"Back!" cried Jack fiercely: "lay a finger on her, and I will fell you to the ground. The thought made her exquisitely happy. They slow danced to a Bon Jovi ballad. 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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