Lectures on Dramatic Art and Literature — Text and Context

The Classical-Romantic Divide

Schlegel's central framework opposes the 'mechanical' form of ancient art, which he sees as governed by clear rules and a finite, plastic perfection, to the 'organic' form of Romantic art, which grows from within and embraces the infinite. This is not a simple preference but a historical and philosophical argument. He claims that Greek tragedy, rooted in mythology and the idea of fate, achieves a 'ideality' that modern drama cannot replicate without becoming artificial. Conversely, Romantic poetry, born from Christianity and chivalry, explores individual consciousness and the clash of inner passions.

This dichotomy allows Schlegel to critique neoclassical imitators who mistake the accidents of Greek drama for its essence. He argues that the French unities, for example, are often applied mechanically, stifling the very vitality they were meant to preserve. His own taste leans toward the Romantic, but he insists on judging each work by its own internal logic rather than by external rules.

Corneille, Racine, and the Limits of French Tragedy

Schlegel's treatment of French classical tragedy is notably ambivalent. He acknowledges Corneille's skill in portraying ambition and the 'lust of power,' a passion that 'stifles all other human feelings' and leaves the mind a 'cold and dreary wilderness.' Yet he also notes that Corneille's best moments are often undermined by 'long harangues' that dissipate dramatic tension. The Spartan mother's laconic command—'This, or on this!'—serves as a pointed contrast to Corneille's verbosity.

Racine receives a more nuanced appraisal. Schlegel praises his 'delicate susceptibility' for tender emotions and his 'great sweetness' in expressing them, particularly in love scenes that 'steal only the more seductively into the soul.' But he also detects weakness: Racine's moderation, he argues, stems from a lack of 'strength of character,' and his career was prematurely halted by chagrin and 'mistaken piety.' The implication is that French tragedy, for all its polish, never fully escaped the constraints of courtly decorum and political flattery.

The Greek Tragedians: Aeschylus, Sophocles, Euripides

Schlegel's lectures on Greek tragedy proceed chronologically, tracing a narrative of rise, peak, and decline. Aeschylus is presented as the founder, whose trilogies exhibit a 'connexion' that later poets abandoned. Sophocles represents the perfect balance, with each tragedy displaying a distinct 'character' that Schlegel analyzes in detail. Euripides, by contrast, is blamed for the 'decline of tragic poetry,' a judgment that Schlegel supports by comparing treatments of the same myth—for instance, the Choephorae, Electra of Sophocles, and that of Euripides.

This comparative method is a hallmark of Schlegel's criticism. He does not simply rank the poets but shows how each transforms the same material according to different artistic principles. The excerpts hint at his broader argument: that Greek tragedy achieved its greatness through a unique fusion of myth, ritual, and civic life, a fusion that cannot be revived but only studied with historical sympathy.

Readers approaching these lectures should attend to Schlegel's habit of pairing close textual observation with sweeping historical claims. His judgments are often provocative—his dismissal of Euripides, for instance, has been contested—but they are never arbitrary. The value of this work lies not in its final verdicts but in its method: a criticism that seeks to understand art from within, by reconstructing the intentions and constraints that shaped it. For those interested in the history of criticism, Schlegel's lectures remain a landmark of Romantic thought, offering a lens through which to see both ancient and modern drama anew.

I keep thinking about how Schlegel found Shakespeare’s wildness felt truer than all those neat rules—organic things breathing on their own. It reminded me of Macklin’s sharp comedy, where Ireland’s own stubborn pulse beats underneath the polished manners. That lingering ache stays with you quietly, like recognising a familiar face in a stranger.The true-born Irishman — Text and Context carries that same warmth.