lUlllllllHIIlllIlllilltlllllllllinilllllUIUIIIllllllllllllllllllll ua r n LIBRARY V UNIVERSITY OF CALIFORNIA SAN DIEGO J Library OF F. P. Fitzgerald No PR 3454 Jt 1889 JN1VERSITV OF CALIFORNIA SAN DIEGO 3 1822 01037 7927 ft presented to the UNIVERSITY LIBRARY UNIVERSITY OF CALIFORNIA SAN DIEGO by Dr. Helen S. Nicholson Portrait of Charles I. Photogravure — From Painting by Ant. Van Dyke Illustrated Sterling 6dition THE HISTORY OF THE LIFE OF THE LATE MR. JONATHAN WILD THE GREAT BY HENRY FIELDING A SKETCH OF THE LIFE OF HENRY FIELDING BY ALFRED TRIMBLE BOSTON DANA ESTES & COMPANY PUBLISHERS CONTENTS. <♦> BOOK I. CHAPTER I. PAGE Showing the wholesome uses drawn from recording the achievements of those wonderful productions of nature called Great Men . 1 CHAPTER II. Giving an account of as many of our hero's ancestors as can be gathered out of the rubbish of antiquity, which hath been care- fully sifted for that purpose 4 CHAPTER III. The birth, parentage, and education of Mr. Jonathan Wild the Great 7 CHAPTER IV. Mr. Wild's first entrance into the world. His acquaintance with Count La Ruse 11 CHAPTER V. A dialogue between young Master Wild and Count La Ruse, which, having extended to the rejoinder, had a very quiet, easy, and natural conclusion 14 CHAPTER VI. Further conferences between the count and Master Wild, with other matters of the great kind .20 4 CONTENTS. CHAPTER VII. PAGE Master Wild sets out on his travels, and returns home again. A very short chapter, containing infinitely more time and less matter than any other in the whole story 23 CHAPTER VIII. An adventure where Wild, in the division of the booty, exhibits an astonishing instance of greatness 25 CHAPTER IX. Wild pays a visit to Miss Lsetitia Snap. A description of that lovely young creature, and the successless issue of Mr. Wild's addresses 29 CHAPTER X. A discovery of some matters concerning the chaste Lsetitia which must wonderfully surprise, and perhaps affect our reader . . 31 CHAPTER XI. Containing as notable instances of human greatness as are to be met with in ancient or modern history. Concluding with some wholesome hints to the gay part of mankind . . . .33 CHAPTER XII. Further particulars relating to Miss Tishy, which perhaps may not greatly surprise after the former. The description of a very fine gentleman, and a dialogue between Wild and the count, in which public virtue is just hinted at, with, etc 37 CHAPTER XIII. A chapter of which we are extremely vain, and which indeed we look on as our chef-d" 'ceuvre ; containing a wonderful story con- cerning the devil, and as nice a scene of honor as ever happened 40 CHAPTER XIV. In which the history of greatness is continued 44 BOOK II. CHAPTER I. Characters of silly people, with the proper uses for which such are designed 51 CONTENTS. 5 CHAPTER II. PAGE Great examples of Greatness in Wild, shown as well by his behavior to Bagshot as in a scheme laid, first, to impose on Heartfree by means of the count, and then to cheat the count of the booty . 55 CHAPTER III. Containing scenes of softness, love, and honor, all in the great style 59 CHAPTER IV. In which Wild, after many fruitless endeavors to discover his friend, moralizes on his misfortune in a speech, which may be of use (if rightly understood) to some other considerable speechmakers 65 CHAPTER V. Containing many surprising adventures, which our hero, with great greatness, achieved 68 CHAPTER VI. Of hats 73 CHAPTER VII. Showing the consequence which attended Heartfree's adventures with Wild ; all natural and common enough to little wretches who deal with great men, together with some precedents of letters, being the different methods of answering a dun . . 75 CHAPTER VIII. In which our hero carries greatness to an immoderate height . . 79 CHAPTER IX. More greatness in Wild. A low scene between Mrs. Heartfree and her children, and a scheme of our hero worthy the highest ad- miration, and even astonishment 82 CHAPTER X. Sea-adventures very new and surprising 85 CHAPTER XI. The great and wonderful behavior of our hero in the boat » . 88 6 CONTENTS. CHAPTEE XII. PAGE The strange and yet natural escape of our hero . . . .90 CHAPTER XIII. The conclusion of the boat adventure and the end of the second book 93 BOOK III. CHAPTER I. The low and pitiful behavior of Heartfree ; and the foolish conduct of his apprentice 96 CHAPTER II. A soliloquy of Heartfree's, full of low and base ideas, without a syllable of greatness 99 CHAPTER III. Wherein our hero proceeds in the road to greatness .... 103 CHAPTER IV. In which a young hero, of wonderful good promise, makes his first appearance, with many other great matters .... 106 CHAPTER V. More and more greatness, unparalleled in history or romance . . 108 CHAPTER VI. The event of Fireblood's adventure ; and a treaty of marriage, which might have been concluded either at Smithfield or St. James's . 113 CHAPTER VII. Matters preliminary to the marriage between Mr. Jonathan Wild and the chaste Lsetitia 116 CONTENTS. 7 CHAPTER VIII. PAGE A dialogue matrimonial, which passed between Jonathan Wild, Esq., and Lsetitia, his wife, on the morning of the day fortnight on which his nuptials were celebrated ; which concluded more amicably than those debates generally do . . . .119 CHAPTER IX. Observations on the foregoing dialogue, together with a base design on our hero, which must be detested by every lover of greatness 123 CHAPTER X. Mr. Wild with unprecedented generosity visits his friend Heartfree, and the ungrateful reception he met with 127 CHAPTER XI. A scheme so deeply laid, that it shames all the politics of this our age ; with digression and subdigression 130 CHAPTER XII. New instances of Friendly's folly, etc 133 CHAPTER XIII. Something concerning Fireblood, which will surprise ; and somewhat touching one of the Miss Snaps, which will greatly concern the reader 136 CHAPTER XIV. 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 138 BOOK IV. CHAPTER I. A sentiment of the ordinary's, worthy to be written in letters of gold ; a very extraordinary instance of folly in Friendly ; and a dreadful accident which befell our hero 144 8 CONTENTS. CHAPTER II. PAGE A short hint concerning popular ingratitude. Mr. Wild's arrival in the castle, with other occurrences to be found in no other history 148 CHAPTER III. Curious anecdotes relating to the history of Newgate . . . 152 CHAPTER IV. The dead-warrant arrives for Heartfree ; on which occasion Wild betrays some human weakness 157 CHAPTER V. Containing various matters 159 CHAPTER VI. In which the foregoing happy incident is accounted for . . . 163 CHAPTER VII. Mrs. Heartfree relates her adventures ...... 165 CHAPTER VIII. In which Mrs. Heartfree continues the relation of her adventures . 171 CHAPTER IX. Containing incidents very surprising 175 CHAPTER X. A horrible uproar in the Gate 181 CHAPTER XI. The conclusion of Mrs. Heartfree's adventures 183 CHAPTER XII. The history returns to the contemplation of greatness . . . 188 CHAPTER XIII. A dialogue between the ordinary of Newgate and Mr. Jonathan Wild the Great ; in which the subjects of death, immortality, CONTENTS. ■> and other grave matters, are very learnedly handled by the former . . . . . . • ■ • • .191 CHAPTER XIV. Wild proceeds to the highest consummation of human greatness . 1i»7 CHAPTER XV. The character of our hero, and the conclusion of this history . . 