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THE FIGHT.

Round 1.—Upon stripping, the clear appearance of Oliver satisfied every one that he had been trained to the highest pitch of condition; and his arms, from their muscular form, were a study for the anatomist. Painter was equally conspicuous; two finer young men never entered the ring. The anxious moment had arrived, and the spectators were watching with eagerness for the first advantage. Oliver commenced the attack by making play with his left hand, which was returned by Painter, but too short to do execution. The men rallied with high spirit and determination, during which sharp facers were exchanged and the claret was first seen trickling down Painter’s chin. In endeavouring to put in a right-handed blow, Painter, not being correct in his distance, missed his man, which brought them to a close, when Oliver immediately got his opponent’s nob under his left arm, fibbed him cleverly, and ultimately threw him. More anxiety displayed than betting.

2.—Most determined resolution appeared on both sides; indeed, the spectators were aware, from the character of the men, that victory would not be obtained by either at an easy rate. Oliver, with much dexterity, put in a severe hit upon Painter’s mug, who returned sharply with his right. A desperate rally now commenced, when it was perceived that Painter left his head unprotected. Oliver, awake to every chance, punished his opponent’s nob terribly with his left; but Painter, with considerable adroitness and execution, planted a blow on the cheek of Oliver, that instantly sent him down. Its effect was not unlike the kick of a horse. Even betting.

3.—From such a tremendous hit it was truly astonishing to see Oliver so ready to time. Painter, somewhat flattered by his last effort, made play, but his distance proved incorrect. Oliver returned by planting a heavy blow in his face. A rally now followed, in which so much determination was exhibited, as to excite surprise in the most experienced pugilists. It lasted more than two minutes, without advantage to either combatant. If courage was at any time portrayed, no boxers in the world ever put in a higher claim to it than Painter and Oliver, who undauntedly stood up to each other, giving blow for blow, till accuracy of stopping and force of hitting had left them both. A pause ensued. The skill of Oliver at length obtained the advantage. He adopted the Cribb system of milling on the retreat, and punished his opponent’s nob heavily, till Painter fought his way in to another rally, which, if possible, was more determined and severe than the first. This second rally seemed rather in favour of Painter, who hit tremendously, but he was checked in the midst of his career by a severe body blow, that nearly sent him down. He, however, collected himself a little, and continued fighting till he fell from weakness. A more thorough milling round is not to be met in the annals of pugilism, and there was more execution done in it than in many fights of an hour’s length. Indeed, it was enough to finish most men. It lasted four minutes and a half, and twelve seconds, all fighting!

4.—On this round the fate of the battle hung. Skill was now required to recover from the severe winding each had experienced in those two desperate rallies. Oliver, convinced that systematic precaution was necessary, again successfully adopted milling on the retreat. He nobbed his opponent with his left hand, as Painter incautiously followed, literally throwing away most of his blows, which, had they reached their destination, must have done execution. Painter was evidently distressed by this retreating system, but at length got in a tremendous right-handed hit upon Oliver’s eye, and appeared getting more fresh in his wind. A spirited rally took place, when some heavy blows were exchanged, but Painter fell exhausted. Two to one was loudly vociferated upon Oliver.

5.—Oliver kept the advantage of his system of fighting, reducing the strength of his opponent in almost every round. He hit Painter repeatedly without receiving a return, and his left hand was continually at work. Painter still kept pursuing Oliver, although so heavily hit at every step, and he at length fell upon his face.

6.—This round was rather more evenly contested, and, in rallying, Painter put in several good hits both right and left, when he fell from weakness.

7.—It was now demonstrable which way the battle would terminate. Oliver appeared so much at home that he punished his opponent in any direction he thought proper. Painter did everything that a game man could, but he was so exhausted that in making a hit he fell on one knee. Three to one, but no takers.

8 and last.—Painter was done up, and Oliver finished the contest in prime style, by meeting his antagonist in every way that he presented himself; and, finally, with a right-handed blow, knocked him down. Painter could not be brought to time. They were both punished heavily. Oliver’s body showed marks of some punishment, and both his eyes were in mourning.

Remarks.—Upon Oliver’s being declared the conqueror, Cribb took him up in his arms and carried him round the ring in triumph, when he received universal applause, and he deserved it.

