 Book 2 Chapter 8 of the late Mr. Jonathan Wilde The Great This LibriVox recording is in the public domain, read by Dennis Sayers. The late Mr. Jonathan Wilde The Great By Henry Fielding Book 2 Chapter 8, in which our hero carries greatness to an immoderate height. Let us remove, therefore, as fast as we can, this detestable picture of ingratitude, and present the much more agreeable portrait of that assurance to which the French very properly annex the epithet of good. Hartree had scarce done reading his letters when our hero appeared before his eyes, not with that aspect which a pitiful parson meets his patron after having opposed him at an election, or which a doctor wears when sneaking away from a door when he is informed of his patient's death, not with that downcast countenance which betrays the man who, after a strong conflict between virtue and vice, hath surrendered his mind to the latter, and is discovered in his first treachery. But with that noble bold, great confidence with which a prime minister assures his dependent that the place he promised him was disposed of before, and such concern and uneasiness as he expresses in his looks on those occasions did wild testify on the first meeting of his friend. And as the said prime minister chides you for neglect of your interest in not having asked in time, so did our hero attack Hartree for his giving credit to the count, and without suffering him to make any answer proceeded in a torrent of words to overwhelm him with abuse, which however friendly its intention might be, was scarce to be outdone by an enemy. By these means, Hartree, who might perhaps otherwise have vented some little concern for that recommendation which Wilde had given him to the count, was totally prevented from any such endeavor, and like an invading prince when attacked in his own dominions, forced to recall his whole strength to defend himself at home. This indeed he did so well by insisting on the figure and outward appearance of the count and his equipage, that Wilde at length grew a little more gentle, and with this I said, I confess I have the least reason of all mankind to censure another for an imprudence of this nature as I am myself, the most easy to be imposed upon, and indeed have been so by this count, who, if he be insolvent, hath cheated me of five hundred pounds. But for my own part, said he, I will not despair, nor would I have you. Many men have found it convenient to retire or abscond for a while, and afterwards have paid their debts, or at least handsomely compounded them. This I am certain of, should a composition take place, which is the worst I think that can be apprehended, I shall be the only loser, for I shall think myself obliged in honor to repair your loss, even though you must confess it was principally owing to your own folly. Had I imagined it necessary, I would have cautioned you, but I thought the part of the town where he lived sufficient caution not to trust him, and such a sum the devil must have been in you certainly. This was a degree of impudence beyond poor Mrs. Hartfrey's imagination, though she had before vented the most violent execrations on wild. She was now thoroughly satisfied of his innocence, and begged him not to insist any longer on what he perceived so deeply affected her husband. She said trade could not be carried on without credit, and surely he was sufficiently justified in giving it to such a person as the count appeared to be. Besides, she said, reflections on what was past and irretrievable would be of little service, that their present business was to consider how to prevent the evil consequences which threatened, and first to endeavor to procure her husband his liberty. Why doth he not procure Bale, said Wilde? Alas, sir, said she, we have applied to many of our acquaintance in vain. We have met with excuses even where we could least expect them. Not Bale, answered Wilde, in a passion. He shall have Bale, if there is any in the world. It is now very late, but trust me to procure him Bale tomorrow morning. Mrs. Hartfrey received these professions with tears, and told Wilde he was a friend indeed. She then proposed to stay that evening with her husband, but he would not permit her on account of his little family whom he would not agree to trust to the care of servants in this time of confusion. A hackney coach was then sent for, but without success, for these, like hackney friends, always offer themselves in the sunshine, but are never to be found when you want them. And as for a chair, Mr. Snap lived in a part of the town, which chairman very little frequent. The good woman was therefore obliged to walk home, with her the gallant Wilde offered to attend her as a protector. This favor was thankfully accepted, and the husband and wife, having taken a tender leave of each other, the former was locked in, and the latter locked out by the hands of Mr. Snap himself. As this visit of Mr. Wilde's to Hartfrey may seem one of those passages in history which writers drunken sir like introduce only because they dare. Indeed as it may seem somewhat contradictory to the greatness of our hero, and may tend to blemish his character with an imputation of that kind of friendship which savers too much of weakness and imprudence, it may be necessary to account for this visit, especially to our more sagacious readers whose satisfaction we shall always consult in the most special manner. They are to know then that at the first interview with Mrs. Hartfrey, Mr. Wilde had conceived that passion, or affection, or friendship, or desire for that handsome creature which the gentlemen of this our age agreed to call love, and which is indeed no other than that kind of affection, which after the exercise of the Domenical Day is over a lusty divine is apt to conceive for the well-dressed sirloin, or handsome buttock which the well-edified squire in gratitude sets before him, and which, so violent is his love, he devours an imagination the moment he sees it. Not less ardent was the hungry passion of our hero who from the moment he had cast his eyes on that charming dish had cast about in his mind by what method he might come at it. This, as he perceived, might most easily be affected after the ruin of Hartfrey, which, for other considerations, he had intended. So he postponed all endeavors for this purpose till he had first affected that. By order of time was regularly to proceed this latter design. With such regularity did this our hero conduct all his schemes, and so truly superior was he to all the efforts of passion which so often disconcert and disappoint the noblest views of others. End of Book Two, Chapter Eight, read by Dennis Sayers in Modesto, California, for LibriVox. Book Two, Chapter Nine of the Late Mr. Jonathan Wilde, The Great. This LibriVox recording is in the public domain, read by Dennis Sayers. The Late Mr. Jonathan Wilde, The Great. By Henry Fielding. Book Two, Chapter Nine. More Greatness in Wilde. A low scene between Mrs. Hartfrey and her children. And a scheme of our hero worthy the highest admiration, and even astonishment. When First Wilde conducted his flame, or rather his dish, to continue our metaphor, from the proprietor, he had projected a design of conveying her to one of those eating houses in Covent Garden, where female flesh is deliciously dressed and served up to the greedy appetites of young gentlemen. But fearing lest she should not come readily enough into his wishes, and that by too eager and hasty a pursuit he should frustrate his future expectations. And luckily, at the same time, a noble hint suggesting itself to him, by which he might almost inevitably secure his pleasure, together with his profit, he contented himself with waiting on Mrs. Hartfrey home. And after many protestations of friendship and service to her husband, took his leave, and promised to visit her early in the morning and to conduct her back to Mr. Snaps. Wilde now retired to a night cellar, where he found several of his acquaintance, with whom he spent the remaining part of the night in reveling. Nor did the least compassion for Hartfrey's misfortunes disturb the pleasure of his cups. So truly great was his soul, that it was absolutely composed, save that an apprehension of mis-tiches making some discovery, as she was then in no good temper towards him, a little ruffled and disquieted the perfect serenity he would otherwise have enjoyed. As he had, therefore, no opportunity of seeing her that evening, he wrote her a letter full of ten thousand protestations of honorable love, and, which he more depended on, containing as many promises in order to bring the young lady into good humor, without acquainting her in the least with his suspicion, or giving her any caution. For it was his constant maxim never to put it into anyone's head to do you a mischief by acquainting him that it is in his power. We must now return to Mrs. Hartfrey, who passed a sleepless night in as great agonies and horror for the absence of her husband as a fine, well-bred woman would feel at the return of hers from a long voyage or journey. In the morning, the children being brought to her, the eldest asked where Dear Papa was, at which she could not refrain from bursting into tears. The child, perceiving it, said, Don't cry, Mama, I am sure Papa would not stay abroad