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. I am Lucilla Froxfield, you must know. I'm not quite such a greenhorn as Shotbolt, Jack, whatever you may think. If such a thing in connexion with him had been possible they would have declared that he was in a towering rage. But come in, dear. " "What!" exclaimed Mrs.
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