The Nineteenth Century , No 182, Apr 1892 [‎55v] (115/244)

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THE NINETEENTH
April
underrate its importance in his continued notes and letters to Fanny
Brawne, when, early in July, 1820, ' the immortal volume,' as Mr.
Sidney Colvin well calls it, appeared.
St. Agnes, and other Poems. By J
was the title of the volume; which included, however, also the
to a Nightingale, the Ode on a Greci the the
stanzas To Autumn, the fragment of and some other
pieces.
The reception of this, Keats's third literary venture, made amends
for that of his Endymion nearly two years before. The volume was
reviewed with all the cordiality of admiring friendship by Leigh Hunt;
there were other kindly notices of it by the London press ; but most
important of all was the article in the which it
drew from the dreaded and prim-principled, but really sensitive and
generous-hearted, Jeffrey. It was 'published in the number of the
Revieiv for August, 1820, and is worth some attention now. Jeffrey
had doubtless read the attacks on Keats in and the
Quarterly two years before, and may have been predisposed by his
political antagonism to those rival organs of public opinion to look
into the abused poem for himself, and, if he found sufficient reason,
^employ a few pages of the Edinburgh in giving the young man a
much-needed ' lift.' This, and the fact that the result of Jeffrey's
examination had been not satisfaction merely, but an enthusiasm of
admiration surprising to himself, the tone and language of the article,—
which goes back upon the Endymion before proceeding to the new
volume, and indeed professes to be a review of the former volume and
the new one together,—make abundantly plain.
We had never happened [Jeffrey begins] to see either of these volumes till
very lately, and have been exceedingly struck with the genius they display, and
the spirit of poetry which breathes through all their extravagance. That imitation
of our old writers, and especially of our elder dramatists, to which we cannot help
flattering ourselves that we have somewhat contributed, has brought on, as it were,
second spring in our poetry; and few of its blossoms are either more profuse of
sweetness or richer in promise than this which is now before us. Mr. Keats, we
-understand, is still a very young man ; and his whole works, indeed, bear evidence
enough of the fact. They are full of extravagance and irregularity, rash attempts at
originality, interminable wanderings, and excessive obscurity. They manifestly re
quire Collection of papers folded in half and stitched together to form a gathering of folios. , therefore, all the indulgence that can be claimed for a first attempt. But we
think it no less plain that they deserve it, for they are flushed all over with the
rich lights of fancy, and so coloured and bestrewn with the flowers of poetry that,
•even while perplexed and bewildered in their labyrinths, it is impossible to resist
the intoxication of their sweetness, or to shut our hearts to the enchantments which
they so lavishly present.
Jeffrey then goes on, after the very mechanical method which was
usual with him in his reviews,—the alternate 'beauty and blemish'
method, as it maybe called,—to give his judgment of some of Keats's
productions individually. The blame is still plentiful enough, but as