if he could help it. At these words she caught the child in her arms, and throwing herself into the chair in an agony of passion, cried out, No, my child, nor shall all the malice of hell keep us long asunder. These are circumstances which we should not, for the amusement of six or seven readers only, have inserted, had they not served to show that there are weaknesses in vulgar life to which great minds are so entirely strangers that they have not even an idea of them, and secondly by exposing the folly of this low creature to set off and elevate that greatest of which we endeavor to draw a true portrait in this history. Wilde, entering the room, found the mother with one child in her arms and the other at her knee. After paying her his compliments, he desired her to dismiss the children and servant for that he had something of the greatest moment to impart to her. She immediately complied with his request, and the door being shut asked him with great eagerness if he had succeeded in his intentions of procuring the bale. He answered he had not endeavored at it yet, for a scheme had entered into his head by which she might certainly preserve her husband, herself, and her family, in order to which he advised her instantly to remove with the most valuable jewels she had to holland before any statute of bankruptcy issued to prevent her that he would himself attend her dither and place her in safety, and then return to deliver her husband who would be thus easily able to satisfy his creditors. He added that he was that instant come from SNAPS, where he had communicated the scheme to Hartfree, who had greatly approved of it, and desired her to put it in execution without delay, concluding that a moment was not to be lost. The mention of her husband's approbation left no doubt in this poor woman's breast. He only desired a moment's time to pay him a visit in order to take her leave. But Wilde preemptorily refused. He said by every moment's delay she risked the ruin of her family, that she would be absent only a few days from him, for that the moment he had lodged her safe in holland, he would return, procure her husband his liberty, and bring him to her. I have been the unfortunate, the innocent cause of all my dear Tom's calamity, madam," said he, and I will perish with him or see him out of it. Mrs. Hartfree overflowed with acknowledgments of his goodness, but still begged for the shortest interview with her husband. Wilde declared that a minute's delay might be fatal, and added, though with the voice of sorrow, rather than of anger, that if she had not resolution enough to execute the commands he brought her from her husband, his ruin would lie at her door, and, for his own part, he must give up any farther meddling in his affairs. She then proposed to take her children with her, but Wilde would not permit it, saying they would only retard their flight, and that it would be properer for her husband to bring them. He at length absolutely prevailed on this poor woman, who immediately packed up the most valuable effects she could find, and, after taking a tender leave of her infants, earnestly recommended them to the care of a very faithful servant. Then they called a hackney-coach, which conveyed them to an inn, where they were furnished with a chariot and six, in which they set forward for Harwich. Wilde rode with an exulting heart, secure, as he now thought himself, of the possession of that lovely woman, together with a rich cargo. In short, he enjoyed in his mind all the happiness which unbridled lust and rapacious avarice could promise him. As to the poor creature who was to satisfy these passions, her whole soul was employed in reflecting on the condition of her husband and children. A single word scarce escaped her lips, though many a tear gushed from her brilliant eyes, which, if I may use a coarse expression, served only as delicious sauce to heighten the appetite of Wilde. End of Book Two, Chapter Nine, read by Dennis Sayers in Modesto, California, for LibriVox. Book Two, Chapter Ten, of the late Mr. Jonathan Wilde the Great. This LibriVox recording is in the public domain, read by Dennis Sayers. The late Mr. Jonathan Wilde the Great by Henry Fielding. Book Two, Chapter Ten, see adventures very new and surprising. When they arrived at Harwich, they found a vessel, which had put in there just ready to depart for Rotterdam. So they went immediately on board, and sailed with a fair wind. But they had hardly proceeded out of sight of land, when a sudden and violent storm arose and drove them to the southwest, in so much that the captain apprehended it impossible to avoid the good-wind sands, and he and all his crew gave themselves up for lost. Mrs. Hartfrey, who had no other apprehensions from death but those of leaving her dear husband and children, fell on her knees to beseech the Almighty's favor. When Wilde, with a contempt of danger truly great, took a resolution as worthy to be admired, perhaps as any recorded of the bravest hero, ancient or modern. A resolution which plainly proved him to have these two qualifications so necessary to a hero, to be superior to all the energies of fear or pity. He saw the tyrant death ready to rescue from him his intended prey, which he had yet devoured only in imagination. He therefore swore he would prevent him, and immediately attacked the poor wretch, who was in the utmost agonies of despair, first with solicitation, and afterwards with force. Mrs. Hartfrey, the moment she understood his meaning, which in her present temper of mind, and in the opinion she held of him, she did not immediately, rejected him with all the repulses which indignation and horror could animate. But when he attempted violence, she filled the cabin with her shrieks, which were so vehement that they reached the ears of the captain, the storm at this time luckily abating. This man, who was a brute rather from his education, and the element he inhabited then from nature, ran hastily down to her assistance, and finding her struggling on the ground with our hero, he presently rescued her from her intended ravisher, who was soon obliged to quit the woman in order to engage with her lusty champion, who spared neither pangs nor blows in the assistance of his fair passenger. When the short battle was over, in which our hero had he not been overpowered with numbers, who came down on their captain's side, would have been victorious, the captain wrapped out a hearty oath and asked Wilde if he had no more Christianity in him than to ravish a woman in a storm. To which the other, greatly and sullenly, answered, it was very well, but de-blank-blank him if he had not satisfaction the moment they came on shore. The captain, with great scorn, replied, kiss, blank-blank, etc., and then, forcing Wilde out of the cabin, he, at Mrs. Hartfrey's request, locked her into it and returned to the care of his ship. The storm was now entirely ceased, and nothing remained but the usual ruffling of the sea after it, when one of the sailors spied a sail at a distance, which the captain, wisely apprehended, might be a privateer, for we were then engaged in a war with France, and immediately ordered all the sail possible to be crowded, but his caution was in vain, for the little wind which then blew was directly adverse, so that the ship bore down upon them, and soon appeared to be, what the captain had feared, a French privateer. He was in no condition of resistance, and immediately struck on her firing the first gun. The captain of the Frenchman, with several of his hands, came on board the English vessel, which they rifled of everything valuable, and amongst the rest of poor Mrs. Hartfrey's whole cargo, and then, taking the crew, together with the two passengers, aboard his own ship, he determined, as the other would be only a burden to him, to sink her, she being very old and leaky, and not worth going back with to Dunkirk. He preserved, therefore, nothing but the boat, as his own was none of the best, and then, pouring a broadside into her, he sent her to the bottom. The French captain, who was a very young fellow, and a man of gallantry, was presently enamored, to no small degree, with his beautiful captive, and, imagining wild, from some words he dropped, to be her husband, notwithstanding the ill affection towards him, which appeared in her looks, he asked her if she understood French. She answered in the affirmative, for indeed she did perfectly well. He then asked her how long she and that gentleman, pointing to wild, had been married. She answered, with a deep sigh, and many tears, that she was married indeed, but not to that villain, who was the sole cause of all her misfortunes. That abolition raised a curiosity in the captain, and he importuned her in so pressing, but gentle a manner, to acquaint him with the injuries she complained of, that she was at last prevailed on to recount to him the whole history of her afflictions. This so moved the captain, who had too little notions of greatness, and so incensed him against our hero, that he resolved to punish him, and without regard to the laws of war, he immediately ordered out his shattered boat, and making wild a present of half a dozen biscuits to prolong his misery, he put him therein, and then, committing him to the mercy of the sea, proceeded on his