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.

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.

At one period this weighty and hard-hitting specimen of the Bristol school bid fair to attain the topmost round of the ladder to pugilistic fame. Neat was born on the 11th of March, 1791, in Castle Street, of respectable hardworking parents, and was known to his townsmen for many years of his youth and manhood as a man of prodigious strength of arm, temperate habits, and extreme personal civility. A finer young fellow, “take him for all in all,” could not be met with in a day’s walk in a populous city. His height was five feet eleven inches and a half; his weight, in training, thirteen stone seven pounds. He had arrived at the age of twenty-seven before London heard of his provincial reputation, a fight with one Churchill, a maltster, weighing fourteen stone, being his only recorded battle. This was a somewhat curious affair. It was admitted that Churchill could not beat Neat, but the latter, for a trifling wager, offered to thrash Churchill “in ten minutes!” The cash was posted, and the combat came off, Churchill fighting with “yokel desperation.” Nevertheless, Neat lost his money by not hitting his opponent out of time in the ridiculously short space stipulated by the agreement. However, the powers displayed by Neat led to some conversation, in which a Bristol amateur offered to find 100 guineas for Neat, if he chose to meet Tom Oliver, then in the city on a sparring tour. Neat, who was as brave as he was powerful, closed with the offer.

Bristol, since the appearance of the renowned Jem and Tom Belcher in the metropolitan prize ring, followed in rapid succession by the never-defeated Game Chicken, the truly brave Gully, and the staunch and often-tried Champion of England, Tom Cribb, not only attained a high character for pugilistic excellence, but was denominated the “nursery of British boxers.” Neat was brought forward under those advantages; and although he could not boast of the experience of

yet his qualifications were so promising, his patronage so high and imposing, that with the improving value of ten weeks’ training under the immediate auspices and tuition of Cribb, the advice of Gully, and the generally sound judgment of Captain Barclay, he soon became the favourite; the Bristolians anxiously anticipating, through the exertions of this new candidate for milling fame, to realize the days of another Jem Belcher.

Oliver, nothing loth, accepted the cartel, and the subjoined articles were drawn up:—

“W. Neat engages to fight Thos. Oliver on the 10th of July, 1818, within thirty miles of London, for 100 guineas a-side. A fair stand-up fight, in a twenty-four feet ring. Mr. Jackson to name the place. The whole of the money to be made good on the 23rd of May. Neat not to exceed thirteen stone seven pounds. Ten guineas a-side are now deposited.

Upon the deposit being made, the odds were decidedly in favour of Oliver; but previous to the day of battle, they changed to five to four on Neat; the good judges observing that if freshness, length, strength, and height were points towards victory, Neat, who possessed them all, ought to win the fight. The latter, however, sustained some drawback from being an entire stranger to the London fancy.

In opposition to these pretensions, Oliver, the darling of Westminster, who had bravely conquered, in succession, Kimber, Hopping Ned, Harry Lancaster, Ford, Cooper, and the determined Painter—but who was rather cast in the shade from his defeat at Carlisle by Carter, if not considered to have received a check to the championship of England—again presented himself to the attention of the amateurs. Many of the old fanciers were partial to Oliver; and if some of them thought him slow, others viewed him as sure, and the odds against him were taken with much confidence. Previous to the fight the betting varied repeatedly, and on Thursday evening both Oliver and Neat were favourites in turn; it might almost be termed even betting.

