“No, he grabbed my hand. “Thank God,” he exclaimed. We may meet—who can tell? But I will not be fettered, even though you would make the chains of roses. A tall elegantly dressed woman, followed by a maid, came down the broad staircase. 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. " Aware apparently in some degree, of the mistake she had committed, the poor maniac sprang towards him with frantic violence, and planted her long nails in his cheek. Wood, contemptuously, "he'll never mend till he comes to Tyburn.
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