201 LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS Portrait of Charles I. ..... Front "Having first picked his pocket of three shillings 1 ' " Moke words would have been immediately succeeded by blows" .......... "She be-knaved, re -rascalled, re-rogued the unhappy hero" .......... "She cried, 'I will stand search'" .... "He embraced them with the most passionate fondness" " He could not forbear renewing his embrace " . "He then advanced with a gentle air towards me" . "And now our hero and his friend fell a -boxing " . page spiece 20 42 64 71 98 160 176 182 HENRY FIELDING. There are, in the history of English literature, a few, perhaps too few, figures which hold their place and glow there like fixed stars in the firmament. Thanks to the changes of times and tastes, the great writers of one generation are relegated to obscurity, or at least to sub- sidiary importance, by the next, their title to eminence becomes a matter of critical question, and the qualities that made them notable and popular are caviled at and belittled. But in the world of English letters there is one figure that stands supreme and sound,unsullied by detrac- tion, and unaffected by carping dissection orquerulous anal- ysis, like one of those statues of bronze that,after centuries of warfare and ages of national ruin, are exhumed in all their splendid and massive integrity, to serve as monu- ments in modern times to the matchless art of a legend- ary and dimly defined past. Henry Fielding was not only the first great English novelist, but he remains to this day, and for all time, one of the greatest. The mutations of time and manners, and the changes of fashions of thought and of expression, that have dethroned so many of his contemporaries and successors, have passed him by unscathed, and if one seeks the reason for his enduring hold upon the living world, one may find it, as Thackeray did, and give it shape in Thackeray's own words: " What a genius ! What a vigor ! What a bright- eyed intelligence and observation ! What a wholesome hatred for meanness and knavery ! What a vast sym- pathy ! What a cheerfulness ! What a manly relish of life ! W r hat a poet is here ! — watching, meditating, brood- ii HENRY FIELDING. ing, creating - ! What a multitude of truths has that man left behind him ! What generations he has taught to laugh wisely and fairly ! What scholars he has formed and accustomed to the exercise of thoughtful humor and the manly play of wit ! What a courage he had ! What a dauntless and constant cheerfulness of intellect, that burned bright and steady through all the storms of his life, and never deserted its last wreck ! " Here is the whole secret of Henry Fielding's literary greatness epitomized in a paragraph. It was his splen- did humanity that made him great, upon the pages of his own creations as well as upon the solemn pages of the book of life. He was, above all things, a man in thought and deed. The physical picture Thackeray draws of him is visible throughout the productions of his brain and pen. " His figure was tall and stalwart ; his face hand- some, manly and noble-looking ; to the very last days of his life he retained a grandeur of air. Although worn down by disease, his aspect and his presence imposed respect upon the people round about him." He was, says Arthur Murphy, above six feet in height, and "his frame of body large and remarkably robust," until the gout had broken the vigor of his constitution. Can one not see the living Henry Fielding in the large and vigorous style of the shadowy Henry Fielding that his pen has left us — in the audacious freedom of critical expression; the frank fearlessness of satire ; the courageous directness of his attack upon the false, the ignoble and the depraved ? The same manhood that invests his works with their commanding spirit, also mars them with certain of the coarsenesses inseparable from the author's nature and surroundings. Fielding lived in a coarse time, and was a part of the time in which he lived. It was an age of tavern clubs and tavern dissipations ; when men's titles to social consideration were measured by the number of bottles they could empty ; when brutal midnight brawls heralded the way to bed, and Justice sat upon her throne HENRY FIELDING. hi with her unbandaged eyes bloodshot from the revel. Through this era Henry Fielding, the man, passed "with inked ruffles and claret stains on his tarnished lace coat, and on his manly face the marks of good fellowship, of ill- ness, of kindness and care, and wine." But these out- ward manifestations of the man of his time left no stains upon his soul. They were inseparable from the life of the body, and as his pen undertook to depict the life of which his body was a part, with a truthfulness that should put its shams and scandals to shame, the picture naturally acquired some of the indelicacies and grossnesses of the original, which, however, only serve to strengthen their sermon, and fortify their sound and healthy morality. But in his books and out of them, in his cups, and in the sober senses which brought him the anguish and remorse of a strong mind conscious of its own weaknesses and shortcomings, one seeks in vain for any Henry Fielding but that which bears the mint-mark of an honest man. Not only honest, too, but generous as just, kindly, con- siderate, unselfish, full of the sweetness of a noble nature, which the abundant poison of an ignoble age and society could not spoil. " He will give any man his purse," says Thackeray ; "he can't help kindness and profusion. He may have low tastes, but not a mean mind. He ad- mires with all his heart good and virtuous men, stoops to no flattery, bears no rancor, disdains all dislo3 r al arts, does his public duty uprightly, is fondly loved by his family, and dies at his work." II. There was a certain heredity in the robust manhood of Henry Fielding. He was the son of a soldier, who had won his place of honor on fields of battle under the great Marlborough. General Edmund Fielding was a grand- son of the Earl of Denbigh, whose loyal life had gone out in futile defense of the doomed King Charles. There are iv HENRY FIELDING. other fighting Fieldings, to be traced back as far, at least, as the bloody plain of Tewkesbury — a fine, strong, active and courageous race it was, fit to breed honest men and great ones, and it reached a glorious culmination in the descendant whose genius has set the family name ablaze with an immortal splendor. General Edmund Fielding, after having fleshed his maiden sword in Flanders, and reddened his first spurs with battle blood upon the continent, married, at the age of thirty, Sarah Gould, the daughter of an honest and thrifty knight, Sir Henry Gould, of Sharpham Park, near Glastonbury, in Somerset. Sir Henry was one of the judges of the King's Bench, and had a handsome fortune and kept up a good estate. When the young soldier married into his family he also came to live in it in the intervals of his campaigns, and it was in the house of his grandfather that, on April 22, 1707, the novelist, Henry Fielding, saluted with his first baby cry the great world in which he was to play his heroic part. In 1710 Sir Henry Gould died, and his household was broken up. By his will, made m March, 1706, Sir Henry left his daughter £3,000, which was to be invested "in the purchase either of a Church or College lease, or of lands of Inheritance," for her sole use, her husband "having nothing to do with it," which would seem to indicate that the wise old knight had a distrust of his military, and possibly impecunious, son-in-law. This money was to come to her children at the death of Mrs. Fielding, and was no unimportant part of the family estate while the good lady was yet alive. Three thousand pounds in those comparatively primitive days meant quite as much as the quadrupled sum means in our waste- ful and extravagant time. Pursuant of her provident parent's plan, Mrs. General Fielding invested a portion of her heritage in a small es- tate at East Stour, in Dorsetshire, where the General and herself set up their housekeeping. At East Stour, HENRY FIELDING. v Mr. Austin Dobson tells us, according- to the extracts from the parish register given in Hutchins's " History of Dorset," four children were horn to the Fieldings, namely, Sarah, afterwards the authoress of "David Simple;" Anne, Beatrice, and another