cruise. End of Book 2, Chapter 10, read by Dennis Sayers in Modesto, California, for LibriVox. Book 2, Chapter 11 of the late Mr. Jonathan Wilde the Great. This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. Read by Dennis Sayers. The late Mr. Jonathan Wilde the Great by Henry Fielding. Book 2, Chapter 11, the Great and Wonderful Behavior of Our Hero in the Boat. It is probable that a desire of ingratiating himself with his charming captive, or rather conqueror, had no little share in promoting this extraordinary act of illegal justice. For the Frenchman had conceived the same sort of passion, or hunger, which Wilde himself had felt, and was almost as much resolved, by some means or other, to satisfy it. We will leave him, however, at present, in the pursuit of his wishes, and attend our hero in his boat, since it is in circumstances of distress that true greatness appears most wonderful. For, that a prince in the midst of his court years, all ready to compliment him with his favorite character or title, and indeed with everything else, or that a conqueror at the head of a hundred thousand men, all prepared to execute his will, how ambitious, wanton, or cruel so ever, should, in the giddiness of their pride, elevate themselves many degrees above those their tools, seems not difficult to be imagined, or indeed accounted for. But that a man in chains, in prison, nay, in the vilest dungeon, should, with persevering pride and obstinate dignity, discover that vast superiority in his own nature over the rest of mankind, who, to a vulgar eye, seem much happier than himself, nay, that he should discover heaven and providence, whose peculiar care it seems he is, at that very time at work for him. This is among the arcana of greatness, to be perfectly understood only by an adept in that science. What could be imagined more miserable than the situation of our hero at this season, floating in a little boat on the open seas, without oar, without sail, and at the mercy of the first wave to overwhelm him, nay, this was indeed the fair side of his fortune, as it was a much more eligible fate than that alternative which threatened him with almost unavoidable certainty, viz, starving with hunger, the sure consequence of a continuance of the calm. Our hero, finding himself in this condition, began to ejaculate a round of blasphemies, which the reader, without being overpious, might be offended at seeing repeated. He then accused the whole female sex, and the passion of love, as he called it, particularly that which he bore to Mrs. Hartfrey, as the unhappy occasion of his present sufferings. At length, finding himself descending too much into the language of meanness and complaint, he stopped short, and after broke forth as follows. D. blank blank in it. A man can die but once. What signifies it? Every man must die, and when it is over, it is over. I never was afraid of anything yet, nor I won't begin now. No, D. blank blank in me, won't I. What signifies fear? I shall die, whether I am afraid or know. Who's afraid, then, D. blank blank in me? At which words he looked extremely fierce, but, recollecting that no one was present to see him, he relaxed a little, the terror on his countenance, and, pausing a while, repeated the word D. blank blank in. Because I should be, D. blank blank in, at last, cries he, when I never thought a syllable of the matter. I have often laughed and made a jest about it, and yet it may be so for anything which I know to the contrary. If there should be another world, it will go hard with me, that is certain. I shall never escape for what I have done to Hartfrey. The devil must have me for that, undoubtedly. The devil. Pshaw! I am not such a fool to be frightened at him, neither. No. No, when a man's dead there's an end of him. I wish I was certainly satisfied of it, though, for there are some men of learning, as I have heard, of a different opinion. It is but a bad chance, me thinks, I stand. If there be no other world, I shall be in no worse condition than a block or a stone. But if there should, D. blank blank in me, I will think no longer about it. Let a pack of cowardly rascals be afraid of death. I dare look him in the face. But shall I stay and be starved? No. I will eat up the biscuits, the French son of a whore bestowed on me, and then leap into the sea for drink, since the unconscionable dog hath not allowed me a single dram. Having thus said, he proceeded immediately to put his purpose in execution, and as his resolution never failed him, he had no sooner dispatched the small quantity of provision which his enemy had with no vast liberality presented him, than he cast himself headlong into the sea. And of Book 2, Chapter 11, read by Dennis Sayers in Modesto, California, for LibriVox, Book 2, Chapter 12, of the late Mr. Jonathan Wilde the Great. This LibriVox recording is in the public domain, read by Dennis Sayers. The late Mr. Jonathan Wilde the Great by Henry Fielding, Book 2, Chapter 12, The Strange and yet natural escape of our hero. Our hero, having with wonderful resolution thrown himself into the sea, as we mentioned at the end of the last chapter, was miraculously within two minutes after replaced in his boat. And this without the assistance of a dolphin, or a seahorse, or any other fish or animal who are always as ready at hand when a poet or historian pleases to call for them to carry a hero through the sea, as any chairman at a coffee house door near St. James, to convey a bow over a street and preserve his white stockings. The truth is, we do not choose to have any recourse to miracles from the script observance we pay to that rule of Horace, Necdeus intercit Nisidignus vindice nodus, the meaning of which is, do not bring in a supernatural agent when you can do without him. And indeed we are much deeper read in natural than supernatural causes. We will therefore endeavor to account for this extraordinary event from the former of these, and in doing this it will be necessary to disclose some profound secrets to our reader extremely well worth his knowing, and which may serve him to account for many occurrences of the phenomenus kind which have formally appeared in this our hemisphere. Be it known, then, that the great Alma Mater nature is of all other females the most obstinate and tenacious of her purpose. So true is that observation, natorum expellis for caliset usche recurret, which I need not render in English it being to be found in a book which most fine gentlemen are forced to read. For nature, therefore, purposes to herself, she never suffers any reason, design or accident to frustrate. Now though it may seem to a shallow observer that some persons were designed by nature for no use or purpose, whatever, yet certain it is that no man is born into the world without his particular allotment, viz some to be kings, some statesmen, some ambassadors, some bishops, some generals, and so on. Of these there be two kinds, those to whom nature is so generous to give some endowment, qualifying them for the parts she intends them afterwards to act on this stage, and those whom she uses as instances of her unlimited power and for whose preferment to such and such stations Solomon himself could have invented no other reason than that nature designed them so. These latter some great philosophers have to show them to be the favorites of nature distinguished by the honorable appellation of naturals. Indeed, the true reason of the general ignorance of mankind on this head seems to be this, that as nature chooses to execute these her purposes by certain second causes, and as many of the second causes seem so totally foreign to her design, the wit of man, which like his eye sees best directly forward and very little and imperfectly what is oblique, is not able to discern the end by the means. Thus, how a handsome wife or daughter should contribute to execute her original designation of a general, or how flattery or half a dozen houses in a burrow town should denote a judge or a bishop, he is not capable of comprehending. And indeed we ourselves, wise as we are, are forced to reason ab effect to. And if we had been asked what nature had intended such men for, before she herself had by the event demonstrated her purpose, it is possible we might sometimes have been puzzled to declare. For it must be confessed that at first sight and to a mind uninspired, a man of vast natural capacity and much acquired knowledge may seem by nature designed for power and honor, rather than one remarkable only for the want of these, and indeed all other qualifications. Whereas daily experience convinces us of the contrary, and drives us, as it were, into the opinion I have here disclosed. Now nature having originally intended our great man for that final exultation, which as it is the most proper and becoming end of all great men, it were hardly to be wished they might all arrive at, would by no means be diverted from her purpose. She therefore no sooner spied him in the water than she softly whispered in his ear to attempt the recovery of his boat, which call he immediately obeyed, and being a good swimmer, and it being a perfect calm, with great facility accomplished it. Thus we think this passage in our history, at first so greatly surprising, is very naturally accounted for, and our relation rescued