In conquering Painter he defeated a hero of the first mould, whose fine game and true courage were never excelled. But game alone will not win in opposition to superior science, though it may prolong the battle. Painter suffered severely from his distances proving incorrect. During the battle he missed nineteen hits; and, in one round, Oliver put in five severe blows on the head, without receiving a single hit in return. Oliver is a fine looking young man, and weighed, in the above fight, twelve stone, seven pounds, and is in height five feet nine inches and three-quarters. In every battle he has successively risen in fame and shown more science; but with Painter, however desperately contested, it appears, that he felt within himself less danger of being beaten than in any of his other five. In the early part of his training (for which he was indebted to the peculiar skill, care, and attention of Captain Barclay), the severity of fatigue he experienced rendered him unwell, but when his pitch was correctly ascertained, his constitution was so finely and vigorously tempered, so much spirit, lightness, and sound stamina were infused into his frame, that it was thought he could have fought an hour without much difficulty. It is astonishing what confidence men are taught to feel, from the superior system of training pursued by Captain Barclay.

In fighting Kimber, Oliver appeared a mere novice; in his battle with “Hopping Ned,” he was a promising tyro; with Harry Lancaster, he rose above the thumping commoner; when he fought Ford, he showed that he had good stuff in him, and proved himself a staunch tough man; in his severe conflict with Cooper, he was an improving and steady boxer; while against Painter, he proved his claim to the appellation of a first-rate pugilist. It was from this progressive state of pugilistic acquirement, and Oliver’s superiority over Painter, that he was considered equal to anything upon the list. Not even the Champion was excepted; in fact, so high were his capabilities rated, that before Carter offered himself as a customer, Oliver had displayed great anxiety to enter the lists with Tom Cribb; and it appears that some conversation had passed between those mighty heroes of the fist, as to the propriety of a meeting to decide the subject.

Tom had at this juncture touched the culminating point of his pugilistic eminence. He was now a publican, and his house, the Duke’s Head, in Peter Street, Westminster, was looked upon as headquarters of the Fancy of that special district. Tom had inherited the title and dominion of the renowned Caleb Baldwin, and was regarded as the hero and champion of Westminster. It is but justice to observe, that contemporary prints bear testimony to the personal civility and general good behaviour of Oliver as a public man, and of his disposition as “truly inoffensive;” a general characteristic of steady and unflinching courage. After a couple of years of “minding the bar,” Tom accepted the challenge of Jack Carter, “the Lancashire hero,” who, at this period, boldly claimed the Championship. The game battle near Carlisle, October 4, 1816, in which Oliver fell gloriously, although at one period three to one was laid in his favour, will be found in the Life of Carter, Chapter VIII. of this Period. (Page 170.)

Tom now returned to serving his customers, and again nearly two years’ peaceful interval was spent by Tom in “minding his own business,” when some of the friends of Bill Neat, of Bristol, of whom hereafter, offered to make a match with Oliver, for 100 guineas a-side, to fight on the 10th of July, 1818, within thirty miles of London. The invitation was accepted, and the articles signed, betting being, at first, in favour of Oliver. The tremendous hitting of Neat knocked the game Tom off his legs, and into a state of obliviousness, after an hour’s hard up-hill fighting. See Neat, Chapter V. of this Period.

On the 28th May, 1819, Oliver was at Epsom, enjoying the racing, when a purse of £50 being to be fought for, and Kendrick, the Black, expressing a desire to “try for it,” Tom agreed to be his opponent, as he expressed it, “to keep his hand in.” About six o’clock, accordingly, when the last race was over, a ring was formed near the starting post, and surrounded, quickly by several thousands of spectators. Oliver showed first, attended, by Tom Cribb and Randall, while Carter and Richmond waited on the Black.

THE FIGHT.

In the first round, the Black threw Oliver; and in the fifth he also fibbed him sharply. In a few other instances he had the best of the rounds, but not enough to turn the battle in his favour, or to influence the betting. Massa did not attempt to hit, but he stopped extremely well, and rushed in for a close. When he was forced into a rally, too, he fought with some determination. Oliver not only threw Massa in great style twice, but he went down very heavily in the hitting. The Black did not exhibit much signs of punishment, but would have left off earlier than he did, had his second not induced him to try it on a little longer. He was at length hit down by a tremendous facer, which so satisfied him that he would not again appear at the scratch. Little, if any, betting occurred, as the £50 was considered a present for Oliver. Some few wagers took place that it would be over in thirty minutes. It was not, however, won with that ease which had been anticipated, and it was asserted, that if Massa had been in better condition, and had possessed the advantages of patronage, he might have proved a troublesome customer. As it was, the battle lasted one hour and a quarter, during which thirty rounds were fought.

Favoured by adventitious circumstances, and puffed with praise, Dan Donnelly, the Irish Champion, now appeared upon the scene with “A Manifesto to the Milling World,” which will be found in his memoir, Chapter VIII. of this Period. Accordingly at Jack Martin’s benefit, April 20, 1819, Oliver challenged Donnelly for 100 guineas a-side, when Randall declared he was authorised to accept it. That day six weeks was named as the time of battle, the articles signed at Dignam’s, the Red Lion, Houghton Street, Clare Market, and the battle came off at Crawley Hurst, thirty miles from London, on Wednesday, July 21, 1819, as fully detailed in the Life of Dan Donnelly, post.

