History does not relate what happened, but something entertaining, no doubt. After being a year at Eton, Lord Bill heard of the death of his uncle, and that henceforth his home would be at Curraghmore.
While at Eton he seems to have been chiefly conspicuous for his love of sport and fighting, his high spirits, ready wit, and popularity with all. He worked as much as was necessary and no more, for he loved the river, running after beagles, paper, or any other form of sport, more especially a fight. Happily in his time the battles were not so serious as they were in 1825 when Lord Shaftesbury’s brother, Francis Ashley, was carried home to die after fighting for two hours with a boy named Wood.
Like a few other men one could name who have been educated at public schools, and later held important and responsible posts, he could not always depend on his pen carrying out his wishes and spelling properly. Long after having arrived at years of discretion, shall I say? he constantly wrote to an old friend as “My dear Jhon,” meaning John. One day we were talking about certain clever people being unable to spell properly and chaffing him about it; nobody enjoyed a joke against himself better than he did. Somebody asked him, “Bill, why don’t you write the word you are uncertain of down on a piece of paper with all the variations as they occur to you? The look of the word would tell you which was right?” He replied, “I always do write it down on a piece of paper and never doubt its being right.” After which there was nothing more to be said, and we decided it would all be the same a hundred years hence, therefore it did not matter; and at any rate he had my sympathy. He agreed with Yeats, the Dublin poet, who sang:
“Accursed he who brings to light of day The writings I have cast away; But blessed he who stirs them not, But lets the kind worms eat the lot.”
Certainly Lord William’s letters were short and sweet; he did not commit more to writing than he could help, thereby proving that he was a wise man.
Five years were spent at Eton, and they were spoken of as happy ones. Even at that early age his passion for racing betrayed itself and led to trouble, for on one occasion the attractions of Ascot became too much for him. Knowing that if he asked for leave to go it would be denied him, he took French leave, and received a whacking on his return, which reminds me that before Lord William’s time a certain flogging block belonging to the College disappeared one day, having been kidnapped by one of the Beresfords, the third Marquess, I think, when he was at Eton, and is now in evidence at Curraghmore, or was a few years ago. As far as I can gather there was no hue and cry after that interesting piece of furniture, and the next time there was any whacking to be done another block was found to be reigning in its stead; so presumably there was a supply kept in the store-room among the pickles and the jam.