from the prodigious, which, though it often occurs in biography, is not to be encouraged nor much commended on any occasion, unless when absolutely necessary to prevent the histories being at an end. Secondly we hope our hero is justified from that imputation of want of resolution which must have been fatal to the greatness of his character. End of Book 2, Chapter 12, read by Dennis Sayers in Modesto, California, for Librebox. Book 2, Chapter 13 of the late Mr. Jonathan Wilde the Great. This Librebox recording is in the public domain, read by Dennis Sayers. The late Mr. Jonathan Wilde the Great by Henry Fielding. Book 2, Chapter 13, the conclusion of the boat adventure and the end of the second book. Our hero passed the remainder of the evening, the night, and the next day, in a condition not much to be envied by any passion of the human mind, unless by ambition, which provided it can only entertain itself with the most distant music of fame's trumpet, can disdain all the pleasures of the sensualist and those more solemn, though quieter comforts, which a good conscience suggests to a Christian philosopher. He spent his time in contemplation, that is to say, in blaspheming, cursing, and sometimes singing and whistling. At last, when cold and hunger had almost subdued his native fierceness, it being a good deal past midnight and extremely dark, he thought he beheld a light at a distance which the cloudiness of the sky prevented his mistaking for a star. His light, however, did not seem to approach him, at least it approached by such imperceptible degrees that it gave him very little comfort, and at length totally forsook him. He then renewed his contemplation as before, in which he continued till the day began to break, when, to his inexpressible delight, he beheld a sail at a very little distance, and which luckily seemed to be making towards him. He was likewise soon aspired by those in the vessel who wanted no signals to inform them of his distress, and as it was almost a calm, and their course lay within five hundred yards of him, they hoisted out their boat, and fetched him aboard. The captain of this ship was a Frenchman. She was laden with deal from Norway, and had been extremely shattered in the late storm. This captain was of that kind of men who were actuated by general humanity, and whose compassion can be raised by the distress of a fellow creature, though, of a nation whose king hath quarreled with the monarch of their own. He therefore, commiserating the circumstances of Wilde, who had dressed up a story proper to impose upon such a silly fellow, told him that, as himself well knew, he must be a prisoner on his arrival in France, but that he would endeavor to procure his redemption, for which our hero greatly thanked him. But as they were making very slow sail, for they had lost their main mast in the storm, Wilde saw a little vessel at a distance they being within a few leagues of the English shore, which, on enquiry, he was informed, was probably an English fishing boat, and had been then perfectly calm, he proposed that, if they would accommodate him with a pair of scholars, he would get within reach of the boat, at least near enough to make signals to her, and he preferred any risk to the certain fate of being a prisoner. Thus his courage was somewhat restored by the provisions, especially Brandy, with which the Frenchman had supplied him, he was so earnest in his entreaties that the captain, after many persuasions, at length complied, and he was furnished with scholars, and with some bread, pork, and a bottle of Brandy. Then, taking leave of his preservers, he again betook himself to his boat, and rode so heartily that he soon came within the sight of the fisherman, who immediately made towards him, and took him aboard. No sooner was Wilde got safe on board the fisherman than he begged him to make the utmost speed and to deal, for that the vessel which was still in sight was a distressed Frenchman bound for Harvard to grace, and might easily be made a prize if there was any ship ready to go in pursuit of her. So nobly and greatly did our hero neglect all obligations conferred on him by the enemies of his country, that he would have contributed all he could to the taking his benefactor, to whom he owed both his life and his liberty. The fisherman took his advice, and soon arrived at deal, where the reader will, I doubt not, be as much concerned as Wilde was, that there was not a single ship prepared to go on the expedition. Our hero now saw himself once more safe on terra firma, but, unluckily, at some distance from that city where men of ingenuity can most easily supply their wants, without the assistance of money, or, rather, can most easily procure money for the supply of their wants. However, as his talents were superior to every difficulty, he framed so dexterous an account of his being a merchant, having been taken and plundered by the enemy, and of his great effects in London that he was not only heartily regaled by the fisherman at his house, but made so handsome a booty by way of borrowing, a method of taking which we have before mentioned to have his approbation, that he was enabled to provide himself with a place in the stagecoach, which, as God permitted it to perform the journey, brought him at the appointed time to an end in the metropolis. And now, reader, as thou canst be in no suspense for the fate of our great man, since we have returned him safe to the principal scene of his glory, we will a little look back on the fortunes of Mr. Hartfrey, whom we left in no very pleasant situation, but of this we shall treat in the next book. And of book two, chapter thirteen, read by Dennis Sayers in Modesto, California, for LibriVox. Three chapter one of the late Mr. Jonathan Wilde, The Great. This LibriVox recording is in the public domain, read by Dennis Sayers. The late Mr. Jonathan Wilde, The Great, by Henry Fielding. Book three, chapter one, the low and pitiful behavior of Hartfrey, and the foolish conduct of his apprentice. His misfortunes did not entirely prevent Hartfrey from closing his eyes. On the contrary, he slept several hours the first night of his confinement. However, he perhaps paid too severely dear both for his repose and for a sweet dream which accompanied it, and represented his little family in one of those tender scenes which had frequently passed in the days of his happiness and prosperity. When the provision they were making for the future fortunes of their children used to be one of the most agreeable topics of discourse with which he and his wife entertained themselves. The pleasantness of this vision therefore served only on his waking to set forth his present misery with additional horror, and to heighten the dreadful ideas which now crowded on his mind. He had spent a considerable time after his first rising from the bed on which he had without undressing thrown himself, and now began to wonder at Mrs. Hartfrey's long absence. But as the mind is desirous, and perhaps wisely too, to comfort itself with drawing the most flattering conclusions from all events, so he hoped the longer her stay was, the more certain was his deliverance. At length his impatience prevailed, and he was just going to dispatch a messenger to his own house, when his apprentice came to pay him a visit, and, on his inquiry, informed him that his wife had departed in company with Mr. Wilde many hours before, and had carried all his most valuable effects with her, adding, at the same time, that she had herself positively acquainted him, she had her husband's express orders for so doing, and that she was gone to Holland. It is the observation of many wise men, who have studied the anatomy of the soul with more attention than our young physicians generally bestow on that of the body, that great and violent surprise hath a different effect from that which is wrought in a good housewife by perceiving any disorders in her kitchen, who, on such occasions, commonly spreads the disorder not only over her whole family, but over the whole neighborhood. Now these calamities, especially when sudden, tend to stifle and deaden all the faculties instead of rousing them, and, accordingly, Herodotus tells us of a story of Cressus, King of Lydia, who, on beholding his servants and courtiers, led captive, wept bitterly, but when he saw his wife and children in that condition, stood stupid and motionless. So stood poor Hartfree on this relation of his apprentice, nothing moving but his color, which entirely forsook his countenance. The apprentice, who had not in the least doubted the veracity of his mistress, perceiving the surprise which too visibly appeared in his master, became speechless likewise, and both remained silent some minutes, gazing with astonishment and horror at each other. At last Hartfree cried out in an agony, My wife deserted me and my misfortunes. Heaven forbid, sir, answered the other, And what has become of my poor children? replied Hartfree. They are at home, sir, said the apprentice. Then be praised, she hath forsaken them too, cries Hartfree, fetch them hither this instant. Go, my dear Jack, bring hither my little all which remains now. Fly, child, if thou dost not intend likewise to forsake me in my afflictions. The youth answered he would die sooner than entertain such a