Left to right. Standing: Capt. Clayton, Mr. Palairet, Capt. de la Garde Grissell, Capt. Fife
On ground: Lord William Beresford, Mr. Moore
During the early days of polo there used to be sad accidents, and sad rows too sometimes; the amenities were not so refined as they are to-day, though even at polo I have observed occasionally a soft answer may turn away wrath.
From Woolwich, Lord William went with his regiment to York, and to this day the period the 9th Lancers were quartered there is remembered as a red-letter time, for they were a great social success. At that time the neighbouring country houses were more often in the occupation of their owners than they are now, and Yorkshire could boast of its old-fashioned hospitality and love of sport. I have heard the north country accused of being boorish and stiff, but this is a matter of opinion with which I, personally, do not altogether agree.
An amusing incident happened outside the solemn old club which stands close to the Lendal Bridge at York. Lord Rossmore went into the club one evening just in time to see one of the servant girls from the kitchen regions make her escape from a young man who was evidently annoying her. She fled down the area steps; Lord Rossmore collared the youth, and began giving him a lecture of an improving nature. At this moment, who should come out of the club but Lord William. He at once scented battle; without having the slightest idea what it was about, but longing to be in it, he cried, “Let me have him, Derry. Oh, do let me have him.” “No,” replied the other, jealous of his capture. “I found him; he is my man.” They became so absorbed in the argument as to who should make the prisoner’s teeth chatter that the man took the opportunity to make his escape. Looking round and discovering his loss, Lord Rossmore indignantly reproached his friend. “Now look what you have done!” he cried; “this is what comes of trying to steal my man.” Then as the absurdity of the whole thing struck them, they laughed until their sides ached. After which Lord William apologised profusely for having spoilt “Derry’s” sport, and losing his man.
It was on that same Lendal Bridge, on another occasion, that Lord William and the late Mr. Joseph Leeman, M.P., as a matter of detached interest spent an hour one night, or rather early one morning, struggling desperately to see which could put the other over the high balustrade of the bridge into the river below. Each in turn would get the other up to within an inch or two of the top preparatory to a bath in the Ouse, which always looks particularly uninviting just there. Lord William made one splendid effort regardless of popping buttons and bursting braces to get Mr. Leeman up, and thought at last he had accomplished it, but down he came with a rush. A wrestle then ensued all across the road, each trying to get hold of the other in just the right position; the game then began again, this time Lord William being perilously near the top. At last, quite exhausted, they adjourned to Mr. Leeman’s rooms at the Station Hotel, and finished the night (?) there—of course, the best of friends the whole time.
There is another York story, though I cannot vouch for its accuracy; I only tell it as it was told to me. A certain youth joined the regiment who, it was considered, wanted teaching a thing or two, and who at that time they did not like. His clothes did not please them, his face did not please them, in fact nothing about him pleased them. So, while he was out of his room one evening, they, with much difficulty and the help of many people, persuaded a lover of thistles to walk upstairs into his bedroom, where it was put to bed. A large cock with a strong voice was also thrust, protesting, into the dirty-clothes-basket, where it presently fell into a brooding silence of despair. When the unfortunate owner of the room returned he had many exhausting moments with the donkey before he successfully turned it out of the room and could go to bed. At dawn he was awakened from a refreshing sleep by the clarion notes of the cock issuing from the clothes-basket, and he began to wonder if the claret of the night before had disagreed with him, or if it was all a horrid nightmare. This story may, or may not be true, but I knew the youth in question, and that he was not popular then. It is pleasant to be able to remember that, some years later, when he died of consumption, his sterling good qualities and unfeigned good nature had made him so much liked that his loss aroused universal sorrow in the regiment.
In ’74 the regiment moved from York to Colchester, where Lord William seemed to get a great deal of leave, part of which he spent helping his brother, Lord Charles, who was standing for Waterford in the Conservative interest at the request of his eldest brother. They had great fun together, but this has been described in Lord Charles Beresford’s own book.
It was in this same year that the memorable brothers’ race was run at Curraghmore on the Williamstown course. The race is a matter of history now, but I have seen quite lately a controversy about it in the sporting Press, some declaring that Lord Waterford took part in it, others that he did not. Only three took part in the race: Lord Charles, Lord William, and Lord Marcus. Again, there are folk who think it was all arranged beforehand who was to win. Wrong again. Nothing was further from the minds of any of the trio; each meant to win, and each thought he would. The race was run at the Curraghmore Hunt meeting. Three miles. The brothers had a private sweep of 100 sovereigns each.