THE ENTHUSIAST.
We beg to introduce the Enthusiast to our readers, for such the world is pleased now and then to call him; his real character, however, shall be judged of by the reflecting and considerate; the name may stick to him as a matter of small account, for a wiser man than ourselves has said “there’s nothing in a name.”
When we speak of the reflecting and considerate, it is not to be implied that all persons do not at times and in their way reflect and consider; but it is hard to do so while we are involved in the business of ordinary life; like players at cards, we are absorbed in the calculations that affect them, and in the consideration of the “hand” we hold. We find even the most skilful, straining to recollect himself of the past progress, and speculating on the future chances of the game—so it is with the mass of human beings. Could we look but on as cool spectators of the games, and shifts, and moves of general life, we should pity, smile, expostulate, reprove, where now at best we give a vacant look, an unmeaning sigh, rage and burn, as in turns we feel the instinct of weakness or passion, and are driven to act under their impulses—but we are drawing the portrait of the multitude, and losing sight of the Enthusiast.
How shall we catch his likeness and how present it to our readers? It must be drawn with many lines and a patient hand. We are not limners, or choose not to be, who cut out profiles in black, with a pair of scissors; nor can we daguerrotype him at a glance. No! The Enthusiast must be the subject of many sittings, though we may give a complete feature or, sketch at each of his aspect for the day; and in doing so, we promise ourselves what we hope will be largely shared in by our readers, a fair amount of interest and gratification.
Enthusiast has some eccentricities, or to speak more plainly, has his oddities. Tell him so however, tell him as a friend, and he is enthusiastic to rid himself of his oddities. He has friends who now and then tell him so; he has enemies who also take the same liberty; but it is ten to one, if you examine it, that both friends and enemies, in specifying some particular oddity, confront and contradict each other, and leave the poor Enthusiast not wiser, but more perplexed, between them. Indeed, so much do they themselves blunder, and so much of guess-work is there in their opinions, that to give things their right names, judging from effects, we should call the friend an enemy, and the enemy a friend. The only conclusion we can come to is by canvassing the motives of each, to decide that the well-meaning and evil-doing are ranged on the one side, and the evil-meaning and well-doing on the other. So odd are many things and many persons besides Enthusiast; but we are again sketching from the crowd, and Enthusiast sits impatient, or rather his friends are impatient, which with them is much the same thing.
Enthusiast is an architect! Upon my word, some one will exclaim, what is coming to us now-a-days?—architects and architecture are obtruded upon us at every turn; and a certain lady of a certain age (which means, as everybody knows, no very large portion of a century) indignantly expostulates against this attempt to engross the public mind and attention with these “new fanglements” of a profession and an art which her father and grandfather’s days could very well do without. “Formerly,” she says (which means about the ancient period of her youth), “we hardly heard the mention of such things. Architects, indeed! formerly the word even was scarcely so much as known among us. I recollect,” says she, “having my attention forced upon it somewhere in my school readings, in some out of the way chapter or exercise, which poor Mrs. Cross-stitch imposed on me at the ‘finishing’ of my education. I recollect reading something about architecture, and how I mispronounced the word, and how Mrs. Letterhead, our class mistress, told me to pronounce the ch like k; and how she gave us a spelling task with that and several other hard words to learn at home in the evening, and how my poor father, when heheard memy task at my bed-time, had a dispute with our neighbour, Percy Fullpurse, as to which was the greater personage, the archdeacon or the architect; for they both insisted that Miss Letterhead was wrong in herpronounciation, as Percy had it; and how Percy, who was a great authority with us, for we thought riches and wisdom went very much together, decided thatthe archdeacon and the architect had nothing to do with each other, but that the architect was something he could not exactly tell what or how, but he believed had something to do with the quarter of the Archipelago, with which also he had nothing to do. All this I recollect, and certainly, though I may now smile at the ignorance of my poor father and neighbour Percy, yet I am not bound to hold with all that we are hearing and having dinned into our ears every day. Almost every third person I meet with has some friend or friend’s friend who is an architect, or is acquainted with an architect—and I meet with them at parties; and there is Cousin Symmetry has placed his son by his first wife as pupil to an architect; but what call can there be, or what to do for so many architects? Architects, like Proctors, should keep their places, and some two or three of them inhabit a cathedral town, to take care of those fine old buildings and the churches, for the churchwardens, they say, do not look to those things properly; but, Lord bless us, do not let us be bored with architecture at every turn. Let them have a bookseller specially to themselves, if they will—and now I think of it, I recollect something of an old established shop in that way somewhere in Holborn; but here I see Messrs. Longman are publishing works on architecture, and Mr. Tilt pushing them before one’s noses, and Bell & Wood, and others, as the advertisements tell us. Nay, to crown all! there is that very Boz, in his new work,Martin Chuzzlewit, beginning with an architect, which, by the way, proves what I have always said, that he is wearing out his subjects—and mind what I say again, it will break down! He should take popular characters and popular subjects; but an architect! Why, not one in a thousand knows or cares any thing about architects. Trash! and now just do look at this—a weekly paper, calledThe Builder! and another character to be drawn out—an Enthusiast, who is also an architect! Well, upon my word, that is good! We have heard of castles in the air; I suppose we are going to have a builder of them, and that this Enthusiast is to be the architect. Well, that is as it should be—the clouds for the architects, and the architects for the clouds.”