Shelton, who had risen high in the opinion of his friends, from his conquest of Big Bob Burn, was soon matched against Oliver for 100 guineas a-side, and the battle came off at Sawbridgeworth, Herts., twenty-seven miles from London, on Thursday, January 13, 1820. Shelton was the favourite, partly owing to Oliver’s recent defeat. At a few minutes before one o’clock Oliver threw his hat into the ring (which was swept, and strewed with sawdust), and was soon followed by Shelton. The look of Oliver was firm and collected, and smiling confidence sat on his brow. He fought under the “yellowman,” à la Belcher, and was going to tie his colours himself to the stakes, but Randall took them out of his hand, and placed them on the ropes. After some little time Spring covered Oliver’s colours with the blue handkerchief. The time was announced for the men to strip, notwithstanding a heavy fall of snow. Randall and Tom Callas waited upon Oliver, and Spring and Turner seconded Shelton. The latter had his right wrist tied with a small piece of his colours, part of a blue handkerchief. This was done in order to give a security to his wrist, which had received a severe injury from a cut with a glass rummer about eight months previous to the fight. In tossing for the choice of side, Oliver was the winner. The men then shook hands and set-to for

THE FIGHT.

Round 1.—Shelton, being the best two-handed fighter on the list, and the hardest hitter, it was expected that he would go to work immediately; but there was a drawback to his efforts in Oliver’s attitude and guard, and great caution was the prominent feature; he, however, made two feints, but Oliver stopped him. Shelton made another attempt without effect, as Oliver got away. Sparring with great caution. Some exchange of blows now occurred, and a trifling rally. Counter hits, which operated upon both their mugs, and a tinge of claret was seen upon the mouth of Oliver, when Shelton observed, “First blood, Tom.” Oliver, in great style, stopped right and left the hits of Shelton, and returned a severe body blow. Shelton showed also some science in stopping, but Oliver planted two severe facers right and left. Some exchanges took place, and in a sort of close both men went down, Shelton undermost. The round occupied seven minutes. (Loud shouting in favour of Oliver.)

2.—Oliver put in a severe facer without any return. Shelton seemed rather confused at the superior tactics displayed by his opponent, and absolutely stood still from the severity of a blow he received on his ribs. He, however, recovered from his stupor, and with more fury than science attacked Oliver till the latter went down. (“Well done, Shelton! Bravo!”)

3.—In this round the spectators were astonished at the excellence of Oliver. Some smart exchanges took place, when the latter not only damaged Shelton’s right ogle, but hit him severely in the throat, followed him and ultimately floored him.

4.—The fine fighting of Shelton could not be perceived. Oliver put in such a tremendous facer that Shelton put down his hands and retreated. The latter, rather angry, endeavoured to plant a heavy hit on the tender ear of Oliver, but he stopped him on his elbow, laughing at him. Shelton received some more facers, and Oliver ultimately got him down. (“That’s the way, Oliver; go it, my old Westminster trump, we shall have another jubilee yet in the dominions of old Caleb.”)

5.—Shelton went down, but it appeared more from the slippery state of the ground than the hit.

6.—Shelton put in a sharp nobber; but in return his upper works were peppered, and he was again down. Shelton’s right eye was nearly gone, and Oliver smiled with confidence.

7.—Shelton threw his opponent, and appeared the stronger man.

8.—This was a well-contested round. Shelton’s face now exhibited the handy-work of his opponent. He went down, and Oliver fell upon him, but threw up his arms.

9.—Oliver’s right hand would be nobbing Shelton; but the latter made a desperate return on Oliver’s already cut mouth that fetched the claret copiously. Shelton endeavoured to repeat this electrifying touch, but Oliver stopped him neatly. Shelton then closed, pelting away, and in struggling made a jump to get his opponent down. Both fell, Oliver undermost.

10.—Oliver commenced this round by planting two facers, right and left, and also put in a bodier, without a return. Shelton, however, gallantly fought his way into a sharp rally, and some severe exchanges occurred, when the men broke away. In closing again, both down, but Shelton undermost. (“Bravo!” from all parts of the ring; “good on both sides.”) More real courage could not be witnessed.

11.—The scene was now rather changed, and some little danger was apprehended from Shelton’s not only nobbing his opponent, but by a well gathered hit having floored Oliver like a shot. Randall and Callas lost not a moment in getting Oliver up; but when placed on his second’s knee his head lolled on one side, and he appeared lost to what was going forward. In fact, it seemed as if the game Oliver could not recover, although Randall kept telling him to look about and recollect himself, calling out, “Tom! Tom!” Shelton’s friends, who had previously been as if frozen, now jumped about and began to bet without hesitation.