son, Edmund. " Edmund," says Arthur Murphy, " was an officer in the marine ser- vice," and (adds Mr. Lawrence) "died young." Anne died at East Stour in August, 1716. Of Beatrice nothing further is known. These would appear to have been all the children of Edmund Fielding by his first wife, al- though, as Sarah Fielding is styled on her monument, at Bath, the second daughter of General Fielding, it is not impossible that another daughter may have been born at Sharpham Park, before or after Henry Fielding raised his infantile salutation to the universe he was created to benefit and improve. " At East Stour," continues Mr. Dobson," the Fieldings certainly resided until April, 1718, when Mrs. Fielding- died, leaving her elder son a boy of not quite eleven years of age. How much longer the family remained there is unrecorded : but it is clear that a great part of Henry Fielding's childhood must have been spent by the pleasant banks of sweetly-winding Stour, whicn passes through it, and to which he subsequently refers in 'Tom Jones.' His education during this time was confided to a certain Mr. Oliver, whom Lawrence designates the family chaplain. Keightley supposes that he was the curate of East Stour ; but Hutchins, a better authority than either, says that he was the clergyman of Motcombe, a neighboring village. Of this gentleman, according to Murphy, Parson Trulliber in ' Joseph Andrews ' is a very humorous and striking portrait. It is certainly more humorous than compli- mentary." From Mr. Oliver's care the boy was sent to Eton, where Arthur Murphy tells us rather snobbishly, though one can forgive snobbery written in Lincoln's Inn in 1762, I hope, that he fell in with very excellent company. "Lord vi HENRY FIELDING. Lyttleton, Mr. Fox, Mr. Pitt, Sir Charles Hanbury Wil- liams and the late Mr. Winnington, etc." George Lyttleton was later the famous statesman and orator. Charles Hanbury became the equally famous wit and squib writer, when he achieved his baronetcy and ampli- fied his name by inheritance. Poor Tom Winnington his old schoolmate, fought many a doughty pen and ink battle, for in later years, when Tory lampooners assailed his honest memory. Dr. Arne, sweetest of old English composers, was another Eton schoolmate of Fielding's, and among the shy boys the sturdy son of Marlborough's old campaigner fought for was Gilbert West, the trans- lator of Pindar. There are few records of Fielding's career at Eton. He appears to have been an apt student and a forward boy. Murphy extols his accomplishments in Greek and Latin, but he himself depreciates them, and in one of nis own verses to Walpole some years later, Fielding says : " Tuscan and French are in my Head ; Latin I write, and Greek I — read." However this may have been, it is certain that, as Mr. Dobson puts it, "during his stay at Eton, Fielding had been rapidly developing from a boy into a young man. When he left school it is impossible to say ; but he was probably seventeen or eighteen years of age, and it is at this stage of his career that must be fixed an occurrence which some of his biographers place much farther on. This is his earliest recorded love affair." The object of his early ripened passion was a young lady of Lyme Regis, the only daughter and heiress of one Solomon Andrew, deceased, a merchant of consider- able local reputation. Lawrence says that she was Field- ing's cousin. This may be so ; but the statement is unsupported by any authority. She was living at Lyme with one of her guardians, Mr. Andrew Tucker, when in his chance visits to that place, young Fielding became desperately enamored of her. At one time he seems to HENRY FIELDING. vii have actually meditated the abduction of his flame, for an entry in the town archives, discovered by Mr. George Roberts, sometime Mayor of Lyme, who tells the story, declares that Andrew Tucker, Esq., went in fear of his life ''owing- to the behavior of Henry Fielding- and his attendant, or man." But Miss Andrew was pru- dently transferred to the care of another guardian, Mr. Rhodes, of Modbury, in South Devon, to whose son, a young gentleman of Oxford, she was promptly married ; and the next we know of young Henry Fielding, he had been shipped off to Lej^den to learn civil law, until all of a sudden a not unusual accident happened to him. His remittances failed, his debts oppressed, and his duns bothered him. His father, never a rich man, had married again. His second wife was a widow named Eleanor Rasa, and by this time he was fast acquiring a a second family. Under the pressure of his growing cares, he found himself, however willing, unable to main- tain his eldest son or to discharge his expenses at Ley- den. So Henry took his departure from the University between days. At the end of 1727 or the commencement of 1728, he set foot in London, thereto commence as black and bitter a battle as genius ever fought with the selfish world. III. His father, nominally, made him an allowance of two hundred a year ; but this, as Fielding himself explained, "anybody might pay that would ." The consequence was that not long after the arrival of the latter m the Metrop- olis, he had given up all idea of pursuing the law, to which his mother's legal connections had perhaps first attracted him, and had determined to adopt the more seductive occupation of living by his wits. At this date he was in the prime of youth. He possessed every physi- cal characteristic calculated to attract temptation. He had the constitution of an ox, the beauty of a young* god, viii HENRY FIELDING. and the good heart of a Henry Fielding. Is it not easy to prefigure the result ? His cousin, Lady Mary Wortley Montague, writing of his experiences at this period, gives a delicate hint at their complexion. " No man," says she, " enjoyed life more than he did. His happy constitution, even when he had with very great pains half demolished it, made him forget every evil, when he was before a venison pasty, or over a glass of champagne, and, I am persuaded, ne has known more happy moments than any prince upon earth. His natural spirits gave him rapture with his cook-maid, and cheerfulness when he was starving in a garret. There was a great similitude between his char- acter and that of Sir Richard Steele. He had the advan- tage, both in learning and, in my opinion,. genius; they both agreed in wanting money, in spite of all their friends, and would have wanted it, if their heredita^ lands had been as extensive as their imagination ; yet each of them was so formed for happiness, it is pity he was not immortal Some resources, as Sir Walter Scott puts it, were necessary for a man of pleasure, and Fielding found them in his pen, having, as he used to say himself, no alterna- tive but to be a hackney writer or a hackney coachman. He at first employed himself in writing for the theatre, then in high reputation, having recently engaged the talents of Wycherly, of Congreve, Vanbrugh, and Far- quhar. Fielding's comedies and farces were brought on the stage in hasty succession ; and play after play, to the number of eighteen, sunk or swam on the theatrical sea betwixt the years 1727 and 1736. None of these are now known or read, excepting the mock tragedy of " Tom Thumb," the translated play of " The Miser," and the farces of "The Mock Doctor," and "Intriguing Cham- bermaid," and yet they are the production of an author unrivaled for his conception and illustration of charac- ter in the kindred walk of imaginary narrative. HENRY FIELDING, ix But Fielding's genius was essentially that of the nov- elist, though he had not yet discovered this fact ; to him the theatre was the first road to fortune and popular pre- ferment. His first dramatic essay — or, to speak more precisely, the first of his dramatic essays that was pro- duced upon the stage — was a five-act comedy entitled " Love in Several Masques." It was played at