thought, and begging his master to be comforted instantly obeyed his orders. Hartfree, the moment the young man was departed, threw himself on his bed in an agony of despair. But recollecting himself after he had vented the first sallies of his passion, he began to question the infidelity of his wife as a matter impossible. He ran over in his thoughts the uninterrupted tenderness which she had always shown him, and for a minute blamed the rashness of his belief against her, till the many circumstances of her having left him so long, and neither writ nor sent to him since her departure with all his effects, and with wild, of whom he was not before, without suspicion, and lastly, and chiefly, her false pretense to his commands entirely turned the scale and convinced him of her disloyalty. While he was in these agitations of mind, the good apprentice who had used the utmost expedition brought his children to him. He embraced them with the most passionate fondness, and imprinted numberless kisses on their little lips. The little girl flew to him with almost as much eagerness as he himself expressed at her sight, and cried out, Oh, Papa, why did you not come home to poor Mama all this while? I thought you would not have left your little Nancy so long. After which he asked her for her mother, and was told she had kissed them both in the morning, and cried very much for his absence. All which brought a flood of tears into the eyes of this weak, silly man who had not greatness sufficient to conquer these low efforts of tenderness and humanity. He then proceeded to inquire of the maid-servant who acquainted him that she knew no more than that her mistress had taken leave of her children in the morning with many tears and kisses, and had recommended them in the most earnest manner to her care. She said she had promised faithfully to take care of them, and would, while they were entrusted to her, fulfill her promise, for which profession heart-free expressed much gratitude to her. And after indulging himself with some little fondnesses, which shall not relate, he delivered his children into the good woman's hands, and dismissed her. And of book three, chapter one, read by Dennis Sayers in Modesto, California, for LibriBox. Book three, chapter two of the late Mr. Jonathan Wilde, The Great. This LibriBox recording is in the public domain, read by Dennis Sayers. The late Mr. Jonathan Wilde, The Great by Henry Fielding. Book three, chapter two, a soliloquy of heart-free, full of low and base ideas, without a syllable of greatness. Being now alone, he sat some short time silent, and then burst forth into the following soliloquy. What shall I do? Shall I abandon myself to a dispirited despair, or fly in the face of the Almighty? Surely both are unworthy of a wise man, for what can be more vain than weakly to lament my fortune, if irretrievable, or if hope remains to offend that being who can most strongly support it? But are my passions then voluntary? Am I so absolutely their master that I can resolve with myself? So far only will I grieve. Certainly no. Then, however we flatter ourselves, hath not such despotic empire in our minds that it can, with imperial voice, hush all our sorrow in a moment. Where then is its use? For either it is an empty sound, and we are deceived in thinking we have reason, or it is given us to some end, and hath a part assigned it by the all wise creator. Why what can its office be other than justly to weigh the worth of all things, and to direct us to that perfection of human wisdom, which proportions our esteem of every object by its real merit, and prevents us from over or undervaluing whatever we hope for, we enjoy or we lose. It doth not foolishly say to us, be not glad, or be not sorry, which would be as vain and idle as to bid the pearling river cease to run, or the raging wind to blow. It prevents us only from exalting, like children, when we receive a toy, or lamenting when we are deprived of it. Suppose then I have lost the enjoyments of this world, and my expectation of future pleasure and profit is for ever disappointed. What relief can my reason afford? But unless it can show me I had fixed my affections on a toy, that what I desired was not by a wise man eagerly to be affected, nor its loss violently deplored, for there are toys adapted to all ages from the rattle to the throne, and perhaps the value of all is equal to their several possessors. For if the rattle pleases the ear of the infant, what can the flattery of sincophants give more to the prince? The latter is as far from examining into the reality and source of his pleasure as the former, for if they both did, they must both equally despise it. And surely, if we consider them seriously, and compare them together, we shall be forced to conclude all those pumps and pleasures of which men are so fond, and which through so much danger and difficulty with such violence and villainy they pursue, to be as worthless trifles as any exposed to sale in a toy shop. I have often noted my little girl viewing with eager eyes a jointed baby. I have remarked the pains and solicitations she hath used till I have been prevailed on to indulge her with it, at her first obtaining it what joy hath sparkled in her countenance, with what raptures hath she taken possession, but how little satisfaction hath she found in it, what pains to work out her amusement from it. This dress must be varied. The tensile ornaments which first caught her eyes produce no longer pleasure. She endeavors to make it stand and walk in vain, and is constrained herself to supply it with conversation. In a day's time it is thrown by and neglected, and some less costly toy preferred to it. How like the situation of this child is that of every man what difficulties in the pursuit of his desires, what innanity in the possession of most, and satiety in those which seem more real and substantial. The delights of most men are as childish and as superficial as that of my little girl. A feather or a fiddle are their pursuits and their pleasures through life, even to their ripest years, if such men may be said to attain any rightness at all. But let us survey those whose understandings are of a more elevated and refined temper. How empty do they soon find the world of enjoyments worth their desire or attaining. How soon do they retreat to solitude and contemplation, to gardening and planting, and such rural amusements, where their trees and they enjoy the air and the sun in common, and both vegetate with very little difference between them. But suppose, which neither truth nor wisdom will allow, we could admit something more valuable and substantial in these blessings, would not the uncertainty of their possession be alone sufficient to lower their price. How mean a tenure is that at the will of fortune, which chance, fraud, and rapping are every day so likely to deprive us of, and often the more likely by how much the greater worth our possessions are of. Is it not to place our affections on a bubble in the water, or on a picture in the clouds? What madman would build a fine house or frame a beautiful garden on land in which he held so uncertain an interest. But again, was all this less undeniable? Made fortune, the lady of our manner, least to us for our lives, of how little consideration must even this term appear. For admitting that these pleasures were not liable to be torn from us, how certainly must we be torn from them. Perhaps tomorrow, nay or even sooner, for as the excellent poet says, where is tomorrow in the other world? Two thousands this is true, and the reverse is to none. But if I have no further hope in this world, can I have none beyond it? Surely those laborious writers, who have taken such infinite pains to destroy or weaken all the proofs of futurity, have not so far succeeded as to exclude us from hope. That active principle in man, which with such boldness, pushes us on through every laborer and difficulty, to attain the most distant and most improbable event in this world, will not surely deny us a little flattering prospect of those beautiful mansions which, if they could be thought chimerical, must be allowed the loveliest which can entertain the eye of man. And to which the road, if we understand it rightly, appears to have so few thorns and briars in it, and to require so little labor and fatigue from those who shall pass through it, that its ways are truly said to be the ways of pleasantness, and all its paths to be those of peace. If the proofs of Christianity be as strong as I imagine them, surely enough may be deduced from that ground only to comfort and support the most miserable man in his affliction. And this, I think, my reason tells me that if the professors and propagators of infidelity are in the right, the losses which death brings to the virtuous are not worth their lamenting. But if these are, as certainly they seem, in the wrong, the blessings it procures them are not sufficiently to be coveted and rejoiced at. On my own account, then, I have no cause for sorrow, but on my children's, why the same being to whose goodness and power I entrust my own happiness is likewise as able and as willing to procure theirs, nor matters it what state of life is allotted for them, whether it be their fate to procure bread with their labor, or to eat