Chapter VIII (4)

Soon after his return to England Sam was arrested and conveyed to Hertford Gaol, and on February 28th, 1839, at the spring assizes, Swift took his place beside his friend Sam, and the trial proceeded. From a failure of evidence a verdict of “Not Guilty” was recorded, and the friends quitted the dock amid the congratulations of the crowd.

Owen Swift arrived in London the same night, but not so his companion in misfortune; Sam’s exit was stopped by a detainer from London, for a forfeiture of bail, incurred in this wise.

A short time previous to the battle of Swift and Phelps, Sam, in company with a “noble earl” and some aristocratic friends, had been engaged in a fracas at a public-house in Piccadilly. This was the disgraceful period when, fired by a vulgar emulation of the worst characteristics of Pierce Egan’s vulgar, vicious, and silly caricatures of two town and country sporting gentlemen, whom he named “Tom and Jerry;” and whom he made the heroes of his wretched, grammarless galimatia called “Life in London,” clerks, apprentices, prigs, pugilists, and peers played the blackguard and ruffian on the stage of real life. The great and beneficial changes which have taken place in our police and street Acts, as well as in the hours and regulations of refreshment rooms and all licensed houses in the Metropolis, make it almost impossible for the present generation to realise the scenes of disorder, profligacy, and ruffianism with which “the West or worst End of the city” nightly abounded. From Temple Bar westward, through Drury Lane, Covent Garden, St. Martin’s Lane, Leicester Square, and its surroundings, to the Haymarket and Piccadilly, “night-houses” admitted the drunkard (when not too drunk), the night prowler, the debauchee, the gambler, the thief, and the prostitute of every grade—the only distinction being the higher or lower tariff. From the swell supper-room, saloon, elysium, or “finish,” of “Goody Levy,” “Goodered,” “Rowbotham,” “Mother H.,” or the “Brunswick,” through the musical and more respectable chop-and-kidney-grilling “Evans’s,” the “Garrick,” the “Cider Cellars,” “Coal Hole,” or “Shades,” down to the common dramshop kept open on the plea of the neighbouring cabstand or theatre until the small hours of the morning grew large, all appealed to those who sought “recreation and refreshment _after the theatres_.”

In one of these houses, the “Royal Standard,” in Piccadilly, on the morning of the 17th of February, 1838, there appear to have been assembled after a night’s debauch a number of loose characters. Among them were the Earl of Waldegrave and several “Corinthians.” According to the evidence of Mr. Mackenzie, the prosecutor, he, after leaving duty, entered the house in question, where “he saw the prisoner (Young Dutch Sam) and several gentlemen, some of whom he certainly had interfered with in their nocturnal sprees; indeed, he had been instrumental in introducing them to the magistrate at Marlborough Street.” We think nowadays this policeman’s conduct would be strictly canvassed. “Whilst he was standing before the bar,” we copy the report, “the prisoner whispered to Lord Waldegrave, and immediately afterwards, addressing the company, he said, ‘Gentlemen, do you care to see a policeman laid on his back?’ He then seized him (the prosecutor) and threw him on his back, falling upon him with all his weight. He was so much injured as to be under the doctor’s hands for some time, and unfit for duty. The prisoner was held to bail by the magistrates at Marlborough Street, and had forfeited his recognisances.”

Mr. Ballantine addressed the Court on the part of the prisoner in mitigation of punishment. The prisoner had been made the tool of certain parties with whom he had been drinking on the night before the assault was committed, and although they had urged him to the commission of the offence which led to his present position, not one of them had been to visit him, or render him the least assistance during his incarceration.—Mr. Doane, having addressed the Court for the prosecution, described the defendant as a pugilist, but added “that he did not say this to create a prejudice against him on that account, for he felt convinced that the unmanly and terrible crime of stabbing was increasing in this country, in consequence of the absurd and mischievous interference of the county magistracy with the sports of the Ring. Those sports (the learned gentleman observed) had some disadvantages, but they were amply counterbalanced by the habit they engendered of fighting in a fair and manly manner, and by the universal indignation with which anything unfair was regarded in a pugilistic contest.” The Court sentenced the prisoner to three months’ imprisonment.

A motion was subsequently made that the estreat on the recognisances might be taken off, but was refused, on the ground that the Court had no power to interfere.

We have been the more particular in the narration of this case as the facts were known to the writer, and as a most false and exaggerated report of the affair was subsequently published in the _Morning Herald_, in an attack upon the Prize Ring, penned by an Irish sporting reporter who had been discharged by the editor of _Bell’s Life_. The conduct of the policeman, to our thinking, more resembled that of a French _agent provocateur_ than a guardian of the peace; and, without defending the assailant, we may remark that the fact that Young Sam so carefully avoided using his unquestionable pugilistic skill, although under the excitement of champagne and provocation, is a sufficient answer to the charge of “ruffianism” and “ferocity” cast upon him for this foolish escapade.

