CHAPTER II.

JOHN LANGAN, THE IRISH CHAMPION—1819–1824.

John Langan, one of the bravest of pugilists—and whose fortune it was to find his ambition foiled when struggling to the topmost round of the ladder, by the superior skill of Tom Spring, the English Champion—well deserves a chapter in the History of Pugilism. As the author of “Boxiana” was not only the countryman but the personal friend of Langan, we shall accept, with a few alterations and additions, the biography of “the Irish Champion,” as we find it in that work; and for the further reason that it is, in its earlier pages, a lively and amusing specimen of “the historian’s” apocrypha.

John Langan was born in the month of May, 1798, at Clondalton, in the county Kildare. Ireland was then in the full blaze of insurrection, and Pierce Egan tells us “that young Paddy had scarcely become one of his father’s family five minutes, before his ears were saluted by a tremendous fire of musketry from a party of United Men who were attempting to get possession of a powder-mill situated within fifty yards of his daddy’s mud edifice.” Mrs. Judy O’Shaughnessy, his nurse, had her own way of explaining this as rather ominous that little Jack Langan was born to make a noise in the world. The early years of little Jack passed as is usual with lively urchins, until his father left Clondalton, and settled in the suburbs of Dublin, at a place called Ballybough Lane, adjoining that beautiful spot of freedom known as Mud Island.

Langan had always a taste for milling; and his turns up at school (?), says Pierce Egan, would fill a moderate volume. In company with two of his school-fellows, he discovered a bird’s nest; but as the birds were not fledged, it was unanimously agreed to leave it till a more convenient opportunity. The boys played truant one afternoon, and went in search of the bird’s nest, and the eldest lad claimed for his share the top bird, which is generally considered the cock. Langan protested against such choice, and a battle decided it; but, after a fight of an hour’s duration, in which Jack proved the conqueror, the only recompense he got for the scratches and loss of claret, was, upon examining the nest, that the birds had fled during the row.

On the borders of the Dublin canal, when only thirteen years of age, he thought himself man enough to enter the lists with a strong youth of eighteen years of age; in fact, he stood forward as champion for his friend, who had received a blow from the youth. In forty-five minutes, against weight, length, and height, Langan proved the conqueror.

Shortly after the above battle, Jack persuaded his father to let him go to sea, and, ultimately, he was bound apprentice to Messrs. Dunn and Harris, of Dublin. Langan sailed for Oporto and Lisbon, in the New Active, Captain M’Carthy. In Bull Bay, Lisbon, in spite of the stiletto used by two Portuguese, he made the cowards run before him; but Jack received a scratch or two on his body from their knives. His courage, however, did not desert him for an instant, though he was attacked in such an assassin-like manner.

On Langan’s passage home, he severely drubbed one of his messmates, of the name of Dunn, who had taken liberties with the fame of Ould Ireland. “Erin-go-Bragh!” said Jack Langan, after giving Mr. Dunn a receipt in full of all demands, then retired to his berth to take his grog, singing—

“St. Patrick is still our protector, He made us an Island of Saints, Drove out snakes and toads like a Hector, And ne’er shut his eyes to complaints: Then if you would live and be frisky, And never die when you’re in bed, Arrah! come to Ireland and tipple the whiskey, And live ten years after you’re dead!!!”

Like all new schemes and occupations, a sailor’s life, for a short period, was highly relished by Langan; some terrible gales of wind, however, and a tremendous storm or two, on his return to Ireland, showed the other side of the picture so emphatically, that Jack spoke to his ould dad to get his indentures from the captain, as he had a great wish to try his fortune on shore. Old Langan accomplished this circumstance for his darling boy; and Jack was bound apprentice to a sawyer. Langan soon became a proficient in his business, and arrived at the climax of his trade, a top-sawyer; but he was anxious to get a cut above the pit, and turn his hand to another account. Although but fifteen years of age, our hero had a taste for milling; he was fond of fighting, but not quarrelling; yet he was always ready to punish impudence and insolence, whenever rude fellows crossed his path.

“From little causes great events arise!”

Throwing snow-balls at each other, near the Dublin canal, produced a most determined mill between Jemmy Lyons, a Hibernian pugilist, and Jack Langan. It was a cool situation for a fight, but warm work while it lasted; and Jack’s blows were put in so fast and hard upon the face of Paddy Lyons, for the space of twenty-five minutes, that he cried out “Enough! too much!” This turn-up was without any precision as to time: it was pelt away, till Jemmy was carried off the ground. “By St. Patrick,” said Jack Riley (the friend of Lyons) to Langan, “you shall get a good bating for all your luck this time; and if you will meet me in Cannon’s Quarry, I will soon make you cry quarter.” “And is it to me you mane, Misther Riley, that is to ask you for quarter? Well, come on, and we’ll soon see all about it,” replied Langan. Riley was the hero of the Mud Island, in the milling way. In Cannon’s Quarry, Langan so served out Riley, that when he was taken home to Mud Island he was so spoilt as to be scarcely recognisable by his most intimate acquaintance.

Langan was now viewed as a “striking” object in Mud Island; Jack however, was too good-humoured a fellow to be anything like a terror to the peaceable inhabitants of that happy spot. Pat Macguire had a great desire to take the shine out of Langan, and boasted that he would be “number one” in the Island. “So you shall,” replied our hero, “if you can.” But poor Pat Macguire reckoned his chickens before they were hatched; for, in the short space of ten minutes, his peepers were darkened, his nose swelled up to the size of two, his ivories dancing, and the whole of his face the picture of agony and distress. Soon after poor Pat was undressed and put to bed, he exclaimed, “By J——s, those blows I got from Jack Langan are more like the kicks of a horse than the thumps of a man.”

Michael Angin, who had some notions of boxing, was completely satisfied in a single round with Langan, at Clontarf. A tremendous nobber put Mike’s head in chancery. On returning to his mother’s cabin, she saluted him with “Arragh! Mike, my jewel, what have you got in your mouth, that makes you look so ugly?” “It’s Jack Langan’s fist, mother. I am almost choked,” replied Angin, hoarse as a raven. “Take it out, my darlint,” said his parent; “sure it is no good to anybody!”

Robert Titford, Dan Henigan (brother of the boxer of that name), and Jem Turner, were, in succession, disposed of with apparent ease by our hero. In short, he had no competitor amongst the boys, and therefore we will take leave of his early turn-ups, for battles of a more manly description.