it at the sweat of others. If we consider the case with proper attention, or resolve it with due sincerity, the former is much the sweeter. The hind may be more happy than the lord, for his desires are fewer, and those such as are attended with more hope and less fear. I will do my utmost to lay the foundations of my children's happiness. I will carefully avoid educating them in a station superior to their fortune, and for the event trust to that being in whom whoever rightly confides must be superior to all worldly sorrowless. In this low manner did this poor wretch proceed to argue, till he had worked himself up into an enthusiasm which by degrees soon became invulnerable to every human attack. So that when Mr. Snap acquainted him with the return of the writ, and that he must carry him to Newgate, he received the message as Socrates did the news of the ship's arrival, and that he was to prepare for death. End of Book 3, Chapter 2, read by Dennis Sayers in Modesto, California, for LibriVox. Book 3, Chapter 3 of the late Mr. Jonathan Wilde, The Great. This LibriVox recording is in the public domain, read by Dennis Sayers. The late Mr. Jonathan Wilde, The Great, by Henry Fielding. Book 3, Chapter 3, wherein our hero proceeds in the road to greatness. But we must not detain our reader too long with these low characters. He is doubtless as impatient as the audience at the theatre till the principal figure returns on the stage. We will therefore indulge his inclination and pursue the actions of the Great Wilde. There happened to be in the stagecoach, which Mr. Wilde traveled from Dover, a certain young gentleman who had sold an estate in Kent, and was going to London to receive the money. There was likewise a handsome young woman who had left her parents at Canterbury and was proceeding to the same city in order, as she informed her fellow travelers, to make her fortune. With this girl, the young spark was so much enamoured that he publicly acquainted her with the purpose of his journey and offered her a considerable sum in hand and a settlement if she would consent to return with him into the country, where she would be at a safe distance from her relations. Whether she accepted this proposal or no, we are not able with any tolerable certainty to deliver. But Wilde, the moment he heard of his money, began to cast about in his mind by what means he might become master of it. He entered into a long harangue about the methods of carrying money safely on the road, and said he had at that time two bank bills of a hundred pounds each sowed in his coat, which, added he, is so safe a way that it is almost impossible I should be in any danger of being robbed by the most cunning high-women. The young gentleman, who was no descendant of Solomon, or if he was, did not any more than some other descendants of wise men inherit the wisdom of his ancestor, greatly approved Wilde's ingenuity, and thanking him for his information declared he would follow his example when he returned into the country, by which means he proposed to save the premium commonly taken for the remittance. Wilde had then no more to do but to inform himself, rightly, of the time of the gentleman's journey, which he did with great certainty before they separated. At his arrival in town he fixed on two whom he regarded as the most resolute of his gang for this enterprise, and, accordingly having summoned the principal, or most desperate as he imagined him, of these two, for he never chose to communicate in the presence of more than one, he proposed to him the robbing and murdering this gentleman. Mr. Maribone, for that was the gentleman's name to whom he applied, readily agreed to the robbery, but he hesitated at the murder. He said as to robbery he had on much wane and considering the matter very well reconciled his conscience to it, for though that noble kind of robbery, which was executed on the highway, was, from the cowardice of mankind, less frequent, yet the baser and meaner species, sometimes called cheating, but more commonly known by the name of robbery within the law, was in a manner universal. He did not therefore pretend to the reputation of being so much honester than other people, but could by no means satisfy himself in the commission of murder, which was a sin of the most heinous nature, and so immediately prosecuted by God's judgment that it never passed undiscovered or unpunished. Wild with the utmost disdain in his countenance answered as follows, art thou he whom I have selected out of my whole gang for this glorious undertaking, and thus thou can't of God's revenge against murder? You have, it seems, reconciled your conscience, a pretty word, to robbery, from its being so common. Is it then the novelty of murder which deters you? Do you imagine that guns and pistols and swords and knives are the only instruments of death? Look into the world and see the numbers whom broken fortunes and broken hearts bring untimely to the grave. To omit those glorious heroes who, to their immortal honor, have massacred nations, what think you of private persecution, treachery and slander by which the very souls of men are in a manner torn from their bodies? Is it not more generous, nay, more good-natured, to send a man to his rest than, after having plundered him of all he hath, or from malice or malevolence deprived him of his character, to punish him with a languishing death, or, what is worse, a languishing life? Murder, therefore, is not so uncommon as you weakly conceive it, though, as you said of robbery, that more noble kind which lies within the paw of the law may be so. But this is the most innocent in him who doth it, and the most eligible to him who is to suffer it. Forgive me, lad, the tongue of a viper is less hurtful than that of a slanderer, and the gilded scales of a rattlesnake less dreadful than the purse of the oppressor. Let me, therefore, hear no more of your scruples. But consent to my proposal without further hesitation, unless, like a woman you are afraid of blooding your clothes, or, like a fool, are terrified with the apprehension of being hanged in chains. Take my word for it, you had better be an honest man than half a rogue. Do not think of continuing in my gang without abandoning yourself absolutely to my pleasure, for no man shall ever receive a favor at my hands who sticks at anything, or is guided by any other law than that of my will. Wilde then ended his speech, which had not the desired effect on Mary-Bone. He agreed to the robbery, but would not undertake the murder, as Wilde, who feared that, by Mary-Bone's demanding to search the gentleman's coat, he might hazard suspicion himself, insisted. Mary-Bone was immediately entered by Wilde in his black book, and was presently after impeached and executed as a fellow on whom his leader could not place sufficient dependence, thus falling, as many robes do, a sacrifice, not to his roguery, but to his conscience. End of book 3, chapter 3, read by Dennis Sayers in Modesto, California, for LibriVox. Book 3, chapter 4 of the late Mr. Jonathan Wilde the Great. This LibriVox recording is in the public domain, read by Dennis Sayers. The late Mr. Jonathan Wilde the Great by Henry Fielding. Book 3, chapter 4, in which a young hero of wonderful good promise makes his first appearance with many other great matters. Our hero next applied himself to another of his gang, who instantly received his orders, and instead of hesitating at a single murder, asked if he should blow out the brains of all the passengers, coachmen, and all. But Wilde, whose moderation we have before noted, would not permit him, and therefore, having given him an exact description of the devoted person with his other necessary instructions, he dismissed him with the strictest orders to avoid, if possible, doing hurt to any other person. The name of this youth, who we'll hereafter make some figure in this history, being the achates of our Aeneas, or rather the Hephaestian of our Alexander, was Fireblood. He had every qualification to make second-rate great man, or in other words, he was completely equipped for the tool of a real or first-rate great man. We shall therefore, which is the properest way of dealing with this kind of greatness, describe him negatively, and content ourselves with telling our reader what qualities he had not, in which number were humanity, modesty, and fear, not one grain of any of which was mingled in his whole composition. We will now leave this youth, who was esteemed the most promising of the whole gang, and whom Wilde often declared to be one of the prettiest lads he had ever seen, of which opinion, indeed, were most other people of his acquaintance. We will, however, leave him at his entrance on this enterprise, and keep our attention fixed on our hero whom we shall observe, taking large strides towards the summit of human glory. Wilde immediately at his return to town went to pay a visit to Miss Leticia Snap, for he had that weakness of suffering himself to be enslaved by women, so naturally incident to men of heroic disposition. To say the truth, it might more properly be called a slavery to his own appetite, for could he have satisfied that he had not cared three farthings what had become of the little tyrant for whom he professed so violent a regard. Here he was informed that