‘You’re the most troublesome wretch I’ve ever encountered,’ he told her bitterly. ‘You talk together of me as if I am not there. "Ay, indeed! And who may that be?" inquired his wife. He watched her constantly, trapped her in corners and slept with his arms locking her like a human cage. 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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