Behind the poet came Sir James Thornhill.  The eminent painter had handsome, expressive features, an aquiline nose, and a good deal of dignity in his manner.  His age was not far from fifty.  He was accompanied by a young man of about seven-and-twenty, who carried his easel, set it in its place, laid the canvass upon it, opened the paint box, took out the brushes and palette, and, in short, paid him the most assiduous attention.  This young man, whose features, though rather plain and coarse, bore the strongest impress of genius, and who had a dark gray, penetrating eye, so quick in its glances that it seemed to survey twenty objects at once, and yet only to fasten upon one, bore the honoured name of William Hogarth.  Why he paid so much attention to Sir James Thornhill may be explained anon.

The rear of the party was brought up by a large, powerfully-built man, with a bluff, honest, but rugged countenance, slashed with many a cut and scar, and stamped with that surly, sturdy, bull-dog-like look, which an Englishman always delights to contemplate, because he conceives it to be characteristic of his countrymen.  This formidable person, who was no other than the renowned Figg, the “Atlas of the sword,” as he is termed by Captain Godfrey, had removed his hat and “skull covering,” and was wiping the heat from his bepatched and close-shaven pate.  His shirt also was unbuttoned, and disclosed a neck like that of an ox, and a chest which might have served as a model for a Hercules.  He had a flattish, perhaps, it should be called, a flattened nose, and a brown, leathern-looking hide, that seemed as if it had not unfrequently undergone the process of tanning.  Under his arm he carried a thick, knotted crab-stick.  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.  James Figg was the most perfect master of self-defence of his day.  Seconded by his strength and temper, his skill rendered him invincible and he is reputed never to have lost a battle.  His imperturbable demeanour in the fight has been well portrayed by Captain Godfrey, who here condescends to lay aside his stilts.  “His right leg bold and firm, and his left, which could hardly ever be disturbed, gave him a surprising advantage, and struck his adversary with despair and panic.  He had a peculiar way of stepping in, in a parry; knew his arm, and its just time of moving; put a firm faith in that, and never let his opponent escape.  He was just as much a greater master than any other I ever saw, as he was a greater judge of time and measure.”  Figg’s prowess in a combat with Button has been celebrated by Dr. Byrom,—­a poet of whom his native town, Manchester, may be justly proud; and his features and figure have been preserved by the most illustrious of his companions on the present occasion,—­Hogarth,—­in the levee in the “Rake’s Progress,” and in “Southwark Fair.”