Langan had a desperate battle with a man of the name of Hemet: the latter person struck the father of our hero. “I will make you repent your conduct, you blackguard,” said Jack. “A boy like you?” replied Hemet; “I’ll kick your breech, if you give me any more of your prate.” Young Langan, as we have before mentioned, was fond of milling; but in defence of his father felt doubly armed; and in the course of thirty minutes Hemet was glad to acknowledge the boy was his master.

One Savage, a man weighing about eleven stone, and twenty-one years of age, had behaved unhandsomely to Jack three years previously to the period when the following circumstances transpired. Langan, although not more than sixteen years old, entertained an opinion that he was able to take the field against Savage, and challenged him without hesitation. Savage, with the utmost contempt, accepted the challenge, and agreed to fight on the banks of the Dublin canal. A few friends on each side attended to see fair play. The battle was long, and well-contested; but night coming on, as neither of the combatants would agree to surrender, it was deemed expedient according to the laws of honour, to fight it out, and therefore candles[10] were introduced. But, before the glims required topping, Langan floored his opponent, by a wisty-castor upon the jugular, and Savage was carried home amidst the lamentations of his friends, and the regret of Langan. Savage was washed and laid out by his lamenting associates, and everything comfortable prepared to “wake” him. The body was surrounded by about forty old women and men, smoking and drinking, and bewailing his loss, interspersed every now and then with some prime fil-la-loos. “Arrah! my dear Jemmy, why did you put your head in the way of Jack Langan’s fist?”

In the midst of this beautiful solemnity, to the great surprise and confusion of the company present, Mr. Savage waked himself, but, before he could enquire into the particulars how he came into this strange situation, the whole assembly brushed off with terror, leaving the corpse to explain his position in the best manner he could.

Good as Langan had proved himself in the above contest, Paddy Moran challenged our hero. The latter proposed to fight Jack upon the real principles of milling—for love, glory, and honour. Blunt was out of the question, for the best of all reasons—Moran had nothing in the funds. “You shall be accommodated,” replied Langan; “it shall be for love, glory, and honour.” It was a severe battle for fourteen rounds, and although Moran was compelled to submit to defeat, he proved himself a brave man, and Langan’s nob received some ugly visitations during the fight.

Moran’s brother called Langan out to meet him in the field of battle, the following week. Our hero, fresh as a daisy, and gay as a lark, accepted the challenge with the utmost alacrity and when “Time” was called, proved himself ready. Moran’s brother likewise proved a man of excellent courage, but he had nothing like so good a chance as his relative. After a few rounds, Langan became the conqueror, without a mark the worse for his encounter. Norman, a pugilist distinguished in Dublin, seconded Moran’s brother against Jack; but his conduct appearing questionable, Langan sent a challenge to Norman.

Norman accepted the challenge, but requested to name Sunday for the time of combat. To this request Langan positively refused; upon any other day, he said he should be happy to wait upon his opponent. After some little “blowing up” on the subject, it was agreed that the battle should take place on the following Thursday. Norman, who was a deep covey, and wishing to turn everything to a good account in which he was engaged, gave out the mill would take place on the Sunday. He was a proprietor of jaunting cars, and every one of his vehicles was engaged for the fight. Some hundreds of the Fancy were completely hoaxed by being collected together within a short distance of Old Langan’s cottage. Young Jack did not make his appearance, to the astonishment of the spectators; when Norman cut a great bounce, and, offered to put down twenty pounds to back himself—well knowing Langan would not be present; expressing his surprise at the absence of Langan, who, he told the crowd, had made a promise to meet him. The news was soon brought to Jack of the trick played off by Norman. He instantly started off to the public-house, where Norman was swallowing the whiskey like water; rejoicing how he had done the flats that day. Langan, with more courage than prudence, without hesitation, told Norman he had conducted himself like a blackguard. Norman, surrounded by his father, brothers, and friends, fell upon Langan before he was scarcely withinside the door, and, with the aid of whips, sticks, etc., so punished him that if a few of his supporters had not rushed in, Langan might have been found as “dead as door nail.” Jack was picked up insensible, taken home, and put to bed.

Thursday, the day appointed for the mill, drew on rapidly, when our hero sent to Norman, trusting that he would not fail in being true to his time. This Langan did, against the advice of his friends. Jack could hardly lift his right hand to his head, from a blow he had received among the mob of unmanly fellows, in the interest of Norman, nevertheless he met his man on the North Strand, near Clontarf. The car-keeper was seconded by Pat Halton and Cummings; and Langan by two tight boys belonging to the “Island of Mud.” The battle lasted above an hour, because Langan could not punish Norman with his right, but, even in this crippled state he had so much the best of the fight, that Norman’s friends, who were by far the most numerous, seeing that he must lose, rushed in, separated the combatants, saved their blunt, and put an end to the mill. Langan was exceedingly vexed that he was prevented from dressing his antagonist as he deserved. In a few days after this affair, about five o’clock in the morning, Jack was roused from his bed by a violent knocking at the door. Between sleeping and waking, with peepers neither open nor shut, he came down in his shirt to see what was the matter. On opening the door, Jack believed he was dreaming, for, strange to relate, he beheld Norman stripped, and in a fighting attitude. “By J——s,” said Norman, “I have been uneasy all night. I could not sleep, Jack, so I thought you and I could amuse ourselves very agreeably; besides having the day before us.” “Is it a day you said?” replied Langan; “by the Saint of Ould Ireland, I’ll settle your impertinence in a few minutes; before I return to roost and finish my rest, I’ll pay you, Misther Norman, for calling me up.” Langan ran over to the stream opposite his father’s cabin, and washed his face. “Now,” said he, “I’m ready; take care of yourself.” The novelty of this battle was, that no umpires, bottle-holders, nor seconds on either side, were engaged. In the short space of four rounds, it was all over. Norman napt it in such first-rate style, that he laid on the ground like a calf, so completely satisfied, that he never requested a third battle. Langan at that period did not weigh more than ten stone three pounds,[11] while Norman weighed thirteen stone seven pounds.

