” “I came here to talk reasonably, Mr. ” He shook her diminutive hand. The arrangement had been made by the town matchmaker, a frightening old oak of a man. 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. "Let me see," replied Wood; "exactly twelve years ago last November.
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