“I observed in a report of the sparring match for the benefit of Harry Harmer, that you, being flushed by the juice of the grape, took an opportunity of paying me a compliment, which I did not expect you had liberality enough to do; namely, that ‘Neat was the best of the bad ones,’ and that ‘you would fight him for from £500 to £1,000.’ In answer to which, I inform you that I will fight you as soon as you like (the sooner the better) for from a glass of gin to £200.

Neat’s next match was with the terrific “Gas” for 100 guineas a-side, and the spot fixed was Newbury, Berks. On Monday, December 11, 1821, the day before the fight, as soon as daylight peeped, the bustle on the road to Maidenhead was tremendous. Nothing particular, however, occurred, except the staring of the good people of Reading at the fancy as they passed through that place. At the entrance of the town of Newbury a strong muster of the yokels stationed themselves throughout the whole of the day grinning at the Londoners as they arrived. Indeed, the road on Monday, and all night, up to Tuesday morning at twelve o’clock, from the metropolis, was thronged with vehicles of every description. The roads leading from Oxford, Gloucester, etc., and likewise from Bristol, were in the same state with persons anxious to reach the rallying point, Newbury. All the inns were filled, and the beds engaged some days previous: it was a prime benefit to the town.

About three o’clock in the afternoon, Hickman, with his backer and Spring, in a barouche and four, with Shelton outside, drove rapidly through the town, the Gas-light Man laughing and bowing, on being recognised and cheered by the populace, till they alighted at the Castle, Speen Hill. Here he was visited by numerous gentlemen, to all of whom he declared his confidence of success, and that victory would crown his efforts in a short time. After the bustle of the day was over, the President of the Daffy Club took the chair at the Three Tuns, in the Market Place, Newbury, which, as soon as the office had been given, became the head quarters. Thither the swells and the sporting men mustered round the holder of the stakes. It was a complete betting stand, and numerous wagers were made on the coming event. In consequence of the Newmarket people, with Mr. Gully and Mr. Bland at their head, taking Neat, the odds fell on the Gas: a few persons who were funking a little got off some of their money, but the principal part of the fancy stood firm, and many of them laid it on thicker, although Mr. Gully, in the most candid manner, declared his opinion, “that if a fine, young, strong, fourteen stone man could not defeat a twelve stone boxer, then there was no calculation on prize milling.” Tuesday morning, long before the darkness had cleared off, presented a scene to the Johnny Raws, in the numerous arrivals from London, most of them having been on the road all night, with their peepers half open and their tits almost at a stand-still. About ten o’clock Newbury presented an interesting appearance. The inhabitants were all out of doors; the windows of the houses crowded with females, anxiously waiting to witness the departure of the fancy to the mill. Indeed it was a lively picture—barouches and four, curricles, post-chaises, gigs, carts, stage coaches, wagons, myriads of yokels on horseback, chawbacons scampering along the road, Corinthians and bang-up lads tooling it along.

The fun and gig was kept up by the lads till Hungerford Downs, the wished-for spot, appeared in sight. It was a delightfully fine morning, the sun adding splendour to the scene, giving the whole a most picturesque appearance. The prospect was quite attractive. A charming country on both sides of the road; the town of Hungerford at a distance, with the spire of the church; the ring on the Downs, surrounded with wagons and coaches, marquees, etc., rising grandly like an amphitheatre, formed so pleasing a feature as to render description no easy task. The spot was selected under the judicious management of Mr. Jackson, and the ring was so well arranged that 25,000 persons, who were present, had an excellent sight of the battle. Not the slightest accident occurred, and the whole was conducted with the greatest decorum. It was curious to witness the anxiety displayed by this great assemblage of persons, waiting with the utmost patience, without the slightest murmur, for two hours, the ring having been formed so early as eleven o’clock.

At a few minutes after one, Neat, arm-in-arm with his backer and Belcher, appeared in the outer space, and threw up his hat, but the sun being in his eyes it did not reach its intended destination, when Belcher picked it up and threw it in the ring. Shortly afterwards the Gas, in a white topper, supported by his backer and Shelton, repeated the token of defiance, and entered the ring sucking an orange. He immediately shook hands with Neat, saying, “How are you?” Mr. Jackson was the referee. Belcher and Harmer were the seconds for Neat, and Spring and Shelton for the Gas. The odds had completely changed on the preceding evening; and on the ground Neat was backed five to four, besides numerous even bets, and being taken for choice. Upwards of £150,000, it is calculated, eventually changed owners on this battle. The Gas weighed twelve stone, Neat nearly fourteen. The colours, deep blue for Gas, and the Bristol yellow man for Neat, were tied to the stakes.