Mr. Hartfrey had been conveyed to Newgate the day before, the writ being then returnable. He was somewhat concerned at this news, not from any compassion for the misfortunes of Hartfrey, whom he hated with such inveteracy that one would have imagined he had suffered the same injuries from him which he had done towards him. His concern, therefore, had another motive. In fact he was uneasy at the place of Mr. Hartfrey's confinement, as it was to be the scene of his future glory, and where consequently he should be frequently obliged to see a face which hatred and not shame made him detest the sight of. To prevent this, therefore, several methods suggested themselves to him. At first he thought of removing him out of the way by the ordinary method of murder, which he doubted not, but fireblood would be very ready to execute. For that youth had, at their last interview, sworn D. blank blank N. his eyes, he thought there was no better pastime than blowing a man's brains out. But besides the danger of this method it did not look horrible nor barbarous enough for the last mischief which he should do to Hartfrey. Considering, therefore, a little farther with himself, he at length came to a resolution to hang him, if possible, the very next session. Now, though the observation how apt men are to hate those they injure, or how unforgiving they are of the injuries they do themselves, be common enough, yet I do not remember to have ever seen the reason of this strange phenomenon, as at first it appears. Know therefore, reader, that with much and severe scrutiny we have discovered this hatred to be founded on the passion of fear, and to arise from an apprehension that the person whom we have ourselves greatly injured will use all possible endeavors to revenge and retaliate the injuries we have done him. An opinion so firmly established in bad and great minds, and those who confer injuries on others have seldom very good or mean ones, that no benevolence nor even beneficence on the injured side can eradicate it. On the contrary, they refer all these acts of kindness to imposture and design of lulling their suspicion, till an opportunity offers of striking a sureer and severer blow, and thus while the good man who hath received it hath truly forgotten the injury, the evil mind which did it hath it in lively and fresh remembrance. As we scorn to keep any discoveries secret from our readers, whose instruction as well as diversion we have greatly considered in this history, we have here digressed somewhat to communicate the following short lesson to those who are simple and well inclined. Though as a Christian thou art obliged, and we advise thee to forgive thy enemy, never trust the man who hath reason to suspect that you know he hath injured you. End of Book 3, Chapter 4, read by Dennis Sayers in Modesto, California for LibriVox. Book 3, Chapter 5, of the late Mr. Jonathan Wilde the Great. This LibriVox recording is in the public domain, read by Dennis Sayers. The late Mr. Jonathan Wilde the Great by Henry Fielding. Book 3, Chapter 5, more and more greatness, unparalleled in history or romance. In order to accomplish this great and noble scheme, which the vast genius of Wilde had contrived, the first necessary step was to regain the confidence of heart-free. But however necessary this was, it seemed to be attended with such insurmountable difficulties that even our hero for some time despaired of success. He was greatly superior to all mankind in the steadiness of his countenance, but this undertaking seemed to require more of that noble quality than had ever been the portion of a mortal. However, at last he resolved to attempt it. And from his success I think we may fairly assert that what was said by the Latin poet of labor that it conquers all things is much more true when applied to impudence. When he had formed his plan, he went to Newgate and burst resolutely into the presence of heart-free, whom he eagerly embraced and kissed. And then, first arraigning his own rashness, and afterwards lamenting his unfortunate want of success, he acquainted him with the particulars of what had happened, concealing only that single incident of his attack on the other's wife, and his motive to the undertaking, which he assured heart-free, was a desire to preserve his effects from a statute of bankruptcy. The frank openness of this declaration, with the composure of confidence with which it was delivered, his seeming only ruffled by the concern for his friend's misfortune, the probability, truth, attending it, joined to the boldness and disinterested appearance of this visit, together with his many professions of immediate service at a time when he could not have the least visible motive from self-love, and above all, his offering him money, the last and surest token of friendship, rushed with such united force on the well-disposed heart, as it is vulgarly called, of this simple man that they instantly staggered and soon subverted all the determination he had made before in prejudice of wild, who, perceiving the balance to be turning in his favor, presently threw in a hundred implications on his own folly and ill-advised forwardness to serve his friend, which had thus unhappily produced his ruin. He added as many curses on the count whom he vowed to pursue with revenge all over Europe. Lastly, he cast in some grains of comfort, assuring heart-free that his wife had fallen into the greatest hands, that she would be carried no farther than Dunkirk whence she might very easily be redeemed. Heart-free, to whom the lightest presumption of his wife's fidelity would have been more delicious than the absolute restoration of all his jewels, and who, indeed, had with the utmost difficulty been brought to entertain the slightest suspicion of her inconstancy, immediately abandoned all distrust of both her and his friend, whose sincerity, luckily for Wild's purpose, seemed to him to depend on the same evidence. He then embraced our hero, who had in his countenance all the symptoms of the deepest concern, and begged him to be comforted, saying that the intentions, rather than the actions of men, conferred obligations, that as to the event of human affairs it was governed either by chance or some superior agent, that friendship was concerned only in the direction of our designs. And suppose these failed of success, or produced an event never so contrary to their aim, the merit of a good intention was not in the least lessened, but was rather entitled to compassion. Heart-free, however, was soon curious enough to inquire how Wild had escaped the captivity which his wife then suffered. Here, likewise, he recounted the whole truth, omitting only the motive to the French captain's cruelty for which he assigned a very different reason, namely his attempt to secure heart-free's jewels. Wild, indeed, always kept as much truth as was possible in everything, and this, he said, was turning the canon of the enemy upon themselves. Wild, having thus with admirable and truly laudable conduct achieved his first step, began to discourse on the badness of the world, and particularly to blame the severity of creditors, who seldom or never attended to any unfortunate circumstances, but without mercy inflicted confinement on the debtor, whose body the law, with very unjustifiable rigor, delivered into their power. He added that, for his part, he looked on this restraint to be as heavy a punishment as any appointed by law for the greatest offenders. That the loss of liberty was, in his opinion, equal to, if not worse, than the loss of life. That he had always determined, if by any accident or misfortune he had been subjected to the former, he would run the greatest risk of the latter to rescue himself from it. Which he said, if men did not want resolution, was always enough. But that it was ridiculous to conceive that two or three men could confine two or three hundred, unless the prisoners were either fools or cowards, especially when they were neither chained nor fettered. He went on in this manner till, perceiving the utmost attention and heart-free, he ventured to propose to him an endeavor to make his escape, which he said might easily be executed, that he would himself raise a party in the prison, and that, if a murder or two should happen in the attempt, he, heart-free, might keep free from any share, either in the guilt or in the danger. There is one misfortune which attends all great men and their schemes, viz, that in order to carry them into execution, they are obliged in proposing their purpose to their tools to discover themselves to be of that disposition in which certain little writers have advised mankind to take no confidence, an advice which hath been sometimes taken. Indeed, many inconveniences arise to the said great men from these scribblers publishing without restraint their hints or alarms to society, and many great and glorious schemes have been thus frustrated. Wherefore, it were to be wished that in all well-regulated governments such liberties should be by some wholesome laws restrained, and all writers inhibited from venting any other instructions to the people than what should be first approved and licensed by the said great men, or their proper instruments or tools, by which means nothing would ever be published but what made for the