It was impossible for Langan to remain idle with such a reputation, as some one or other was continually offering himself to his notice. Slantlea, a hardy fellow, offered his services to Jack, which were accepted without a single murmur. But to ensure success, the night before the battle, Langan was introduced by a friend to the late Sir Daniel Donnelly. The advice of the Irish (whiskey-punch) Champion was asked as to the best mode of training. “Is it training you mane?” replied Sir Dan, with a smile upon his comical mug; “by the okey, I never troubled myself much about that training, d’ye see, which the fellows in the Longtown make so much bother about. But, nevertheless, I will give my opinion as to what I think necessary to be done upon such occasions. First of all, you must take off your shirt, Jack Langan, then walk up and down the room briskly, and hit well out with both hands, as if you intended giving your opponent a snoozing without asking for his night-cap. Jump backwards and forwards one hundred times at least; and then to find out if the wind is good, for being out of breath in fighting, my boy, is not a very comfortable thing for a distressed man. Now, Jack,” says Sir Dan, it being then about twelve o’clock at night, “you must go home directly, and drink half a gallon of the sourest butter-milk you can get, and then go to bed. At five o’clock, not a minute after five o’clock in the morning, you must get up, and run three or four miles, and at every mile you must swig, not whiskey, by J——s, but a quart of spring water. Mind, now Langan, do as I tell you.” Jack thanked Sir Daniel for his friendly advice, and started off to procure the butter-milk; but felt extremely mortified after knocking up all the dairymen in the neighbourhood, that he was not able to buy more than three pints. At five o’clock in the morning, although Langan had scarcely had an hour or two of rest, he jumped out of bed to finish his training. To make up for the deficiency of butter-milk, our hero drank a greater proportion of water. The time appointed for the fight to take place was six o’clock; but Jack, in his eagerness to train, was nearly half an hour behind his time. His antagonist was upon leaving the ground, when Langan mounted the brow of a hill, in sight of the ring, quite out of breath, and dripping with perspiration, roared out as loud as he was able, “Don’t go yet, man, I’ll be wid you in a jiffy!” The ring was again formed, and Langan, hot as fire, stripped for action cool as a cucumber.

Slantlea began well: he took the lead, gave Langan several clumsy thumps, and had decidedly the best of the Irish Champion for the first four rounds. He sent Langan down three times by nobbing hits; and the friends of the former laughed heartily at the idea of his paying off Slantlea for waiting for him. “You have got your master now, Jack, before you.” “Be aisy,” replied Langan; “I have trained by the advice of Dan Donnelly; I’m sure I’ll bate any opponent; only look, I’m just going to begin!” and letting fly his left hand in full force upon Slantlea’s head, the latter fell as if he had been shot. Poor Slantlea never recovered from the effects of this blow; but he proved himself a game man for thirteen rounds, when he received a finisher. It was over in thirty-five minutes.

A porter of the name of Dalton, employed at the Irish Custom-house—a Josh. Hudson in nature, but so fond of milling that hardly a fellow round the Custom-house dared look at him—challenged Langan. “By the powers of Moll Kelly,” said Dalton, “he shall find he will have something more to do in bating me than he had with Slantlea.” The battle took place in Gloucester-fields. Dalton pelted away like a bull-dog for four rounds, but Langan put an end to his ferocity in the course of three more. At the expiration of twenty-five minutes Dalton was rendered as harmless as a mouse.

Pat Halton, at this period, was called “Donnelly’s boy;” in fact, he was the avowed pupil of the late Irish Knight of the Sod. Langan and Halton met at Donnelly’s house, and a match was made between them, to fight at Ballinden-Scorney, in the county of Wicklow. On the day appointed, a great muster of the Fancy took place; but the multitude was compelled to separate by the horse-police, and to cross the water to form a new ring. During the interregnum, Halton went into a public-house, kept by one Maguire, and took a glass of liquor. When he was called out to meet Langan, he complained that the liquor he had drunk was bad, and had made him so unwell that he was not able to fight. Langan, of course, claimed the money, but the stakeholder would not part with it. However, by way of some compensation to our hero, the subscription money, £19, which had been collected from the spectators for the privilege of the inner ring, was given to him. This disappointment produced “lots of grumbling,” until a new match was made. Langan full of gaiety, fond of company, and much caressed by his friends, lived freely till his money was nearly gone, when he was called upon once more to enter the ring with Halton. Jack had not above a day to prepare himself, while it was said that Halton had been training upon the sly, at Bray. “Devil may care,” replied Langan, when he was told of it; “I am ready, even without butter-milk, this time.”[12] On the Curragh of Kildare this battle took place. It is but fair to state, that the mill between Langan and Halton has been differently reported; but we are credibly informed that the following account is a correct outline:—Coady and Norman were the seconds for Halton, and Grace and a countryman for Langan. It was for £50 a-side. The first five rounds were manfully contested on both sides; but upon Halton being floored by a tremendous blow on his head, he became very shy afterwards, and did not like to meet his man; he kept retreating, and getting down in the best manner he could. Upwards of sixty minutes had elapsed, and it rained all the time; Halton went down from a flooring hit, and could not come to the scratch when time was called. This created a disturbance, the ring was in disorder, and when Halton came to, he said he was not licked. The backers of Langan insisted upon the money being given up; but Donnelly, whose word was law at that time, asserted that his boy had not lost the battle, and no individual being found on the ground to contradict or dispute the assertion of that mighty chief, the parties separated very much dissatisfied at the non-decision of the contest!

A short time afterwards, Langan met with Donnelly at the Cock-pit, and remonstrated with him on the impropriety of his conduct, in being the cause of withholding the stakes from our hero. Some high words passed between them, when Langan, with more courage than prudence, thus addressed the chief of Ireland—“I know, Dan;—no, I do not know, Dan, neither—but I think, you could bate me; yet I will hold you a wager, that you do not lick me in half an hour, and I will have a turn-up with you directly in the Cock-pit.” Donnelly did not appear inclined for a mill; and, after considerable chaffing about the merits of the battle, Langan received the money.

Our hero was now an object of envy in Dublin. Carney, a boat-builder, a fine strapping fellow, and a milling cove into the bargain, challenged Jack Langan for £50 a-side. It was accepted without delay, and at a place called Saggert, in the county of Wicklow, they met to decide which was the best man. Donnelly was present. Langan had for his seconds Plunket and Malone. While they were beating out the ring, Langan employed himself by using a pickaxe, digging out the scratch. Carney asked Malone, “What Jack was doing?” “Doing, man,” replied Malone; “don’t you know? Why Langan is one of the most industrious fellows alive; he not only manes to bate you, but afterwards to bury you: he digs graves for all the men that he fights with!” Carney turned pale at the recital; his knees trembled, and he seemed frightened almost out of his wits. His second, however, cheered him up a little, by telling Carney not to mind such trash.[13] Carney mustered up courage, and commenced the battle well, and with a terrifying blow made Langan kiss his mother earth. A louder fil-la-loo from Carney’s party was never heard at any fight, and he tried to repeat the dose in the second round, but Langan was too clever—he made a tie of it with his opponent, and Carney found himself at full length upon the turf. In the third round Langan put in such a teazer, in the middle of his adversary’s nob, that his eyes rolled about with astonishment, and he put up his hand to feel if his head had not taken flight from his shoulders, as he lay prostrate on the ground. This blow put an end to the fight; and Cummins, a potato factor, and second to Carney, fell foul of Plunket, as a signal for a riot. The ring was broken, and Langan cruelly treated. Twenty thousand persons were present. By this stratagem Langan did not get a farthing for the battle, which ended in a most terrible uproar.

