His fondness 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 his Southwell friends.  This lady had a large agate bead with a wire through it, which had been taken out of a barrow, and lay always in her work-box.  Lord Byron asking one day what it was, she told him that it had been given her as an amulet, and the charm was, that as long as she had this bead in her possession, she should never be in love.  “Then give it to me,” he cried, eagerly, “for that’s just the thing I want.”  The young lady refused;—­but it was not long before the bead disappeared.  She taxed him with the theft, and he owned it; but said, she never should see her amulet again.