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. " "But I never told you how the natives fished. "This locket," he said, taking a little ornament attached to a black ribband from his breast, and giving it her,—"do you remember it?" "I do—I do!" cried Winifred. Her two sticks were bare and brown, her snugged canvas drab, her brasses dull, her anchor mottled with rust. . ” She came closer. “Dear me,” she said, “I fancy you exaggerate my fame. He could not contain his satisfaction, but chuckled, and rubbed his hands with delight.
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