Drury Lane, in February, 1728, succeeding " The Provoked Husband." In his preface, the young author refers to the disadvantage under which he labored in following close upon that comedy, and also in being " cotemporary with an Entertainment which engrosses the whole Talk and Admiration of the Town," — i. e. " The Beggar's Op- era." Still he stuck to his work. Year after year, until 1736, he produced comedies, satires and the like, which were almost as soon forgotten as they were produced upon the stage. During this period Fielding lived the life of a man of wit and pleasure about town. He stretched out his meagre and precarious earnings from the stage by pri- vate levies on better -to-do friends, and sought and found his amusement in the manifold scenes of gayety and dissi- pation provided by the gay and dissipated town. He even became, for a time, the manager of a theatrical com- pany, and, no doubt, got his fill of this responsible in- volvment. In 1735 he opened at the little theatre m the Haymarket, with " The Great Mogul's Companj^ of Com- edians," made up of discarded actors of other theatres by whom he proposed to have his own plays acted. The venture fell as flat as the satire of its title. It exploded and left him even poorer than he had been before. Then he sought and found at least passing relief in matrimony. He had for some years been acquainted with a good and beautiful girl at Salisbury, who pos- sessed the additional attraction of a small fortune, some £1,500. Her name was Charlotte Cradock, and he made her Mrs. Fielding in 1736. As if fortune never came by x HENRY FIELDING. halves, he also, at the same time, fell into a small estate of £200 a year, part of his mother's property at Stour. There is a touch of genuine comedy about this portion of Fielding's life. He retired to his little estate at Stour with his wife, and on the income of £200, and her poor dowry of £1,500, set up the state of a great lord for their honeymoon. As Murphy tells : " He began immediately to vie in splendor with the neighboring country squires, encumbered himself with a large retinue of servants, all clad in costly yellow liver- ies. For their master's honor, these people could not descend so low as to be careful in their apparel, but, in a month or two were unfit to be seen ; the- squire's dig- nity required that they should be new-equipped ; and his chief pleasure consisting in society and convivial mirth, hospitality threw open his doors. Entertainments, hounds, and horses, entirely devoured a little patrimony, which, had it been managed with economy, might have secured to him a state of independence for the rest of his life." And so Henry Fielding was on the town again, this time with a wife upon his shiftless hands, that could not provide for himself alone. It is to the pressure of this necessity that the world owes Henry Fielding, the immortal novelist, where, under temporarily happier circumstances, Henry Fielding, the playwright, might have otherwise been forgotten. IV. When the wreck of his country fortune left him stranded once more on the merciless reefs of London, Fielding, like the drowning man grasping at the least stray bit of flotsam for relief, turned his vagrant atten- tion to the law, for which he had been originally destined. The passage of the Licensing Act put an end to his the- atrical career. The frank effrontery of his satire had be- HENRY FIELDING. xi gun to attract the attention of the Ministry, and a bill was framed to restrict the unbounded license of the stage, and give the Lord Chamberlain the power of censorship he holds in England to this day. Fielding bowed to his fate. He renounced the stage, and with a wife and daughter to support, at the age of thirty, entered at the Temple as a student of the law. If Murphy is to be believed, Fielding devoted himself henceforth with remarkable assiduity to serious work. His old irregularity of life, it is alleged, occasionally as- serted itself, though without checking the energy of his application. " This," says his first biographer, " pre- vailed in him to such a degree, that ne nas been fre- quently known by his intimates to retire late at night from a tavern to his chambers, and there read, and make extracts from the most abstruse authors for several hours before he went to bed ; so powerful were the vigor of his constitution and the activity of his mind." It is to this passage, no doubt, says Mr. Dobson, we owe the pictur- esque wet towel and inked ruffles with which Mr. Thack- eray has decorated him in "Pendennis ;" and, in all probability, a good deal of graphic writing from less able pens respecting his modus Vivendi as a Templar. In point of fact, nothing is known with certainty respecting his life at this period ; and what it would really concern us to learn — namely, whether by " chambers," it is to be understood that he was living alone, and, if so, where Mrs. Fielding was at the time of these protracted vigils — Murphy has not told us. Perhaps she was safe all the while at East Stour, or with her sisters at Salisbury. Having no precise information, however, it can only be recorded that, in spite of the fitful outbreaks above re- ferred to, Fielding applied himself to the study of his profession with all the vigor of a man who has to make up for lost time ; and that, when on the 20th of June, 1740, the day came for bis being called, he was very fairly equipped with legal knowledge. It is certain that xii HENRY FIELDING. he made a host of lawyer friends during" this period, and that he made a good magistrate, when, in later years, he went upon the bench. He found time to do not a little waiting for hire during this studious intermission in his stirring life. According to Scott, too, he labored under serious difficulties. Dis- ease, the consequence of a free life, came to the aid of dis- sipation, and severe fits of the gout gradually impaired his robust constitution. Still he tugged at the oar, and one of his productions of this period was The Champion, a paper on the model of the elder essayists. It was issued, like The Tatler, on Tuesdays, Thursdays and Saturdays. Murphy says that Fielding's part in it can- not now be ascertained; but, says Mr. Dobson, as the "Advertisement" to the edition in two volumes of 1741 states expressly that the papers signed C. and L. are the "Work of One Hand," and as a number of those signed C. are unmistakably Fielding's, it is hard to discover where the difficulty lay. The papers signed C. and L. are by far the most numerous, the majority of the re- mainder being distinguished by two stars, or the signa- ture "Lilbourne." These are understood to have been from the pen of James Ralph, whose poem of "Night" gave rise to a stinging couplet in "The Dunciad," but who was nevertheless a man of parts, and an industrious writer. Fielding made his famous attacks on Colley Abber in The Champion, and seems to have discontinued his connection with it when he was admitted to the bar. He did not entirety suspend his literary activity, how- ever. In Sylvanus Urban's "Register of Books," pub- lished during January, 1741, is advertised the poem "Of True Greatness," afterwards included in the "Miscel- lanies;" and the same authority announces the "Ver- noniad," an anonymous burlesque epic prompted by Admiral Vernon's popular expedition against Porto Bello in 1739, "with six Ships only." That Fielding was the author of the latter is sufficiently proved by his order to HENRY FIELDING. xiii Mr. Nourse (printed in Roscoe's edition), to deliver fifty copies to Mr. Chappel. Another sixpenny pamphlet, en- titled "The Opposition, a Vision," issued in December of the same year, is enumerated by him, in the Preface to the "Miscellanies," amongst the few works he pub- lished "since the end of June, 1741;" and, provided it can be placed before this date, he may be credited with a political