12.—Shelton satisfied the spectators that his nob was screwed on the right way; he immediately went to work with Oliver, and again got him down. (Ten to one on Shelton.)

13.—Oliver was very bad, but his game brought him through it, and he came up better than was expected. Shelton did not wait for his coming up to the scratch, but was going to attack him, when Randall reminding him of it, he struck the Nonpareil, saying, “I’ll lick you as well; don’t talk to me about the scratch.” Randall very properly passed it over, observing, “It was the first time he ever received a hit without returning it.” Shelton, however, made a bold attack upon Oliver, but the latter caught him at the ropes, and in the Randall style fibbed him till he went down. The joy of the Westminster boys cannot be described.

14.—The fibbing system was repeated till Shelton went down.

15.—Shelton in going down received a sharp facer in falling.

16.—It was singular to observe that Shelton could not stop Oliver’s right hand. A smart rally occurred, when the men broke away. Shelton was ultimately hit down. (This change surprised every one. Oliver was again the favourite, seven to four.)

17.—Shelton went down as quickly as he could in this round, and Oliver behaved generously.

18.—This was a gallant round; both men fought like lions, and displayed heroism that called forth the loudest approbation from all parts of the ring. Both down.

19.—Shelton passionately run in, but went down. (Disapprobation.) Both his peepers were much damaged.

20.—Oliver, who had hitherto been considered a slow fighter, evinced considerable quickness; and as Shelton was coming in with a tremendous hit he was stopped by Oliver, who, in finishing the round, hit Shelton down. (The Westminster boys offered to sport their last brown on their old favourite, Oliver.)

21.—This round was decidedly in favour of Oliver; in fact, he had it all his own way, till Shelton was hit down, when Oliver, with much manliness, stepped over him. This conduct was received as it deserved; Oliver was loudly cheered.

22.—Shelton got away with much dexterity from a body blow aimed by Oliver; but turned to and fought like a hero, till he went down in a distressed state.

23.—Here the warmth of Shelton’s feelings was evident; he rushed in to mill Oliver, regardless of consequences, till he went down.

24.—Shelton hit Oliver on the mouth, which operated forcibly, and made a change again in Shelton’s favour; but the bravery of Oliver was not to be overcome, and he sent Shelton down, although obliged to go down himself. With much honour he endeavoured not to fall upon his opponent. (“Bravo, Oliver! you are a noble fellow, and an honour to the ring.”)

25.—This was a most singular round. Shelton was hit off his balance, and went round like a whirligig. Oliver did the same: their backs came against each other. They recovered themselves, and made some good exchanges, till Shelton went down.

26.—Shelton was floored from a flush hit on his nose.

27.—Oliver again hit Shelton in the face as he was falling; but Oliver was in the act of giving and could not help it. It was not an intentional blow. However, loud cries of “Foul, foul!” “Fair, fair!” occurred; and on Shelton’s asking the umpires if it was not foul, it was deemed fair, the hit not being intentional.

28.—This was a most courageous round, and Shelton did all that a brave man could do to win. The hits on both sides were terrific, till Shelton retreated from the heavy punishment dealt out to him, followed by Oliver all over the ring. He caught Shelton, in the act of falling, under his arm, carrying him a considerable way, then generously letting him go down easily. (Tumultuous applause for Oliver.)

29.—Another fine round—all hitting and no flinching. Both down, but Shelton undermost. When the combatants were on the knees of their seconds, Shelton said to Oliver, “Let them chaff (meaning the seconds), but you and I, Tom, will do what is right.” “Certainly,” replied Oliver.

30.—Shelton still proved himself a dangerous customer; he went up to Oliver, planting some hard blows, till he was hit away. In struggling, both down.

31.—It was not long before Shelton was floored.

32.—Shelton put in a good nobber; but Oliver soon returned two facers, right and left, and Shelton went down on his knee.

33.—Oliver observed to his opponent, “Tom, I have got you now,” and instantly went to work, till Shelton went down much distressed.

34.—Shelton got wild, and ran after Oliver, till he was stopped by a flush hit and went down exhausted.

35.—Shelton had now lost his self-possession, but still he was dangerous, for Oliver received a nobber that moved him from the ground. Shelton ran all over the ring after Oliver, while the latter kept getting away, putting in a hit now and then, and laughing till Shelton ran himself down. (Any odds. “It’s all your own, but be steady.”)

36.—It was sad to see the state of Shelton; he hit at random and was as groggy as a Jack tar three sheets in the wind. He received a hit on his head, and fell.

