Book 3, Chapter 7, of the late Mr. Jonathan Wilde, the Great. Read by Dennis Sayers. The late Mr. Jonathan Wilde, the Great, by Henry Fielding. Book 3, Chapter 7, matters preliminary to the marriage between Mr. Jonathan Wilde and the chaste, Laetitia. But to proceed with our history, Fireblood, having received this letter, and promised, on his honor, with many voluntary severations, to discharge his embassy faithfully, went to visit the fair Laetitia. The lady, having opened the letter and read it, put on an air of disdain, and told Mr. Fireblood, she could not conceive what Mr. Wilde meant by troubling her with his impertinence. She begged him to carry the letter back again, saying, had she known from whom it came, she would have been dee-blank-blank-deed, before she had opened it. But with you, young gentleman, says she, I am not in the least angry. I am rather sorry that so pretty a young man should be employed in such an errand. She accompanied these words with so tender an accent, and so wanton a leer, that Fireblood, who was no backward youth, began to take her by the hand, and proceeded so warmly that, to imitate his actions with the rapidity of our narration, he, in a few minutes, ravished this fair creature, or at least would have ravished her, if she had not, by a timely compliance, prevented him. Fireblood, after he had ravished as much as he could, returned to Wilde, and acquainted him as far as any wise man would, with what had passed, concluding with many praises of the young lady's beauty, with whom, he said, if his honor would have permitted him, he should himself have fallen in love. But, de-blank-blank, in him, if he would not sooner be torn to pieces by wild horses than even think of injuring his friend. He asserted, indeed, and swore so heartily, that, had not Wilde been so thoroughly convinced of the impregnable chastity of the lady, he might have suspected his success. However, he was, by these means, entirely satisfied of his friend's inclination towards his mistress. Thus constituted were the love affairs of our hero, when his father brought him Mr. Snap's proposal. The reader must know very little of love, or indeed of anything else, if he requires any information concerning the reception which this proposal met with. Not guilty never sounded sweeter in the ears of a prisoner at the bar, nor the sound of a reprieve to one at the gallows, then did every word of the old gentleman in the ears of our hero. He gave his father full power to treat in his name, and desired nothing more than expedition. The old people now met, and Snap, who had information from his daughter of the violent passion of her lover, endeavored to improve it to the best advantage, and would not have only declined giving her any fortune himself, but have attempted to cheat her of what she owed to the liberality of her relations, particularly of a pint silver coddle cup, the gift of her grandmother. However, in this the young lady herself afterwards took care to prevent him. As to the old Mr. Wilde, he did not sufficiently attend to all the designs of Snap, as his faculties were busily employed in designs of his own. To overreach, or as others express it, to cheat, he said Mr. Snap by pretending to give his son a whole number for a chair when, in reality, he was entitled to a third only. While matters were thus settling between the old folks, the young lady agreed to admit Mr. Wilde's visits, and, by degrees, began to entertain him with all the show of affection which the great natural reserve of her temper and the greater artificial reserve of her education would permit. At length, everything being agreed between their parents, settlements made, and the lady's fortune, to wit, seventeen pounds and nine shillings in money and goods, paid down the day for their nuptials was fixed, and they were celebrated accordingly. Most private histories, as well as comedies, end at this period the historian and the poet both concluding they have done enough for their hero when they have married him, or intimating rather that the rest of his life must be a dull calm of happiness. Very delightful indeed to pass through, but somewhat insipid to relate, and matrimony in general must, I believe, without any dispute be allowed to be this state of tranquil felicity, including so little variety that, like Salisbury Plain, it affords only one prospect, a very pleasant one must be confessed, but the same. Now there was all the probability imaginable that this contract would have proved of such happy note both from the great accomplishments of the young lady who was thought to be possessed of every qualification necessary to make the marriage state happy, and from the truly ardent passion of Mr. Wilde, but whether it was that nature and fortune had great designs for him to execute, and would not suffer his vast abilities to be lost, and sunk in the arms of a wife, or whether neither nature nor fortune has any hand in the matter, is a point I will not determine. Certain it is that this match did not produce that serene state which we had mentioned above, but resembled the most turbulent and ruffled rather than the most calm sea. I cannot hear or met a conjecture ingenious enough of a friend of mine who had a long intimacy in the Wilde family. He hath often told me he fancied one reason of the dissatisfactions which afterwards fell out between Wilde and his lady arose from the number of galants to whom she had before marriage granted favors. For, says he, and indeed very probable it is, too, the lady might expect from her husband what she had before received from several, and, being angry not to find one man as good as ten, she had, from that indignation, taken those steps which we cannot perfectly justify. From this person I received the following dialogue which he assured me he had overheard and taken down verbatim. It passed on the day fortnight after they were married. End of Book 3, Chapter 7, Read by Dennis Sayers in Modesto, California, for LibriVox. The late Mr. Jonathan Wilde, The Great by Henry Fielding. Book 3, Chapter 8, A Dialogue Matrimonial, which passed between Jonathan Wilde, Esquire, and Leticia, his wife, on the morning of the day fortnight on which his nuptials were celebrated, which concluded more amicably than those debates generally do. Jonathan, my dear, I wish you would lie a little longer in bed this morning. Leticia, indeed I cannot. I am engaged to breakfast with Jack Strongbow. Jonathan, I don't know what Jack Strongbow doth so often at my house. I assure you I am uneasy at it, for though I have no suspicion of your virtue, yet it may injure your reputation in the opinion of my neighbors. Leticia, I don't trouble my head about my neighbors, and they shall no more tell me what company I am to keep than my husband shall. Jonathan, a good wife would keep no company which made her husband uneasy. Leticia, you might have found one of those good wives, sir. If you had pleased, I had no objection to it. Jonathan, I thought I had found one in you. Leticia, you did. I am very much obliged to you for thinking me so poor-spirited a creature, but I hope to convince you, to the contrary, what? I suppose you took me for a raw, senseless girl who knew nothing what other married women do. Jonathan, no matter what I took you for, I have taken you for better and worse. Leticia, and at your own desire, too, for I am sure you never had mine. I should not have broken my heart if Mr. Wilde had thought proper to bestow himself on any other more happy woman. Jonathan, I hope, madam, you don't imagine that was not in my power, or that I marry you out of any kind of necessity. Leticia, oh no, sir, I am convinced there are silly women enough, and far be it from me to accuse you of any necessity for a wife. I believe you could have been very well contented with this state of a bachelor. I have no reason to complain of your necessities, but that, you know, a woman cannot tell beforehand. Jonathan, I can't guess what you would insinuate, for I believe no woman had ever less reason to complain of her husband's want of fondness. Leticia, then some, I am certain, have great reason to complain of the price they give for them. But I know better things. These words were spoken with a very great air and toss of the head. Jonathan, well, my sweetie, I will make it impossible for you to wish me more fond. Leticia, pray, Mr. Wilde, none of this nauseous behavior, nor those odious words. I wish you were fond. I assure you, I don't know what you would pretend to insinuate of me. I have no wishes, which must become a virtuous woman. No, nor should not, if I had, married for love. And especially now, when nobody, I am sure, can suspect me of any such thing. Jonathan, if you did not marry for love, why did you marry? Leticia, because it was convenient, and my parents forced me. Jonathan, I hope, madam, at least, you will not tell me to my face. You have made your convenience of me. Leticia, I have made nothing of you, nor do I desire the honor of making anything of you. Jonathan, yes, you have made a husband of me. Leticia, no, you made yourself, so, for I repeat once more, it was not my desire, not your own. Jonathan, you should think yourself obliged to me for that desire. Leticia, la, sir, you was not so singular in it. I was not in despair. I have had other offers, and better, too. Jonathan, I wish you had accepted them, with all my heart. Leticia, I must tell you, Mr. Wilde, this is a very brutish manner in treating a woman to whom you have such obligations. But I know how to despise it, and to despise you, too, for showing it to me. Indeed, I am well enough paid for the foolish preference I gave to you. I flattered myself that I should at least have been used with good manners. I thought I had married a gentleman, but I find you every way contemptible, and below my concern.  