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The picturesque scoundrel had the true gift; and Spurlock was filled with pity at the thought of such genius gone to pot. ‘You do not think it is enough English. 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. ” “But how? It has only been a few days!” “She’s not even here.
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