Round 1.—Both men appeared in the highest condition; in fact the backers of Neat and Gas asserted that they were to all intents and purposes fit for milling. The frame of Neat was a fine study; and the comparison between the pugilists was remarkable. The Gas, on placing himself in attitude, surveyed his opponent from head to foot, and Neat was equally on the alert. Hickman kept dodging about in order to get an opening to plant a determined hit; but Neat was too leary to be had upon this suit, and whenever the Gas moved, he likewise altered his position. On Neat’s preparing to give a blow, the Gas, smiling, drew himself back; but immediately afterwards, as if resolutely making up his mind to do some mischief, he went right bang in, and with his right hand put in a nobber, Neat retreating. Hickman planted a second blow on his shoulder; he also put in a third hit upon Neat’s left eye, and, elated with his success, he was on the rush to place a fourth blow, when Neat stopped him with a tremendous hit on his throat, which made the Gas stagger a little. Hickman, however, undismayed, attacked Neat with great activity, and the result was, the Bristol hero went down (more from a slip than the severity of the blow) between the legs of Hickman, the Cockneys shouting for joy, and the regular fanciers declaring “it was all right, and that Gas would win it easy.” (Seven to four on Gas.)

2.—Hickman came laughing to the scratch, full of confidence; but on his endeavouring to plant his tremendous right-handed hit on the throat of his antagonist, the length of Neat prevented it, and the blow alighted on his shoulder. The Gas again endeavoured to make it, when the Bristol hero gave Hickman so hard a blow on his box of ivories that he chattered without talking, and went back from his position as if he could not keep it; he also was compelled to make a pause before he again commenced the attack. The Gas got away smiling from a left-handed hit, when he rushed in with uncommon severity, and, after an exchange of blows, they both went down, Neat undermost. (Another loud shout for Hickman, the odds rising on him, and “he’ll win it to a certainty,” was the cry.) While sitting on the knee of his second the Gas winked to his friends, as much as to give the office “it was all right.”

3.—If the backers of the Gas could not see the improvement of the Bristol hero, Hickman was satisfied that he had a dangerous customer before him, and found that the length of arm possessed by his opponent rendered it highly necessary for him to act with great caution; he, therefore, on coming to the scratch, made a pause, and did not appear, as heretofore, eager to go to work. Neat was all caution and steadiness, and determined to wait for his opponent; the Gas, in consequence, was compelled to make play, and he planted a sharp hit on Neat’s head, and, laughing, nodded at him. Encouraged by this success, he was about furiously to repeat the dose, when Neat caught him with his left hand on his nob, which sent the Gas down on his knee; but his courage was so high and good, that he jumped up and renewed the fight like a game cock, till he was hit down by another tremendous blow. (The Bristolians now took a turn with their chaffers, and the shouting was loud in the extreme. The partisans of the Gas-light Man were rather on the fret, and several of them had “got the uneasiness.”)

4.—It was now discovered by the knowing ones that they had not consulted Cocker; it was also evident (but rather too late to turn it to their advantage) that Neat was as quick as his opponent, a better in-fighter, with a tolerable knowledge of the science, and not such a roarer as he had been said to be. The severe nobbers the Gas had received in the preceding round had chanceried his upperworks a little, and, on his appearing at the scratch, he again made a pause. He saw the length of his opponent was difficult to get within; and he also saw that, if he did not commence fighting, Neat was not to be gammoned off his guard for a month. Hickman went in resolutely to smash his opponent, but he was met right in the middle of his head with one of the most tremendous right-handed blows ever witnessed, and went down like a shot. (The Bristolians now applauded to the echo, and the London “good judges,” as they had previously thought themselves, were on the funk. “How do you like it?” said one of the swells, who was pretty deep in it. “Why,” replied the other, “that blow has cost me, I am afraid, a hundred sovereigns.”)

5.—Gas came up an altered man; indeed, a bullock must seriously have felt such a blow. He stood still for an instant, but his high courage would not let him flinch; he defied danger, although it stared him in the face, and, regardless of the consequences, he commenced fighting, made some exchanges, till he went down from a terrible hit in the mouth. (The Bristol boys hoarse with shouting, and the faces of the backers of Gas undergoing all manner of contortions. “That’s the way,” said Tom Belcher. “It’s all your own. You’ll win it, my boy: only a little one now and then for the Castle.”)

6.—The mouth of the Gas was full of blood, and he appeared almost choking when time was called. He was getting weak; he, nevertheless, rushed in and bored Neat to the ropes, when the spectators were satisfied, by the superiority displayed, that Neat was the best in-fighter. He punished Gas in all directions, and finished the round by grassing him with a belly puncher that would have floored an ox. This hit was quite enough to have finished the pluck of two good men. (The long faces from London were now so numerous, that no artist could have taken their likenesses. The Bristolians were roaring with delight, “Didn’t I tell thee what he could do? The Gas is sure to go out now!” “Not this time,” replied a few out-and-outers from the Long Town, who endeavoured to face it out in favour of Hickman, while anything like a chance remained.)

