WILLIAM NICHOLSON 67 



his own he couldn't get a kick. In Galley Hills the Master viewed the 

 beaten fox, but hounds could make nothing of it, much I fear, to Mr. 

 Peel's chagrin, for I think he would dearly have liked his daughter to have 

 had the brush, which she had so well earned. Certainly she is one of the 

 best riders to hounds I have ever seen, and in her skill in crossing a 

 country reminds me very much of ^vliss Bagot's prowess when she hunted 

 with us. But good rider as Miss Peel undoubtedly is, she will pardon my 

 saying that her father is better, and I quite believe what is told of him, 

 that at one time he was the hardest man in Inland, for at the present moment 

 — bar Mr. Sheffield Neave — he is the hardest man in Essex, and if you 

 would know his age you must turn to Debrett, for from his appearance 

 you would never guess it. 



Very few went to the bitter end, though several of us came to the end of the 

 bitter which Mr. Christie so kindly proffered us as we rode homewards past 

 his house — Mr. Sworder having to go at a very sober pace on a lame horse, 

 which, having carried him brilliantly all day, had the misfortune to run a 

 thorn into his knee. I would mention one lady who never left hounds, and 

 always had a good place when they ran — Miss Colvin, the sister of the 

 Squire of Monkhams, whose Galley Hill coverts always harbour a fox. 

 Mr. P. S. Lee and Mr. Cook were among the very select few who 

 managed to see it out on one horse apiece. 



It is with the keenest regret, and deepest sympathy with those that he 

 has left behind, that I have to record the almost tragic death, in its appal- 

 ling suddenness, of a man well known in the hunting field with the Essex 

 Hounds, IMr. William Nicholson, who, although he had only recently taken 

 up his residence at Theydon Grove, had lived and hunted in Essex all his 

 life. Out hunting on Saturday last, and again the following Monday, no 

 word or hint of any pain or ailment escaped his lips as he rode homewards 

 with three or four of us that Monday evening (his last ride), and, to all 

 appearance in perfect health, bid us farewell. The next night he was a 

 corpse. A man of a shy and retiring disposition, he courted no spurious 

 popularity, but he earned everyone's respect — for he was a bold and fearless 

 rider of undaunted courage, a man of his word. In the short time in \\hich 

 he had liv'ed in Epping, people saw enough of him to realise that they have 

 lost a good friend. A liberal supporter of all local institutions, one of his 

 last acts was to send a subscription to a fund being raised for a working 

 man stricken down by disease. 



" But, hush I through the woodland the night- wind is stealing; 

 The whisper of death passes over the plain ; 

 The moon in her glory is softly revealing 



The fields he may never ride over again." Phillpotts Williams. 



