Chapter VIII: of this Period. Accordingly at Jack Martin’s benefit,

April 20, 1819, Oliver challenged Donnelly for 100 guineas a-side, when Randall declared he was authorised to accept it. That day six weeks was named as the time of battle, the articles signed at Dignam’s, the Red Lion, Houghton Street, Clare Market, and the battle came off at Crawley Hurst, thirty miles from London, on Wednesday, July 21, 1819, as fully detailed in the Life of Dan Donnelly, _post_.

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

THE FIGHT.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

THE FIGHT.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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