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 many ill-natured things of them as they could possibly write of him. He laughed, and said, "Depend on it we are equal. Poets (and I may, I suppose, without presumption, count myself among that favored race, as it has pleased the Fates to make me one,) have no friends. On the old principle that 'union gives force,' we sometimes agree to have a violent friendship for each other. We dedicate, we bepraise, we write pretty letters, but we do not deceive each other. In short, we resemble you fair ladies, when some half dozen of the fairest of you profess to love each other mightily, correspond so sweetly, call each other your by such pretty epithets, and laugh in your hearts at those who are taken in by such appearances."

I endeavored to defend my sex, but he adhered to his opinion. I ought to add that during this conversation he was very gay, and that though his words may appear severe, there was no severity in his manner. The natural flippancy of Lord Byron took off all appearance of premeditation or bitterness from his remarks, even when they were acrimonious, and the impression conveyed to, and left on my mind was, that for the most part they were uttered more in jest than in earnest. They were, however, sufficiently severe to make me feel that there was no safety with him, and that in five minutes after one's quitting him on terms of