He felt hands tugging at him, mysterious creatures with long fingers and sharp nails that pulled at his flesh. There were shadows under his eyes. God would have taken mercy on her baby, seeing that she had already had too much pain and that he had taken her beloved mother. 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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