ertinism, disloyalty and atheism.
There are twenty-six pages of this in one review only, and any paragraph
would be worth the quoting for its ferocity. After this attack it was
Macaulay who said he hated Croker like "cold boiled veal."

The Quarterly reviewed Keats' "Endymion," although the writer naively
states at the outset that he has not read the poem. "Not that we have been
wanting in our duty," he writes, "far from it--indeed, we have made efforts
almost as superhuman as the story itself appears to be, to get through it;
but with the fullest stretch of our perseverance we are forced to confess
that we have not been able to struggle beyond the first of the four
books...." Finally he questions whether Keats is the author's name, for
he doubts "that any man in his senses would put his real name to such a
rhapsody."

Leigh Hunt's "Rimini" the Quarterly finds to be an "ungrammatical,
unauthorized, chaotic jargon, such as we believe was never before spoken,
much less written.... We never," concludes the reviewer, "in so few lines
saw so many clear marks of the vulgar impatience of a low man, conscious
and ashamed of his wretched vanity, and labouring, with coarse flippancy,
to scramble over the bounds of birth and education, and fidget himself into
the stout-heartedness of being familiar with a Lord." In a later review,
Hunt is a propounder of atheism. "Henceforth," says the reviewer, "... he
may slander a few more eminent characters, he may go on to deride venerable
and holy institutions, he may stir up more discontent and sedition, but he
will have no peace of mind within ... he will live and die unhonoured
in his own generation, and, for his own sake it is to be hoped, moulder
unknown in those which are to follow."

Hazlitt belongs to a "class of men by whom literature is more than at any
period disgraced." His style is suited for washerwomen, a "class of
females with whom ... he and his friend Mr. Hunt particularly delight to
associate."

Shelley, writes the Quarterly, "is one of that industrious knot of authors,
the tendency of whose works we have in our late Numbers exposed to the
caution of our readers ... for with perfect deliberation and the steadiest
perseverance he perverts all the gifts of his nature, and does all the
injury, both public and private, which his faculties enable him to
perpetrate." His "poetry is in general a mere jumble of words and
heterogeneous ideas." "The Cloud" is "simple nonsense." "