30.—This was a fine fighting round; some severe exchanges took place, and Abbot, at the close of the round, planted such a tremendous right-handed hit on Oliver’s ear that he went down like a shot. It was on the spot where Painter, Neat, and “the Gas” had done so much execution. Oliver seemed stunned: he was all abroad, and was lifted from the ground like a sack of sand. Randall, Sampson, Josh. Hudson, etc., with all their vociferation, could scarcely restore him to his senses to be in readiness to the call of “time.” It is impossible to describe the agitation of the ring, not on account of their losses—for there were scarce any takers—but the sorrow felt at witnessing this lamentable tie-up of a brave man. (Five to one against Oliver.) 31.—Oliver was brought to the scratch, but no sailor three sheets in the wind was half so groggy. Abbot went up to him like a bull dog, milled him in all directions, and floored him like a log. Hogarth’s pictures were fools to the mugs of the amateurs—the brave Oliver to be sent out of the ring by a “wooden man,” as Abbot had been previously termed. 32.—The old fanciers were deeply hurt in their minds at this reverse of fortune, and not a Westminster boy, or a costermonger, but almost felt for their “wipes” to dry up their moistened “ogles;” “but who can rule the uncertain chance of war?” Oliver put up his arms to avoid the punishment, and went down once more like a log of wood. (A guinea to a shilling, but it was of no use.) Oliver was in chancery, and completely at the mercy of his opponent; he was sent down by a push. 33 and last.—Oliver was brought up, but it was useless. He would not say “No.” Abbot went in and gave Oliver the _coup de grace_, and he measured his length, insensible to the call of time. The fight occupied fifty-three minutes and thirty-eight seconds.