7.—Spring and Shelton were very attentive to their man, and led him up to the scratch at the sound of time. The Gas was sadly distressed, and compelled to pause before he went to work; but Neat waited for him. The Gas was about to make play, when Belcher said to Neat, “Be ready, my boy, he’s coming.” The Bristol hero sent the Gas staggering from him by a nobber, but Neat would not follow him. On the Gas attempting to make a hit, Neat again put in a tremendous blow on his mouth that uncorked the claret in profusion. The Gas recovered himself to the astonishment of all present, went to work, and, after some desperate exchanges, sent Neat down. This change produced a ray of hope on the part of his backers, and “Bravo, Gas! you’re a game fellow, indeed.” The anxiety of Tom Belcher to be near his man, occasioned Shelton to remark to Mr. Jackson, that if Tom did not keep away from Neat, according to his order, he should likewise keep close to the Gas. “Tom,” said Shelton, “you had better come and fight for Neat.”

8.—The Gas, laughing, commenced the attack, but received such a giant-like blow on his right eye that he was convulsed; such were the terrific effects of this hit, that Hickman, after standing motionless for about three seconds, appeared to jump off the ground, his arms hanging by his sides, when he went down like a log on his back, and the shock was so great that his hands flew up over his head: he was totally insensible; so much so that Shelton and Spring could scarcely get him off the ground. The whole ring seemed panic-struck. Spring, vociferating almost with the voice of a Stentor to awake him from his stupor, with the repeated calls of “Gas! Gas! Gas!” The head of Hickman had dropped upon his shoulder. The spectators left their places and ran towards the ropes, thinking it was all over; indeed, the anxiety displayed, and the confusion which occurred in whipping out the ring, had such an effect that several persons observed a minute had passed away. On time being called, the Gas opened one eye wildly, for he had now only one left, the other being swelled and bleeding copiously.

9.—The battle was now decidedly Neat’s own, and every eye was on the stretch, in expectation of the Bristol hero going in to administer the coup de grace. An experienced boxer of the London ring would have taken advantage of this circumstance, and not have given the chance away; but Neat, in the most manly manner, waited for Hickman at the scratch till the Gas felt himself enabled to renew milling. On recovering, he shook himself, as it were, to remove the effects of the overpowering stupor under which he laboured, and every person seemed electrified with his manner. He commenced the attack with much activity, and, after an exchange of blows, strange to say, sent Neat down. (Loud shouts of applause, and the whole ring expressing their admiration at the almost invincible courage Hickman possessed.)

10.—The Gas came to the scratch staggering, his knees almost bending beneath his weight; he, however, showed most determined fight, and contended like a hero till he was hit down.

11.—The state of the Gas was truly pitiable, and on setting-to he scarcely seemed to know where he was, and made a short pause before he attempted to put in a hit. Neat’s left hand again was planted on his nob, which sent the Gas staggering from him. Neat endeavoured to repeat the dose, but he missed his opponent; it might be considered fortunate that this blow did not reach its place of destination, as, in all probability, it would have proved Hickman’s quietus. The latter, after some exchanges, was again hit down. (Four to one.)

12.—It was quite clear that the Gas was not yet extinguished, for this round was a complete milling one. Hickman followed his adversary, exchanging hit for hit; but it was evident, however desperate the intention of Hickman might be, his blows were not effective; while, on the contrary, the hits of Neat were terrific, and reduced the strength of his opponent at every move. Still the confidence of the Gas was unshaken, and he returned to the charge till Neat went down. (Tremendous applause. “What an astonishing game fellow!”)

13.—The Gas had scarcely attempted to make a hit, when Neat’s left floored him like a shot. (The shouting from the Lansdown and the St. James’s Churchyard natives was like a roar of artillery. Ten to one; but all shy, and scarcely a taker.)

14.—It was now a horse to a hen, although Hickman seemed determined to contend. He was distressed beyond measure, and his seconds were compelled to lead him to the scratch.^[18] On putting himself in attitude, he was quite upon the see-saw, and to all appearance would only take a touch to send him down. “Give him a little one for me,” said Shelton. “I will,” replied Hickman; “but where is he?” Some exchanges took place, till both went down. (Any odds.)