advancing their most noble projects. Whose suspicions were again raised by this advice, viewing wild with inconceivable disdain, spoke as follows. There is one thing, the loss of which I should deplore infinitely beyond that of liberty and of life also. I mean that of a good conscience, a blessing which he who possesses can never be thoroughly unhappy, for the bitterest potion of life is by this so sweetened, that it soon becomes palatable. Whereas without it, the most delicate enjoyments quickly lose all their relish, and life itself grows insipid, or rather nauseous to us. Would you then lessen my misfortunes by robbing me of what hath been my only comfort under them, and on which I place my dependence of being relieved from them? I have read that Socrates refused to save his life by breaking the laws of his country and departing from his prison when it was open. Perhaps my virtue would not go so far, but heaven forbid liberty should have such charms to tempt me to the perpetration of so horrid a crime as murder. As to the poor evasion of committing it by other hands, it might be useful indeed to those who seek only the escape from temporal punishment, but can be of no service to excuse me to that being whom I chiefly fear offending. Nay, it would greatly aggravate my guilt by so impudent an endeavor to impose upon him, and by so wickedly involving others in my crime. Give me therefore no more advice of this kind, for this is my great comfort in all my afflictions, that it is in the power of no enemy to rob me of my conscience, nor will I ever be so much my own enemy as to injure it. Though our hero heard all this with proper contempt, he made no direct answer, but endeavored to evade his proposal as much as possible, which he did with admirable dexterity. This method of getting towerably well off when you are repulsed in your attack of a man's conscience may be styled the art of retreating in which the politician as well as the general hath sometimes a wonderful opportunity of displaying his great abilities in his profession. While having made this admirable retreat and argued away, all design of involving his friend in the guilt of murder concluded, however, that he thought him rather too scrupulous in not attempting his escape, and then, promising to use all such means as the other would permit in his service, took his leave for the present. Heartfree, having indulged himself an hour with his children, repaired to rest, which he enjoyed quiet and undisturbed. Whilst wild, disdaining repose sapped up all night, consulting how he might bring about the final destruction of his friend, without being beholden to any assistance from himself, which he now despaired of procuring. With the result of these consultations, we shall acquaint our reader in good time, but at present we have matters of much more consequence to relate to him. And of Book 3 Chapter 5, read by Dennis Sayers, in Modesto, California, for LibriVox. Book 3 Chapter 6 of The Late Mr. Jonathan Wilde, The Great. This LibriVox recording is in the public domain, read by Dennis Sayers. The Late Mr. Jonathan Wilde, The Great. By Henry Fielding Book 3 Chapter 6 The Event of Fireblood's Adventure, and A Threat of Marriage, which might have been concluded either at Smithfield or St. James. Fireblood returned from his enterprise unsuccessful. The gentleman happened to go home another way, then he had intended, so that the whole design miscarried. Fireblood had indeed robbed the coach, and had wantonly discharged a pistol into it, which likely wounded one of the passengers in the arm. The booty he met with was not very considerable, though much greater than that with which he acquainted Wilde. For of eleven pounds in money, two silver watches, and a wedding ring, he produced no more than two gennies and the ring, which he protested with numberless oaths, was his whole booty. However, when an advertisement of the robbery was published, with the reward promised for the ring and the watches, Fireblood was obliged to confess the whole, and to acquaint our hero where he pawned the watches, which Wilde, taking the full value of them for his pains, restored to the right owner. He did not fail catchizing his young friend on this occasion. He said he was sorry to see any of his gang guilty of a breach of honor. That without honor, prickery was at an end, that if a prick had but honor, he would overlook every vice in the world. But nevertheless, said he, I will forgive you this time, as you are a hopeful lad, and I hope never afterwards to find you delinquent in this great point. Wilde had now brought his gang to great regularity. He was obeyed and feared by them all. He had likewise established an office where all men who were robbed, paying the value only, a little more, of their goods, might have them again. This was of notable use to several persons who had lost pieces of plate they had received from their grandmothers, to others who had a particular value for certain rings, watches, heads of canes, snuff boxes, etc., for which they would not have taken twenty times as much as they were worth, either because they had them a little while, or a long time, or that somebody else had had them before, or from some other such excellent reason, which often stamps a greater value on a toy than the great bubble boy himself would have the impudence to set upon it. By these means, he seemed in so promising a way of procuring a fortune, and was regarded in so thriving a light by all the gentlemen of his acquaintance, as by the keeper and turn keys of Newgate by Mr. Snap, and others of his occupation, that Mr. Snap, one day, taking Mr. Wilde the elder aside, very seriously proposed what they had often lightly talked over, a strict union between their two families, by marrying his daughter Tishy to our hero. This proposal was very readily accepted by the old gentleman who promised to acquaint his son with it. On the morrow on which this message was delivered, our hero, little dreaming of the happiness which, of its own accord, was advancing so near towards him, had called fire-blood to him, and, after informing that youth of the violence of his passion for the young lady, and assuring him what confidence he reposed in him, and his honor, he dispatched him to Miss Tishy with the following letter, which we here insert, not only as we take it to be extremely curious, but to be a much better pattern for that epistolary kind of writing, which is generally called love letters, than any to be found in the Academy of Compliments, and which we challenge all the bows of our time to excel either in matter or spelling. Most divine and ad-horrible creature, I doubt not but those eye-eyes. Brighter than the sun, which have kindled such a flam in my heart, have likewise the faculty of seeing it. It would be the highest pre-assumption to imagine your ignorant of my love. No, Madam, I solemnly protest that of all the booties in the unadversal glob, there is none capable of had erecting my eye-eyes like you. Kurtz and Pollis's would be, to me, desserts without your company, and with it a wilderness would have more charms than Haven itself. For I hop you will be led me when I swear every place in the Unibars is a Haven with you. I am convinced you must be sensible of my violent passion for you, which, if I endeavored to hit it, would be as impossible as for you or the sun to hide your booties. I assure you I have not slept a wink since I had the happiness of seeing you last. Therefore hop you will out of compassion. Let me have the honor of seeing you this afternoon, for I am, with the greatest adoration, most divine creature, your most passionate admirer, ad horror, and slave, Jonathan Wilde. If the spelling of this letter be not so strictly or the graphical, the reader will be pleased to remember that such a defect might be worthy of censure in a low and scholastic character, but can be no blemish in that sublime greatness of which we endeavor to raise a complete idea in this history. In which kind of composition, spelling, or indeed any kind of human literature, hath never been thought a necessary ingredient, for if these sort of great personages can but complot and contrive their noble schemes and hack and hue mankind sufficiently, there will never be wanting fit and able persons who can spell to record their praises. Again, if it should be observed that the style of this letter doth not exactly correspond with that of our hero's speeches, which we have here recorded, we answer, it is sufficient if in these the historian adheres faithfully to the matter, though he embellishes the diction with some flourishes of his own eloquence, without which the excellent speeches recorded in ancient historians, particularly in solace, would have scarce been found in their writings. Nay, even amongst the moderns, famous as they are for elocution, it may be doubted whether those inimitable harangues published in the monthly magazines came literally from the mouth of the hergis, etc., as they are there inserted, or whether we may not rather suppose one historian of great eloquence hath borrowed the matter only, and adorned it with those rhetorical showers for which many of the said hergis are not so extremely eminent. End of Book 3, Chapter 6, read by Dennis Sayers in Modesto, California for LibriVox.