“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.