And in explanation of this affectionate effusion, our lordly dedicator subjoins a note to inform us that Lord
Carlisle's
works are splendidly bound, but that "the rest is all but leather and prunella," and a little after, in a very laborious note, in which he endeavours to defend his consistency, he out-Herods Herod, or to speak more forcibly, out-Byrons Byron, in the virulence of his invective against "his guardian and relative, to whom he dedicated his volume of puerile poems." Lord
Carlisle
has, it seems, if we are to believe his word, for a series of years, beguiled "the public with reams of most orthodox, imperial
nonsense
," and Lord
Byron
concludes by asking,
"What can ennoble knaves, or fools, or cowards?
Alas! not all the blood of all the Howards."