Langan challenged Cummins for his foul conduct, although the potato merchant weighed fifteen stone. The latter, in answer, said he would not disgrace himself by fighting in a public ring. In the course of a month Langan went to Palmerston Fair, to buy a horse for his father, when he accidentally met with Cummins, who had several fellows with him. The potato factor observed to Langan, “You had the impudence some time ago to challenge me (then giving Langan a blow); there, take that for your prate.” “Well,” replied Jack, “I did; and only come out and let us have fair play, and I will give you what you deserve in a few minutes.” Langan and Cummins immediately repaired to the outside of the fair, and, although Langan was alone, in the course of ten rounds he punished Paddy Cummins so severely that he could not forget for six months he had been well thrashed at Palmerston Fair. We now come to the first authenticated combat of Jack Langan.

Owen M’Gowran, a native of the fighting locality of Donnybrook, and a boxer of considerable note, was matched against Langan, for 100 guineas a-side. The contest came off on Wednesday, May 29, 1819, on the Curragh of Kildare.

The crowd assembled was immense: vehicles of every kind were put in requisition, and by twelve o’clock the Curragh exhibited as motley a concourse as could be imagined. The country boys from the adjacent counties, Wicklow and Kildare, who love a bit of sport of this kind as well as the best of the fancy, assembled in great numbers, and all repaired to take their places at that natural and beautiful amphitheatre, known by the name of “Belcher’s Valley.”[14] In the centre flat, surrounded entirely by rising hills, a twenty-four feet ring was erected, well corded in—the amateurs paying 5s. for front seats—while the uplands were covered with spectators. About twenty-five minutes before one o’clock Langan entered the ring, attended by his second, Halton, with Norman as his bottle-holder; immediately after, Owen M’Gowran, attended by Kearney as his second, with his bottle-holder, advanced to the scene of action. The combatants stripped, both apparently in good condition; they shook hands with the greatest cordiality, and at eighteen minutes before one o’clock the fight commenced, at minute time. Betting five to four on Langan, the favourite.

THE FIGHT.

Round 1.—The first round commenced with cautious sparring, each man waiting for his adversary; both made play right and left, then closed, and, after some hugging, both fell, M’Gowran under. (Betting rising in favour of Langan.)

2.—Each advanced cautiously to meet his adversary, warily sparring; at last Langan made a feint, which gave him an opening, and he hit M’Gowran a chopper over his right eye, which drew first blood. This blow had a great effect throughout the fight. They closed and fell together. (Four to one on Langan.)

3.—The combatants came up with much caution, and sparred _à la distance_. Some smart hitting took place, but not severe; the hits were followed up until they closed and fell, Langan under.

4.—Much sparring, counter-hits, but no great punishment. M’Gowran staggered and fell.

5.—Similar fighting. M’Gowran grassed, but not by a clean knock-down.

6.—Like the two former at the beginning. Both closed and fell, Langan under. (Bets still the same.)

7.—This might be said to have commenced the fight in earnest; both came up determined, and desperate hard hitting took place. Each stood well up, and received and paid in prime style—no flinching. After very severe hitting, they closed and both fell together.

8.—Both went in, showing much pluck, stood fairly up, and fought hard. Langan grassed his man again, although he seemed to have got much the worst of the hitting. (Bets even.)

9.—Both determined milled away rapidly, and there was good in-fighting. They closed with equal advantage, and both went down together.

10.—The combatants seemed cautious from the effects of the last round, and made much play, hitting wide. At last they closed more lovingly, when Langan was hit down, but not cleverly. (Cries of “Owen for ever!” from the surrounding heights.)

11.—Very severe fighting, at the close of which M’Gowran was hit down.

12.—A desperate rally commenced, and any science that either had heretofore shown was here out of the question: they stood close in, and hit as hard as they could; at last they clenched. Both fell, M’Gowran under.

13.—Both came up to the scratch more cautiously, making play, the effects of the last round being visible on both. Some counter-hitting, but weak. The men parted, but neither down.

14.—Owen placed a tremendous blow on Langan’s left side. The latter grunted; and, in a close, both fell, Langan under. (Loud cheering. Betting changed in favour of M’Gowran.)

15.—Some severe fighting, which ended in M’Gowran’s falling. (Betting again even.)

16.—Good play on both sides: closed and, parted; set-to again; much fighting, chiefly body blows. Langan hit over the ropes.

17.—Langan stood to his man with spirit, and planted a severe facer, which uncorked the claret from M’Gowran’s nose. Both down, M’Gowran under.

18.—Both very queer in the bellows; closed and parted; came up again—a desperate rally; parted again; time counted.

19.—Both came up refreshed, and made play; desperate fighting. Langan hit over the ropes, and grassed the third time. (“Huzza for Paddy M’Gowran.”)

From the twentieth to twenty-sixth round similar fighting. Both appeared much exhausted, and little science displayed.

27.—Much hard hitting. Langan hit over his adversary’s right eye, as in the second round; M’Gowran’s claret puzzling him, he fell much exhausted.

The combatants fought to the thirty-fifth round, during which time M’Gowran was much punished. He came in time to the thirty-sixth round, but finding that he had so thorough-bred a customer to deal with, gave up in a manly style. The fight lasted an hour and forty-seven minutes.

Langan, by his conquest over M’Gowran, was placed at the top of the tree, in Dublin, as a pugilist. He threw down the glove to all Ireland, but no boxer thought it would fit him. The gauntlet, therefore, remained untouched, and Langan was hailed as Champion by the warm-hearted boys of the sod. His friends, however, wished him to have a shy in the London Ring; but, while he was undecided as to his future steps, a larger field presented itself for the exertions of our hero.

Colonel Mead was raising a regiment in Dublin, to join the Independents in South America, during which time the Colonel became acquainted with Langan, and he roused in his breast so strong a sympathy for the American sons of liberty, that Langan resolved to give his bunch of fives a holiday for a short period, and to take up the cause of the Independents with his sword. Jack sailed from Liverpool, with that ill-fated expedition, in the Charlotte Gambier brig, in company with another vessel, named La Force. Langan, being a smart, lively fellow, was made a sergeant, as an earnest of his patron’s future intentions. During the voyage, the privations which the crew endured were extremely severe; but by the really patriotically inclined adventurer they were borne without a murmur, while those individuals who embarked to obtain wealth by their speculation—the thoughts of the gold and silver mines, those precious metals, which their minds had flattered them might be had for carrying away—pursued their voyage without grumbling, in hopes that they would be paid for their troubles at last. Indeed, so strongly did the accumulation of riches operate upon some of their feelings, that several of the crew employed themselves in making canvass bags, out of old sailcloth, to hold the dollars and doubloons.

