1846.] 



THE CIVIL ENGINEEERAND ARCHITECTS JOURNAL. 



295 



of the dome, that was and is an impossibility, owing to the great space be- 

 tween the external and internal cupola. 



Should the modern Greco-Roman or Italian style be resumed by us for 

 churches — as as it is to he hoped that it will be, at least for those in towns, 

 let us look forward to its being treated in a very different spirit from what 

 it hitherto has been either in the last or present ;century, and to its being 

 enriched by new elements and combinations. There certainly is abundant 

 opportunity for imparting to it a new and more refined character by correct. 

 ing it in regard to fenestration, so as to convert what has hitherto been a 

 •ource of deformity into one of beauty and captivating effect. All the various 

 mode of hypathral fenestration — and they are exceedingly numerous, might 

 be employed according to circumstances, very successfully, although they 

 have hitherto been obstinately rejected for churches, — perhaps with a sort of 

 puritanical horror, — assuredly more for conscience sake than for taste's. We 

 can, however, vouch for the equally novel and happy effect produced in a re- 

 cently built — in fact not yet finished chapel at the West-end of the town, 

 where the light is admitted entirely from above, and on one side only, and 

 in such manner that the windows themselves are not seen on entering, or 

 afterwards, except by standing on the opposite side to them, and looking 

 directly up at them, when they are discoverable, but even then only partially 

 so. The idea thus thrown out — and to us it is quite new — is a valuable and 

 fertile one. Owing to the beautiful effect of light and half-light — and the 

 breadth of chiaroscuro, the interior we allude to is a complete picture. 

 Possibly, the peculiar mode of lighting was forced upon the architect by 

 circumstances of situation and juxta-position to houses ; and if so, he has to 

 bless his stars for the felicitous necessity which compelled him to step out of 

 the hackneyed prosaic track of ordinary church-builders into the picturesque, 

 the artistic, and the poetic. How fortunate would it be for many, were they 

 to be equally favoured by untoward circumstances. — Our subject is not ex- 

 hausted, but we will here close our present paper on it. 



GOETHE'S HOUSE. 



As the German Diet have resolved on purchasing Goethe's house, and on 

 having it preserved in its present condition, as a monument of national re- 

 coguitlon, the following description, derived from the German, and written 

 by one of Goethe's friends, will, we trust, be acceptable to the reader: — 



" On a roomy place (square), enlivened by the murmur of a fountain, 

 stands a two-storied house, painted reddish-grey — the windows surrounded 

 by a black border. Although apparently of spacious dimensions, it in no 

 way exceeds the size of the dwelling of a respectable commoner. We 

 pass the threshold, and enter a brill, whose colouring, resembling yellowish 

 stone, renders it of a light and cheerful appearance. We now ascend the 

 staircase, surrounded by a massive entablature, which leads us, by its 

 broad steps, almost imperceptibly upwards. Its breadth must astonish any 

 one, being disproportionate to the other dimensions of the building — occu- 

 pying, nay absorbing, the whole lower part of the structure. It is 

 interesting to know how it came to be such. During Goethe's stay at 

 Rome, the house presented to him by the Grand Duke was to be finished, 

 and an appropriate staircase was all ready, when the poet saw one at 

 Home which enraptured him. Having procured a drawing, he sent it to 

 Weimar, with orders to make a similar one in his house. Vain were 

 all remonstraces sent over the Alps ; — there was no help but to obey him. 

 When he returned, he saw, not without surprise, this huge structure, 

 which deprived him of the lower part of his house, — ascended it, shaking 

 his head ; and never spoke of it afterwards. 



In the upper vestibule, the statues of Sleep, Death, and the colossal 

 head of Juno, gaze at the visitor from their mural niches. Roman land- 

 scapes and views, also, remind us of that land, after the leaving of which 

 he said he never more enjoyed perfect happiness. 



A small yellowish saloon is now opened. There he dined with his 

 guests. Meyer's drawings of antiques, and Poussjn's master-pieces, cover 

 the walls ; aud behind a green curtain he preserved the Aquarcll copy of 

 the Aldobrandini nuptials, also by Meyer, which he considered his great- 

 est treasure. The adjoining localities also exhibit only such objects which 

 appertain to that period of art, and to that lendency of Goeihe. Here, 

 everywhere the past and its recollections speak to us, and to any one 

 familiar with his works, — ' the stones have tongues, and the walls fea- 

 tures." 



