She had expected a love story; and love was totally absent. That he was hot and breathless was of no matter; in that moment he would have faced a dozen Samsons. An enormous Hand that rose up swiftly, blotting out the sky. “You shall go,” he declared. 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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