Evidence of character was given, but it amounted to this, that the defendants "were quiet, good humoured people, who never took advantage of anyone."
They were sentenced to three months' imprisonment with hard labour, and "seemed overjoyed with the leniency of the Court."
In his interesting Autobiography of a Stage Coachman, Mr. Cross, who for many years drove the Lynn coach, says he saw the young man Phelps both before and after the fight, and gives the following graphic and pathetic incident. The Lynn coach, on leaving Kingsland Road, picked up three passengers, and upon its being mentioned that the coach had some fighting men inside, a clergyman, who was riding on the box, and whose wife, a young and beautiful lady, was inside, protested against allowing such company to sit in the coach with his wife; and, says Mr. Cross, his mind was set at rest by two coarse-looking fellows in rough great coats getting on the outside, and a well-dressed gentlemanly young man getting in. Upon the husband assisting his lady out, she asked him who was the gentleman who got in last; for his conversation had been extremely interesting, and she was sure by his general information he must be a gentleman of distinction at the University. Dressed in an elegant suit of black, and displaying on a delicate white hand a diamond ring, he took his place at the table at the inn for refreshments on the road, and, his manners corresponding with his appearance, no one could suspect him of being a fighting man. "Reader, this was the man known as 'Brighton Bill'—his real name I never knew, but that he was of respectable parents, and intended by them for a better calling I was convinced. When two days afterwards I saw his contused and distorted countenance, the only part visible from under the bedclothes, at the 'Wheatsheaf,' at Barkway, when he was deserted by all, and had no friend or relative near to watch over his fast-departing spirit, I could not restrain a tear. I silently, as I descended the stairs, invoked a curse on such barbarous practices, as well as on the authors of his death!"
If the writer of the above was correct in the identity of the dying pugilist with his cultured passenger, his parents or friends never came forward to recognise him. He was buried in a corner, the lower corner, of the Barkway Churchyard, and the only trace of him is in the Parish Register, which tells the simple fact of the death of William Phelps, of Brighton, Sussex, aged twenty years.
CHAPTER XIV.
OLD COACHING DAYS—STAGE WAGONS AND STAGE COACHES.
Many readers, whose lives carry them back before the "forties," taking their stand beneath the broad gateway or pebbled court-yard of our old inns—the Red Lion, the Bull, or the Crown—would require a very slight effort of memory to recall the exhilarating spectacle of the arrival and departure of the stage coach of fifty or sixty years ago. Such a person will once more hear in imagination the cheery coach horn at the town's end; and, watching for only a minute, he knows what to expect—yes, there around that critical corner at the Cross, come the steaming leaders, then a handful of reins, the portly form of the coachman, and then the huge embodiment of civilization itself comes swinging round the corner like a thing of life! Clattering up the High Street! the driver pulls them up promptly at the Lion, or the Bull, and performs that classic feat of swinging his lusty eighteen stone from the box seat with an easy grace which is the envy of every stable boy in the town! He sees once more the busy scene of bustle and animation as the steaming horses are replaced by other sleek animals fresh from the stables, and the old coach rolls on for another stage of the journey.
This, the ideal view of locomotion in the palmy days of stage-coaching, was really an evolution from something much less smart and efficient. Of that interesting evolution of the older locomotion, our old town, by the necessity of the route, saw most of the varied phases, for during many years of the century coaches rattled through our streets with kings, queens and princes, duellists and prize-fighters, daring highwaymen and Bow Street runners, romantic lovers off to Gretna Green, and School boys—poor little Nicklebies off to a Squeers' Academy—jostling inside the body of the lumbering coach, or dangling their legs from the roof as outsiders!
In glancing at the salient points of this evolution as it passed before the eyes of our grandfathers, it may be necessary to go back to the "composite" order of locomotion with the mixture of goods and passenger traffic.