Promise me one thing before I leave you. “Take off your tunic. ’ ‘Oh, is he?’ Gerald said grimly. Winifred, you are deceived in me. 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. Not so Gosse. I must obey. “I gave your name. ‘The outcome, I think, is in very little doubt.
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