It now no longer masks its real intentions under
affected purity of sentiment; its countenance has recently acquired a
considerable addition of brass, the glitter of which has often been
mistaken for sterling coin, and incest, adultery, murder, blasphemy, are
among other favorite topics of its discussion. It seems to delight in an
utter perversion of all moral, intellectual, and religious qualities. It
gluts over the monstrous deformities of nature; finds gratification in
proportion to the magnitude of the crime it extolls; and sees no virtue
but in vice; no sin, but in true feeling. Like poor Tom, in Lear, whom
the foul fiend has possessed for many a day, it will run through
ditches, through quagmires, and through bogs, to see a man stand on his
head for the exact space of half an hour. Ask the reason of this raging
appetite for eccentricity, the answer is, such a thing is out of the
beaten track of manhood, _ergo_, it is praiseworthy.
Among the professors of the Cockney school, Mr. Percy Bysshe Shell[e]y
is one of the most conspicuous. With more fervid imagination and
splendid talents than nine-tenths of the community, he yet prostitutes
those talents by the utter degradation to which he unequivocally
consigns them.
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