’ Gerald sat back in his chair, thinking hard. To-morrow they will all be contradicted. Drink this!” He poured out a glass of wine with a firm hand, and held it to her lips. The atmosphere seemed heavy with the odour of drugs. 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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