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. All the world about her seemed to be—how can one put it?—in wrappers, like a house when people leave it in the summer. Austin, may repeat it if he pleases to his master, Jonathan Wild,—I have not. I snatched it up, pointed it blindly at him, and fired. When the paroxysm passed, he was forced to lean against the window-jamb for support. .
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