sermon called "The Crisis" (1741), which is as- cribed to him upon the authority of a writer in Nichols' "Anecdotes." All this is, however, but fugitive and trifling- work, and of no special value, except as illustrat- ing the necessities to which he was put to earn a little money. It is tolerably certain that, whatever his private means may have been, and they were probably nothing at all, Fielding's ready pen contrived to support himself and his family, to which he was fondly attached, until, says Scott, amid this anxious career of precarious expedient and constant labor, he had the misfortune to lose his wife ; and his grief at this domestic calamity was so ex- treme, that his friends became alarmed for the conse- quences to his reason. The violence of the emotion, how- ever, was transient, though his regret was lasting ; and the necessity of subsistence compelled him again to re- sume his literary labors. At length, in the year 1741 or 1742, circumstances induced him to engage in a mode of composition which he retrieved from the disgrace in which he found it, and rendered a classical department of British literature. This inestimable boon English literature owes to a writer the antithesis of the manly and thoroughly honest and sincere Henry Fielding. It was the burning spirit of satire in Fielding, and the incredible affectation and literary prudery of Richardson, that laid the foundation for the English novel of all time, in the satirization of "Pamela" by "Joseph Andrews." xiv HENRY FIELDING. V. No better summary can be made of tbis historical cornerstone to the future fiction of the English language, than is given by Sir Walter Scott in his sketch of the author's life. Scott, writing of the book, its origin and its character, says : " The novel of ' Pamela,' published in 1740, had carried the fame of Richardson to the highest pitch ; and Field- ing, whether he was tired of hearing it overpraised (for a book, several passages of which would now be thought highly indelicate, was in those days even recommended from the pulpit), or whether, as a writer for daily sub- sistance, he caught at whatever interested the public for the time ; or whether, in fine, he was seduced by that wicked spirit of wit, which cannot forbear turning into ridicule the idol of the day, resolved to caricature the style, principles, and personages of this favorite perform- ance. As Gay's desire to satirize Philips gave rise to the ' Shepherd's Week,' so Fielding's purpose to ridicule ' Pamela ' produced ' The History of Joseph Andrews '; and in both cases, but especially in the latter, a work was executed infinitely better than could have been expected to arise out of such a motive, and the reader received a degree of pleasure far superior to what the author him- self appears to have proposed. There is, indeed, a fine vein of irony in Fielding's novel, as will appear from comparing it with the pages of ' Pamela.' But ' Pa- mela,' to which that irony was applied, is now in a manner forgotten, and ' Joseph Andrews ' continues to be read, for the admirable pictures of manners which it presents ; and above all, for the inimitable character of Mr. Abraham Adams, which alone is sufficient to stamp the superiority of Fielding over all writers of his class. His learning, his simplicity, his evangelical purity of mind, and benevolence of disposition, are so admirably HENRY FIELDING. xv mingled with pedantry, absence of mind, and with the habit of athletic and gymnastic exercise, then acquired at the universities by students of all descriptions, that he may be safely termed one of the richest productions of the Muse of fiction. Like Don Quixote, Parson Adams is beaten a little too much, and too often ; but the cudgel lights upon his shoulders, as on those of the honored Knight of La Mancha, without the slightest stain to his reputation, and he is bastinadoed without being de- graded. The style of this piece is said, in the preface, to have been an imitation of Cervantes ; but both in ' Joseph Andrews ' and ' Tom Jones ' the author ap- pears also to have had in view the ' Roman Comique ' of the once celebrated Scarron. From this authority he has copied the mock-heroic style, which tells ludicrous events in the language of the classical epic, a vein of pleasantry which is soon wrought out, and which Field- ing has employed so often as to expose him to the charge of pedantry. " 'Joseph Andrews ' was eminently successful ; and the aggrieved Richardson, who was fond of praise even to adulation, was proportionally offended, while his group of admirers, male and female ; took care to echo back his sentiments, and to heap Fielding with reproach Their animosity survived his life, and we find the most ungen- erous reproaches thrown upon his memory, in the course of Richardson's correspondence. Richardson was well acquainted with Fielding's sisters, and complained to them — not of Fielding's usage of himself, that he was too wise, or too proud to mention, but — of his unfortunate predilection to what was mean and low in character and description. The following expressions are remarkable, as well for the extreme modesty of the writer, who thus rears himself into the paramount judge of Fielding's qualities, and for the delicacy which could intrude such observations on the ear of his rival's sister : ' Poor Field- ing ! I could not help telling his sister, that I was equally xvi HENRY FIELDING surprised at, and concerned for, his continued lowness. Had your brother, said I, been born in a stable, or been a runner at a spunging house, one should have thought him a genius, and wished he had had the advantage of a liberal education, and of being admitted into good com- pany.' After this we are not surprised at its being alleged that Fielding was destitute of invention and talents ; that the run of his best works was nearly over ; and that he would soon be forgotten as an author. Fielding does not appear to have retorted any of this ill will, so that, if he gave the first offense, and that an un- provoked one, he was also the first to retreat from the contest, and to allow to Richardson those claims which his genius really demanded from the liberality of his con- temporaries. In the fifth number of the Jacobite Journal, Fielding highly commends ' Clarissa/ which is by far the best and most powerful of Richardson's novels ; and, with these scenes in ' Sir Charles Grandison ' which refer to the history of Clementina, contains the passages of deep pathos on which his claim to immortality must finally rest. Perhaps this is one of the cases in which one would rather have sympathized with the thoughtless offender, than with the illiberal and ungenerous mind which so long retained its resentment." "The History of the Adventures of Josepn Andrews, and of his friend Mr. Abraham Adams," was published by Andrew Millar in February, 1742. Mr. Dobson tells us that various anecdotes, all more or less apocryphal, have been related respecting the first appearance of Joseph Andrews, and the sum paid to the author for the copy- right. A reference to the original assignment, now in the Foster Library at South Kensington, definitely settles the latter point. The amount in " lawful Money of Great Britain," received by " Henry Fielding, Esq.," from "An- drew Millar of -St. Clement's Danes in the Strand," was £183. lis. In this document, as in the order to bourse, of which a fac simile is given by Roscoe, both the author's HENRY FIELDING. xvii name and signature are written with the old-fashioned double f, and he calls himself " Fielding- " and not " Feild- ing," like the rest of the Denbigh family. If we may trust an anecdote given by Kippis, Lord Denbigh once asked his kinsman the reason of this difference. "I cannot tell, my lord," returned the novelist, "unless it be that my branch of the family was the first that learned to spell." Fielding