Not a bed could be had at any of the villages at an early hour on the preceding evening; and Uxbridge was crowded beyond all precedent. At four o’clock in the morning vehicles of every description were in motion; and the road from Hyde Park Corner to Gerrard’s Cross was one cloud of dust. The ring was formed upon one of the most delightful spots the eye of a landscape painter could imagine. The scenery was truly picturesque. Bulstrode House, the seat of the late Duke of Portland, was on the left of it; the foliage of the trees, the verdure of the ground, the swelling eminences, and the grandeur of the prospect, rendered the tout ensemble captivating, and the company congratulated each other on the excellent choice which had been made for the display of gymnastic sports. Yet before an entrance could be gained to this elysium of the fancy a handsome tip was demanded at the gate, guarded by more heads than were in the possession of Cerberus of old. But such is the uncertainty of human affairs, in an instant this enchanting scene was changed; all was anxiety and suspense—the stakes were pulled up, the carriages rolled off with the utmost celerity, and the bustling scene became as it were a desert. A magistrate had fixed his paw upon Neat, and no milling could be permitted in Buckinghamshire on that day. Cerberus had now taken flight from the gate, and lots of Johnny Haws stood laughing at the flats who had been drawn of their tin. Rickmansworth, nine miles off, was the scent, and the string of carriages on the road exceeded all calculation. In a field, within a mile of the above place, the ring was again formed; and a few minutes before three Neat appeared and threw up his hat. Oliver immediately followed, bowing to the spectators, and was received with great applause. The latter, on stripping, showed good condition, and was seconded by Tom Jones and Clark; Cribb and Tom Belcher performing that office for Neat. Cribb tied the yellow colours of his man to the stakes, and Jones placed the blue handkerchief of Oliver upon them. Lord Yarmouth, Sir Henry Smith, and a long et cetera of amateurs, were round the ring. The ceremony of shaking hands took place, and at three o’clock the fight commenced. Neat five and six to four the favourite.

Round 1.—On setting-to, Neat looked formidable. His attitude was springy and ready for quick action. His legs, decorated with silk stockings, not only evinced fine form, but vast strength; and his arms were equally sinewy. Upon the whole, he had the appearance and make of what is generally considered a prize pugilist. He had also excellent symmetry. Both were anxious to commence in good style, and some sparring occurred. Neat hit short, and Oliver planted the first blow. Some hits were exchanged, and Oliver put in a body hit and got away; however, in following his opponent, he received a blow, and, slipping at the same time, went down. Two minutes and a half had elapsed.

2.—It was evident that experience was on the side of Oliver; but the right arm of Neat was truly dangerous. Oliver put in a bodier, and Neat returned short. The combatants then got into a sharp rally, which terminated with Oliver fibbing down his opponent. (Great applause.) The claret was now seen on the mouth and neck of Neat.

3.—Oliver again made a hit on the body, which Neat returned short with his left hand. Oliver also planted successfully several body blows, and Neat frequently missed in return. Some good counter hits occurred. Oliver followed Neat closely up; some exchanges took place, when Neat turned round and went down from a hit. (Slight disapprobation.)

4.—Oliver found his opponent was a novice, and felt confident of success. This was the longest round in the fight, displaying the various tactics and style of fighting of both the combatants: it may serve as a sort of criterion for the whole battle, and save much of the minute routine of the rounds. Oliver, with much gaiety, planted a severe facer, and Neat in return hit short. Oliver gave another facer. Neat, with his right hand, gave Oliver a tremendous blow under his ear that seemed to send his head from his shoulders, the claret flowing copiously, and a large lump instantly rose. Oliver here showed a good acquaintance with the science, and fought better than usual; he frequently planted body hits and facers without experiencing returns, and broke away in good style. Oliver was tired and put down his hands. Several counter hits occurred. Neat put in a severe body blow, when Oliver soon afterwards was observed to spit, as if his inside had suffered. Oliver made a good right-handed hit, and stopped a tremendous blow with his left. Several other incidents also occurred in Oliver’s favour. The latter again spat, and, in a rally, both went down from exhaustion. The round lasted eight minutes. (Six to four on Oliver.)

5.—The hands of Oliver were covered with claret from the work he had done upon his opponent’s mug. Oliver took the lead, and finished the round by sending Neat down. (Shouts, and three to one on Oliver.)

