Spring rode through the town in a stylish barouche and four (Colonel Berkeley’s) about twelve o’clock. The postilions were in red, and everything _en suite_. He arrived on the ground by half-past twelve, amidst the shouts of the spectators, and drove close up to the ropes in a post-chaise. He threw his hat into the ring, accompanied by Tom Cribb and Ned Painter. He was dressed with striking neatness. At this period all were on the look-out for Langan, but a quarter of an hour had elapsed, and no Langan—half an hour gone, and no Paddy—three-quarters over, and still no Irish Champion in sight. Spring pulled out his watch, and said, “It is time.” In the midst of the hour, waiting for the arrival of Langan, the right wing belonging to the stand gave way, and fifteen hundred persons, at least, were thrown in a promiscuous heap. It was an awful moment. To give any description of the feelings of the spectators baffles attempt. Spring turned pale, and said, “How sorry I am for this accident.” In a few minutes composure was restored, it being ascertained that nothing material had occurred, except a few contusions, and some of the persons limping away from the spot. “Thank God!” ejaculated Spring, “I would not have had it happen while I was fighting for a hundred thousand pounds!” The John Bull boxer had now become impatient, and exclaimed, “This is strange! Where’s my man?” “I’ll bet ten to one,” said a swell, “he don’t mean to come at all.” “I’ll take it, sir,” said an Irishman, “a thousand times over.” “No,” was the reply—“I meant I would take it.” The stakes would certainly have been claimed by Spring, but no precise time was specified in the articles. It was, as the lawyers say, a day in law—meaning “any time within the day:” the time had not been mentioned in black and white. Nearly an hour had elapsed, when several voices sung out from the stand, “Josh. Hudson! Josh. Hudson! Langan wishes to see you.” The John Bull fighter bolted towards the place like lightning, and in a few minutes afterwards shouts rending the air proclaimed the approach of the Irish Champion. He did not, like most other boxers, throw his castor up in the air, but in the most modest way possible leaned over the ropes and laid it down. He immediately went up and shook hands with Spring. The latter, with great good nature, said, “I hope you are well, Langan.” “Very well, my boy; and we’ll soon talk to each other in another way.” The men now stripped, when Reynolds went up to Spring, and said, “I understand you have got a belt on, and whalebone in it; if you persist in fighting in such belt, I shall put one on Langan.” Spring replied (showing a belt such as are worn by gentlemen when riding), “I have always fought in this, and shall now.” “Then,” replied Reynolds (putting on a large belt, crossed in various parts with a hard substance), “Langan shall fight in this.” “No, he won’t,” said Cribb; “it is not a fair thing.” “Never mind,” urged