A string of historical associations seizes us, — that sensation which alone 

 can make us theroughly happy ; because nolbing is here which had nut 

 been touched, as it were, by him during the period of his life-apprentice- 

 ship ; — and to everything new or different, the access was hereafter rigour- 

 ously prohibited. It is with a deep feeling that we survey those trifles 

 and minor things, in which this great man found such high edification. 



To the right of this saloon we see the so-called ceiling-room ; it is not 

 known why Goethe thus called it, as all the rooms have ceilings made of 

 stucco. To the left is his blue receiving-room, and behind it the Urbino- 

 room, thus called after a picture of a Duke of Urbino, which Goethe had 

 brought with him from Italy. On the threshold of his receiving-room 

 greets us his friendly ".S"«(t'e.' " When he received strangers, he never 

 came the way which we had passed from the staircase, but went from his 

 study by a passage to the Urbinoroom, and from thence he stepped 

 forth, prepared and composed. He did not like — 



" That moments, blind-passioned and dark-ruled, 

 Should have their sway." 



These, therefore, were the rooms accessible, in the main, during his life- 

 time. To his study he admitted no one, with the exception of a few of 

 his most intimate friends — C'oudray, MUUer, Uiemer, Eckermann. When 

 the King of Bavaria paid to Goethe his famous birthday visit, he asked 

 the poet to allow him also a view of the laboratory of his mind. Goethe 

 looked perplexed, and intimated that his study was not adequately filled 

 up for the gaze of Majesty. The king seemed resigned, but feig ned soon 

 afterwards a bleeding at the nose, declined any one to follow him, and or- 

 dered the servant to conduct him to Goelhe's washing-basin. The fellow, 

 surprised and perplexed, brought him into Goethe's bed-room, which ii 

 behind the study, and left him alone, according to the king's desire. He 

 remained long absent. Goethe, at last, went himself to look after the 

 king — and found him in his study, absorbed in the observation of its con- 

 tents. 



The descriptions which I had found in memoirs and travels, of these 

 rooms had all given me but an incorrect idea. I expected a certain 

 splendour, as it might well be met with now in the bouses of those who 

 have talent and means to ornament their alentours. It was to that sup- 

 position that the flimsy words of visitors had led me. They saw Zeus, 

 aud therefore the walls surrounding him widened in their eyes to temple- 

 halls, resplendent from his lustre. Most probably, I should have found 

 myself in the same position then. Now, as we pass through the widowed 

 rooms, illusion vanishes to give way to modest truth. It is a dwelling, 

 comfortable, cheerful, decent, but thoroughly simple, in the fashion of a 

 time rather passed away— in some places even the worse for wear. It is 

 the dwelling of a patriarch, whose best recollections are attached to some 

 piece of furniture, sashes, or colours, of former days, and which he there- 

 fore wishes to be preserved around him, even if they have begun to be 

 unseemly, and are fading away into a duller colouring. 



The death of the master has now broken the spell ; we pass freely 

 through small closets of communication, right through the house, to his 

 library and study. In one of the rooms, we stopped a moment — it was 

 that in which he dined, when alone, with his children ; a blind throws a 

 green shade around. With one step we were in the garden, in which the 

 poet was accustomed, in time of leisure, to enjoy every clear glimpse of 

 the sun. In the corner is a little garden-house, where he used to keep his 

 physical apparatus. 



In the fore-room of the museum we saw, in little presses and under 

 glass frames around the walls, minerals, pieces of rocks, shells, fossils — in 

 fact, all which had become a subject of his studies in natural history 

 Everything was kept very clean, and arranged with good taste. A door 

 to the right opened into the library. For such means as were here avail- 

 able, it may appear small ; but Goethe purposely did not collect many 

 books, as the libraries of Weimar and Jena were at his disposal — nay, to 

 avoid the accumulation of such sort of treasure, which appeared superflu- 

 ous to him, he gave away most of what had been presented to him from 

 far and near, after having perused them. 



Assistant-librarian Kriiuter, clerk to Goethe before he took John 

 as a copyest, now the faithful guardian of this sanctuary, opened the door 

 of the master's study. I recollected from Eckermann's conversations, the 

 occasional allusions of Goethe, which prepared me to find here high sim- 

 plicity ; still, even here, reality was somewhat different. This small, low, 

 unornamented, green cabinet-closet, with the dark bliuds of serge, IU» 

 worn out sills, the nearly decayed frames, was therefore the space whenc* 

 such an abundance of the most splendid light has poured forth ! 



38* 



