“Oh those merry days when we were young”—those happy days at Greystoke! What rides, what stag hunts by beautiful Ulleswater, on foot, on horseback, in boat, up the fells, and on the lake. Untiring, strong, in all the pride of youth and joyous spirits, with those beloved friends, what wonder that I described myself to a distant correspondent on one occasion as having “the courage of a lion, the strength of an elephant, and the appetite of a wolf.” Our feats of horsemanship would have done no discredit to a circus, and our palfreys were so well trained, that we used to dance quadrilles, or waltz in the most approved fashion, and I stoutly maintained that my chestnut, named Montilla, after the Cid’s renowned steed, bore away the palm.
The castle contained, among many delights, a nice little theatre, and our performances were frequent. The dramas were for the most part home-made, but we thought them very fine, and, at all events, the comedies were “genteel.” The Howards were all good actresses, and enjoyed acting, and I was in my element. I have a small sketch, done by one of the guests, of myself in the character of “Daffodil the Dandy,” in a pea-green surtout, with a grand Brutus wig and waxed moustaches, a youth who was much taken up with his own charms and accomplishments.
One of the Howards as a stiff-starched old maid, and another as a bachelor of the same sort, renewing a bygone flirtation, were deservedly admired. Sometimes our performances took a tragic turn, and one evening when I was kneeling before a cruel tyrant, who menaced my life with up-lifted sword, a growl of thunder was heard, and our Scotch terrier, “Boch Dhu,” who was in the audience, darted over the footlights, and flew at the murderer’s throat, gaining for herself the honours of the evening.
I quitted Greystoke with a heavy heart, but before leaving Cumberland we paid a visit to Corby Castle, a beautiful spot, the house situated on an eminence overhanging the rushing river Eden, which was owned by another member of the noble family of Howard. The house had an especial interest for me (possessed as I have always been with a passion for ghost stories) on account of being haunted. To sleep in the celebrated chamber was the object of my ardent desire, and I gained rather an unwilling consent from Mrs Howard and my mother; the latter indeed insisted that my sister should be my bedfellow, lest I might become alarmed in the lone watches of the night. I laughed this idea to scorn, as the apparition, if it were visible, was that of the “radiant boy,” the murdered Lord Thomas Howard, a lovely child in glistening white garments, his golden hair crowned with flowers and surmounted by a brilliant light.
GHOST OF LORD THOMAS HOWARD
No sooner were Caddy and I in the haunted chamber, than a knock came at the door. Who could it be? We thought every body else had retired for the night. The door opened—lo! it was Adela, the daughter of the house, who came to confess that for long she had been devoured by the wish to sleep in that room, and the bed was of such enormous dimensions, that she should not inconvenience us, if we would admit her. I, for my part did not like the idea. I felt I was too much acquainted with the exclusive and retiring nature of the brotherhood of ghosts to entertain the faintest hope of a successful apparition to a trio of friends. We conversed, I think, most of the night, which was out of character with the whole proceedings; but as the clock struck the witching hour of midnight, there was a dead silence for a few moments, only broken by Adela’s prayer, which her Church enjoins at the striking of each hour: “Lord, make me to love Thee in time and eternity!” an ejaculation that so took my fancy, that ever since that long, long ago I have always repeated those words in the watches of the night, and thereby often scared away many a sad and gloomy thought.
Alas, for the failure, which I had anticipated! Little Lord Thomas Howard disdained to make his appearance, and no one else, on practical joke intent, disturbed the sleepers, or rather watchers. (To be sure we had announced beforehand that the sword of Fergus M’Ivor, which was a relic in the family, was to lie unsheathed by the bedside). This was a great disappointment, and I had to wait for many years afterwards, in another country, and under other circumstances, to behold a ghost.
On leaving Cumberland, we paid a visit of quite another character, namely, to the Master of the Quorn Hounds, whose wife had been a school-fellow and contemporary of my sister. Here, too, we enjoyed ourselves much, being splendidly mounted, a beautiful little snow-white pony falling to my share. “Billy” was very fast and well trained, and would answer like a dog to his name. It was a great delight to Lord Southampton to gallop on in front for some distance as hard as he could, and then to turn round and call, “Billy, Billy,” and off would set the little snowball at furious speed until he rejoined his beloved master. I must here recall an incident which impressed itself deeply on my memory.
There was a large party in the house, chiefly composed of hunting men, and one evening we were playing a round game, and making merry over it, when the conversation turned on Fanny Kemble, who had lately made her début in London, and was at the moment the centre of attraction and the theme of conversation.
“What a pity we are not nearer London” (we were in Leicester at the time, and no railroads then, be it remembered), said the lady of the house; “I would give anything in the world to see her. I hear she is perfectly wonderful!” Her sentiments were echoed by many, especially my brother and sister; I listened in breathless awe.