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They crossed the street, and entering the front door passed up the outside stone steps of the flat. "No," replied Hogarth, hastily effacing the sketch. He went into the study and sat down at his table, but not to write. 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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