The first place this expedition touched at was St. Michael’s. Colonel Mead, in a conversation with the British Consul, mentioned Langan as a pugilist; when the latter gentleman expressed a wish to witness an exhibition of sparring. Langan immediately complied with the request of the British Consul, and on board of the Charlotte Gambier some sets-to occurred. The superiority of Langan was so great, in point of scientific movements, over the hardy and brave sailors, that he disposed of five or six in the style of an auctioneer knocking down a lot of sundries. From the Azores they sailed to Tobago. In this island Langan’s brother died, who once belonged to Admiral Nelson’s ship, the Victory. The brother of Langan was on board when the gallant Admiral died at Aboukir Bay.[15]

The expedition then made for the island of St. Marguerite, which was made the depôt, but more correctly speaking, the grave of the European troops. Landed at St. Marguerite, the anticipation of wealth and glory vanished, and the truth presented itself. Owing to the state of starvation, the badness of the food, and the unwholesomeness of the climate, the men, one after the other, sunk into the grave. Langan, with a constitution unbroken, defied all the horrors by which he was surrounded, and never enjoyed a better state of health. He was always foremost in giving assistance to his sick comrades, and never complained of being unwell for a single day. To describe the sufferings of this wretched, ill-fated band, is impossible; the officers did not experience any kinder treatment than the men. It was nothing uncommon to meet with superior officers, with scarcely any covering upon their backs, ragged as beggars, an old blanket thrown across their emaciated frames, with holes made to admit their head and arms.

The proverb says that “hunger will force its way through stone walls.” Langan, who had been without food for a considerable time, in company with Captain Collins and Major Brian, were compelled to compromise their feelings, and went seven miles up the country one night to pay their respects to an inviting pig. The residence of this four-footed beauty had been marked down in the course of the day, and the spot was soon recognised in the dark. Our hero, who did not want for science in flooring an opponent, was quite at a loss to quiet a pig: coaxing proved fruitless, and the pig made so much noise that its owner was instantly alarmed for the safety of his inmate, and a party sallied out well armed to shoot the abductors. Langan, at this juncture, had got hold of the pig’s leg by way of a parley; but his companions catching a glimpse of the farmers, who were approaching in battle array, and being unarmed, made their escape. Running away from the scene of action was so contrary to the feelings of our hero, that he hesitated for a moment whether he should show fight or bolt; but ten to one being rather too much odds for Jack, he plunged into the nearest thicket and laid himself down. In this situation he waited their approach, and heard his pursuers thrust their rifles, with a sword affixed to the end, into every bush and thicket which they supposed able to conceal a man. When Langan’s pursuers approached the place where he had hid himself, they thrust the rifle, with the sword, into the thicket several times without doing him the slightest injury; but the last push wounded Langan in the leg. His game was put to the test. To cry out would have cost him his life; silence, therefore, was his only security. The armed band now retired, concluding the borrowers of the pigs had made good their retreat. When the coast was clear, Langan hobbled from his place of concealment, and joined his companions in safety.

It ought to have been mentioned, that soon after Langan’s arrival at St. Marguerite, Colonel Mead mentioned his prowess in the milling line to Admiral Bryan, who had a _penchant_ for fistic exercises. The admiral’s boatswain, Jack Power, bore a high character for his thumping qualities, and was anxious to have a trial of skill with our hero. The boatswain waited upon Langan with proposals for a match; he was received by the latter with a hearty welcome, and the match made without delay. Three days only were allowed for training; at the expiration of which a proper place was selected for the mill, and a tolerably good ring made, although not so tight and compact as the Commissary-general of England, Bill Gibbons, might have produced. At the coolest period of the day, the combatants, attended by their respective friends, appeared; the “legion” of course attended to have a peep at the triumph of their countryman. For the first five rounds the boatswain took the load: his constitution was excellent, and his shipmates backed him to win. Jack was floored several times, and napt lots of punishment, but his pluck never deserted him; his superior science enabled him to get out of trouble, and his goodness upon his legs ultimately decided the battle in his favour. The natives appeared highly pleased with the manly exhibition; and it is to be sincerely wished that they had also profited by such a display of true courage over the stiletto and knife, those treacherous weapons being generally used among the natives, the legitimate use of the bunch of fives being unknown to them. This conquest tended to increase Langan’s popularity, and also to establish his character as an out-and-outer among the islanders.

At this period Langan’s rank was Quarter-master Sergeant; promotion had been promised to him on the first opportunity, but in consequence of the gross mismanagement of the funds, and the neglect which had occurred in the hospital department, Jack resolved to quit the service. Langan, therefore, left St. Marguerite, and worked his passage to Trinidad, in company with several officers and men, whose military ardour was damped by the want of funds and clothing, and the dreary prospects of the expedition.

At Trinidad Jack found employment in a coaster, the property of a Mr. Jewel, a merchant in the island. Some months were passed by Langan in this new mode of life, when he came alongside of a Bristol man of the name of Newton, who had milled several of Jack’s shipmates. Meantime another boxer arrived at Trinidad, with whom Jack was compelled to enter the lists without delay; but Jack polished off “Mr. Newcome” in such quick and decisive style that the backers of Newton became alarmed; they possessed influence enough, however, to induce the governor to draw his bets upon the intended match, and in all probability, by so doing, not only saved the honour of Newton, but also their pockets. Soon after the above circumstance Jack sailed for Cork, on board of the Guadaloupe, of Greenock: after a most favourable voyage he arrived at Cork in safety. It is impossible to depict his feelings on his once more beholding his beloved country; the ideas and anticipated delight of “sweet home!” formed altogether a most agreeable contrast with the difficulties and privations he had experienced in less hospitable climes.

Langan’s stay in Cork was very short, and Dublin soon became the object of his attention; at the latter famed city, he began the world again in the character of a publican; an employment for which it should seem that nature had peculiarly adapted him. He was a lively fellow over his glass, possessing a fund of wit and humour well calculated to amuse; not forgetting, at the same time, that Jack was seconded by a fair stock of muscle and bone, to keep up good discipline amongst disorderly or rum customers. Thus we perceive our hero changing from one tutelary divinity to another, discarding Mars to worship at the shrine of Bacchus! The jolly god was delighted at receiving the devoirs of such a votary, showering upon him his benign influence, and, for two years, Langan carried on a roaring trade, in King Street, at the sign of the Irish Arms, which bears the following motto:—

“Quiet when stroked; Fierce when provoked!”