Leticia, very fine, truly. Is it behavior worthy, a man, to swear at a woman? Yet why should I mention what comes from a wretch whom I despise? Jonathan, don't repeat that word so often. I despise you as heartily as you can me. And to tell you a truth, I married you for my convenience likewise, to satisfy a passion which I have now satisfied, and you may be d-blank-blanked for anything I care. Leticia, the world shall know how barbarously I am treated by such a villain. Jonathan, I need take very little pains to acquaint the world.  Your actions will demonstrate it. Leticia, monster, I would advise you not to depend too much on my sex, and provoke me too far, for I can do you a mischief, and will, if you dare use me so, you villain. Jonathan, begin whenever you please, madam, but assure yourself, the moment you lay aside the woman, I will treat you as such no longer. And if the first blow is yours, I promise you, the last shall be mine. Leticia, use me as you will, but d-blank-blank in me, if ever you shall use me as a woman again. Or may I be cursed, if ever I enter into your bed more? Jonathan, may I be cursed, if that abstinence be not the greatest obligation you can lay upon me, for I assure you faithfully your person was all I had ever any regard for, and that I now loathe and detest as much as ever I liked it. Leticia, it is impossible for two people to agree better, for I always detested your person, and as for any other regard you must be convinced I never could have any for you. Jonathan, why, then, since we are come to a right understanding as we are to live together, suppose we agreed, instead of quarreling and abusing, to be civil to each other? Leticia, with all my heart. Jonathan, let us shake hands then, and hence-forwards, never live like man and wife. That is, never be loving, nor ever quarrel. Leticia agreed, but pray, Mr. Wilde, why be blank-blank-ch? Why did you suffer such a word to escape you? Jonathan, it is not worth your remembrance. Leticia, you agree I shall converse with whomsoever I please? Jonathan, without control, and I have the same liberty. Leticia, when I interfere, may every curse you can wish attend me. Jonathan, let us now take a farewell kiss, and may I be hanged if it is not the sweetest you ever gave me. Leticia, but why be blank-blank-ch? Me thinks I should be glad to know why be blank-blank-ch. At which words he sprang from the bed. D. blank, blank, mean her temper heartily. She returned it again with equal abuse, which was continued on both sides, while he was dressing. However, they agreed to continue steadfast in this new resolution, and the joy arising on that occasion at length dismissed them, pretty cheerfully from each other, though Leticia could not help concluding with the words, why be blank-blank-ch? Read of Book 3, Chapter 8, read by Dennis Sayers, in Modesto, California, for LibriVox. Book 3, Chapter 9, 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 9, observations on the foregoing dialogue, together with a base design on our hero, which must be detested by every lover of greatness. Thus did this dialogue, which, though we have termed it matrimonial, had indeed very little savor of the sweets of matrimony in it. Here's at last a resolution more wise than strictly pious, and which, if they could have rigidly adhered to it, might have prevented some unpleasant moments as well to our hero as to his serene consort. But their hatred was so very great, and unaccountable, that they never could bear to see the least composure in one another's countenance without attempting to ruffle it. This set them on so many contrivances to plague and vex one another that, as their proximity afforded them such frequent opportunities of executing their malicious purposes, they sell them past one easy or quiet day together. And this, reader, and no other, is the cause of those many inquietudes which thou must have observed to disturb the repose of some married couples who mistake implacable hatred for indifference. For why should Corvinus, who lives in a round of intrigue and seldom doth, and never willingly would, dally with his wife, endeavor to prevent her from the satisfaction of an intrigue in her turn? Why doth Camilla refuse a more agreeable invitation abroad, only to expose her husband at his own table at home? In short, to mention no more instances, whence can all the quarrels and jealousies and jars proceed in people who have no love for each other, unless from that noble passion above mentioned, that desire, according to my lady Betty Modish, of curing each other of a smile. We thought proper to give our reader a short taste of the domestic state of our hero, maybe rather to show him that great men are subject to the same frailties and inconveniences in ordinary life with little men, and that heroes are really of the same species with other human creatures, notwithstanding all the pains they themselves or their flatterers take to assert the contrary, and that they differ chiefly in the immensity of their greatness, or as the vulgar erroneously call it, villainy. Now, therefore, that we may not dwell too long on low scenes in a history of the sublime kind, we shall return to actions of a higher note and more suitable to our purpose. When the boy Hyman had, with his lighted torch, driven the boy cupid out of doors, that is to say in common phrase, when the violence of Mr. Wilde's passion, or rather appetite, for the chaste Leticia began to abate, he returned to visit his friend Hartfrey, who was now in the liberties of the fleet, and appeared to the commission of bankruptcy against him. Here we met with a more cold reception than he himself had apprehended. Hartfrey had long entertained suspicions of Wilde, but these suspicions had from time to time been confounded with circumstances, and principally smothered with that amazing confidence which was indeed the most striking virtue in our hero. Hartfrey was unwilling to condemn his friend without certain evidence, and laid hold on every probable semblance to acquit him. But the proposal made at his last visit had so totally blackened his character, and this poor man's opinion, that it entirely fixed the wavering scale, and he no longer doubted but that our hero was one of the greatest villains in the world. Because of great improbability, often escaped men who devour a story with greedy ears, the reader, therefore, cannot wonder that Hartfrey, whose passions were so variously concerned, first for the fidelity, and second for the safety of his wife, and lastly, who was so distracted with doubt concerning the conduct of his friend should, at this relation, pass unobserved the incident of his being committed to the boat by the captain of the privateer, which he had at the time of his telling so lamely accounted for. But now when Hartfrey came to reflect on the whole, and with a high prepossession against Wilde, the absurdity of this fact glared in his eyes, and struck him in the most sensible manner. At length, a thought of great horror suggested itself to his imagination, and this was whether the whole was not a fiction, and Wilde, who was, as he had learned from his own mouth, faithful to any undertaking how black, so ever, had not spirited away, robbed, and murdered his wife. Entowerable as this apprehension was, he not only turned it round, and examined it carefully in his own mind, but acquainted young friendly with it at their next interview. Friendly who detested Wilde from that envy, probably with which these great characters naturally inspire low fellows, encouraged these suspicions so much that Hartfrey resolved to attach our hero and carry him before a magistrate. This resolution had been some time taken, and friendly, with a warrant and a constable, and with the utmost diligence, searched several days for our hero. But whether it was that in compliance with modern custom, he had retired to spend the honeymoon with his bride, the only moon indeed in which it is fashionable, or customary for the married parties to have any correspondence with each other, or perhaps his habitation might for particular reasons be usually kept a secret, like those of some few great men whom unfortunately the law hath left out of that reasonable as well as honorable provision which it hath made for the security of the persons of other great men. But Wilde resolved to perform works of super-arrogation in the way of honor, and though no hero is obliged to answer the challenge of my lord chief justice, or indeed of any other magistrate, but may with unblemished reputation slide away from it, yet such was the bravery, such the greatness, the magnanimity of Wilde that he appeared in person to do it. And envy may say one thing which may lessen the glory of this action, namely that the said Mr. Wilde knew nothing of the said warrant or challenge, and as thou mayst be assured, reader, that the malicious fury will admit nothing which can always sully so great a character. So she hath endeavored to account for this second visit of our hero to his friend Hartfrey from a very different motive than that of