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. On these were thrown all the horrible contents of Jonathan's museum, together with the body of Sir Rowland Trenchard. To her great surprise and mortification he was not alone; but brought with him a couple of friends, whom he begged to introduce as Mr. "There, Sir," she added, unlocking the door, "you can go in.
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