was careful to disclaim any personal portrait- ure in "Joseph Andrews." In the opening chapter to Book III, he declares that he "describes not men, but manners; not an individual, but a species," though he admits that his characters are " taken from Life." In his " Preface " he reiterates this profession, adding that, in copying from nature, he has "used the utmost Care to obscure the Persons by such different Circumstances, Degrees, and Colours, that it would be impossible to guess at them with any degree of certainty." Nevertheless neither his protests nor his skill have prevented some of those iden- tifications which are so seductive to the curious ; and it is generally believed — indeed, it was expressly stated by Richardson and others — that the prototype of Parson Adams was a friend of Fielding, the Reverend "William Young. Like Adams, he was a scholar and devoted to ^Eschylus : he resembled him, too, in his trick of snap- ping his fingers, and his habitual absence of mind. Of this latter peculiarity it is related that on one occasion, when a chaplain in Marlborough's wars, he strolled ab- stractedly into the enemy's lines with his beloved " JEs- chylus" in his hand. His peaceable intentions were so unmistakable that he was instantly released, and politely directed to his regiment. Once, too, it is said, on being charged by a gentleman with sitting for the portrait of Adams, he offered to knock the speaker down, thereby supplying additional proof of the truth of the allegation. He died in August, 1756, and is buried in the chapel of Chelsea Hospital. The obituary notice in the Gentle- xviii HENRY FIELDING. man's Magazine describes him as " late of Gillingham, Dorsetshire," which would make him a neighbor of the novelist. Lord Thurlow, it may be worth noting-, was accustomed to find a later likeness to Fielding's hero in his protege, the poet Crabbe. Contemporary tradition, It may be added, connects Mr. Peter Pounce with the scrivener and usurer, Peter Walter, whom Pope had satirized, and whom Ho- garth is thought to have introduced into Plate I of "Mar- riage a-la-Mode." His sister lived at Salisbury; and he himself had an estate at Stalbridge Park, which was close to East Stour. From references to Walter in The. Cham- pion for May 31, 1740, as well as in the essay on "Conver- sation," it is clear that Fielding knew him personally, and disliked him. He may, indeed, have been amongst those county magnates whose criticism was so objectionable to Captain Booth during his brief residence in Dorsetshire. Parson Trulliber, also, according to Murphy, was Field- ing's first tutor— Mr. Oliver of Motcombe. But his widow denied the resemblance, and it is hard to believe that this portait is not overcharged. " But even the high praise due to the construction and arrangement of the story is inferior to that claimed by the truth, force, and spirit of the characters, from Tom Jones himself, down to Black George the gamekeeper, and his family. Amongst these Squire Western stands alone; imitated from no prototype, and in himself an inimitable picture of ignorance, prejudice, irascibility, and rusticity, united with natural shrewdness, constitutional good hu- mor, and an instinctive affection for his daughter— all which qualities, good and bad, are grounded upon that basis of thorough selfishness natural to one bred up from infancy where no one dared to contradict his arguments, or to control his conduct. In one incident alone we think Fielding has departed from this admirable sketch. As an English squire, Western ought not to have taken a beating so unresistingly from the friend of Lord Fella- HENRY FIELDING. xix mar. We half suspect the passage to be an inter- polation. It is inconsistent with the squire's readiness to engage in rustic affrays. We grant a pistol or sword might have appalled him, but Squire Western should have yielded to no one in the use of the English horse- whip — and as, with all his brutalities, we have a sneak- ing interest in the honest, jolly country gentleman, we would willingly hope there is some mistake in this mat- ter. "The character of Jones, otherwise a model of generos- ity, openness, manly spirit mingled with thoughtless dis- sipation, is in like manner unnecessarily degraded by the nature of his intercourse with Lady Bellas ton; and this is one of the circumstances which incline us to believe that Fielding's ideas of what was gentleman-like and honorable, had sustained some depreciation, in conse- quence of the unhappy circumstances of his life and of the society to which they condemned him." A more sweeping and general objection was made against "The History of a Foundling," by the admirers of Richardson, and has been often repeated since. It is al- leged that the ultimate moral of "Tom Jones," which conducts to happiness, and holds up to our sympathy and esteem a youth who gives way to licentious habits, is detrimental to society, and tends to encourage the youth- ful reader in the practice of those follies to which his nat- ural passions and the usual course of the world but too much direct him. But such prurient moralists as Rich- ardson and his friends were scarcely competent critics of so robust and manly a genius as Henry Fielding. Dr. Johnson took a broader view of it, and heartily endorsed " Tom Jones." The public coincided with him. Plagiarism seized upon it, and within a year, in the same way as "Pamela" had its sequel in "Pamela's Con- duct in High Life," so " Tom Jones " was continued in " The History of Tom Jones the Foundling, in His Mar- ried State," a second edition of which was issued in 1750. xx HENRY FIELDING. The preface announces that " Henry Fielding", Esq., is not the Author of this Book," a statement which no one who read the book needed. As might perhaps be anticipated, " Tom Jones " attracted the dramatist also. In 1765 one J. H. Steffens made a comedy of it for the German boards ; and in 1785 a M. Desforges based upon it another, called " Tom Jones a Londres," which was acted at the Theatre Francais. It was also turned into a comic opera by Joseph Reed in 1769, and played at Covent Garden. Bat its most piquant transformation is the Comedie lyrique of Poinsinet, acted at Paris in 1765-6 to the lively music of Philidor. The famous Caillot took the part of Squire Western. " Tom Jones " was, also, recently made the foundation for a play by Robert Buchanan, called " So- phia," which was produced with some success in London. The book has been translated into French, German, Polish, Dutch, Spanish, Swedish, and Russian, in all of which tongues it has found enthusiastic admirers. The first French translation was that of De la Place, in 1750. This translation was abridged and much emascu- lated, in spite of which it was prohibited in France (to Richardson's delight, of course) by royal decree, an act which affords another instance, in Scott's words, of that " French delicacy, which, on so many occasions, has strained at a gnat and swallowed a camel," that is to say, the novels of M. Crebillon fils, which it would require a bold publisher to put into English. VI. Fielding made one more appearance as a dramatist after the success of " Joseph Andrews," and it proved a failure. It is to be noted, par parenthese, that in spite of his fecundity as a dramatic writer he never rose to the dignity of making a decent living off the stage. It was a succession of shifts and devices, tiding over between one HENR Y FIELDING. xxi play and another with loans from friends, and small sops gained by midnight toil from the pamphlet pub- lishers. Such, however, was Fielding's invariably happy nature and the enormous mental resources that he had to draw upon that, inflamed with deep potations or cool with periods of temperance, he was ever equally ready when opportunity offered, to bow under the yoke of necessity and tug a pittance out of