The attentions of our hero had hitherto been paid to Mars and Bacchus; in fact, so exclusively, that Venus and Cupid were determined to resent the insult and contempt offered to their power, through the person of Miss Katty Flynn. Miss Katty was of true Hibernian genealogy; her father was a dairyman, and the fair daddles of Katty, it is said, were often employed in churning of butter.

“Most people fall in love some time or other, ’Tis useless, when the flame breaks out, trying it to smother;”

and so it appeared with poor Katty. Amongst her numerous elegant customers was the funny, joking, gay Jack Langan. Katty endeavoured to smother the unruly flame, but all-powerful love prevailed, and upon every succeeding visit at Jack’s crib it increased like an oil-fed blaze. The cream of her dairy was continually offered as a present to our hero to embellish his tea tackle; in addition to which, lots of new-laid eggs, lumps of butter, and oceans of milk; a dietary, according to Lord Byron, of the most dangerous excitement to amatory ideas. Jack’s counsel urged in his defence, that instead of being the seducer, he was the seduced: and it would be a perversion of justice if he was not placed as the payee, instead of the payer, for endeavouring to impart comfort and consolation to the love-stricken damsel. But despite the sophistry of his learned counsel, the jury were ungallant enough to award damages against him of One Hundred Pounds. This circumstance, combined with the treachery of a friend, compelled Jack once more to quit Ireland, and try his luck in England. A few fleeting hours enabled our hero to lose sight of the Pigeon-house, and the charms of Miss Katty Flynn, and he landed in a whole skin at Liverpool, where he was not long before he found himself seated snugly in Bob Gregson’s hostelrie.

Under this friendly roof he rested himself for a few days. Jack then started for Manchester, in which place Pat Crawley had the honour of entertaining the aspiring Irish hero, at the Three Tuns Tavern. At Oldham Jack followed the occupation of a sawyer, and Tom Reynolds, like the celebrated Peter Pindar, who discovered Opie in a saw-pit, found Langan in a similar situation. “Come up, Jack,” says Tom, “and I’ll soon make a top-sawyer of you.” Langan obeyed the summons; and after comparing notes together, and having a small wet, Reynolds and Langan became inseparable friends, setting-to together, both in private and public, for their mutual advantage. Things went on in this way for a few months, when Matthew Vipond, alias Weeping, a Manchester man, well known as a good bit of stuff, entered the lists with the Irish Champion, on Wednesday, April 30, 1823. The celebrity of the pugilists drew together five thousand persons. The battle was fought between Buxton and Bakewell, in a field called Lydia’s Island, and certainly a better place could not be wished for—it was a perfect amphitheatre, and every person was near enough to the ring to have a distinct view of the men, when seated on the ridges of the surrounding eminences. The ring, which was a roped one of twenty-four feet square, being formed, Vipond first entered it, and threw up his golgotha; a few minutes after Langan made his _entrée_, and hoisted his also in the air. The Manchester man was seconded by two amateurs, the Irishman by Reynolds and Halton. Ned Turner and Bob Purcell also attended. About two o’clock the men peeled, shook each other by the fives, and the mill commenced.

THE FIGHT.

Round 1.—The men came to the scratch with good humour painted on their mugs, and after gathering up and breaking ground for a few seconds, Vipond made play, but was stopped and hit in a style by no means expected. Vipond got in at last, closed, and gave the Hibernian his first welcome to English ground by a sort of cross-buttock.

2.—Vipond came up, bleeding from the left ogle, not quite so confident, but nothing loth, and wishing to pay with interest the favour received; but, alas! he was not the first man disappointed in good intentions, for he was met in so tremendous a manner by Pat’s right hand on the temple, that he was sent to the ground as if kicked by a horse. (Ten to one on Pat.)

3.—The Patlanders in the last and in this round seemed frantic with joy; hats went up in the air, and all roaring out for the darling boy. Bob Purcell called out to Reynolds, “Blow my dickey, Tom, if you don’t keep the Murphy back he will kill his man, and you’ll get lagged.” This had no effect on Tom, for he sent Langan in to Vipond, who was staggering from the effects of the blow in the last round. Paddy brought him to his recollection by a blow at the victualling office, and following it up with another for the box of knowledge, Matthew went down before he received, and Langan fell also from over-reaching himself.

4.—Vipond came to the scratch with far different spirits to those he started with: he was nervous in the extreme, and a person might easily guess that if he had known as much before as he did then he would have left Mr. Irishman for somebody else. Vipond’s ivory box was visited by Pat’s left mawley; by a ditto from the right, on the old sore on the temple, he went down, and the amateurs thought he would not come again. Langan during this round, and, in fact, all the others, was laughing.

5.—It was astonishing how willingly Vipond came to the scratch; but though he made some excellent hits, none of them told, they were so well stopped. Unfortunately for Matthew there was a kind of magnetic attraction between Paddy’s left hand and the Lancashire man’s frontispiece, which kept the claret continually streaming, and before the round was half over, Matthew seemed as if sprinkled by a mop. This was the busiest and the longest round in the fight; it ended by their getting entangled at the ropes, and both were down in a struggle for the throw.

6.—Vipond toed his mark, but in such a manner that any odds might be had against him. The only surprise was that he came at all, for he had had enough to satisfy an out-and-outer, without the slightest chance of winning. Langan, in commencing this round, nobbed him two or three times, and then let go a good one at the mark, but as the hit was going in, Vipond struck Langan’s wrist downwards, which caused the blow to fall below the waistband. This the seconds thought to take some advantage of, by saying the blow was below the line prescribed by the laws of fighting, and a complete stand-still took place, until the umpires declared they saw nothing unfair, and desired the fight to proceed.

7.—The time-keepers called time, but Vipond seemed to hang fire. The moment he got on his legs, Reynolds sent Langan to him, and Matthew went to grass.

8.—Matthew, to tell the truth, did not like the suit; and we must say he had no reason. When his second lifted him up to take him to the scratch, he declared he had been struck foul in the sixth round, and disregarding the direction of the umpires, declined fighting any more. Time was called, but Matthew slipped under the ropes and left the ring. Victory was then proclaimed for Langan in a shout that rent the skies.