asserting his own innocence. And of Book 3, Chapter 9, read by Dennis Sayers in Modesto, California, for Librebox. Book 3, Chapter 10 of the late Mr. Jonathan Wilde, The Great. This Librebox recording is in the public domain. Read by Dennis Sayers. Delate Mr. Jonathan Wilde, The Great, by Henry Fielding. Book 3, Chapter 10, Mr. Wilde, with unprecedented generosity, visits his friend Hartfrey and the ungrateful reception he met with. It hath been said, then, that Mr. Wilde, not being able, on the strictest examination, you find in a certain spot of human nature, called his own heart, the least grain of that pitiful low quality, called honesty, had resolved, perhaps a little too generally, that there was no such thing. He therefore imputed the resolution with which Mr. Hartfrey had so positively refused to concern himself in murder, either to a fear of bloodying his hands, or the apprehension of a ghost, or lest he should make an additional example in that excellent book called God's Revenge Against Murder. And doubted not, but he would, at least in his present necessity, agree, without scruple, to a simple robbery, especially where any considerable booty should be proposed, and the safety of the attack plausibly made appear, which, if he could prevail on him to undertake, he would immediately afterwards get him impeached, convicted, and hanged. He no sooner therefore had discharged his duties to Hyman, and heard that Hartfrey had procured himself the liberties of the fleet, than he resolved to visit him, and to propose a robbery with all the allurements of profit, ease, and safety. This proposal was no sooner made than it was answered by Hartfrey in the following manner. I might have hoped. The answer which I gave to your former advice would have prevented me from the danger of receiving a second affront of this kind. An affront, I call it, and surely, if it be so to call a man a villain, it can be no less to show him you suppose him one. Indeed, it may be wondered how any man can arrive at the boldness, I may say impudence, of first making such an overture to another. Surely it has seldom done, unless to those who have previously betrayed, some symptoms of their own baseness. If I have therefore shown you any such, these insults are more pardonable. But I assure you, if such appear, they discharge all their belignance outwardly, and reflect not even a shadow within. For to me, baseness seems inconsistent with this rule of doing no other person an injury from any motive or on any consideration whatever. This, sir, is the rule by which I am determined to walk, nor can that man justify disbelieving me who will not own he walks not by it himself. But whether it be allowed to me or no, or whether I feel the good effects of its being practiced by others, I am resolved to maintain it, for surely no man can reap a benefit from my pursuing it equal to the comfort I myself enjoy. For what a ravishing thought, how replete with ecstasy, must the consideration be that almighty goodness is by its own nature, engaged to reward me? How indifferent must such a persuasion make a man to all the occurrences of this life? What trifles must he represent to himself, both the enjoyment and the afflictions of this world? How easily must he acquiesce under missing the former, and how patiently will he submit to the latter, who is convinced that his failing of a transitory imperfect reward here is a most certain argument of his obtaining one permanent and complete hereafter? Thus thou think, then, thou little, paltry, mean animal, with such language did he treat our truly great man, that I will forgo such comfortable expectations for any pitiful reward which thou canst suggest or promise to me, for that sordid looker for which all pains and labour are undertaken by the industrious and all barbarities and iniquities committed by the vile, for a worthless acquisition, which such as thou art can possess, can give or can take away? The former part of this speech occasioned much yawning in our hero, but the latter roused his anger, and he was collecting his rage to answer when friendly and the constable, who had been summoned by heartfree on Wilde's first appearance, entered the room and seized the great man, just as his wrath was bursting from his lips. The dialogue, which now ensued is not worth relating, Wilde was soon acquainted with the reason of this rough treatment, and presently conveyed before a magistrate. Notwithstanding the doubts raised by Mr. Wilde's lawyer on his examination, he insisting that the proceeding was improper for that a writ de omine replegiando should issue, and on the return of that a copious in Withernam the justice inclined to commitment, so that Wilde was driven to other methods for his defense. He therefore acquainted the justice that there was a young man likewise with him in the boat, and begged that he might be sent for, which request was accordingly granted, and the faithful Achates, Mr. Fireblood, was soon produced to bear testimony for his friend, which he did with so much becoming zeal, and went through his examination with such coherence, though he was forced to collect his evidence from the hints given him by Wilde in the presence of the justice and the accusers, that as here was direct evidence against mere presumption, our hero was most honorably acquitted, and poor heart free was charged by the justice, the audience, and all others who afterwards heard the story with the blackest in gratitude, in attempting to take away the life of a man to whom he had such imminent obligations. Lest so vast an effort of friendship as this of Fireblood's should too violently surprise the reader in this degenerate age, it may be proper to inform him that beside the ties of engagement in the same employ, another nearer and stronger alliance subsisted between our hero and this youth, which latter was just departed from the arms of the lovely Leticia, when he received her husband's message, an instance which may also serve to justify those strict intercourses of love and acquaintance which so commonly subsist in modern history between the husband and Galant, displaying the vast force of friendship contracted by this more honorable than legal alliance which is thought to be at present one of the strongest bonds of amity between great men, and the most reputable as well as easy way to their favor. Four months had now passed since Hartfrey's first confinement, and his affairs had begun to wear a more benign aspect, but they were a good deal injured by this attempt on wild. So dangerous is any attack on a great man, several of his neighbors, and particularly one or two of his own trade, industriously endeavoring from their bitter animosity against such kind of iniquity to spread and exaggerate his ingratitude as much as possible, not in the least, scrupling the violent ardor of their indignation to add some small circumstances of their own knowledge of the many obligations conferred on Hartfrey by wild. To all these scandals, he quietly submitted, comforting himself in the consciousness of his own innocence, and confiding in time the sure friend of justice to acquit him. End of Book 3, Chapter 10, read by Dennis Sayers in Modesto, California, for LibriVox. Book 3, 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 3, Chapter 11, a scheme so deeply laid that it shames all the politics of this our age with digression and sub-digression. Wilde, having now to the hatred he bore Hartfrey on account of those injuries, he had done him an additional spur from this injury received, for so it appeared to him, who no more than the most ignorant, considered how truly he deserved it, applied his utmost industry to accomplish the ruin of one whose very name sounded odious in his ears, when, luckily, a scheme arose in his imagination which not only promised to effect it securely, but, which pleased him most, by means of the mischief he had already done him, and which would at once load him with the imputation of having committed what he himself had done to him, and would bring on him the severest punishment, for a fact of which he was not only innocent, but had already so greatly suffered by.  