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.” [Illustration] CHAPTER III. NED PAINTER—1813–1820. Edward Painter was known to the past and to not a few of the present generation, as a worthy specimen of the English boxer—a race of men, we fear, well-nigh extinct. To the first, as one of the gamest of pugilists that ever pulled off a shirt; to the second, as a respectable and worthy tradesman resident in Norwich, but ever and anon visiting his old friends and patrons in the great metropolis, when some “event” occurred, in which those he knew in former days required a hand; or when some public or charitable object could be assisted by “Old Ned’s” showing with Tom Spring, Peter Crawley, Jem Ward, one or other of the distinguished “big ’uns,” who were contemporary with his ring career. [Illustration: NED PAINTER, OF NORWICH. _From a Drawing by_ GEORGE SHARPLES, 1824. ]