REMARKS.—This fight excited more interest in Lancashire and the surrounding counties, than anything of the kind that has happened in the recollection of the oldest man. It was a kind of duel between England and Ireland—the English free in backing Vipond, the Irish almost offended if any doubt was expressed against Paddy. Langan stood five feet ten inches; Matthew, five feet eleven inches and three-quarters, about ten pounds the heavier, and a most powerful man. It was, as long as it lasted, a lively fight; but Vipond certainly had no chance of winning. The Irishman was (a wonder for that nation) cool and deliberate. Independent of that, he was quick on his legs, hit hard, and used both hands. As a proof of the inequality of the men, Pat had not the slightest visible mark of injury about him when the contest ended. At the time the row ensued, and Vipond had left the ring, a man called Rough Robin, about fifteen stone, entered the ropes, and challenged Pat for any money. Langan offered to fight that instant for £5, or anything else; but simple as Robin looked, he had good sense enough to take a second thought, and said he would train first. At the conclusion, Langan was exultingly carried by the boys of Shillelah on their shoulders to his carriage, and left the ground. The following certificate of the umpires was considered sufficient to satisfy all parties as to any doubt which they might have at the time respecting the alleged foul blow:—

“CERTIFICATE.

“This is to certify that Messrs. Swiney and Cope, being appointed umpires in the fight between Langan and Vipond, declare that the fight was fairly won by Langan.

“W. SWINEY, “ENOS COPE.

“_Buxton, April 30th, 1823._”

Langan, after his conquest over Vipond, left Lancashire for the Emerald Isle, to exonerate his bail; honesty being at all times his polar star. He had scarcely landed in Dublin, when he was compelled to spend his time in the Marshalsea, in consequence of not being able to raise the sum of money necessary to repair Miss Katty’s damages. Langan ultimately got out of his love adventure by the adverse party not opposing his discharge at the Insolvent Court; nevertheless, this bit of a love affair made great havoc in his cash account. Shortly after our hero’s liberation from durance vile, he received a letter from Tom Reynolds, informing Jack that Rough Robin could be backed against him in Manchester. He lost no time in obeying the summons; but to his great regret, he found out it was “no go”—the Rough One did not appear at the scratch. Langan issued a challenge to all the Lancashire boys, but without the desired effect, and the Irish Champion could not pick up a customer. A sporting friend recommended Langan to visit Ned Painter, at Norwich, and under his auspices to enter the P.R. Jack would readily have availed himself of his advice, but Tom Reynolds, under whose guidance he was at that time, wished Langan to have a shy with Josh Hudson, at Doncaster Races, for a subscription purse—the John Bull Fighter having announced himself ready to meet any boxer at that sporting town. Many slips, however, happen between the cup and the lip; the manager of the Manchester Theatre had engaged Spring and Cribb for a sparring exhibition; the placards announced Spring as the Champion of England, and stated, at the same time, that the latter celebrated pugilist was ready to fight any man in the world. Langan conceived that the validity of Spring’s title to the championship at least demanded a trial, and therefore, without hesitation, challenged Tom Spring for £100. This, in the first instance, was refused by Spring, but after several negotiations upon the subject, a match was made for six hundred sovereigns, and the battle took place at Worcester, on Wednesday, January 7, 1824, as may be seen detailed in the preceding chapter.

Langan, accompanied by Reynolds, appeared in London a few days after his defeat at Worcester, and exhibited the art of self-defence at the Surrey Theatre. He was warmly received by the Sporting World.

Thinking he was not fairly treated in his fight at Worcester, Langan entered into a second match for 1,000 sovereigns.

For the details of this gallant contest we must also refer to the memoir of the victor. To the minutiæ there given we must here add a few proofs from contemporary publications of the deservedly high position in which Langan’s gallant conduct placed him with the public at large and sporting men generally.

Spring, it cannot be denied, received considerably more punishment in this battle than in any of his previous contests. This speaks for itself, and refutes the imputation of Langan being a bad fighter. The hero of the black fogle hit hard at a greater distance than most boxers. Mr. Jackson went round the ring and collected several pounds for Langan; and in the course of a few minutes, as a proof of how high the Irish Champion stood in the opinion of the amateurs, Pierce Egan collected on the stage, from a few gentlemen, £12 16s., of which sum Mr. Gully subscribed five sovereigns. The following letter from John Badcock (the Jon Bee of Sporting Literature) forms a fitting accompaniment to the appended verses in praise of Langan:—

“Well, sir, there is redemption in Gath, and the Philistines are discomfited, the Puritans overthrown, the Parliament of the Barebones dissolved, the opponents of the fancy defeated in their designs, the impugners of manhood laughed into scorn. There have now been no beaks, no x x’s, like clouds and storms upon the pugilistic hemisphere; we have had a noble, manly, fair British fight—the flag of the P.R. is again triumphant, and the colours of both the combatants covered with glory. The conqueror has reaped new laurels, the conquered has renewed and refreshed his: Spring has been truly triumphant, but Langan is not disgraced—as the old Major says, ‘quite the contrary.’

“You have acted, and you have written nobly, sir, about the discomfited son of Erin: you have rendered unto Cæsar Cæsar’s goods. I am an Englishman, and I love, I reverence, the land of mawleys and roast beef; but I can respect our brethren of the Union, and speak well of the country of shillelahs and potatoes. The hero of the sable banner shall yet be a conqueror—‘quoit it down, Bardolph!’—and so, my jolly Daffs, let us have a stave for the Black Fogle.

“JOHN OF CORINTH.

“THE BLACK FOGLE.

“‘Hic Niger est, hunc tu Romane caveto.’—_Old Classics._

“‘He sports a black flag, ye millers beware of him.’—_Modern Classical Translation._

“Hail to brave Pat! though he’s had a sound thumping, Long life to the Champion from Ireland so dear; Strike up, ye fancy coves, and be all jumping, To give the brave Paddy a benefit clear, Crest of John Langan— Faith, ’tis a queer ’un, A fogle of sable as black as can be, And he hath stuck to it, Though without luck to it— Whack for the fogle and Jack Langan’s spree!

“Oh! ’tis a colour that ne’er shall grow whiter, The blues and the yellows may flaunt it amain, But the black flag that waves for the Paddy Bull fighter, If torn a small bit shall not nourish a stain, Hudson may puff away, Sampson may blarney gay, Still ’tis no Gaza to yield to his blow; Shelton may shake a fist, Ward he may try a twist, And be one in chancery if he does so.

“Drink, Paddies, drink, to your hero from Erin! While manhood shall flourish, and true friendship thrive, So long for your Champion his ensign be wearing, ’Tis defended and held by a good bunch of fives. While the ring flourishes, And Erin nourishes Freedom and fancy and true sporting joys, The black flag shall have a toast, The P.R. shall ever boast The fogle of sable and Langan, my boys!”

