Carlyle says that Hunt suffered an "obloquy and calumny through the Tory press--perhaps a greater quantity of baseness, persevering, implacable calumny, than any other living writer has undergone; which long course of hostility ... may be regarded as the beginning of his worst distresses, and a main cause of them down to this day."[500] Macaulay said: "There is hardly a man living whose merits have been so grudgingly allowed, and whose faults have been so cruelly expiated."[501] For a period of more than a quarter of a century, from the beginning of the crusade against him until about 1845, partly as the result of the misrepresentation of the press, and partly as a natural consequence of his own foibles and early blunders, a pretty general antagonism existed against him. At the end of that time his honesty and talents were recognized and rewarded publicly by the government. And the public has come more and more to esteem his personal character. * * * * * The _Quarterly_ of April, 1818, contained the stupid and savage review of _Endymion_, provoked almost solely by the Keats's offence in being the friend and public protege of Leigh Hunt. The simple and manly preface[502] was misconstrued into a formula for Huntian poetry, and its allusion to a "London drizzle or a Scotch mist" into a "deprecation of criticism in a feverish manner." Leigh Hunt asked years afterwards how "anybody could answer such an appeal to the mercy of strength with the cruelty of weakness. All the good for which Mr. Gifford pretended to be zealous, he might have effected with pain to no one, and glory to himself; and therefore all the evil he mixed with it was of his own making."[503] The general trend of the article and the reviewer's acknowledgment that he had read only the first book of the poem are well known. The following passage refers directly to Keats's connection with Hunt: "The author is a copyist of Mr. Hunt, but he is more unintelligible, almost as rugged, twice as diffuse, and ten times more tiresome and absurd than his prototype; who, though he impudently presumed to seat himself in the chair of criticism, and to measure his own poetry by his own standard, yet generally had a meaning. But Mr. Keats advanced no dogmas which he was bound to support by examples; his nonsense is therefore quite gratuitous; he writes it for his own sake, and, being bitten by Mr. Leigh Hunt's insane criticism, more than rivals the insanity of his poetry."[504]