37.—Notwithstanding the groggy state of Shelton, Oliver would not give a chance away, but kept at a distance, planting his hits in a winning manner, till Shelton went down. While the latter was on the knee of his second, Callas went up to Shelton and asked him if he would fight any more. Spring was irritated with Callas, and a row had nearly been the result. (Odds were now out of the question.)

38.—The opponents of Shelton could not but compliment his bravery, as he came up like a man, although reeling to and fro; he, nevertheless, made a hit, till he was sent down at the ropes.

39 and last.—On time being called, Shelton got up, but he reeled and could not steady himself at the scratch. Some interference took place, and Oliver was declared the conqueror. The latter jumped up for joy. He immediately left the ring, and did not appear much punished about the face, except his mouth. Shelton was shortly afterwards led out of the ring; his face was much peppered. It was over in fifty-one minutes.

Remarks.—The game of Oliver brought him through triumphantly, to the surprise and expense of the knowing ones, many of them paying dearly for their mistake. The conduct of Oliver was a perfect specimen of a thorough-bred Englishman, and finer courage was never displayed, nor more manliness and generosity. The “stale one,” as Tom was termed, defeated in style a much better fighter than himself. Shelton, on being stopped, appeared to lose his confidence, although he took a great deal of punishment, and exerted himself even after his last chance was gone. The success of Oliver was greatly due to the able seconding of Randall, whose advice at critical periods was invaluable. Shelton fell with honour, for a more gallant battle could not be fought. On being put to bed at Harlow, Shelton said, “My heart is not beat, that’s as good as ever; but I’m sorry for those who have backed me.” On Shelton’s return to town a medical certificate was shown to the effect that two of his ribs were broken.

Shelton solicited his friends to allow him another chance with Oliver for £100; and they not only presented him with a handsome gratuity, but proposed to post the money for a new trial; but this was interfered with by the match we are about to notice. Although Tom Spring had been beaten in a second battle by Painter (August 7, 1818), that excellent judge, Tom Belcher, contrasting the styles of the men, declared he thought Oliver a good match for the Norwich hero, whom, as we have already seen, he had defeated four years previously, and purposed to back him for £100. The friends of Painter, though refusing Spring a new trial, thought the present “a good thing,” and Painter sharing their opinion, articles were quickly agreed on. See Life of Painter, in the preceding chapter. In this fight, at North Walsham, near Norwich, July 17, 1820, Oliver suffered defeat. Still his friends adhered to him, and that their confidence was not withdrawn a striking instance was soon given. Tom Spring—although he had beaten in succession Henley, Stringer, Ned Painter (and been beaten in turn by him), and afterwards conquered Carter (who had beaten Oliver), Ben. Burn, Bob Burn, and Josh. Hudson—was declared by many to be “a sparring hitter,” and it was urged that this “fine fighting” would never dispose of the gallant Tom. At any rate opinions differed, and accordingly Oliver was backed for 100 guineas, the tourney to take place on February 20, 1821. How Oliver struggled against length, weight, skill, and superior judgment, is told in the memoir of Spring, his conqueror, whose merits Oliver, during his long life, has often warmly descanted upon. He once said to us, “It’s no use arguing—Spring was too long, too clever, and too strong for any of us. I tried his strength, but found out my mistake. Lord bless you, he never let nobody see how much he could fight till it was wanted, then he just served out the quantity. He had a head for fighting, and a man only wins by chance if he hasn’t a head.” Oliver experienced this, and acknowledged it. His argument, however, received an adverse illustration shortly afterwards, when he met Hickman, the Gas-light man, as yet unconquered, on Tuesday, June 12, 1821, at Blindlow Heath, Surrey, and was defeated in nine rounds. Oliver was virtually beaten in the first round. He was stale, slow, and could not in any way parry the onslaught of his opponent; yet here again he kept untarnished his fame as a courageous man. See Hickman, post, Chapter VI.

Tom seems, like many other high-couraged men, not to have been at all conscious of the important axiom that “youth will be served,” and once again, for his last appearance but one, made a match with a powerful young boxer, Bill Abbott, for the trifling sum of ten guineas. The affair was considered a “bubble,” and that a forfeit must follow. Abbott, however, meant it, and so did Oliver, and they met November 6, 1821, on Moulsey Hurst, when Oliver was beaten by a heavy hit under the ear in the thirtieth round, the odds immediately before the blow being four to one on him. How this fight was lost and won will be seen under Abbott in the Appendix to Period VI., Abbott’s last fight being in 1832.