He no sooner started this thought than he immediately resolved on putting it in execution. What remained to consider was only the Cuomodo, and the person, or tool, to be employed, for the stage of the world differs from that in Drury Lane, principally in this, that whereas, on the latter, the hero or chief figure is almost continually before your eyes, whilst the under-actors are not seen above once in an evening, now, on the former, the hero or great man is always behind the curtain, and seldom or never appears or doth anything in his own person. He doth indeed in this grand drama, rather perform the part of the prompter, and doth instruct the well-dressed figures who are strutting in public on the stage what to say and do. To say the truth, a puppet show will illustrate our meaning better, where it is the master of the show, the great man, who dances and moves everything, whether it be the king of Muscabee, or whatever other potentate, alias, puppet, which we behold on the stage, but he himself keeps wisely out of sight, for should he once appear, the whole motion would be at an end. Not that any one is ignorant of his being there, or supposes that the puppets are not mere sticks of wood, and he himself the sole mover, but as this, though everyone knows it, doth not appear visibly, that is, to their eyes, no one is ashamed of consenting to be imposed upon of helping on the drama, by calling the several sticks or puppets, by the names which the master hath allotted to them, and by assigning to each the character which the great man is pleased they shall move in, or rather, in which he himself is pleased to move them. It would be, to suppose the gentle reader, one of very little knowledge in this world, to imagine thou hast never seen some of these puppet shows, which are so frequently acted on the great stage, but though thou shouldst have resided all thy days in those remotest parts of this island, which great men seldom visit, yet if thou hast any penetration, thou must have had some occasions to admire both the solemnity of countenance in the actor, and the gravity in the spectator, while some of those farces are carried on, which are acted almost daily in every village in the kingdom. He must have a very despicable opinion of mankind indeed, who can conceive them to be imposed on as often as they appear to be so. The truth is, they are in the same situation with the readers of romances, who, though they know the whole, to be one entire fiction, nevertheless agree to be deceived. And as these find amusement, so do the others find ease and convenience in this concurrence, but this being a sub-digression, I return to my digression. A great man ought to do his business by others, to employ hands, as we have before said, to his purposes, and keep himself as much behind the curtain as possible. And though it must be acknowledged that two very great men, whose names will be both recorded in history, did, in these latter times, come forth themselves on the stage, and did hack and hew, and lay each other most cruelly open to the diversion of these spectators, yet this must be mentioned, rather as an example of avoidance than imitation, and is to be ascribed to the number of those instances which serve to events the truth of these maxims. In the Book 3, Chapter 11, read by Dennis Sayers in Modesto, California, for LibriVox. Book 3, 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 3, Chapter 12, New Instances of Friendlies Folly, etc. To return to my history, which, having rested itself a little, is now ready to proceed on its journey. Fireblood was the person chosen by Wilde for this service. He had, on a late occasion, experienced the talents of this youth for a good round perjury. He immediately, therefore, found him out and proposed it to him. When receiving his instant assent, they consulted together, and soon framed an evidence, which, being communicated to one of the most bitter and severe creditors of Hartfree, by him laid before a magistrate, and, attested by the oath of Fireblood, the justice granted his warrant, and Hartfree was, accordingly, apprehended and brought before him. When the officers came for this poor wretch, they found him meanly diverting himself with his little children, the younger of whom sat on his knees, and the elder was playing at a little distance from him with friendly. One of the officers, who was a very good sort of man, but one very laudably severe in his office, after acquainting Hartfree with his errant, bade him come along and be D blank blank blank D, and leave those little bastards, for so he said he supposed they were for a legacy to the parish. Hartfree was much surprised at hearing there was a warrant for felony against him, but he showed less concern than friendly did in his countenance. The elder daughter, when she saw the officer lay hold on her father, immediately quitted her play, and running to him and bursting into tears, cried out, You shall not take, poor papa! One of the other ruffians offered to take the little one rudely from his knees, but Hartfree started up, and catching the fellow by the collar, dashed his head so violently against the wall that, had he had any brains, he might possibly have lost them by the blow. The officer, like most of those heroic spirits, who insult men in adversity, had some prudence mixed with his zeal for justice. Seeing, therefore, this rough treatment of his companion, he began to pursue more gentle methods, and very civilly desired Mr. Hartfree to go with him, seeing he was an officer, and obliged to execute his warrant, that he was sorry for his misfortune, and hoped he would be acquitted. The other answered he should patiently submit to the laws of his country, and would attend him whither he was ordered to conduct him, then, taking leave of his children with a tender kiss, he recommended them to the care of Friendly, who promised to see them safe home, and then to attend him at the justices whose name and abode he had learned of the Constable. Friendly arrived at the magistrate's house, just as that gentleman had signed the minimus against his friend, for the evidence of fire blood was so clear and strong, and the justice was so incensed against Hartfree, and so convinced of his guilt that he would hardly hear him speak in his own defense, which the reader, perhaps, when he hears the evidence against him, will be less inclined to censure, for this witness deposed that he had been, by Hartfree himself, employed to carry the orders of embezzling to Wilde, in order to be delivered to his wife, that he had been afterwards present with Wilde and her at the inn, when they took coach for Harwich, where she showed him the casket of jewels, and desired him to tell her husband that she had fully executed his command, and this he swore to have been done after Hartfree had noticed of the commission, and, in order to bring it within that time, fire blood, as well as Wilde, swore that Mrs. Hartfree lay several days concealed at Wilde's house before her departure for Holland, when friendly found the justice obdurate, and that all he could say had no effect, nor was it any way possible for Hartfree to escape being committed to Newgate, he resolved to accompany him thither, where, when they arrived, the turnkey would have confined Hartfree, he having no money, amongst the common felons, but friendly would not permit it, and advanced every shilling he had in his pocket, to procure a room in the press yard for his friend, which indeed, through the humanity of the keeper, he did at a cheap rate. They spent that day together, and in the evening the prisoner dismissed his friend, desiring him, after many thanks for his fidelity, to be comforted on his account. I know not, says he, how far the malice of my enemy may prevail, but whatever my sufferings are, I am convinced my innocence will somewhere be rewarded. If, therefore, any fatal accident should happen to me, for he who is in the hands of perjury may apprehend the worst, my dear friendly, be a father to my poor children, at which words the tears gushed from his eyes. The other begged him not to admit any such apprehensions, for that he would employ his utmost diligence in his service, and doubted not but to subvert any villainous design laid for his destruction, and to make his innocence appear to the world as white as it was in his own opinion. We cannot help mentioning a circumstance here, though we doubt it will appear very unnatural and incredible to our reader, which is that notwithstanding the former character and behavior of Hartfrey, this story of his embezzling was so far from surprising his neighbors, that many of them declared they expected no better from him. Some were assured he could pay forty shillings and a pound, if he would. Others had overheard hints formerly passed between him and Mrs. Hartfrey, which had given them suspicions. And what is most astonishing of all is that many of those who had before censured him for an extravagant, heedless fool, now no less confidently abused him for a cunning, tricking, avaricious knave. And of book three, chapter twelve, read by Dennis Sayers in Modesto, California, for LibriVox. Book three, chapter thirteen, 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 thirteen, something concerning Fireblood, which will surprise, and somewhat touching one of the Miss Snaps, which will greatly concern the reader. However, notwithstanding all these censures abroad, and in despite of all his misfortunes at home, Hartfrey and Newgate enjoyed a quiet, undisturbed repose, while our hero, nobly disdaining rest, lay sleepless all night, partly from the apprehensions of Mrs. Hartfrey's return, before he had executed his scheme, and partly from a suspicion lest Fireblood should betray him, of whose infidelity he had, nevertheless, no other cause to maintain any fear, but from his knowing him to be an accomplished rascal, as the vulgar termit, a complete great man in our language. And indeed, to confess the truth, these doubts were not without some foundation, for the very same thought, unluckily, entered the head of that noble youth, who considered whether he might not possibly sell himself, for some advantage, to the other side, as he had yet no promise from Wilde. But this was, by the sagacity of the latter, prevented in the morning with a profusion of promises, which showed him to be of the most generous temper in the world, with which Fireblood was extremely well satisfied, and made use of so many protestations of his faithfulness that he convinced Wilde of the justice of his suspicions. At this time an accident happened, which, though it did not immediately affect our hero, we cannot avoid relating, as it occasioned great confusion in his family, as well as in the