for dogs--another fancy which accompanied him through
life--may be judged from the anecdotes already given, in the account
of his expedition to Harrowgate. Of his favourite dog Boatswain, whom
he has immortalised in verse, and by whose side it was once his
solemn purpose to be buried, some traits are told, indicative, not
only of intelligence, but of a generosity of spirit, which might well
win for him the affections of such a master as Byron. One of these I
shall endeavour to relate as nearly as possible as it was told to me.
Mrs. Byron had a fox-terrier, called Gilpin, with whom her son's dog,
Boatswain, was perpetually at war,[61] taking every opportunity of
attacking and worrying him so violently, that it was very much
apprehended he would kill the animal. Mrs. Byron therefore sent off
her terrier to a tenant at Newstead; and on the departure of Lord
Byron for Cambridge, his "friend" Boatswain, with two other dogs, was
intrusted to the care of a servant till his return. One morning the
servant was much alarmed by the disappearance of Boatswain, and
throughout the whole of the day he could hear no tidings of him. At
last, towards evening, the stray dog arrived, accompanied by Gilpin,
whom he led immediately to the kitchen fire, licking him and lavishing
upon him every possible demonstration of joy. The fact was, he had
been all the way to Newstead to fetch him; and having now established
his former foe under the roof once more, agreed so perfectly well with
him ever after, that he even protected him against the insults of
other dogs (a task which the quarrelsomeness of the little terrier
rendered no sinecure), and, if he but heard Gilpin's voice in
distress, would fly instantly to his rescue.

In addition to the natural tendency to superstition, which is usually
found connected with the poetical temperament, Lord Byron had also the
example and influence of his mother, acting upon him from infancy, to
give his mind this tinge. Her implicit belief in the wonders of second
sight, and the strange tales she told of this mysterious faculty, used
to astonish not a little her sober English friends; and it will be
seen, that, at so late a period as the death of his friend Shelley,
the idea of fetches and forewarnings impressed upon him by his mother
had not wholly lost possession of the poet's mind. As an instance of a
more playful sort of superstition I may be allowed to mention a slight
circumstance told me of him by one of