She read on and on, now thrilled by the swiftly moving drama, now enraptured by the tender passages of love. "Is she dead?" "No—no," answered Hogarth. 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. Wood's charms equalled your description.
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