We have already noticed in our memoir of Bendigo that the Deaf’un did not return from his continental trip until, after training Owen Swift, and seconding him on the 5th of September, 1838, he again sought the shores of England, lest he should receive the “polite attentions” of the French authorities for his share in that “scandal,” as the Paris correspondent of “My Grandmother” styled it. The staunchness of poor Burke’s “summer friends” was now tested. They had withdrawn the £100 placed in Jem Burn’s hands, but, after some negotiation, the match was made, Burke posting £100 to Bendigo’s £80, and on the 29th of February, 1839, the rivals met. The full details of the Deaf’un’s defeat may be read in pp. 16-22. The reflection is here unavoidably thrust upon us, that the so-called “friends” of an athlete, if they by their own loose habits seduce him into similar irregularities, are his worst enemies. What is sport to them is ruin to him. Temperance, regularity of living, open air exercise, and severe attention to the wellbeing of every bodily function that goes to build up health――the _mens sana in corpore sano_――can never be neglected without ruinous consequences; and thus fell the brave and imprudent Deaf’un, the victim of the follies of those the world miscalled “his betters.” A few quatrains on his downfall shall find a place here. THE LAMENT OF DEAF BURKE. Well, ’tis strange, precious strange, arter what I have done, That in my late battle I shouldn’t have won; I vow and protest, on the word of a bruiser, I scarce can persuade myself yet I’m the loser. I have always so well in the Ring gone to work, That my backers proclaimed me “inwincible Burke;” And then for a lad of my courage and game To be floored by a novice――by Jove! ’tis a shame. I hang down my head, quite dismay’d and perplex’d. And when folks ax me questions, of course, I am wex’d, For, instead of consoling me under my loss, They insiniwate plainly the thing was a cross. They swear, for a man who has stood so much fight, To be whopp’d in ten rounds was impossible quite: That I couldn’t be he, it was plain to discern, Wot floor’d Carter and Crawley, O’Connell and Byrne. They vow of their bets upon me they’ve been robb’d, That I show’d no good point, but stood still to be jobb’d, That no punishment sharp was produced by my blows, And Bendy did with me whatever he chose. Hard words for the Deaf’un, and cruel the sting, To one who ne’er acted amiss in the Ring―― To him who was always alive to a mill, And in thirteen prize-battles was conqueror still. I boldly appeal to my slanderers whether I was ever the covey to show the white feather? And Bendigo’s conduct I cannot think right, When he stripp’d me of something that lost me the fight.