But when shall we sit down to our business?—Miss Fatima Five-and-forty has had the turn of our pencil, and Enthusiast still awaits its return.
Enthusiast is an architect; that is, he is so for this limning; for Enthusiast enters into most things, and is the life and soul of them. We cannot go into his parentage, to shew how he is allied to, or of the family of, the Geniuses; but really it is a difficult task this sketching that we have undertaken, and reminds us of one of George Cruikshank’s humours, under the head of “Ugly Customers;” not that we are so much out of love with our subject as with the task we have undertaken.
Do excuse us, good readers, for a while longer, and we will tell you a story about this same Enthusiast. It is a trick of some of our contemporary painters, to beguile the sitter by a conversation on some topic which throws him from the restraint of posture-making; perhaps if we try it, Enthusiast may be caught in a more favourable attitude, and we may close the day with some success for our hitherto failing and disappointed pencil.
Enthusiast was one day engaged in a discussion with a lady friend, and had, in the usual warmth of his manner, been descanting on the beauties and properties of Church Architecture in connection with the proposed erection of a suitable structure of this class in a wealthy manufacturing town. “It should be a cathedral,” said he, “at least in dimension, in aspect, in decorations and appointments.” He had dwelt on the peculiar features it should possess, on the facilities that could be commanded, on the energies that ought to be exerted, and so on, when he was cut short in his rhapsody by the cruel observation of the lady,—and a common one it is,—“There is no money for such things now-a-days.”
Casting his eyes around, as if in a reverie of thought, he scanned the character of the various luxuries of the well-appointed drawing-room in which they sat. Glancing from the broad mirror boldly superposed on the massive carved chimney-piece of Carrara marble, which in its turn enclosed the highly-polished steel and burnishings of a costly Sheffield grate and its furniture, to the rich silk hangings of the windows—their gilded cornices and single sheets of plate-glass—thence to the chairs of rosewood and ivory inlaid, the seats of silken suit—the companion couch and ottoman of most ample dress—the curious and costly cabinet, the screens, the gold-mounted harp, the “grand piano.”—Pacing once the length of the room on the gay velvet of the carpet, he turned again and rested his view on the table, choicely decked with books, most expensive in all the appliances of paper, type, illustration, and binding—having done all this, with breath suppressed and stiflings of emotion, which fain had broken out with a scornful repetition of the lady’s words, “there is no money for such things now-a-days,” he quietly disengaged himself of his passion, and by an apparently easy transition ran on thus:
“I have been calling to mind some of my early readings, and most prominent just now is the recollection of the observations of Hope when treating the subject of Egyptian Architecture and commenting on the vastness of the Pyramids; he enters into a speculation as to the means by which the people of that country under the Pharaohs were enabled to find the leisure, or the time necessary for the construction of such stupendous works, and he ventures to ascribe it to the natural fertility of the soil caused by the annual over-flowings of the Nile, thus demanding less from the Egyptians of the labour and care of agriculture; and hence the drift of their exertions in the direction of architecture. True, the bounty of nature would go a long way in supplying to the cravings of art the leisure and opportunity for gratification. True, those pyramids are evidence of the direction of great means and great powers to an end which astounds more than it edifies us, but what were the bounties of Egypt’s irrigating water, what the greatness of their pyramids compared with that bounty which Providence has given us in the mineral and the out-growing mechanical characteristics of this favoured country, and the pyramids which we erect as if in emulation of Egyptian vanity and inutility?” “Pyramids!” interrupted the lady, “Ah, it is always so with you, to propound to us first some extravagant project, and when driven from your ground by a common sense and practical answer, to take shelter in some ambiguity or paradox. Pyramids, Sir,—what is your meaning?” “Here,” said the Enthusiast, “here, madam, are stones from some of the English pyramids, of which your Scotts, and Byrons, and Bulwers, and Marryatts have been the architects. Compare the labours, and the end of the labours of these ingenious minds with those of the architects of the Egyptian pyramids, and tell me then the difference in amount. See the glories and untiring industry of him of Abbotsford, devoted to an incessant wearing out of the energies of his mind in designing pyramids of fiction—look on the ant-like bustle and activity of the thousands whom he brought into requisition to be engaged in the building—look at the millions of devotees who have prostrated and continue to prostrate themselves at these great entombments of his genius.—The paper-makers—the printers—the artists employed in illustration—the binders—the booksellers—the advertizing—the correspondence—the carrying—volumes, pyramids of volumes to advertize alone—an endless train of carriages and lines of road for the conveyance—the Builders and makers employed on all these—and on the establishments of printers, booksellers, &c.—and then the excited million of expectants, the absorbed and half-entranced readers—the hours, days, weeks, months, and years of reading—the impatience of interruption till the whole delusion is swallowed—the readings again and again—the contagion from the elders to the younger—children even bewildered with the passion to peep into, to pore over, and last, to read as rote-books these little better than idle fables—bootless in their aim and object, and pointless in all but their rival obtuseness of the mountain-mocking pyramids. The fertility, the leisure, and the vanities of Egypt!—oh, madam, their country was sterility—their leisure, incessant bustle compared with what we enjoy; and their vain direction of labour and thought not to be named after this enumeration of vanities. Pyramids!—where they had one we have ten. Where ages were required by the Egyptians, we in as many years outvie them, and yet your answer to my aspirations is, “We have no money for such things as these!”
Reader, we have beguiled ourselves and you, and not the Enthusiast, into a sitting; and one feature is sketched of his likeness and his character.