15.—The intention of Hickman was still for fighting; or, to speak more accurately, it should be called instinct, for as to reflection it seemed quite out of the question. This round was short; and, after a blow or two, the Gas was again hit down. (Loud cries of “Take the brave fellow away, he has no chance; it is cruel to let him remain.”) As Hickman lay on the ground he appeared convulsed.

16.—Shelton and Spring, when time was called, brought the Gas to the scratch. He stared wildly for a second, when he endeavoured to fight, but was on the totter. His fine action was gone, and he now only stood up to be hit at. (“Take him away,” from all parts of the ring, in which Mr. Gully loudly joined.)

17.—The game of the Gas was so out-and-out good that he preferred death to defeat. He again toddled to the scratch, but it was only to receive additional and unnecessary punishment. He was floored sans cérémonie. (“Take him away,” was again the cry; but he would not quit the field. “He must not come again,” was the general expression of the spectators.)

18 and last.—On the Gas appearing at the mark, instead of putting up his arms to fight; he endeavoured to button the flap of his drawers in a confused state. Neat scorned to take advantage of his defenceless situation, and with the utmost coolness waited for him to commence the round. The Gas, as a last effort, endeavoured to show fight, but was pushed down, which put an end to the battle by his proving insensible to the call of time. The contest occupied twenty-three and a half minutes. Neat jumped and threw up his arms as a token of victory, amidst the proud and loud shouts which pronounced him conqueror. He went and shook the hand of his brave fallen opponent before he left the ring. A medical man bled Hickman on the spot without delay, and every humane attention was paid to him by his backer and his seconds. He remained for a short time in the ring in a state of stupor, was carried to a carriage, and conveyed to the Castle Inn, Speen Hill, near Newbury, and immediately put to bed.

Remarks.—To sum up the behaviour of the fallen hero in the fight, it is only common justice to say of the Gas, that he cut up, without disparagement, gamer than any man we ever before witnessed. His greatest enemy must join in this remark; indeed, if his countenance was anything like an index of his mind, the courage of Hickman was so high that he appeared to feel ashamed, and to quarrel with nature for deserting him. It is true that he was floored, but it is equally true the Gas was not extinct. “Give him,” said an old sporting man, “but a chance with anything near his weight, and the odds will be in his favour; he will again burst forth with redoubled splendour.” It cannot be denied that Hickman made himself numerous enemies by his chaffing. Out of the ring he was viewed as a great talker, often asserting more than he could perform; but in his battle with Neat he decidedly proved himself no boaster; and in the eyes of the sporting world, although suffering defeat, he raised his character higher than ever it stood before as a pugilist. His fault was, he thought himself unconquerable, and laughed at the idea of weight, length, and strength being opposed to him. If any apology can be offered for Hickman, it is that he did not stand alone in this view of his capabilities, for he was flattered by the majority of the fancy to the very echo, who backed him, on the match being made, nearly two to one.

A parallel might be instituted between Hickman and the lion-hearted Hooper; high patronage, without discretion, ruined the former, and however good nobs for milling boxers may possess, it is too commonly seen they do not wear heads to bear sudden elevation. As a friendly hint to all pugilists we trust this lesson will prove useful to them, and if they will endeavour to avoid “putting an enemy into their mouths to steal away their brains,” all will go right. The fists of pugilists are only to be exercised in the prize ring; the tongues of boxers were never intended to excite terror in the unoffending visitor. Hickman, however, wanted discretion and self-control: he had no reason to be ashamed of this defeat, for it was one of the most manly fights ever witnessed. No closing, no pulling and hauling each other at the ropes, but fair stand-up milling from beginning to end. No pugilist strained every point further to win a battle than the Gas did, and although thousands of pounds were lost on him, his backers had no right to complain.

The behaviour of the subject of this memoir was the admiration of all present: it was unassuming and manly in the extreme. In a word, Neat proved a good fighter, and was thought, before he met with Spring, to be superior to any boxer on the list. He retired from the ring without any prominent marks; nevertheless, he received many heavy blows.

Bristol, in the person of Neat, now claimed the championship. Although its hero bore his blushing honours with becoming modesty, and publicly asserted, at the Castle Tavern, Holborn, on the Thursday after the fight, that he took no merit to himself in having defeated Hickman. “The Gas-light Man,” said Neat, “was over-weighted; but I think he can beat all the twelve stone men on the list. He is, I am convinced, one of the gamest men in the kingdom; and, although I have been a great deal chaffed about as a nobody, I will fight any man in London to-morrow morning for £100 a-side of my own money.”

