9.—​O’Connell showed some game, but it was evidently of an expiring effort. He faced his man, made a blow, which fell short, and was met by Burke with a terrible facer, which set the claret flowing in a rapid stream from O’Connell’s nostrils. All was over.

10.—​Time was repeatedly called. O’Connell rose but could not stir a step towards his man. Burke said, “I wish to fight honourable—​I will not strike him—​does your man wish to fight any more?” O’Connell’s second immediately gave in the battle, and Burke was declared the conqueror.

A word or two respecting the rival combatants: O’Connell never was or can be capable of figuring with credit as a fighter. He wants bottom, activity, and science—​three things which are indispensable in the formation of a boxer. From the third round he had not the slightest chance of winning—​it was a doubloon to a shin-plaster, and no takers. The day was peculiarly propitious, and the company of a very respectable description. Those who conducted this affair deserve all praise. Not the slightest disturbance of any kind took place. It was what the Prize Ring ever ought to be—​an exhibition of manly and courageous contest.”

We need add nothing to this “round, unvarnished tale,” written by a literary gentleman who had never before witnessed a prize-fight. In Burke, his Irish opponent found, notwithstanding his foul treatment at New Orleans, a brave and humane antagonist; and that, despite the contaminating effects of bad example, the Deaf’un preserved in the New World the high and generous qualities he exhibited in his own country. Cant, cruelty, and cowardice have crushed out the courageous confidence in the unarmed fist as the weapon in hand-to-hand encounters, and the American populace trust for victory to the bowie-knife and the revolver, when man opposes man to settle their personal differences “in a higher phase of civilisation.” (?)

As the patrons of the Ring are, such will its professors be, holds good as an axiom in pugilism as in every other science. A few unprejudiced and enlightened Americans, seeing the horrors and savagery of Irish-American rowdyism, entertained the milling missionary, and strove to propagate his principles, but were in a minute and powerless minority among a multitude of howling saints and savages—​for extremes meet in this as in all other things. To these friends and sympathisers Burke bade an affectionate farewell, after a handsome benefit, and arrived at Liverpool on the 25th of June, 1838.

During the Deaf’un’s absence some pretentious “big ones” had been coming into prominent notice. Bendigo, Ben Caunt, and Brassey had become famous, and not a few of their several partisans thought either one or the other more than a match for the Deaf’un. It was whispered, too, and too truly, that his rupture had been aggravated by an accident, and that his habits in America had not been such as would improve his constitution or stamina. Indeed, some of those deepest in Ring mysteries declared his reappearance in the Ring more than questionable. The gallant fellow himself had no such misgivings, and lost no time in so telling his countrymen.

“THE CHAMPIONSHIP OF ENGLAND.

“To the Editor of ‘Bell’s Life in London.’

“Sir,—​When I was in Yankeeshire I heard a great deal about ‘would-be champions’ challenging any man in England. ‘While the cat’s away the mice will play;’ and thus the little fry took advantage of my absence to bounce and crow like cocks in a gutter. I hastened back to take the shine out of those braggadocios; and to put their pretensions to the test, I beg to state that I am now ready to fight any man in England for from One Hundred to Five Hundred Pounds; and as my old friend Jem Ward has retired from the Ring, if he will add his Champion’s belt to the prize, and let the best man wear it, he will give new energies to the Ring, and, I trust, afford an opportunity for deciding the long-contested question, ‘Who is Champion of England?’ I bar neither country nor colour—​age nor dimensions; and whether it be the Goliath Caunt, or his hardy antagonist Bendigo, or any other man who ever wore a head, I am his customer, and ‘no mistake.’ My money is ready at Jem Burn’s, the ‘Queen’s Head,’ Queen’s Head Court, Windmill Street, Haymarket, at a moment’s notice; but I will not consent to a less deposit that £25 at starting. If I find the race of old English boxers of the right kidney is extinct, I shall go back to America, where an honest man need never want ‘a friend or a bottle.’

“DEAF BURKE.