family of Snap. It is indeed a calamity, highly, to be lamented, when it stains untainted blood, and happens to an honorable house. An injury never to be repaired, a blot never to be wiped out, a sore never to be healed. To detain my reader no longer, Miss Theodosia Snap was now safely delivered of a male infant. The product of an amour, which that beautiful, that I could say virtuous, creature had with thee count. Mr. Wilde and his lady were at breakfast when Mr. Snap, with all the agonies of despair, both in his voice and countenance, brought them this melancholy news. Our hero, who had, as we have said, wonderful good nature when his greatness or interest was not concerned, instead of reviling his sister-in-law, asked with a smile, who was the father? But the chaste Leticia, we repeat, the chaste, for well did she now deserve that epithet, received it in another manner. She fell into the utmost fury at the relation, reviled her sister in the pitterous terms, and vowed she would never see nor speak to her more. Then burst into tears and lamented over her father that such dishonor should ever happen to him and herself. At length she fell severely on her husband for the light treatment which he gave this fatal accident. She told him he was unworthy of the honor he enjoyed of marrying into a chaste family, that she looked on it as an affront to her virtue, that if he had married one of the naughty hussies of the town he could have behaved to her in no other manner. She concluded with desiring her father to make an example of the slut and to turn her out of doors for that she would not otherwise enter his house, being resolved never to set her foot within the same threshold with the trollop whom she detested so much the more because, which was perhaps true, she was her own sister. So violent and indeed so outrageous was this chaste lady's love of virtue that she could not forgive a single slip, indeed the only one Theodosia had ever made, in her own sister, in a sister who loved her and to whom she owed a thousand obligations. Perhaps the severity of Mr. Snap, who greatly felt the injury done to the honor of his family, would have relented had not the parish officers been extremely pressing on this occasion and, for want of security, conveyed the unhappy young lady to a place, the name of which, for the honor of the snaps to whom our hero was so nearly allied, we bury in eternal oblivion where she suffered so much correction for her crime that the good-natured reader of the male kind may be inclined to compassionate her, at least to imagine she was sufficiently punished for a fault which, with submission to the chaste Leticia and all other strictly virtuous ladies, it should be either less criminal in a woman to commit or more so in a man to solicit her to it. But to return to our hero, who was a living and strong instance that human greatness and happiness are not always inseparable, he was under a continual alarm of frights and fears and jealousies. He thought every man he beheld wore a knife for his throat and a pair of scissors for his purse. As for his own gang, particularly, he was thoroughly convinced there was not a single man amongst them who would not, for the value of five shillings, bring him to the gallows. These apprehensions so constantly broke his rest and kept him so assiduously on his guard to frustrate and circumvent any designs which might be formed against him that his condition to any other than the glorious eye of ambition might seem rather deplorable than the object of envy or desire. End of book 3 chapter 13 read by Dennis Sayers of Modesto, California for LibriVox. Book 3 chapter 13 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 14 in which our hero makes a speech well worthy to be celebrated and the behavior of one of the gang, perhaps more unnatural than any other part of this history. There was in the gang a man called Blue Skin, one of those merchants who trade in dead oxen, sheep, etc., in short what the vulgar call a butcher. This gentleman had two qualities of a great man, his undaunted courage and an absolute contempt of those ridiculous distinctions of maim and tuam, which would cause endless disputes, did not the law happily decide them by converting both into tuam. The common form of exchanging property by trade seemed to him too tedious. He therefore resolved to quit the mercantile profession and, falling acquainted with some of Mr. Wilde's people, he provided himself with arms and enlisted of the gang, in which he behaved for some time with great decency and order, and submitted to accept such share of the booty with the rest as our hero allotted him. But this subserviency agreed ill with his temper, for we should have before remembered a third heroic quality, namely ambition, which was no inconsiderable part of his composition. One day, therefore, having robbed a gentleman at Windsor of a gold watch, which, on its being advertised in the newspapers with a considerable reward, was demanded of him by Wilde, he peremptorily refused to deliver it. How, Mr. Blue Skin, says Wilde, you will not deliver the watch. No, Mr. Wilde answered he, I have taken it, and will keep it, or if I dispose of it, I will dispose of it myself, and keep the money for which I sell it. Sure, replied Wilde, you have not the assurance to pretend you have any property or right in this watch. I am certain, returned Blue Skin, whether I have any right in it or no, you can prove none. I will undertake, cries the other, to show I have an absolute right to it, and that by the laws of our gang of which I am providentially at the head. I know not who put you at the head of it, cries Blue Skin, but those who did certainly did it for their own good, that you might conduct them the better in their robberies, inform them of the richest booties, prevent surprises, pack juries, bribe evidence, and so contribute to their benefit and safety, and not to convert all their labor and hazard to your own benefit and advantage. You are greatly mistaken, sir, answered Wilde. You are talking of a legal society where the chief magistrate is always chosen for the public good, which as we see in all the legal societies of the world, he constantly consults daily contributing by his superior skill to their prosperity and not sacrificing their good to his own wealth or pleasure or humor. But in an illegal society or gang, as this of ours, it is otherwise, for who would be at the head of a gang unless for his own interest? And without a head you know you cannot subsist. Nothing but a head and obedience to that head can preserve a gang a moment from destruction. It is absolutely better for you to content yourselves with a moderate reward and enjoy that in safety at the disposal of your chief, than to engross the whole with the hazard to which you will be liable without his protection. And surely there is none in the whole gang who had less reason to complain than you. You have tasted of my favors.  Therefore pray, captain, deliver the watch. D-blank in your cajoling, says Blue Skin. Do you think I value myself on this bit of ribbon, which I could have bought myself for six pence, and have worn it without your leave? Do you imagine I think myself a captain because you, whom I know not empowered to make one, call me so? The name of captain is but a shadow. The men and the salary are the substance, and I am not to be bubbled with a shadow. I will be called captain no longer, and he who flatters me by that name I shall think affronts me, and I will knock him down, I assure you. Did ever man talk so unreasonably, cries Wilde, are you not respected as a captain by the whole gang, since my dubbing you so?  Might not a man as reasonably tell a minister of state, sir, you have given me the shadow only. The ribbon or the bobble that you gave me implies that I have either signalized myself, by some great action, for the benefit and glory of my country, or at least that I am descended from those who have done so. I know myself to be a scoundrel, and so have been those few ancestors I can remember, or have ever heard of. Therefore I am resolved to knock the first man down who calls me, sir, or right honorable. But all great and wise men think themselves sufficiently repaid by what procures them honor and precedence in the gang, without inquiring into substance. Nay, if a tidal or a feather be equal to this purpose, they are substance, and not mere shadows. But I have not time to argue with you at present, so give me the watch, without any more deliberation. I am no more a friend of deliberation than yourself, answered Blue Skin, and so I tell you, once for all, by G. Blank, I never will give you the watch. No, nor will I ever hereafter surrender any part of my booty. I want it, and I will wear it. Take your pistols yourself, and go out on the highway, and don't lazily think to fatten yourself with the dangers and pains of other people, at which words he departed in a fierce mood, and repaired to the tavern used by the gang, where he had appointed to meet some of his acquaintance, whom he informed of what had passed between him and Wilde, and advised them all to follow his example, which they all readily agreed to, and Mr. Wilde's de-blanchion was the universal toast, in drinking bumpers to which they had finished a large bowl of punch, when, a constable, with enumerous attendance, and, Wilde at their head, entered the room and seized on Blue Skin, whom his companions, when they saw