Shortly after this fracas a new police Act, and increased vigilance in the stipendiary magistrates, checked effectually these disgraceful excesses, by substituting imprisonment for fine, at the discretion of the justices, whereupon we find, in a contemporary “daily,” the ironical “Lament” of which the subjoined are a few of the leading stanzas:—

LAMENT OF THE “DISORDERLY GENTLEMEN.”

A plague on the new law! bad luck to the beaks,
Opposed as they are to “disorderly” freaks;
Ye pinks of high rank, let your sorrows have vent,
And join with your pals in a doleful lament.

No longer at midnight, when coming it strong,
Ripe for riot and row, shall we stagger along;
No more of brave acts shall we “gentlemen” chaff,
Nor floor a raw lobster and fracture his staff.

Till lately, when liquor got up in the nob,
A fine of five shillings would settle the job;
And none will deny who has starr’d on the town,
A frolic or spree wasn’t cheap at a crown.

But now we’re informed by the beak, _Mr. Grove_
(Whoever could seat on the Bench such a cove?),
That if with strong liquors our tempers get hot,
He’ll send us at once on the treadmill to trot—

That the pastime of wrenching off knockers and bells
Must no longer be practis’d by high-minded swells;
Or he’ll send us, to settle each paltry dispute,
For a month to the treadmill our health to recruit.

O haste, brother pinks, such disgrace to prevent,
Before this vile Bill has the Royal Assent;
For herself it is certain Her Majesty thinks,
And I’m sure she’ll attend to a prayer from the “pinks.”

What, never again be permitted at dark
To insult modest females by way of a lark!
Gone for ever our joys, and our gay occupation?
Must we now like vile felons be marched to the station?

Forbid, ye proud nobs, any steps so degrading—
The swells’ charter’d rights they are basely invading;
Let us stand up for sprees and our leisure amuse,
And still act as blackguards whenever we choose.

Young Sam, though occasionally exhibiting his skill with the gloves at the sets-to of the “Pugilistic Association” established about this period at the Westminster (now the Lambeth) Swimming Baths, by Tom Spring, Cribb, Crawley, the editor of _Bell’s Life_, and other leading friends of the P.R., was not popular with his brethren of the Ring, and did not care to associate with them. He became a publican first in Castle Street, Leicester Square, and then at the “Coach and Horses,” St. Martin’s Lane; but in both he was unsuccessful—it was said from inattention to business, which we can well believe. At length, in 1840, Sam wedded the daughter of a respected publican, and with her as a helpmeet he became landlord of the “Black Lion,” in Vinegar Yard, Drury Lane. From this house he migrated to the Old Drury Tavern, in Brydges Street, Covent Garden, and here his wife’s experience and management, together with her influence over his erratic disposition, seemed to be fast maturing the “Young ’Un” into a respectable and steady Boniface. For some time, however, the effects of early dissipation were visible in recurrences of inflammation of the lungs at the approach of winter or exposure to cold. In 1842 a severe relapse, accompanied by spitting of blood, reduced him almost to a shadow, and on the 4th of November, 1843, he died of decline, at the early age of thirty-six. The following appeared in an obituary notice in the leading sporting journal of the day:—

“In the sparring schools Sam was a master of his art to an extent
but seldom seen and rarely equalled by professors. He often showed,
and remarkably so when in conversation with his ‘betters (?),’ that
his acquaintance with ‘letters’ was not merely of a mechanical
description. He spoke well, and when he chose could ‘do the
agreeable’ with a suavity highly creditable to his class, securing
to himself throughout his career the patronage of many noblemen and
gentlemen of the highest distinction. His temper was cheerful, and
he possessed a flow of natural humour which rendered him an
agreeable companion in social circles. A reckless disregard to his
own interests, and an unhappy disposition to mix in those scenes
which constitute what is called ‘Life in London,’ and in which he
was often the companion of sprigs of nobility, to whose wild
vagaries he was but too much inclined to pander, led him into
scrapes from which he had some difficulty in escaping. It is not our
wish, however, to speak ill of the dead; and knowing as we do that
there are those of a higher grade whose example he was but too prone
to follow, equally deserving of censure, we shall throw a veil over
the past, and let the recollection of his faults lie hidden in the
grave. As a pugilist he was always successful, for he never lost a
fight, and as a skilful sparrer he has left no equal of his years.
It was not till he married a woman who was his faithful and attached
companion till the moment of his death that the foundation of
prosperity was laid. She, luckily, was a woman of good sense, and
considerable experience in the public line, which enabled her to
‘carry on the war’ with success. Throughout his last illness he was
attended with exemplary kindness by his wife, who spared neither
pains nor expense to alleviate his disease. He died calm and
collected, surrounded by several of his friends, who while they
pitied could not but condemn the headlong folly which had
distinguished his passage through his short but eventful existence.
Many of his faults and follies may be fairly ascribed to the nature
of the associations into which the deceased, from his earliest
outset in life, was accidently thrown. He was ‘a spoilt child’ of
the Fancy, and like all spoilt children was wayward.”