the barren furrows of casual literary work. His life, from first to last, was that of an honest gentleman, who had been cast upon an evil time, who strove to fulfill every obligation, and who was forced to incur many that he could not fulfill, because he was too far in advance of his age to command the honor and profit his genius deserved. "We have seen at a later day Scott accumulate a vast fortune by his pen. We have seen such successors of Fielding as Thackeray and Dickens growing rich by the same craft. We have seen such poets as Tennyson and Longfellow, such romancists as Hugo and his minor Gallic successors, gaining by single volumes more than the founder of the school of literature upon which their art was fed gained in half a laborious lifetime. The fate of Fielding was the fate of all pioneers. He blazed the way and cleared the track by which others were to travel to their goals. No particular interest attaches to Fielding's last dram- atic essay, except that of curiosity. He got no gain from it, and its paucity of profit no doubt spurred him to the production of "Jonathan Wild, the Great." " Jonathan Wild " is one of the most trenchant satires ever written. It was, for its time, the most trenchant known to English literature, and it may be questioned if it has had a successor. The closest approach to it is Thackeray's "Barry Lyndon," which was obviously suggested by and modeled after it. With the gravity of a historian treating of grave and reverend men, the author traced the career of an unmitigated scoundrel. xxii HENRY FIELDING. Every vice and iniquity of his hero, and every vice and iniquity of the society of the time, were glorified in a negative sense. To those who have any knowledge of the manners and methods of Fielding's time, " Jonathan Wild " will have a positive interest and value. To those who have not, it will, except in certain passages, prove dull reading enough. But it is illumined, even for the unilluminated, with superb passages and splendid sketches of character, in every one of which the invaria- ble repetition of human types, from the time when humanity began, will be recognized and prized. The idea of this satire is now believed to have origin- ated with Fielding before he took up and executed his satire of Richardson. The probability is that he had it plotted out when the conception of " Joseph Andrews" came to him, and he laid it aside to complete the other, as being more applicable to the time. At any rate, " The History of the Life of the Late Mr. Jonathan "Wild, the Great," appeared as the third volume to the " Miscel- lanies," issued in 1743. Scott speaks in slighting terms of " Jonathan Wild," but even in this deprecatory spirit he allows that " there are few passages in Fielding's more celebrated works more marked by his peculiar genius than the scene betwixt his hero and the ordinary when in New- gate." Mr. Dobson is a more appreciative critic. He writes : " Under the name of a notorious thief -taker, hanged at Tyburn in 1725, Fielding has traced the Progress of a Rogue to the Gallows, showing by innumerable subtle touches that the (so-called) greatness of a villain does not very materially differ from any other kind of greatness, which is equally independent of goodness. This continually suggested affinity between the ignoble and the pseudo- noble is the text of the book. Against genuine worth (its author is careful to explain) his satire is in no wise di- rected. He is far from considering Newgate as no other than Human Nature with its Mask off ; but he thinks we HENRY FIELDING. xxiii may be excused for suspecting that the splendid Palaces of the Great are often no other than Newgate with the Mask on. Thus Jonathan Wild the Great is a pro- longed satire upon the spurious eminence in which be- nevolence, honesty, charity, and the like have no part ; or, as Fielding prefers to term it, that false or Bombast greatness which is so often mistaken for the true Sublime in Human Nature — Greatness and Goodness combined." So thoroughly has he explained his intention in the pre- faces to the " Miscellanies," and to the book itself, that it is difficult to comprehend how Scott could fail to see his drift. Possibly, like some others, he found the subject re- pugnant and painful to his kindly nature. Possibly, too, he did not, for this reason, study the book very carefully. At any rate, "Jonathan Wild," certainly is not of the first rank of the author's works. Dobson rates it after the three great novels, which is a fair judgment. What- ever may be the opinion of it as a story, it can rank in workmanship with any of his productions. The measure of success of "Jonathan Wild " was only moderate. It was, perhaps, one more of curiosity, fol- lowing, as it did, after " Joseph Andrews," than of gen- uine appreciation. Still the author got some money by it, which was very much to his purpose at the time. Thenceforward his activity as a producer of fiction sub- sided for half a dozen years. During this time he produced no work of signal im- portance. He battled with the gout and with necessity. He edited the Jacobite Journal and other transient pub- lications of a political character, and with proper and characteristic improvidence married a second time. On November 27th, 1747, he took to wife one Mary Daniel, with whom he went to housekeeping in two rooms in Back Lane, Twickenham. Some year or so later came an- other eventful turn in his career. Smollet had commenced to exercise his interest for him, to secure him an appointment. The Jacobite Journal xxiv HENRY FIELDING. ceased to appear in November, 1748. In the early part of the December following, by Lord Lyttleton's interest, Fielding- was appointed a Justice of the Peace for West- minster. From a letter in the " Bedford Correspond- ence," dated 13th of December, 1748, respecting- the lease of a house or houses which would qualify him to act for Middlesex, it would seem that the county was afterwards added to his commission. This office reads more importantly on paper than it was in fact. The justice's emoluments depended on fees, which he was expected to extort from the public. But it was accompanied in Fielding's case by a small pension, which helped him out, for he was too honest to thrive by the frauds placed at his command. Writing of his position, Fielding himself said: " I will confess that my private affairs at the beginning of the winter had but a gloomy aspect ; for 1 had not plundered the public or the poor of those sums which men who are always ready to plunder both as much as they can have been pleased to suspect me of taking ; on the contrary, by composing, instead of inflaming the quarrels of porters and beggars (which I blush when I say hath not been universally practiced,) and by refusing to take a shilling from a man who most undoubtedly would not have had another left, I had reduced an income of about 500Z. a year of the dirtiest money upon earth, to little more than 300Z., a considerable portion of which re- mained with my clerk." VII. On the 28th of February, 1749, Andrew Millar pub- lished " The History of Tom Jones, a Foundling, by- Henry Fielding, Esq." It appeared in six volumes 12 mo., at sixteen shillings a set, and took the town by storm. " Tom Jones " was dedicated to Lord, or as he was then still, Mr. Lyttleton. The price paid for it by HENRY FIELDING. xxv Millar was £600, and Horace Walpole, writing to George Montagu in May, 1749, says: "Millar the bookseller lias done very generously by him (Fielding): finding ' Tom Jones,' for which he had given him £600, sell so greatly, he has since given him another hundred." By all appearances "Tom Jones" had been begun by the author about the time of his second marriage, and probably under pressure of the necessity that act involved. Its publication carried the author's fame to its height, but besides the money paid him