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. “Oh, Lord!” she said, discovering what she was up to, and dropped lightly from the fence upon the turf and went on her way toward the crest. I don’t believe in the faults. His father was one of my old customers, and I am happy to find his son treading in his steps. “The young women of Jane Austen’s time didn’t get into this sort of scrape! At least—one thinks so. . ” She replied weakly. He often wanted only to drive with her in the car, both of them staring at the scenery in silence for hours.
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