Sam lies buried in the vault of his wife’s family in Kensal Green Cemetery.

MONODY ON THE DEATH OF YOUNG DUTCH SAM.

Scarce the illustrious Pet[53] his eyes had clos’d,
When in Death’s cold embrace Dutch Sam repos’d;
As brave a fellow from life’s scenes dismiss’d
As ever faced a foe or clench’d a fist;
Brave without bounce, and resolute as bold,
And ever first fair fighting to uphold;
Dauntless as honest, with unequalled game
He dar’d defeat, and fought his way to fame;
And burning still with pugilistic fire,
Prov’d Young Dutch Sam was worthy of his sire,

Made of the same unyielding sort of stuff,
Ready at all times for the scratch and rough,
Delighting in the Ring at contest tough,
And proudly scorning to sing out, “Enough!”

Ah! what avails it that in many a mill,
With pluck unflinching he was conqueror still;
With first-rate science dealt the unerring blow
Which from the sneezer made the claret flow;
Perplex’d the box of knowledge with a crack,
And cloth’d the ogles with a suit of black;
Forward his foeman fiercely to assail,
And shower his body blows as thick as hail?
Ah! what avails it? Dire disease at length
Blighted his laurels and subdued his strength,
Marking his features pale with Death’s cold stamp,
While faint and feeble burnt life’s flickering lamp,
’Till wasted, wan, and worn the pulses stopp’d.
The last sad scene was o’er, the curtain dropp’d.
But thou hast mark’d a course correct as clear,
By which the aspiring pugilist may steer.

Though fate decreed thou first shouldst breathe the air
Within the classic precincts of Rag Fair—
That region fam’d, as chronicles unfold,
Sacred to Sheenies and to garments old,
Owld coats, owld vests, to tempt the gazer’s view,
And tiles dresht up to look as goot as new;
But though in scenes like these Young Sam was nurs’d,
The bonds that cramp’d his youth he proudly burst,
And with ambition fired, and milling glow,
From rolls retreated, and discarded dough;
Cut Rosemary Lane, its sorrows and its joys,
And left dead men to other bakers’ boys!

What though awhile he ran a printing-race
At Charley Baldwin’s crib in Chatham Place?
For though to duty never disinclined,
’Twas _Caleb_ Baldwin’s deeds engrossed his mind;
The star of Westminster as tough, as bold,
Who cried _peccavi_ to Dutch Sam the old.

What though awhile, the public to amuse,
Through London streets he circulated news,
Doom’d for a time from East to West to trip,
And barter broadsheets for the ready tip?
“By heaven!” he cried, “to fighting fame I’ll soar,
And sporting journals I will vend no more,
Of adverse fate I’ll overleap the bar,
And follow to the Ring some milling star;
Consign all braggart pugilists to shame,
And show the Fancy Sam is thorough game!”

Thy spirit warmed by the exciting theme,
Nobly Dutch Sam thy pledge thou didst redeem,
And soon beneath Dick Curtis’ fostering wing,
Blaz’d like a meteor in the battle-ring.
Fortune upon thy hardy efforts smil’d,
And Victory hail’d thee as her favourite child.

Beneath thy prowess prime, which nought could quell,
The liveliest of the kids, Ned Stockman, fell;
Then ’twas thy luck, scarce injur’d, to destroy
The shine of Harry Jones, the Sailor Boy;
’Twas thine from Carroll Pat to strip the bays,
And serve out Cooper Tom in style at Grays,
Floor the swart Gipsy in time double-quick,
And settle the proud hash of Davis Dick;
The veteran Martin soon his colours struck,
And twice Ned Neale was down upon his luck;
And all his senses sent upon a cruise,
It was the luck of _Gaynor_ Tom to _lose_!

But vain are science, gluttony, and strength,
And Young Dutch Sam has met his match at length—
One whose sharp hits can ne’er be put aside,
And at the scratch will never be denied.
Brave man! we only mourn that thou art gone,
Well worthy to be dubb’d “Phenomenon.”
Sound be thy slumber in thy narrow cell,
While with a heavy heart we sigh farewell!

=M.=