Years now rolled by, and Tom was generally known and respected. Being appointed to the charge of the ropes and stakes of the P.R., he was a constant attendant at the ring-side as commissary, and at sparring benefits. At length, in 1834, the “old war-horse” was neighed to by another old charger, no other than “Uncle Ben” (Burn). “My Nevvy” (Jem Burn) had removed from the Red Horse, Bond Street, to the Queen’s Head, Windmill Street, Haymarket, and there the commissary, “Mine Uncle,” and many of the old school, as well as the aspirants of the new school, nightly held their merry meetings, and talked over “deeds that were done and the men who did them,” with an occasional interlude of a new match between the active pugilistic practitioners of the day. For a long time “Uncle Ben” had amused himself and the listeners by somewhat disparaging opinions, not of Tom’s game, but of what he called his “wooden fighting,” and at length, half in jest, half in earnest, Tom, in his matter-of-fact style, informed “Mine Uncle,” that his opinion of the family was that they had produced only one “fighting man among the lot,” and he was his very good friend Jem Burn. This was “most tolerable, and not to be endured;” and “my Nevvy,” who loved a bit of fun, “as an alderman loves marrow,” tarred on the old uns by siding with the Commissary. Ben. hereupon produced his pouch, and offered to post a deposit to meet the veteran in battle array. The joke went on, but the old heroes were in earnest, and meant the thing they said. Articles were drawn, and the day fixed for Tuesday, the 28th of January, 1834. Oliver having won the toss, he named Coombe Warren as the place of rendezvous, and on Monday evening Uncle Ben took his departure from his training quarters at Finchley to the Robin Hood, at Kingston Bottom, where he arrived safe and sound, in the full anticipation of covering himself with glory on the ensuing day. Oliver, who was not so fortunate in patrons, had not the advantage of training beyond what he could obtain by his daily walks from his own domicile in Westminster, and on Thursday morning took the road towards the appointed place in a cab, accompanied by the Deputy Commissary, Jack Clarke, who had the care of the ropes and stakes. He made a halt at the same house as “my Uncle,” only occupying a separate apartment.

The crowd assembled in front of the Robin Hood at twelve o’clock would have been characterised by Dominie Sampson as “prodigious!” and it was not till “the office” was given that the ring had been formed by Deputy Commissary Clarke in a field at the back of Coombe Wood, that a move took place and the blockade of the Robin Hood was raised. The moment the where was known, a simultaneous toddle took place up the hill, and the ring was shortly surrounded by an extensive circle of panting prads and loaded vehicles; but scarcely had the anxious coves time to congratulate themselves on having obtained a good berth, when a “Conservative” beak, one of the enemies of the sports of the people, who had stolen from his counter in the town of Kingston, attended by a noted distributor of religious tracts, poked his ill-omened visage into the ring, and addressing Jack Clarke, who was viewing his handiwork with the eye of an accomplished artist, said, “My good man, you have your duty to perform and I have mine; I am a magistrate, and will not permit any fight to take place in this county, and I trust I shall not be molested.” Jack looked as civil as a gipsy at the tusks of a farm-yard dog; but he was too good a judge to “kick against the pricks.” He saw it was no go, and assuring his worship he was as safe as if he were wrapped up in a ball of his own flannel, he saw him safely through the surrounding multitude. An immediate retreat was beaten up the main road, and Jack lost no time in undoing what he had done, and packing his traps, as before, under the wings of a cab, with which he followed his friends.