Langan took a benefit at the Fives Court on Thursday, July 1, 1824, when that popular place of amusement was crowded to suffocation, and numbers went away disappointed, not being able to procure admittance. Hundreds of amateurs were quite satisfied at getting a short peep now and then at the stage, and a great number of persons left the Court without being able, with all their efforts, to obtain a single glimpse of the sparring; indeed, it was such an overflow as almost to render the safety of the spectators doubtful. The sets-to were generally good.

Loud cheers greeted the appearance of Spring, and also Langan, upon the stage. Neither of the heroes had yet recovered from the effects of their then recent contest. The set-to was a fac-simile of the battle in Chichester, the length of Spring giving him the advantage; it, however, gave general satisfaction. At the conclusion Langan addressed the audience in the following words:

“Gentlemen.—The first wish nearest my heart, is to return thanks for the kindness and attention I have received in this country. I trust you will believe me, when I say, that I do not appear here in anything like a national point of view. There is no man loves Ireland and her sons better than I do. My pretensions are to show as a man among pugilists, and to contend for the Championship of England. I will contend with honour, and that shall be my pride, or I should be undeserving of that patronage which you so liberally bestowed upon me. When I met the Champion of England at Manchester, my friends backed me for the sum which was asked, £300. I would be proud to have my name enrolled in history amongst those brave champions, Jem Belcher, Pearce (the Game Chicken), John Gully, Cribb, and Tom Spring. I am now willing to accept a challenge to fight any man in England—to fight for that proud and enviable title, for the sum asked of me by Spring—£300.”

Jem Ward then mounted the stage, and said he was willing to fight Langan for 200 sovereigns.

Langan—I’ll accept your challenge if you’ll make it 300, but I’ll not fight for less—it would be beneath the dignity of the distinction at which I aim, to fight for a smaller sum.

Ward—I am willing to fight for £300 if my friends will make up the sum.

Here the matter ended, and nothing decisive was done.

The Irish hero arrived in Bristol, on his way to Dublin, on the 11th of July, 1824, but the packet not being ready to sail, he immediately set off by the steam-boat for Tenby, in Wales, in order to meet with the steam-packet for Waterford. In his journey through Pembroke and Milford he met with a very kind reception from the Welsh people. Langan put up at the Nelson’s Hotel, in Milford. Crowds of people surrounded the house during his stay; and the sailors, who were wind-bound, came on shore, along with the crews of two revenue cutters, just to get a peep at the Irish milling cove. The inhabitants of Tenby wished him to spar for a benefit, and some gentlemen amateurs offered him their assistance, but Langan refused to accept their kind offer, on account of his father’s illness. He sailed in the Ivanhoe steam-packet for Waterford, on the 14th.

In the second fight with Spring, our hero, during one of his severe falls on the stage, injured his shoulder so seriously, that upon Langan’s application to Mr. Cline, the celebrated surgeon, the latter gentleman informed him he must not fight for a twelvemonth. In consequence of this advice, Langan kept aloof from the prize ring, and went on a sparring tour, in various parts of England, with Spring; paid a visit to Dublin, Cork, and various other parts of Ireland, with great success, and likewise went on a similar expedition with Peter Crawley to Liverpool, Manchester, etc. Jack improved considerably during his practice with the late ponderous host of the French Horn.

Lots of letter-writing passed between Langan and Shelton on the subject of a fight, but it all ended in smoke. Ward and our hero had also a few words on the subject of a mill, but no battle was the result. For several months after Langan’s fight with Spring, the pain in his shoulder operated as a great drawback to his exertions in setting-to. Jack could not hit out with effect.

We copy the following letter from a Dublin journal, to show the feelings of our hero upon the subject of a challenge:

“_To the Editor of_ FREEMAN’S JOURNAL.

“SIR,

“May I request you will contradict a statement which appeared in your paper of Saturday, in a letter signed ‘Paul Spencer,’ in which it is stated that during my stay in Cork I was challenged to fight an English soldier for £150, and that I did not accept the challenge. I have not been challenged by any person whatsoever, and therefore the statement in the letter signed ‘Paul Spencer’ is utterly without foundation. There are certain persons in Dublin with whom I would not associate, and who, in consequence, have felt a soreness that fully accounts for the occasional squibs which now and then appear in print to my prejudice, and which I hold in the utmost contempt.

“I remain your obedient servant, “JOHN LANGAN.

“_April 22, 1826._”

For some months Langan was completely lost sight of by the London Fancy; at length he was heard of as the proprietor of a snug public-house in Liverpool. Here his lively disposition, civility of demeanour, industry, and attention gained him hosts of friends. Langan sang a tolerably good song, and told a story well. He was the first to prevent a brawl, the last to provoke any one, or to suffer any one to be insulted in his house, and ever ready to lend a hand to any one in distress—colour, country, or profession disregarded. He gained the esteem of all who knew him; he accumulated money, and took an hotel, which he termed St. Patrick’s, at Clarence Dock, from whence he after some years retired with an ample fortune. At his house he had a large room; in this place he nightly placed beds of clean straw, rugs, etc.; it was a nightly refuge for every Irishman that chose to apply. Let the tongue be but tipped with a bit of the brogue, “Come in and welcome,” said Langan, “only, lads, let me take away your reaping hooks and shillelahs—there is a clean bed, a warm rug, and lashings of potatoes, for the honour of the land we all come from.” This Langan did, unaided by any subscription, for years. Such a fact needs no comment. We could enumerate a hundred acts of his charity—he did not wait to be asked.

Here, for many years, he lived honoured, respected, and prosperous; but latterly his health failed, and he retired from the bustle of business to a house at Five Lanes End, Cheshire, where, on the 17th of March (St. Patrick’s Day), in the year 1846, he departed this life, aged forty-seven.

It was with deep regret that we heard of the demise of the brave, the good Jack Langan. Brave he was, as his conduct in conflict showed; good he was, as perpetual acts of benevolence proved. He was a boxer, a prize-fighter—no matter, a profession never yet disgraced a man, if he took care not to disgrace the profession. Langan, though poorly educated was a man of superior mind; he was, to speak of them generally, better educated than the class with whom his name was associated; and in power of observation, acuteness of reasoning, was, in fact, far above many who walk in higher places.

The sun never rose on a braver or a better man; and hundreds of poor Irishmen have cause to bless his memory. One of those domestic afflictions that are utterly beyond remedy increased the maladies to which he had been long subject, and we fear we may, to use a common but expressive phrase, say that he died of a broken heart.

“Light lie the earth on his grave.”