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. His thoughts, indeed, were too painful for utterance, and so acute were his feelings, that, for some time, they quite overcame him. Lucy ate without passion. It dawned upon him that he had been abominably used by Ann Veronica. ‘Oh! little Vee!’ he cried, ‘little Vee!’ and put his face between his hands and sat still for a long time before he broke out again. “I cannot pretend that I am glad to see you, Lady Ferringhall,” he said quietly.
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