A consultation now took place as to what was to be done. Some were for a flight to Hayes, in Kent, while others looked towards Middlesex, and at last the latter course was taken, and “to Hampton” was the word of command. The cavalcade set off helter-skelter, taking the course over Kingston Bridge, to the unexpected but great satisfaction of the toll-keepers, who were thus put into a good thing, not improbably for good reasons, by the pious Kingston beak. But here a new difficulty and some jarring arose, for the cabs in those early days not being entitled to go more than eight miles from London without paying an additional duty of 1s. 9d. to the excise, the impost was demanded, and the gate shut till it was exacted. The stoppage produced not only great resistance, but much ill-blood, and at one time there was a string of not less than three hundred carriages on the stand-still, all impatient, and each fresh cabman producing fresh arguments in favour of a right of passage. At last foul means took the place of fair: the gate was opened by the “friends of liberty,” and away went the whole line pell mell, many of them not even condescending to pay the ordinary toll. Thus the imprudent resistance (when the number of the cab might have been sufficient) led to the loss of much which would otherwise have been bagged to the positive advantage of the Trust. The way was now clear to Hampton, with the exception of a few accidents by “flood,” for the waters being out on the road between Hampton Court and the Bell, many immersions took place; and, in not a few instances, “old Father Thames,” with the pertinacity of an exciseman, walked through the bottoms of those drags which happened not to be at least two feet from the surface of his waters. These were, however, “trifles light as air,” and in due course the motley assemblage were collected round the roped arena once more, a convenient field having been found, of which possession was taken without the ceremony of saying to the proprietor, “by your leave.” All now went smoothly; the men arrived on the field “ripe for action;” and by a quarter to three o’clock the dense mass was all alive for the commencement of business, a straw rick in the vicinity affording ample material for forming a dry resting-place for the “Corinthians” close to the stakes. Such was the crowd, however, that great difficulty was experienced in preserving order, and hundreds were altogether shut out from a view of the sport which they had encountered so many difficulties to witness. At ten minutes to three the men entered the ring; Oliver attended by Frank Redmond and Owen Swift, and Burn by Young Dutch Sam and Anthony Noon. Oliver sported a bird’s eye blue, and Burn a yellow man, which were tied to the stakes in due form. Burn, on entering the ring, seemed to be a good deal excited, and some thought he had been sitting too near the brandy bottle; but his subsequent conduct showed that he had lost nothing by the aid of artificial spirit. Oliver was quiet and easy in his manner; and although he was aware of the importance of the contest upon which he was about to enter, exhibited as much coolness as if he were engaged in his ordinary occupation of Commissary. He wore a tarpaulin hat, which gave him much the appearance of a veteran tar, instead of a veteran of the boxing school. On stripping, it was clear that Burn had the advantage of height and weight, as well as in freshness, although his flesh shook within his skin, as if the latter had been made too large, or the former had shrunk from its natural rotundity, the inevitable effect of training upon an old frame. Oliver looked sleek, and in good case. He was, however, stiff in the pins, which, although not “gummy,” as might have been expected from his frequent attacks of the gout, wanted that elasticity of muscle requisite to the display of activity, an important essential in getting away from the rush of a heavy and determined antagonist, as he discovered in the course of the mill. The odds on setting-to were six and seven to four on Oliver.

THE FIGHT.

Round 1.—The men eyed each other à la distance, Oliver smiling, Ben as serious as Newton solving a problem in astronomy, their hands well up, and Tom waiting for the attack; but Ben was in no hurry. Tom tried a feint—no go; Ben steady. After a short pause Ben let out his left, caught Tom on the canister, and stopped the counter with his right. Neat stopping, followed by counter hits with the left, which raised a blush on the cheek of each. Good straight hitting and stopping, and no flinching. Tom caught Ben on the pimple with his left, but had it on the mark from Ben’s left in return. A sharp rally, give and take in good style; no getting away or mincing matters, it was all hard work. Both became flushed and got to a close, but little was done at in-fighting; mutual efforts to chop and fib, when they broke away. Ben was all alive, and popped in his left straight as an arrow on Tom’s mouth. Tom returned, but was short. (Cries of “First blood” from Sam, and Tom showed claret from the mouth.) Burn again put in his left, and stopped the counter. Oliver was slow, but sure, and stealing a march, gave Ben a poke on the snout. Ben had him on the noddle in return. Oliver threw in a blow on Ben’s ribs with his right, but he was rather short. Ben countered on his pimple; good manly fighting, and neither retreated an inch. Ben flung out his left as swift as lightning, and catching Oliver between the chin and the lip, gave him a “snig,” from which the blood flowed copiously. (“No mistake about blood now,” cried the Burnites, while Sam said “it was a certainty.” “Aye,” cried Ben exultingly, “I can lick him and Tom Spring in the same ring!”) Oliver smiled, but was not dismayed; he went to his man and tried his left, but was short. Hit for hit, and no dodging. The men stood like Trojans, fearless of consequences, depending solely on science in stopping or hitting. A spirited rally and some heavy exchanges, when Oliver put in his left upon Ben’s throat, and downed him in good style. This was “trick and tie,” first blood for Ben and first knock-down for Tom. The friends of the latter, who were not prepared for so admirable a display on the part of Burn, revived. The round lasted eleven minutes, all fighting, and both were a little fagged.

2.—Ben came up as confident as ever, while Tom smiled as if unshaken in his own good opinion. After a short pause Ben caught Oliver a swinging hit with his right on the side of the head, just above the ear. Tom popped in his left twice on Ben’s smelling bottle and cigar trap, drawing blood from the latter. Some good manly hits and neat stopping, when both closed, but in the struggle neither could do much. They appeared to be incapable of getting the lock or giving a cross-buttock. Each fibbed by turns, and at last Oliver succeeded in getting Ben down and falling upon him. Both got up bleeding, and the spectators were agreeably surprised by the manly and straight-forward manner in which the men continued the contest.