6.—Oliver planted a good facer, and counter hits again took place. This was a singular round. Oliver followed Neat to the ropes, and in a sort of scuffle, caught the latter by the thighs, when Neat fell, and Oliver also went down. Both exhibited severe marks of punishment: Neat’s mouth was open, and he appeared distressed. Oliver was now decidedly the favourite.

7.—This round had nearly decided the fight. Oliver went down like a dead man from a tremendous right-handed blow under the ear. His senses were completely hit out of him; and Jones, by extraordinary exertions, placed him on the bottle-holder’s knee and used every means to recover him again to meet his opponent. (“Time, time,” was loudly vociferated from all parts of the ring, and many persons with stop-watches in their hands insisted a minute had elapsed.)

8.—Oliver’s second at length brought him forward, with his arm round his body, up to the scratch, when the bottle-holder on Neat’s behalf, insisted on his letting go his man. Oliver, staggering, put himself in position to fight, when he was immediately floored.

9.—Time was again called by the spectators, on the difficulty of Oliver’s coming to the mark. The latter was evidently stupefied, and was again hit down. (Ten to one on Neat, and hats were thrown up.)

10.—The gameness of Oliver astonished the oldest amateur; and he now so far recovered himself as to have the best of it, and fibbed his opponent down at the ropes. (Great applause.)

11.—Oliver kept the lead, and not only gave a staggering hit to Neat, but caught him again as he was falling.

12.—Oliver in this round was everything. His science in getting away was excellent: he gave his opponent a severe facer, a blow on the eye, and finally floored him, Neat frequently hitting short. (“Bravo, Oliver!” and the odds rising rapidly.)

13.—Neat gave Oliver, in following him, a tremendous right-handed hit on his mouth, so that his upper works were in a complete state of chaos. Neat, notwithstanding this superiority, went down, and it was loudly asserted without a blow. It occasioned marks of disapprobation. (£100 to £5 was offered on Oliver, but no one took it.)

14.—Oliver, after having the best of the round, threw Neat.

15.—Neat hit down, and Oliver fell upon him.

16.—Oliver planted a severe blow under the left ear of his opponent, who went down much distressed.

17.—Oliver made a hit, but Neat stopped it with much dexterity; counter hits, yet Neat was floored.

18.—Neat made three blows, but went down.

19.—Oliver floored his opponent, but was, nevertheless, punished in the round.

20.—Neat’s right hand was at work, and Oliver quickly followed him up till he went down.

21.—Oliver floored his antagonist, and fell upon him, and hit Neat in the face as he was in the act of falling upon him. (This produced “Foul, foul,” from the friends of Neat.)

22.—Oliver received a hit from Neat, when the latter fell. (Hissing.)

23.—Oliver, in closing, fell upon his opponent.

24.—Neat planted some sharp blows; but Oliver had the best of the round, when Neat went down. (“Bravo, Oliver! well done, Tom!” and the betting greatly in his favour.)

25.—Neat, it appeared, now felt the use of his right arm, and with two blows, right and left-handed, not only sent Oliver staggering away, but hit him down like a shot. (The hats were again thrown up, and the odds had all vanished.)

26.—It was evident Oliver could not recover from the severe effects of the last round. (“Time” was again loudly vociferated; and he came up staggering, only to be hit down.)

27.—Neat again went to work, and planted more tremendous blows; but, in closing, Neat was undermost.

28.—Oliver, game to the last, and more than anxious that his backers should not find fault with him, contended for victory as if the fate of an empire hung upon the event. The stunning blows he had received had put aside all his science, and he now incautiously followed his opponent, who, with his right hand, gave Oliver the coup de grace, which took him off his legs in a singular manner: he fell flat on his back as senseless as a log of wood. “Time” was called, but the brave Oliver heard not the sound. One hour and thirty-one seconds had elapsed.

