“Though I look old, yet I am strong and lusty; For, in my youth, I never did apply Hot and rebellious liquors in my blood: Nor did I, with unbashful forehead, woo The means of weakness and debility; Therefore my age is as a lusty winter, Frosty, but kindly.” This, Sam’s final ring encounter, took place at Moulsey, on Tuesday, December 8th, 1814. Four to one had been betted on Sam previous to this fight, and he was backed, when fighting, till near the end of the battle, by the best judges in the pugilistic circles. This defeat (which will be found detailed in the Appendix to Period IV., under NOSWORTHY), ruined him, and he sunk into dejection, misery, and want. Like many others of the headstrong race of hard drinkers, he was infatuated with the idea that nothing in the shape of excess could harm his iron frame. Indeed, Sam had been heard insanely to boast that he could train on “three glasses of gin, three times a day.” What wonder, then, that he fell? Excess, pride, and conceit destroyed his vigour and stamina, and on this occasion he might exclaim,— “I’ve touched the highest point of all my greatness, And from that full meridian of my glory, I haste now to my setting.” A few anecdotes from contemporary sources may show Sam’s fistic capabilities even in his decadence. Passing through Wapping, one evening, when it was almost dark, he observed a poor Jew and a sailor fighting, and, upon enquiring the cause, he was soon recognized by the unfortunate Mordecai, who had been several times floored by the rough son of Neptune. Sam stooped to pick up his Israelitish brother, when the latter whispered in his ear, “So help my Cot, Sam, I can’t fight any more.” “Hold your tongue, you fool,” replied Sam, at the same time falling down by his side: “you get up and pretend to pick me up: I’ll let fly at him.” This imposition was practised with success, and Sam, staggering on to his legs with well feigned grogginess, went bang in with his one-two at the Jack Tar, in such style that he saluted mother earth in a twinkling. The sailor, upon getting upon his pins, roughly exclaimed, “D—— my ——, this ain’t the man I was fighting with—it’s another. Shiver me, but his blows are like the kicks of a horse—I’ll have no more of this.” He instantly sheered off, while Sam and his friend dropped into a neighbouring gin-shop to laugh over the trick. It is impossible correctly to ascertain the number of bye-battles in which Sam was engaged; but it is certainly within compass to assert, that he fought above one hundred.