The result of this mill was a pretty “cleaning out” of the Londoners, who returned to town with “pockets to let.” Nevertheless, there was little grumbling, all uniting in the opinion that Hickman was entitled to praise, doing all that he could to win. The news arrived in London by pigeon about half past three o’clock in the afternoon. It is impossible to describe the anxiety of the great crowds of persons which surrounded all the sporting houses in the metropolis to learn the event. In Bristol it was the same, and the editor of the Gazette of that place thus describes it:—“Such was the intense feeling excited in this city, that the streets were crowded as if an election contest was at its height, all inquiring the result, which was known here about seven o’clock.” The following sentences were exhibited by a boy on a board in the road:—

The Bristol hero arrived at Belcher’s, the Castle Tavern, Holborn, on Wednesday evening, and made his bow to the Daffy Club. He was received with loud cheers.

The turn of that “tide” which Shakespeare has declared to exist in the “affairs of man” now occurred in the milling career of the “Pride of Bristol,” as he was at this time termed. This was the great match with Tom Spring for the championship, of which full details will be found in pp. 16–22, vol. ii., ante. The battle was for £200 a-side, and took place near Andover, May 20, 1823. Spring’s weight was stated at thirteen stone two pounds, Neat’s at thirteen stone seven pounds, Spring being about four years older than his antagonist. The length to which the report of the battle extends in the pages above referred to, precludes the necessity of farther dwelling on its features here, than by relating a few anecdotes connected therewith.

There is a class of men who always couple defeat with disgrace, and insinuate or assert dishonesty whenever events do not fall in with their hopes, their prophesies, or their wishes. The editor of the Bristol Gazette made the following remarks on the occasion:—“Round the 9th.—Here—publish it not in Gath, tell it not among the Philistines—when time was called, Neat walked up and, instead of clenched fist, stretched out his hand to Spring; it was all U P. The Londoners shouted, the Bristolians looked glum; not the recollection of former victories by all the Pearces and Cribbs, and Gullys and Belchers, could for a moment revive them: every man stared at his neighbour with inquiring eye—‘What does it all mean?’ At last a report ran that Neat had broken his arm in a fall. ‘Pshaw! all my eye!’ Mr. Jackson, the Commander-in-Chief, went round with a hat for a collection for the loser—he confirmed the report of the broken arm. Whether this was a fact or not remains to be proved; this, however, was evident, that Neat neither fought with his accustomed courage nor skill. The battle had lasted but thirty-seven minutes: neither of the men were otherwise hurt. Neat never attempted once to get in to his man; when Spring was at the ropes, he did not follow him as he might have done; he was all on the shy, and fell once with the shadow of a blow. Spring relied chiefly, there is no doubt, upon his superior wrestling, and was always eager for the hug; but Neat either had not quickness to keep him off or wanted courage to strike. The sparring of Spring was much admired; but if Neat had had recourse to the smashing which he practised on Hickman, Spring’s science might have been puzzled. It is supposed that more money was lost by the Bristol boys than at any fight on record. The Londoners went chaffing home in fine style, whilst the return of the Bristol cavalcade was like that of a long country funeral.”

Mr. Jackson collected for the losing man, on the ground, £47 19s. The night previous to the battle, Spring, in company with his backer, walked from Andover to take a view of the ground on which the battle was to take place, when Spring observed, “It was so beautiful a spot that no man could grumble to be well licked upon it.”

The newspaper report respecting Mr. Sant, the backer of Spring, having won £7,000 on the event is erroneous; also that Mr. Gully had realised £10,000. Mr. G. did not win more than £100. It is true that Mr. James Bland picked up a tidy stake; but it was false that Belcher lost a large sum of money upon the battle: Tom was too good a judge to risk too much of his blunt. So much for correct newspaper information.

Painter left his house at Norwich on purpose to perform the office of second to Spring, it being a particular request of the latter boxer. The wags of the fancy, at the conclusion of the battle, proposed that the town of Andover in future should have the letter H neat-ly added to it—to stand thus, Hand-over, in allusion to the great transfer of specie on this occasion.

It was stated in the newspapers that a fine old lady of the Society of Friends, with a couple of her daughters, came in their carriage to the Angel at Marlborough, during the time Neat was training. The two daughters remained in the carriage at the door, while the old lady made her way into the Angel. She ascended the stairs, and found Belcher in a room, sitting by himself, Neat having retired to change his clothes. Tom thought the lady had mistaken the apartment, till she addressed him. “Thy name is Belcher, is it not, friend?” “Yes, madam,” was the reply. Tom was in hopes to get rid of the lady before Neat returned; but she waited till the Bristol hero made his appearance. “I understand, friend Neat, thou art about fighting a prize battle. Dost thou not know it is very sinful? Be advised, friend, and give it up.” Neat urged that he was bound in honour, and that if he gave it up he should not only be a heavy loser of money, but stand disgraced for betraying his friends. “If it be the lucre of gain, friend Neat, I will recompense thee,” thereon, the report went on to say, that the lady offered money to the pugilist. Other journals coupled the name of the worthy and excellent Mrs. Fry with the affair, which called forth the following epistle from her husband:—

“My wife and myself will be much obliged by thy insertion in thy valuable paper of a few words, contradicting the absurd story, copied from a Bath and Cheltenham paper, of her having interfered to prevent the late battle between Spring and Neat, the whole of which is without the slightest foundation in truth or probability.

