On the next morning—Sunday—the day on which he expected his mother's funeral to take place, he set out along the Harrow Road. 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. "You are free," said he, "that grating forms a ladder, by which you may descend in safety. "I've done no more than my duty, Mrs.
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