Boldly he turned the knob of a certain door and entered. As he gazed down into the courts of the prison, he could not help shuddering, lest a false step might precipitate him below. The scanty furniture of the rooms corresponded with their dungeon-like aspect. But Sheppard answered for him. Majorities, right or wrong, dare not revolt. Will you read to me? I am tired; and the sound of your voice makes me drowsy. Shari smiled and Mike whispered to her. 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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