our hero, did not dare attempt to rescue. The watch was found upon him, which, together with Wilde's information, was more than sufficient to commit him to Newgate. In the evening, Wilde and the rest of those who had been drinking with Blue Skin met at the tavern, where nothing was to be seen but the profoundest submission to their leader. They vilified and abused Blue Skin as much as they had before abused our hero, and now repeated the same toast, only changing the name of Wilde into that of Blue Skin, all agreeing with Wilde that the watch found in his pocket, and which must be a fatal evidence against him, was a just judgment on his disobedience and revolt. Thus did this great man, by a resolute and timely example, for he went directly to the justice when Blue Skin left him, quell one of the most dangerous conspiracies which could possibly arise in a gang, in which, had it been permitted one day's growth would inevitably have ended in his destruction, so much doth it behoove all great men to be eternally on their guard and expeditious in the execution of their purposes, while none but the weak and honest can indulge themselves in remissness or repose. The achates, Fireblood, had been present at both these meetings, but though he had a little too hastily concurred in cursing his friend and in bowing his perdition, yet now he saw all that skin dissolved, he returned to his integrity, of which he gave an incontestable proof by informing Wilde of the measures which had been concerted against him, in which he said he had pretended to acquiesce in order the better to betray them. But this, as he afterwards confessed on his deathbed at Tibern, was only a copy of his countenance, for that he was at that time as sincere and hearty in his opposition to Wilde as any of his companions. Our hero received Fireblood's information with a very placid countenance. He said, as the gang had seen their errors and repented, nothing was more noble than forgiveness. But though he was pleased, modestly, to ascribe this to his lenity, it really arose from much more noble and political principles. He considered that it would be dangerous to attempt the punishment of so many. Besides, he flattered himself that fear would keep them in order, and indeed Fireblood had told him nothing more than he knew before, Viz, that they were all complete prigs whom he was to govern by their fears, and in whom he was to place no more confidence than was necessary, and to watch them with the utmost caution and circumspection. For a rogue, he wisely said, like gunpowder, must be used with caution, since both are altogether as liable to blow up the party himself who uses them as to execute his mischievous purpose against some other person or animal. We will now repair to Newgate, it being the place where most of the great men of this history are hastening as fast as possible, and to confess the truth, it is a castle very far from being an improper or misbecoming habitation for any great man whatever. And as this scene will continue during the residue of our history, we shall open it with a new book, and shall, therefore, take this opportunity of closing our third. Read by Dennis Sayers. Delate, Mr. Jonathan Wilde, The Great, by Henry Fielding. Book four, chapter one. Sentiment of the ordinaries. Were they to be written in letters of gold? A very extraordinary instance of folly and friendly, and a dreadful accident which befell our hero. Heartfree had not been long in Newgate, before his frequent conversation with his children, and other instances of a good heart which betrayed themselves in his actions and conversation, created an opinion in all about him that he was one of the silliest fellows in the universe. The ordinary himself, a very sagacious as well as very worthy person, declared that he was a cursed rogue, but no conjurer. What indeed might induce the former, that is the roguish part of this opinion in the ordinary, was a wicked sentiment which heartfree one day disclosed in conversation, and which we, who are truly orthodox, will not pretend to justify that he believed a sincere Turk would be saved. To this the good man, with becoming zeal and indignation, answered, I know not what may become of a sincere Turk, but if this be your persuasion, I pronounce it impossible you should be saved. No, sir, so far from a sincere Turk's being within the pale of salvation, neither will any sincere Presbyterian, Anabaptist nor Quaker whatever be saved. But neither did the one nor the other part of this character prevail on friendly to abandon his old master. He spent his whole time with him, except only those hours when he was absent for his sake, in procuring evidence for him against his trial, which was now shortly to come on. Indeed, this young man was the only comfort besides a clear conscience, and the hopes beyond the grave which this poor wretch had. For the sight of his children was one of those alluring pleasures which men, in some diseases, indulged themselves often fatally in, which at once flatter, and heightened their malady. Friendly being one day present, while heartfree was, with tears in his eyes embracing his eldest daughter, and lamenting the hard fate to which he feared he should be obliged to leave her, spoke to him thus.  I have observed that all your agonies arise from the thoughts of parting with your children, and of leaving them in a distressed condition. Now, though I hope all your fears will prove ill-grounded, yet that I may relieve you as much as possible from them, be assured that as nothing can give me more real misery than to observe so tender and loving a concern in a master, to whose goodness I owe so many obligations, and whom I so sincerely love, so nothing can afford me equal pleasure with my contributing to lessen or to remove it. Be convinced, therefore, if you can place any confidence in my promise, that I will employ my little fortune, which you know to be not entirely inconsiderable, in the support of this your little family. Should any misfortune, which I pray heaven avert, happen to you, before you have better provided for these little ones, I will be myself their father, nor shall either of them ever know distress, if it be any way in my power to prevent it. Your younger daughter I will provide for, and as for my little Prattler, your elder, as I never yet thought of any woman for a wife, I will receive her as such at your hands, nor will I ever relinquish her for another. Hartfrey flew to his friend and embraced him with raptures of acknowledgement. He vowed to him that he had eased every anxious thought of his mind, but one, and that he must carry with him out of the world.  O friendly, thou didst know her goodness, yet, sure, her perfect character none but myself was ever acquainted with. She had every perfection both of mind and body, which heaven hath indulged to her whole sex, and possessed all in a higher excellence than nature ever indulged to another in any single virtue. Can I bear the loss of such a woman? Can I bear the apprehensions of what mischiefs that villain may have done to her, of which death is perhaps the lightest? Friendly, gently interrupted him as soon as he saw any opportunity, endeavoring to comfort him on this head likewise by magnifying every circumstance which could possibly afford any hopes of his seeing her again. By this kind of behavior in which the young man exemplified so uncommon in height of friendship, he had soon obtained in the castle the character of as odd and silly a fellow as his master. Indeed they were both the byword laughing stock and contempt of the whole place. The sessions now came on at the old Bailey. The grand jury at Hicks Hall had found the bill of indictment against Hartfrey, and on the second day of the session he was brought to his trial, where notwithstanding the utmost efforts of friendly and the honest old female servant, the circumstances of the fact corroborating the evidence of fireblood, as well as that of Wilde, who counterfeited the most artful reluctance at appearing against his old friend Hartfrey. The jury found the prisoner guilty. Wilde had now accomplished his scheme, for as to what remained it was certainly unavoidable, seeing that Wilde was entirely void of interest, and was besides convicted on a statute the infringers of which could hope no pardon. The catastrophe to which our hero had reduced this wretch was so wonderful an effort of greatness that it probably made fortune envious of her own darling. But whether it was from this envy, or only from that known in constancy, and weakness so often and judiciously remarked in that lady's temper, who frequently lifts men to the summit of greatness, only atlapsu graviori ruant. Certain it is she now began to meditate mischief against Wilde, who seems to have come to that period at which all heroes have arrived, and which she was resolved they never should transcend. In short, there seems to be a certain measure of mischief and iniquity, which every man is to fill up, and then fortune looks on him of no more use than a silkworm whose bottom is spun and deserts him. Mr. Blueskin was convicted the same day of robbery by our hero, an unkindness which, though he had drawn on himself, and necessitated him to, he took greatly amiss. As Wilde, therefore, was standing near him, with that disregard and indifference which great men are too carelessly inclined to have for those whom they have ruined, Blueskin, privily drawing a knife, thrust