3.—Oliver came up a little groggy on his pins, but ripe for action. He let go his left, but Burn stopped him beautifully, and made a pretty counter in return. A brisk rally, in which heavy hits were exchanged, and Burn was again floored with a poke as he was on the retreat. This was given as a second knock-down blow.

4.—Again did Burn show his generalship by stopping Oliver’s left; but it was now seen that the knuckles of his right hand were gone, and that he did not keep up his arm so well as at starting. Oliver saw the opening, and “flared up” with his left so quickly and effectually that he cut Ben between the eyes, and down came the claret in a stream. Still Ben showed no symptoms of fear. Counter-hitting; the men firm to the scratch and no denial. (“Remember his ribs,” cried Frank Redmond to Tom.) No sooner said than done, and whack went Tom’s right on the appointed spot. Ben did not like this, but he fought manfully, and the counter-hitting and stopping was of the first order. Again did Oliver plant on the sore ribs, but had it on the nob for his pains. Ben’s right continued low, and a job on the snout reminded him of his negligence; but this memorandum was not sufficient. Oliver again hit with his left: he received in return; but in the next broadside Ben went down. (Oliver’s friends now became satisfied that “all was right,” and cheered him accordingly.)

5.—Both men came up somewhat exhausted, for there was no breathing time taken on either side. Ben tried his left, but was stopped; and the return from Tom’s left on his knowledge box was neat, though with little severity. Oliver again dropped heavily on Ben’s ribs with his right and no return. A splendid rally, in which the “old uns” fought with signal bravery. Tom, however, had the advantage of hitting, as Ben’s right kept dropping, in spite of hints from Sam to keep it up. The jobbing with the left was effective on both sides; but in the end, after a desperate rally, in which both were piping and weak, and yawing like a ship in a storm, Uncle Ben dropped exhausted.

6 and last.—Notwithstanding Ben’s distress in the last round he came up with unshrinking bravery, although looking blue. And “now came the tug of war,” for, in point of punishment, the men were pretty much on a par, and all seemed to depend on their physical strength. Ben’s right guard still drooped, and Oliver commenced by giving him a job with his left. Ben was not idle, and returned; repeated counter hits were given, and Oliver delivered both right and left with precision, although not with much force; still the blows told on a man already on the go, and at last, in the close, both went down, Ben under. It was now all over, and, on time being called, Ben was declared incapable of coming again. Oliver, who had every reason to be glad his labours were brought to a conclusion, was immediately hailed as the victor, amidst the shouts of his friends; but he was some time before he was sufficiently master of his motions to quit the ring. Burn received every attention from his “Nevvy,” and complained that he felt the effects of a rupture, under which he had been long labouring. It was this which induced Jem Burn not to let him get up for another round, though he wished it. The fight lasted exactly twenty-four minutes.

Remarks.—This affair surprised and delighted the old ring-goers, for all anticipated, from the age of the combatants, that it would be a “muffish” affair, and especially as Ben had never had a very high reputation for game. It was admitted on all hands, however, that few more manly fights had been witnessed, and that no men, considering their capabilities, could have conducted themselves better. There was no cowardly retreating or flinching on either side, nor any of those hugging manœuvres which are so foreign to fair stand-up fighting. We doubt whether “Uncle Ben” ever showed to so much advantage; and, in defeat, he had at least the consolation of having convinced his friends that his pretensions to the character of a “foighting” man were not altogether without foundation. Tom has lost all that fire for which he was formerly distinguished, and of course much of his vigour, for his blows were not delivered with severity; nevertheless, he vindicated his character as a thorough game man, and to that quality his success may be in a great measure ascribed, for the punishment he received, would have more than satisfied many younger men. The betting was not heavy, and those who lost were perfectly satisfied Ben had done his best, both for himself and them. Nature, and not his will, forcing him to say “enough.”

This was Tom’s “last bumper at parting” with the active practice of pugilism, though up to a very recent period, when succeeded by his son, Fred. Oliver, the veteran Tom was rarely, despite his periodical visitations of his old enemy the gout, absent from his post whenever the P.R. ropes and stakes were in requisition. The civility, respectful attention, and forbearing good humour (often under circumstances of the utmost provocation) of Oliver we can personally bear testimony to. He was emphatically “the right man in the right place;” even-tempered, firm, obliging, yet undismayed by the most demonstrative of “roughs,” Tom preserved his dignity, and commanded order by his quiet, inoffensive, yet determined mode of doing what he considered to be his “duty.” During his latter years, “Old Tom” vegetated as a fruiterer and greengrocer in Pimlico and Chelsea, where he brought up a family, as a fine specimen of lusty old age, and of the days when we may say of the ring, “there were giants in the land.” Tom finally “threw up the sponge,” June, 1864, at the ripe age of 75.