“St. Mildred’s Court, 22nd 5th Month, 1823.”

Notwithstanding this denial, it is certain that a well-intentioned Quaker lady did act as above described, for which, viewing the peculiar tenets of her sect, we must rather applaud than ridicule her.

In disposition, Bill Neat was not only generous and cheerful, but might be termed a “high fellow,” and always ready to serve a friend. He was fond of a “bit of life,” threw off a good chant, and was the President of the Daffy Club, held at Sam Porch’s, Guildhall Tavern, Broad Street, Bristol. It was said of him that, “If he is not a good fighter, Neat is a good fellow.”

From this period Neat, the small bone of whose arm was really fractured, retired from the fistic arena. He became subsequently a butcher in Bristol, where he resided until his death, which took place on the 23rd of March, 1858, in the sixty-seventh year of his age. Neat was respected for many social qualities, and his genuine kind-heartedness, under a rough exterior, gained the friendship of many. His prowess in levelling the small Welsh cattle by a blow with a gauntlet glove between the eyes has been narrated to us by eye-witnesses of this Milonian feat. Bill Neat adds another to the many instances, which this history has presented, of the esteem and good opinion which the best men of the ring have earned from all classes of society.

A second Hotspur, had the sword been his weapon—fiery, hardy, daring, impetuous, laughing to scorn all fear, and refusing to calculate odds in weight, length, or strength, “the Gas Man,” for a brief period, shone rather as a dazzling comet than a fixed star or planet in the pugilistic sphere. Impetuous in the assault almost to ferocity, though not destitute of skill, Hickman, like Hooper in his earlier day, prided himself that his irresistible charge must confound, dismay, and paralyze the defence of his opponent. There was certainly something terrific in his attack, for in his earlier battles his head and body seemed insensible to blows, at least they failed to drive him from his purpose or to sensibly affect his strength, cheerfulness, or vigour. At one period it was thought by his over-sanguine admirers that no skill could repel his clever “draw” and his rushing onslaught. Retreat, when once in for a rally, was with him a thing not to be thought of, and he carried all before him. Success is the test and only criterion of the many, and Hickman, despite experience, was over-rated. Out of the ring, Hickman was fond of fun, vivacious, warm-hearted, and friendly; but, as may be supposed, headstrong, violent, and repentant where wrong. Pugilists, more liable to insults than most men, should always control their tempers. It is necessary in the fight, and equally valuable in private life. Our most eminent boxers (see lives of Johnson, Cribb, Spring, etc., for corroboration) have been kind, forbearing, and of equable temper. As a runner, Hickman was known before his ring début, and won several prizes at this and jumping. The early career of Hickman we take upon the credit of “Boxiana,” “the historian” being his contemporary.

Thomas Hickman was born in Ken Lane, Dudley, Worcestershire, on the 28th of January, 1785. His nurse thought that he showed something like “fight,” even in his cradle; but when Tommy felt the use of his pins, and could toddle out among his play-fellows, he was considered as the most handy little kid amongst them. His skirmishes, when a boy, are too numerous for recital; but it will suffice to state that, in the circle in which he moved, when any of them were in danger of being beaten, it was a common observation amongst them, to intimidate the refractory, that they would fetch “Tom Hickman to lick him!”

Hickman was apprenticed to a steam-engine boiler maker. His first regular combat was with one Sedgeley, in a place called Wednesbury Field.^[19] Sedgeley was disposed of with ease and quickness by young Tom.

John Miller, a coppersmith, was his next opponent in the same field. This match was for one guinea a-side; but Miller proved so good a man that Hickman was one hour and a half before he obtained the victory. Miller was heavily punished about his nob.

Jack Hollis, a glass-blower, a hero who had seen some little service in the milling way at Dudley, was backed for £5 a-side against Hickman. This turned out a very severe battle. Hollis proved himself a good man, although he was defeated in twenty-five minutes.

Luke Walker, a collier, entertained an idea that he could beat Hickman “like winking,” and matched himself against the latter for two guineas; but, in the short space of nineteen minutes, Walker lost his two yellow-boys, and got well thrashed in the bargain.

