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’ ‘I am not the imbecile you take me for,’ Gerald said with dangerous calm. " "Footsteps are approaching," cried Thames. 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. He was plainly attired in a riding-dress and boots of the period, and wore a hanger by his side.
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