The above description of —the great Figg, by the prize-fighting swains Sole monarch acknowledged of Mary'bone plains— may sound somewhat tame by the side of the glowing account given of him by his gallant biographer, who asserts that "there was a majesty shone in his countenance, and blazed in his actions, beyond all I ever saw;" but it may, possibly, convey a more accurate notion of his personal appearance. “She’s all right. S. "So, stir your stumps, Saint Giles; and, if you mean to lock us up, use despatch. ’ She was about to develop this theme, when Jack’s gaze became fixed, and his expression changed. The men have never had so much work to do since they banded. That glove is still preserved.
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