash of a time gone past; and I embraced the “ tramp.” What was said and what was done during the first hour I think it would be out of place for me to tell ; but when sundry arrangements had been completed, my old poor ragged chum spoke as follows : “ I have not come begging, Geo.’; I have money ” (here he chinked a few shillings together) ; “ enough to do my turn, at any rate. It was by the merest accident that 1 learned you were here, and think ing upon old times, Geo.’, when we were boys together, I thought that you would not mind doing me a favour. “ I will do everything in my power to assist you, Dod,” was my hearty answer while giving his thin hand a shake. “ But one question, old chum—how did ever you come to be like this? ” There was one of the queerest looks passed over his wan face that ever I witnessed. He took hold of my great shoulders in his hands, and, while looking at me something in the old manner, he said, “ There used to be a favourite song of yours, George, and it will explain the whole matter: 1 Why did she leave me ? Because I was poor 1 ’ Asi said, I did not come begging, but you can do a last kindness to me; just make a nice picture of me. If you like I shall pay you for it, for you ain’t boss here; j ust make a nice one. She’s married, old fellow, but it won’t be doing her husband any harm to have a picture of a poor chap ‘ that loved not wisely, but too well.’” That was how I made this negative. If my eyes were dim in the dark-room, I do not think that any one will say that I should feel ashamed of it. 1 had to send the print to a Mrs. A—, in Ireland—to send it without any comment. In a day or two I received a letter marked “Private,” a five pound note enclosed, and the simple question : “Where is he? Please forward enclosed.’ My answer was shorter than her question : I returned the money with “ Found dead 1 ” on the sheet of paper wrapped round it. According to everyone’s opinion he was “ only a tramp,” yet to me he was my old chum—my bed-fellow—and I must finish this paper by saying R. I. P. 1
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