Hickman now left his native place for the metropolis, to follow his business, and took up his residence in the Borough. It was not long before a customer of the name of Bill Doughty, a blacksmith, offered himself to the notice of our hero, and was finished off cleverly in thirteen minutes, in a field near Gravel Lane.

An Irishman of the name of Hollix, the champion of “the Borough”—then, as in later years, noted for its fighting lads—fancied Hickman, and a match was made for six guineas a-side. Miller seconded Hickman upon this occasion. This was a tremendous fight, in the same field as the last battle, occupying thirty-two minutes, in the course of which Hickman was thrown heavily in nineteen rounds, owing to the superior strength of the Irishman, experiencing several severe cross-buttocks. Hickman at length got a turn, when he caught the Irishman’s hand, held him fast, and planted such a stupefying blow under his listener, that poor Paddy was so much hurt and so much frightened that he requested the bystanders to take him to the hospital.

Jack Thomas, a thirteen stone man, well known in the Borough, was beaten by Hickman in a short, fierce battle. He also accommodated a fellow of the name of Jack Andrews, for £1 a-side, in the Borough, who talked of what great things he had done in the boxing line, and what great things he could still perform; but in the course of seventeen minutes he was so punished as to be glad to resign the contest. Hickman had not the slightest mark upon his face in this encounter.

Seven millwrights belonging to Sir John Rennie’s factory, it is said, were all beaten by Hickman, in a turn-up near the John’s Head, Holland Street. The latter, on leaving the above house, was attacked by this party, and compelled to fight in his own defence. These millwrights afterwards summoned Hickman before the magistrates at Horsemonger Lane; but, on an explanation taking place, Hickman had also the best of the round again before his worship, the first assault being proved.

Hickman was a well made, compact man, by no means so heavy in appearance as he proved to be on going to scale, namely, eleven stone eleven pounds. His height was five feet nine and a half inches. His nob was a fighting one, and his eyes small, being protected by prominent orbital bones. His frame, when stripped, was firm and round, displaying great muscular strength. Hickman was not a showy, but an effective, decisive hitter; perhaps the term of a smashing boxer would be more appropriate. He was, however, a much better fighter than he appeared from his peculiar style of attack.

We believe it was owing to Tom Shelton (who first discovered this milling diamond in the rough) that Hickman exhibited in the prize ring. His out-and-out qualities were whispered to a few of the judges on the sly, and a patron was at length found for him. It was then determined that he should be tried with a promising pugilist; and a match was made between Hickman and young Peter Crawley, for £50 a-side. This came off on Tuesday, March 16, 1819, at Moulsey Hurst.

The morning was threatening, but the enlivening rays of bright Sol chased all gloom, and infused animation, interest, and spirits through the multitude. It might be termed the first turn-out of the fancy for the spring season, and the vehicles were gay and elegant. The presence of a sprinkling of Corinthians gave life to the scene. More interest was excited upon the fight than might have been expected, as both the boxers on point of trial were viewed as new ones to the ring. Hickman, although a light subject in himself, was, to the amateurs, completely a dark one. “What sort of a chap is he?” “What has he done?” “Has he ever fought anybody?” were repeatedly asked, and as repeatedly answered, “That no one knew anything about him.” It was, however, generally understood that he was very strong; but it was urged, as a sort of drawback, that he had too much chaffing about him. On the other hand, though “Young Rump Steak” stood high as a glove practitioner, his strength and stamina were doubted. He was a youth of not more than nineteen years of age, nearly six feet high, twelve stone in weight, but thought to have more gristle than bone; however, the keen air of Hampstead, added to good training, had not only produced an improvement of his frame, but had reduced the odds against him, and, on the morning of fighting, it was, in a great measure, even betting, or “Young Peter” for choice. The importance of the “Man of Gas” was kept up by his trainer, Tom Shelton, who confidently asserted that if Hickman did not win he would quit the boxing ring, and take up a quiet abode in the bosom of Father Thames, Oliver also declaring that he would follow his namesake’s example if their “Tom” did not win in a canter. Such was the state of affairs when the moment arrived for the appearance of the heroes on the plains of Moulsey. Hickman showed first in the ring and threw up his castor, attended by his seconds, Oliver and Shelton. Crawley soon followed, waited upon by Painter and Jones. The colours were tied to the stakes, and at one o’clock the men set-to.

Round 1.—The Gas-light blade seemed well primed as a “four pound burner,” and eager to eclipse his opponent with his superior brilliancy. He showed fight instantly, rushed upon his opponent, and gave Young Rump Steak a mugger, but it did not prove effective. Crawley endeavoured to retreat from the boring qualities of his antagonist, and tapped Hickman over his guard. The latter went in, almost laughing at the science against him, and Crawley could not resist his efforts with anything like a stopper. He also received a desperate hit upon his right ear, that not only drew the claret, but floored him. In going down he unfortunately hit his head against a stake. (“Well done, my Gassy,” from the Light Company; and seven to four offered upon him.)

