Klopstock was called our Milton, Wieland our Voltaire, and Jean Paul our Sterne, and others in the same way, Goethe and Schiller were never other than themselves.'

In Goethe we see united the two great tendencies of Realism and Idealism, and the two essential conditions of National Art - the treatment of national material, and the perfect art of that treatment.

CHAPTER VII.

CLAVIGO.

RETURNING from this digression, we find Goethe now at the perilous juncture in an author's career, when, having just achieved a splendid success, he is in danger either of again snatching at laurels in presumptuous haste, or of suffering himself to repose upon the laurels he has won, talking of greatness, instead of learning to be great. Both perils he avoided. He neither traded on his renown, nor conceived that his education was complete. Wisely refraining from completing fresh important works, he kept up the practice of his art by trifles, and the education of his genius by serious studies.

Among these trifles are Clavigo, the Jahrmarktsfest zu Plundersweilern, and the Prolog zu Bahrdt's Neuesten Offenbarungen. For the composition of Clavigo we must retrace our steps a little, and once more see him in the Frankfurt circle during the summer of 1774, that is, before the publication of Werther, which was delayed till October. In his sister's pleasant circle we have already noticed Anna Sybilla Münch, who was fascinating enough to fix his attentions. They were accustomed to meet once a a week, in picnics and pleasure parties; at one of these it was agreed to institute a marriage lottery. He thus speaks of it: 'Every week lots were drawn to determine the couples who should be symbolically wedded; for it

was supposed that every one knew well enough how lovers should conduct themselves, but few had any proper conceptions of the requisite demeanor between man and wife. General rules were laid down to the effect that these wedded couples should preserve a polite indifference, not sitting near each other, nor speaking to each other too often, much less indulging in anything like caresses. At the same time, side by side with this polite indifference, this well-bred calm, anything like discord or suspicion was to be sedulously avoided; and whoever succeeded in gaining the affections of his wife without using the importunities of a lover, was supposed to have achieved their ideal. Much sportive confusion and agreeable pleasantry of course arose from this scheme.' Strangely enough, to him it fell thrice to have the same girl appointed by hazard to fill the place of his wife. When fate had brought them together for the third time, it was resolved unanimously that they should be no longer separated, that heaven had spoken, and that hereafter they were to consider themselves as man and wife, and not to draw lots as the others did. At these réunions something new was generally read aloud by one of the party. One evening Goethe brought with him as a novelty the Mémoire' of Beaumarchais. During the conversation which ensued, Goethe's partner said to him: 'If I were thy liege lady, and not thy wife, I would command thee to change this memoir into a play, to which it seems well suited.' He answered: 'That thou mayest see, my love, that liege lady and wife are one, I here undertake that this day week I will read a play on this very matter.' So bold a promise excited astonishment, but he resolved on fulfilling it. What, in such cases,' he says, 'is termed invention, was with me spontaneous. While escorting my titulary wife home I was silent; and on her

inquiring the cause, I told her that I was thinking out the play, and had already got into the middle of it intending to show her how gladly I would do anything to please her. Upon which she pressed my hand, and I snatched a kiss. Thou must not step out of thy character,' she exclaimed; they say it is not proper for married folks to be loving.' 'Let them say what they please,' I replied, we will have it our own way.'

He confesses that before reading the play aloud, the subject had appeared to him eminently dramatic; though, without such a stimulus as he had received, this piece, like so many others, would have remained among the number of possible creations. The only novelty in it was his mode of treating the villains. He was weary of those characters so frequently represented, who from revenge, or from hate, or from trivial motives, ruin a noble nature; and he wished in Carlos to show the working of clear, good sense, against passion and inclination. Justified by the precedent of Shakespeare, he translated, word for word, the chief scene, and such portions of the memoir as were dramatic; borrowing the dénouement from an English ballad. He was ready before the week expired, and read the piece to a delighted audience.

A few words on this memoir may be useful. Beaumarchais had two sisters living in Madrid, one married to an architect, the other, Marie, engaged to Clavijo, a young author without fortune. No sooner had Clavijo obtained the office he had long solicited, than he refused to fulfil his promise. Beaumarchais hurried to Madrid; his object was twofold: to save the reputation of his sister, and to put a little speculation of his own on foot. He sought Clavijo, and by his sangfroid and courage, extorted from him a written avowal of his contemptible conduct. No sooner was this settled, than Clavijo, alarmed at the con

sequences, solicited a reconciliation with Marie, offering to marry her. Beaumarchais consents, but just as the marriage is about to take place he learns that Clavijo is secretly conspiring against him, accusing him of having extorted the marriage by force, in consequence of which he has procured an order from the government to expel Beaumarchais from Madrid. Irritated at such villany, Beaumarchais goes to the ministers, reaches the king, and avenges himself by getting Clavijo dismissed from his post. This is, in brief, the substance of the Mémoire which appeared in February, 1774. The adventure occurred in 1764, so that Clavijo, who subsequently became a distinguished writer, might have seen himself not only held up to odium in the sparkling pages of Beaumarchais, but represented on the stage of every German theatre. He died in 1806, vice-president of the Natural History Society in Madrid, having previously translated Buffon, and edited the Mercurio historico y politico de Madrid. We must suppose that Goethe knew nothing of the existence of Clavijo, when he wrote the drama.

With Beaumarchais in our hands it is curious to read Clavigo, which is as close a reproduction as the dramatic form admits; and is an evidence that Goethe did wisely in not at once proceeding to complete Faust (fragments of which were written), or Cæsar. He would infallibly have repeated himself. He has repeated himself in Clavigo: the external circumstances are changed, but the experience is the same. Clavigo is another Weislingen, and was meant to be so I have written a tragedy,' Goethe writes to Schönborn, Clavigo, a modern anecdote, dramatized with the greatest simplicity and heartfelt truth. My hero is an irresolute, half-great, half-little man, the pendant to Weislingen, or rather Weislingen himself as the chief person.' He has well portrayed the weak, am