Remarks.—Neat, notwithstanding the decisive victory he obtained over Oliver, appeared little more than a novice in scientific boxing. It is true, he might be improved under the tuition of skilful and accomplished boxers, for he possesses a requisite above all that teaching can achieve, namely, “one hit with his right hand, given in proper distance, can gain a victory, and three of them are positively enough to dispose of a giant.” Neat hits from the shoulder with an astonishing and peculiar force; and, in one instance, the arm of Oliver received so paralyzing a shock in stopping the blow, that it appeared almost useless. The admirers of fine fighting are decidedly of opinion that Neat has no such pretensions; but as a hard hitter (of steam-engine power), it is asserted there is nothing like him on the present list. He fought very awkwardly; and had he used his right hand to advantage in the early part of the fight, in all probability it must have been over in a few rounds; but it should be recollected it was his first appearance in the London ring. One word for the brave but fallen Oliver before these remarks are closed. He fought like a hero; and the courage of human nature was never witnessed in a higher point of view than exhibited by him in this contest. The battle was never safe to him, notwithstanding his exertions were more scientific than in any of his previous fights. It was also far from being safe to Neat till the twenty-fifth round. The latter was in bad condition, while Oliver could not be finer; but a chance blow from Neat can floor one hundred to one in a twinkling, although he is a round hitter.

Oliver, although defeated, was not disgraced; on the contrary, it was asserted that he had fixed his claims more strongly upon the amateurs in general by his brave conduct. In eight battles he had proved himself a good man—six of them he won. It was upon the whole a good fight; but Oliver was too slow for an active man like Neat. Several minutes elapsed before Oliver recovered sensibility, and his situation for a short period was thought to be critical. He was bled in the ring, and Neat shook hands with him. He was taken from the scene of action in a landau, and every attention paid to him that humanity could suggest. Neat was also assisted to his vehicle in a very distressed state, his face completely altered from the severity of punishment it had undergone.

Neat did not remain long in the metropolis; and, in his way home, he called at Sam Porch’s booth, at Lansdown Fair, where the latter, in honour of the victory of his countryman, had for his sign portraits of Neat and Oliver in battle. The amateurs who made the match for Neat now suggested to him the propriety of taking a benefit in London, which the latter rather reluctantly complied with. However, he again arrived in the metropolis; and on Tuesday, the 23rd of February, 1819, the Fives Court was respectably attended for his benefit. Neat, followed by Shelton, attracted considerable attention. It was Neat’s first appearance with the gloves at the Fives Court; his severity of hitting in the ring had been previously ascertained, and his knowledge of the science was now only to be developed. He proved quick in his movements, and stopped with skill, and the set-to, upon the whole, was entitled to praise. It is true that Shelton planted the most nobbing hits, and one on the mouth told rather heavily; but a bodier from Neat out-valued the whole of them in calculation and effect, and seemed to operate so sharply upon the frame of his opponent that the interior appeared in sudden motion. Shelton evinced improvement, and was pronounced to have rather the best of this bout. Richmond and Harmer showed the advantages of science: their play was light and pleasing to the amateur. Neat and Harmer wound up the sports of the day in a light contest, when the former complained of not being able to return thanks as he wished, being no orator. Cribb, Oliver, Randall, Reynolds, Owen, and Gregson were present, but did not exhibit. It appeared that one of the small tendons of Neat’s right arm had been injured, which prevented him from using it with any strength or activity, and three months must elapse, it was said, before a cure could be pronounced, or Neat returned fit for service.

In calculating his loss of time, the neglect his business sustained at home, and his expenses in London, it is said Neat scarcely cleared himself by this appeal to the patronage of the public.

Cribb and Spring being on a sparring tour, and making Bristol in their route, a match for 100 guineas a-side was made between Neat and Spring, and £50 a-side put down at the Greyhound Inn, Broadmead, Bristol. The fight to take place on the 6th of October, 1819, half-way between Bristol and London; but, in consequence of Neat’s breaking his arm while in training, this match was off, not only to the chagrin of both the combatants, but to the great disappointment of the sporting world.

Symptoms of a “screw being loose” between the Champion of England and Neat, the following appeared in most of the London newspapers:—