2.—The appearance of Crawley was completely altered. He was groggy from the effects of the last blow and the contact with the stake. The Gas Man let fly sans cérémonie, and the nob of his opponent was pinked in all directions. His nose received a heavy hit, and he went down covered with claret. (£10 to £5 upon Hickman.)

3.—It was evident that Crawley had not strength enough in the first round, but now he was quite reduced. He, however, showed good pluck, put in some hits that marked his opponent, and swelled up his left eye like a roll; but he was punished in return dreadfully, and again went down. (Three to one, but no takers.)

4.—Crawley received a terrible hit in the throat, and fell on his back, with his arms extended, quite exhausted. (Five to one.)

5.—Crawley set-to with more spirit than could have been expected. He planted some facers; but the force of his opponent operated like a torrent—the stream appeared to carry him away. He was punished up to the ropes, and then floored upon his face. (Seven to one.)

6.—The pluck of Crawley was good; he tried to make a change, but without effect; he received a nobber that sent him staggering away, quite abroad, and fell down.

7.—This was a desperate round, and Crawley gave hit for hit till the Gas-light Man’s face blazed again; but Crawley was exhausted, and both went down. (“Go along, Crawley; such another round, and you can’t lose it.”) It was almost give and take hitting.

8.—Crawley also fought manfully this round; but he had no chance, and the Gas Man again sent him down. (All betters, but no takers.)

9.—The right hand of Hickman was tremendous. Crawley’s nob completely in chancery, and he was milled out of the ring.

10.—This round was similar to the famous one between Painter and Sutton during their first fight. Crawley was so severely hit from the scratch that he never put up his hands. (“Take him away,” from all parts of the ring.)

11.—This round was nearly as bad; but the game of Young Rump Steak was much praised. The Gas Man did not go without some sharp punishment.

12.—Crawley floored in a twinkling. Long, very long, before this period it was “Tom Cribb’s Memorial to Congress” to a penny chant. Crawley could not resist the heavy hitting of his opponent.

13 and last.—The Gas-light Man had completely put his opponent in darkness, and he only appeared this round to receive the coup de grace. Thirteen minutes and a half finished the affair.

Remarks.—The Gas Man retained all his blaze; in fact, he burnt brighter in his own opinion than before. However, he was pronounced by the cognoscenti not a good fighter. Indeed, a few words will suffice. Hickman appeared too fond of rushing to mill his opponent, regardless of the result to himself, and often hit with his left hand open. The good judges thought well of the Gas-light Man from the specimen he had displayed, yet urged that there was great room for improvement; and when possessing the advantage of science, he would doubtless prove a teaser to all of his own, and even above, his weight. Crawley had outgrown his strength.

In this battle Hickman injured one of his hands severely in the third round; indeed, he kept looking at one of his fingers, and complained of it to his second, Tom Shelton. The latter, with much bluntness, told him “to hold his chaffing; such conduct was not the way to win; he was not hurt!” The Gas-light Man took the hint, and was silent during the remainder of the battle. In a few days after the fight his hand was so painful, and had assumed such a livid appearance, that he was compelled to have the advice of a surgeon. On examination it was found one of his fingers had been broken.

The Gas-light Man was now looked upon as somebody by the fancy; and several matches were talked over for him, but they all went off except the following, which was made up in a very hasty manner, for a purse of £20, at the Tennis Court, at Cy. Davis’s benefit.

In this contest Hickman entered the lists with the scientific George Cooper, at Farnham Royal, Dawney Common, near Stowe, Buckinghamshire, twenty-four miles from London, on Tuesday, March 28, 1820, after Cabbage and Martin had left the ring. This contest was previously termed fine science against downright ruffianism, and seven to four and two to one was the current betting on Cooper without the slightest hesitation. On entering the ring the latter looked pale; but when he stripped, his frame had an elegant appearance. He had for his seconds Oliver and Bill Gibbons. Hickman was under the guidance of Randall and Shelton. Hickman laughed in the most confident manner, observing, “That he was sure to win.” Previously to the combatants commencing the battle, Mr. Jackson called them both to him, stating the amount of the subscriptions he had collected for the winner. “I am quite satisfied,” replied Hickman; “I will fight, if it is only for a glass of gin!” This sort of braggadocio quite puzzled all the swells, and the Gas-light Man was put down as a great boaster, or an out-and-outer extraordinary. Notwithstanding all the confidence of Hickman, the well-known superior science possessed by George Cooper rendered him decidedly the favourite.