the same into the body of our hero with such violence that all who saw it concluded he had done his business, and indeed had not fortune, not so much out of love to our hero, as from a fixed resolution to accomplish a certain purpose, of which we have formerly given a hint, carefully placed his guts out of the way. He must have fallen a sacrifice to the wrath of his enemy, which, as he afterwards said, he did not deserve. For had he been contented to have robbed, and only submitted to give him the booty, he might have still continued safe and unimpeached in the gang, but so it was that the knife, missing noble parts, the noblest of many, the guts perforated only the hollow of his belly, and caused no other harm than an immoderate effusion of blood, of which, though at present weakened him, he soon after recovered. This accident, however, was in the end attended with worse consequences, for as very few people, those greatest of all men, absolute princes accepted, attempt to cut the thread of human life, like the fetal sisters, merely out of wantonness and for their diversion, but rather by so doing proposed to themselves the acquisition of some future good, or the avenging some past evil, and as the former of these motives did not appear probable, it put inquisitive persons on examining into the latter. Now, as the vast schemes of wild, when they were discovered, however great in their nature, seemed to some persons, like the projects of most other such persons, rather to be calculated for the glory of the great man himself, than to redound to the general good of society, designs began to be laid by several of those who thought it principally their duty to put a stop to the future progress of our hero, and a learned judge, particularly a great enemy to this kind of greatness, procured a clause in an act of parliament, a trap for wild, which he soon after fell into. By this law it was made capital in a prig to steal with the hands of other people, a law so plainly calculated for the destruction of all priggish greatness, that it was indeed impossible for our hero to avoid it. End of Book 4, Chapter 1, read by Dennis Sayers of Modesto, California, for LibriVox. Book 4, Chapter 2 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 4, Chapter 2, a short hint concerning popular ingratitude. Mr. Wilde's arrival in the castle with other occurrences to be found in no other history. If we had any leisure we would here digress a little on that ingratitude which so many writers have observed to spring up in the people in all free governments towards their great men. Who, while they have been consulting the good of the public by raising their own greatness, in which the whole body, as the Kingdom of France thinks itself in the glory of their grand monarch, was so deeply concerned, have been sometimes sacrificed by those very people for whose glory, to said great men, were so industriously at work. And this, from a foolish zeal for a certain ridiculous imaginary thing called liberty, to which great men are observed to have a great animosity. This law had been promulgated a very little time when Mr. Wilde, having received from some dutiful members of the gang a valuable piece of goods, did, for a consideration somewhat short of its original price, reconvey it to the right owner. For which fact, being ungratefully informed against by the said owner, he was surprised in his own house, and being overpowered by numbers was hurried before a magistrate and by him committed to that castle, which, suitable as it is to greatness, we do not choose to name too often in our history and where many great men at this time happened to be assembled. The Governor, or as the law more honorably calls him, keeper of this castle, was Mr. Wilde's old friend and acquaintance. This made the latter greatly satisfied with the place of his confinement, as he promised himself, not only a kind reception and handsome accommodation there, but even to obtain his liberty from him, if he thought it necessary, to desire it. But alas, he was deceived, his old friend knew him no longer and refused to see him, and the Lieutenant Governor insisted on as high garnish for fetters and as exorbitant a price for lodging, as if he had had a fine gentleman in custody for murder or any other genteel crime. To confess a melancholy truth, it is a circumstance much to be lamented that there is no absolute dependence on the friendship of great men. An observation which hath been frequently made by those who have lived in courts or in Newgate or in any other place set apart for the habitation of such persons. The second day of his confinement, he was greatly surprised at receiving a visit from his wife, and more so when instead of a countenance ready to insult him, the only motive to which he could ascribe her presence, he saw the tears trickling down her lovely cheeks. He embraced her with the utmost marks of affection and declared he could hardly regret his confinement since it had produced such an instance of the happiness he enjoyed in her, whose fidelity to him on this occasion would, he believed, make him the envy of most husbands even in Newgate.  —No, no, says she. I am certain you would be found guilty. Death! I knew what it would always come to. I told you it was impossible to carry on such a trade long, but you would not be advised, and now you see the consequence. Now you repent when it is too late. All the comfort I shall have when you are nubbed, footnote the can't word for hanging, is that I gave you a good advice. If you had always gone out by yourself, as I would have had you, you might have robbed on to the end of the chapter, but you was wiser than all the world, or rather lazier, and see what your laziness has come to. To the cheat, footnote the gallows, for thither you will go now, that's infallible, and the just judgment on you for following your headstrong will. I am the only person to be pitied, poor I, who shall be scandalized for your fault. There goes she, whose husband was hanged, me thinks I hear them crying so already, at which words she burst into tears. He could not then forbear chiding her for this unnecessary concern on his account, and begged her not to trouble him any more. She answered with some spirit, on your account, and be de-blanked to you. No, if the old call of a justice had not sent me hither, I believe it would have been long enough, before I should have come hither to see after you, de-blanked blank in me. I am committed for the filling lay, footnote, picking pockets, man, and we shall be both nubbed together. I faith, my dear, it almost makes me amends for being nubbed myself, to have the pleasure of seeing thee nubbed too. Indeed, my dear, answered wild, it is what I have long wished for thee, but I do not desire to bear thee company, and I have still hopes to have the pleasure of seeing you go without me. At least I will have the pleasure to be rid of you now. And so saying, he seized her by the waist, and with strong arm flung her out of the room. But not before she had with her nails left a bloody memorial on his cheek, and thus this fond couple parted. Wild had scarce recovered himself from the uneasiness into which this unwelcome visit, proceeding from the disagreeable fondness of his wife, had thrown him, then the faithful achates appeared. The presence of this youth was indeed a cordial to his spirits. He received him with open arms, and expressed the utmost satisfaction in the fidelity of his friendship, which so far exceeded the fashion of the times, and said many things which we have forgot on the occasion. But we remember they all tended to the praise of fireblood, whose modesty, at length, put a stop to the torrent of compliments, by asserting he had done no more than his duty, and that he should have detested himself, could he have forsaken his friend in his adversity. And after many protestations that he came the moment he heard of his misfortune, he asked him if he could be of any service. Wild answered, since he had so kindly proposed that question, he must say he should be obliged to him if he could lend him a few guineas for that he was very seedy. Fireblood replied that he was greatly unhappy in not having it then in his power, adding many hearty oaths that he had not a farthing of money in his pocket, which was indeed strictly true, for he had only a bank note, which he had that evening, perloin from a gentleman in the playhouse passage. He then asked for his wife, to whom, to speak truly, the visit was intended, her confinement being the misfortune of which he had just heard. For, as for that of Mr. Wild himself, he had known it from the first minute, without ever intending to trouble him with his company. Being informed, therefore, of the visit which had lately happened, he reproved Wild for his cruel treatment of that good creature. Then, taking as sudden a leave as he civilly could of the gentleman, he hastened to comfort his lady, who received him with great kindness. End of Book 4, Chapter 2, read by Dennis Sayers in Modesto, California, for LibriVox. Book 4, Chapter 3, of the late Mr. Jonathan Wild the Great. This LibriVox recorded is in the public domain, read by Dennis Sayers. The late Mr. Jonathan Wild the Great, by Henry Fielding. Book 3, Chapter 3, curious anecdotes relating to the history of Newgate. There resided in the castle at the same time with Mr. Wild, one Roger Johnson, a very great man, who had long been at the head of all the