Читать книгу Pugilistica - Henry Downes Miles - Страница 9

“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 xx’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.”