Castles lost this battle principally from his eagerness in the latter part of the fight, and a want of judgment in not hitting and getting away. He was too fast, while the Deaf’un cunningly waited and popped him as he came in, thus giving a sort of double impetus to his deliveries. Had Castles rattled in with more determination when Burke was amiss, about the eighth round, the issue might have been different. Burke felt his position, and had recourse to all the strategems of an old soldier, husbanding his strength, getting down, and never attempting to wrestle or unnecessarily exhaust his powers; by this means he preserved his physical energies, and made the best use of them at the proper time. Castles, on the contrary, was always first to the call of “time,” and till the last few rounds “made all the running,” thereby realising the fable of the hare and the tortoise. In trying to throw the Deaf’un, too, he diminished his powers; still, with all this, we are inclined to think, had his left hand not given way, a result almost inevitable from the frequent repetition of heavy hits on the Deaf’un’s granite nut, he would have come off victorious; as it is, with all his faults, he proved himself superior in pluck and moral courage to most of the modern men of his weight, and deserved the generous consideration of those who prize such qualities. The Deaf’un showed unflinching game throughout, and fighting up-hill as he did, with his right arm seriously, though not fatally damaged, he proved that “all was not lost that was in danger;” and that in confiding in his tact his admirers were not trusting to “a broken reed.” The battle money was given to Burke at Young Dutch Sam’s, the “Old Drury Tavern,” Brydges Street. The re-embarkation followed in good order, and all reached Waterloo Bridge at seven o’clock――the combatants proceeding under the care of their friends to their respective quarters. As an appropriate _pendant_ to the prosaic version of this “crowning victory” we append A TRIUMPHANT EPISTLE FROM DEAF BURKE TO BOB CASTLES. My sarvice, friend Castles, once class’d with the nobs, We’ve finished our fights, and we’ve settled the jobs; I founds you a customers ugly and stout, And I’m blest if my works wasn’t neatly cut out. We’ve both of us passed, and no doubts on’t, our prime, And good sarvice we’ve seen in the Rings in our time; Fortune’s smiles and her frowns we’ve been destin’d to weather, But ne’er, as I knows on, displayed the white feather. Your friends chose to say I’d no relish for whopping, And censure as currish my systems of dropping, Declare by good men such a course was abhorr’d, And a leafs I had prigg’d from the books of Nick Ward. Now I humbly begs leave at sich nonsense to grin―― One objects I had, and that there was to win; And who’er at my tictacs may fancy a fling, Such dodging’s all fair by the Rules of the Ring.