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.

CHAPTER V.
BILL NEAT, OF BRISTOL—1818–1823.

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

“Battles bravely fought, and hardly won!”