" Jack was about to comply; but not liking the man's manner, he walked on. It’s just upon my lunch-time. No more. ” “Can’t we go down into Italy?” “No,” he said; “it won’t run to that now. I have come thirteen thousand miles for this young fellow; I'm ready to go galloping thirteen thousand more. 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.
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