prigs in Newgate, and had raised contributions on them. He examined into the nature of their defense, procured and instructed their evidence, and made himself, at least in their opinion, so necessary to them that the whole fate of Newgate seemed entirely to depend upon him. Wild had not been long in confinement before he began to oppose this man. He represented him to the prigs as a fellow who, under the plausible pretense of assisting their causes, was in reality undermining the liberties of Newgate. He at first threw out certain sly hints and insinuations, but having by degrees formed a party against Roger, he one day assembled them together and spoke to them in the following floored manner. Friends and fellow citizens, the cause which I am to mention to you this day is of such mighty importance that when I consider my own small abilities, I tremble with an apprehension, lest your safety may be rendered precarious by the weakness of him who hath undertaken to represent you your danger. Gentlemen, the liberty of Newgate is at stake. Your privileges have been long undermined, and are now openly violated by one man, by one who hath engrossed to himself the whole conduct of your trials, under color of which he exacts what contributions on you he pleases. But are those sums appropriated to the uses for which they are raised? Your frequent convictions at the Old Bailey, those depredations of justice, must too sensibly and sorely demonstrate the contrary. What evidence does he ever produce for the prisoner which the prisoner himself could not have provided, and often better instructed, how many noble youths have there been lost when a single alibi would have saved them? Should I be silent? Nay, could your own entries want a tongue to remonstrate? The very breath which by his neglect hath been stopped at the cheat would cry out loudly against him, nor is the exorbitancy of his plunders visible only in the dreadful consequences it hath produced to the prigs, nor glares it only in the miseries brought on them. It blazes forth in the more desirable effects it hath wrought for himself, in the rich perquisites acquired by it. Witness that silk nightgown, that robe of shame which to his eternal dishonor he publicly wears, that gown which I will not scruple to call the winding sheet of the liberties of Newgate. Is there a prig who hath the interest and honor of Newgate so little at heart that he can refrain from blushing when he beholds that trophy purchased with the breath of so many prigs? Nor is this all. His waistcoat embroidered with silk and his velvet cap bought with the same price are incense of the same disgrace. Some would think the rags which covered his nakedness when first he was committed hither well exchanged for these gaudy trappings, but in my eye no exchange can be profitable when dishonor is the condition. If therefore Newgate hear the only copy which we could procure of the speech breaks off abruptly. However, we can assure the reader from very authentic information that he concluded with advising the prigs to put their affairs into other hands, after which one of his party, as had been before concerted, in a very long speech recommended him, wild himself, to their choice. Newgate was divided into parties on this occasion, the prigs on each side representing their chief or great man to be the only person by whom the affairs of Newgate could be managed with safety and advantage. The prigs had indeed very incompatible interests, for whereas the supporters of Johnson, who was in possession of the plunder of Newgate, were admitted to some share under their leader, so the betters of wild had, on his promotion, the same views of dividing some part of the spoil among themselves. It is no wonder, therefore, they were both so warm on each side. What may seem more remarkable was that the debtors, who were entirely unconcerned in the dispute, and who were the destined plunder of both parties, should interest themselves with the utmost violence, some on behalf of wild, and others in favor of Johnson, so that all Newgate resounded with wild forever, Johnson forever, and the poor debtors re-echoed the liberties of Newgate, which in the Kant language signifies plunder, as loudly as the thieves themselves. In short, such quarrels and animosities happened between them that they seemed rather the people of two countries long at war with each other than the inhabitants of the same castle. Wild's party, at length, prevailed, and he succeeded to the place and power of Johnson, whom he presently stripped of all his finery. But when it was proposed that he should sell it and divide the money for the good of the whole, he waved that motion, saying it was not yet time, that he should find a better opportunity that the clothes wanted cleaning with many other pretenses, and within two days, to the surprise of many, he appeared in them himself, for which he vouchsafed no other apology than that they fitted him much better than they did Johnson, and that they became him in a much more elegant manner. This behavior of Wild greatly incensed the debtors, particularly those by whose means he had been promoted. They grumbled extremely, invented great indignation against Wild when, one day, a very grave man, and one of much authority among them, bespake them as follows. Nothing sure can be more justly ridiculous than the conduct of those who should lay the lamb in the wolf's way, and then should lament his being devoured. What a wolf is in a sheepfold, a great man is in society. Now, when one wolf is in possession of a sheepfold, how little would it avail the simple flock to expel him and place another in his stead? Of the same benefit to us is the overthrowing of one prig in favor of another. And for what other advantage was your struggle? Did you not all know that Wild and his followers were prigs, as well as Johnson and his? What then could the contention be among such, but that which you have now discovered it to have been? Perhaps some would say, is it then our duty tamely to submit to the rapin of the prig, who now plunders us, for fear of an exchange? Surely no, but I answer, it is better to shake the plunder off than to exchange the plunderer. And by what means can we affect this, but by a total change in our manners? Every prig is a slave, his own priggish desires, which enslave him, themselves betray him to the tyranny of others. To preserve, therefore, the liberty of Newgate is to change the manners of Newgate. Let us, therefore, who are confined here for debt only, separate ourselves entirely from the prigs, neither drink with them nor converse with them. Let us at the same time separate ourselves farther from prigism itself. Instead of being ready on every opportunity to pillage each other, let us be content with our honest share of the common bounty, and with the acquisition of our own industry. When we separate from the prigs, let us enter into a closer alliance with one another. Let us consider ourselves all as members of one community, to the public good of which we are to sacrifice our private views, not to give up the interest of the whole for every little pleasure or profit which shall accrue to ourselves. Liberty is inconsistent with no degree of honesty inferior to this, and the community where this abounds, no prig will have the impudence or audaciousness to endeavor to enslave. Or, if he should, his own destruction would be the only consequence of his attempt. But while one man pursues his ambition, another his interest, another his safety, while one hath a roguery, a prigism they here call it, to commit, and another a roguery to defend, they must naturally fly to the favor and protection of those who have power to give them what they desire, and to defend them from what they fear. Nay, in this view, it becomes their interest to promote this power in their patrons. Now, gentlemen, when we are no longer prigs, we shall no longer have these fears or these desires. What remains therefore for us but to resolve bravely to lay aside our prigism, our roguery, in plainer words, or to give up the latter in the preservation and preference of the former? This speech was received with much applause. However, Wilde continued as before to levy contributions among the prisoners, to apply the garnish to his own use, and to strut openly in the ornaments which he had stripped from Johnson, to speak sincerely. There was more bravado than real use or advantage in these trappings. As for the night count, its outside indeed made a glittering tensile appearance, but it kept him not warm, nor could the finery of it do him much honor, since everyone knew it did not properly belong to him. As to the waistcoat, it fitted him very ill, being infinitely too big for him, and the cap was so heavy that it made his head ache. Thus these clothes, which perhaps as they presented, the idea of their misery more sensibly to the people's eyes, brought him more envy, hatred, and detraction than all his deeper impositions and more real advantages afforded very little use or honor to the wearer. Nay, nay, could scarce serve to amuse his own vanity, when this was cool enough to reflect with the least seriousness. And should I speak in the language of a man who estimated human happiness without regard to that greatness, which we have so laboriously endeavored to paint in this history, it is probable he never took, that is, robbed, the prisoners of a shilling which he himself did not pay to dear for.