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. He had no use for Ann Veronica; he had never had a use for her since she had been too old to sit upon his knee. The ladies can't sleep in their beds for him; and as to the men, they daren't go to bed at all.
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