for the copy- right it was attended by no appreciable consequences to his fortunes. He still remained a poor justice, of whose condition an idea may be had from a letter written by Walpole: " Rigby gave me as strong a picture of nature. He and Peter Bathurst, t'other night, carried a servant of the latter 's, who had attempted to shoot him, before Fielding, who, to all his other vocations, has, by the grace of Mr. Lyttleton, added that of Middlesex justice. He sent them word he was at supper — they must come next morning. They did not understand that freedom, and ran up, where they found him banqueting with a blind man, a wh , and three Irishmen, on some cold mutton and a bone of a ham, both in one dish, and the dirtiest cloth. He never stirred or asked them to sit. Rigby, who had seen him come so often to beg a guinea of Sir C. Williams, and Bathurst, at whose father's he had lived for victuals, understood that dignity as little, and pulled themselves chairs, on which he civilized." It should be added, however, that Walpole was not the most reliable authority in the world, and that he never hesitated to exaggerate in order to make an effect- ive picture. Still, it is beyond question that Fielding's life at this period was both reckless and given to excess, and that from the very bent of his genius he preferred what Walpole calls "low company" to that of the drawing room. xxvi HENRY FIELDING. The sale of ''Tom Jones " went on famously in spite of the author's habits. Of the book itself, Scott writes in these glowingly critical terms : "The general merits of this popular and delightful work have been so often dwelt upon, and its imperfec- tions so frequently censured, that we can do little more than hastily run over ground which has been so repeat- edly occupied. The felicitous contrivance and happy extrication of the story, where every incident tells upon and advances the catastrophe, while, at the same time, it illustrates the characters of those interested in its ap- proach, cannot too often be mentioned with the highest approbation. The attention of the reader is never di- verted or puzzled by unnecessary digressions, or recalled to the main story by abrupt and startling recurrences ; he glides down the narrative like a boat on the surface of some broad navigable stream, which only winds enough to gratify the voyager with the varied beauty of its banks. One exception to this praise, otherwise so well merited, occurs in the story of the Old Man of the Hill ; an episode, which, in compliance with a custom intro- duced by Cervantes, and followed by Le Sage, Fielding has thrust into the midst of his narrative, as he had formerly introduced the History of Leonora, equally un- necessarily and inartificially ,into that of 'Joseph Andrews.' It has also been wondered why Fielding should have chosen to leave the stain of illegitimacy on the birth of his hero ; and it has been surmised that he did so in allusion to his own first wife, who was also a natural child. " A better reason may be discovered in the story itself ; for, had Miss Bridget been privately married to the father of Tom Jones, there could have been no adequate motive assigned for keeping his birth secret from a man so rea- sonable and compassionate as Airworthy, HENRY FIELDING. xxvh VIII. No portion of Fielding's career presents stranger con- trasts than that upon which he had now entered. As a magistrate he brought little personal dignity to the bench, where he sat in dirty ruffles and tarnished and thread- bare garb, with red eyes and jaundiced face. But he did in- vest his office with a great deal of common sense, and speedily won recognition for the work he did in it. And what with the duties of his post, the useful and satirical pamphleteering that grew out of it, and the social exac- tions to which he subjected himself, he had his hands so full that he could have been excused for complete inactiv- ity in the field of fiction. But Fielding was no sluggard, and moreover his needs pressed him. He was by no means a rich man, and , we are told by Murphy, that, as a Westminster justice, he "kept his table open to those who had been his friends when young and had impaired their fortunes. " Can- not one imagine this ragged regiment feeding upon him and the incessant pressure for money its voracity pro- duced? One of the literary curiosities of this period of Fielding's career was his pamphlet on " A True State of the Case of Bosavern Penlez. " This rare argument of a current legal event sheds an interesting side light on the fierce brutality of the time and affords a hint at the sort of work the author's judgeship involved for him. Bosavern Penlez was a fellow who had been hanged for robbery? and the pamphlet was written to justify his execution, which caused a great outcry. Three sailors of the Graf- ton man-of-war, roving London on a hot summer night, had been robbed in a house of ill-fame in the Strand. Failing to obtain redress, they attacked the house with their comrades, and wrecked it, causing a " dangerous riot, ' : to which Fielding makes incidental reference in one of his letters to the Duke of Bedford, and xxviii HENRY FIELDING. which was witnessed by John Byrom, the poet and sten- ographer, in whose "Remains" it is described. Bosa- vern Penlez was one of the crowd that looked on at this affair, and who took advantage of the attack to rob the house. He was apprehended with stolen property in his possession and made an example of. One of the most notable of Fielding's legal papers dates from this period. It is his charge to the Westminster Grand Jury, which he delivered in June, 1749, and in which among other evils he attacked his old love, the stage, for its license of personal attack, with great se- verity. The charge for years has been recognized as a model delivery of its kind, dignified, forcible, eloquent and picturesque. Its compilation is said by one of Fielding's contemporaries to have cost him "two gallons of Bur- gundy and a fit of the gout." But the gout had become chronic with Fielding by this time. Toward the close of 1749 he fell seriously ill with fever aggravated by it. It was indeed at one time re- ported that mortification had supervened; but under the care of Dr. Thomson, that dubious practitioner whose treatment of Winnington in 1746 had given rise to so much paper war, he recovered, and during 1750 was actively employed in his magisterial duties. At this period lawlessness and violence appear to have prevailed to an unusual extent in the metropolis, and the office of a Bow Street justice was no sinecure. Reform of some kind was felt on all sides to be urgently required, and Fielding threw his two years' experience and his deductions therefrom into the form of a pamphlet en- titled " An Enquiry into the Causes of the late Increase of Robbers, etc., with some Proposals for Remedying this growing Evil." It was dedicated to the then Lord High Chancellor, Philip Yorke, Lord Hardwicke, by whom, as well as by more recent legal authorities, it was highly appreciated, and it resulted in a government appropriation for purposes of reform that gave Field- HENRY FIELDING. xxix ing an opportunity to cany out some of his ideas with good results. One passage of the "Enquiry " is an attack on the vice of gin drinking, which is famous as having suggested to the author's friend Hogarth the idea for his plate " Gin Lane," which was published a month later, in February, 1751. We next find Fielding figuring as an endorser of the celebrated Glastonbury waters, whose discovery made a passing sensation, and which are one of the oddi- ties of the day. According to the account given in the Gentleman's Magazine for July in that year, a certain Matthew Chancellor had been cured of "an asthma and phthisic " of thirty years' standing by drinking from a spring near Chain Gate, Glastonbury, to which he had, so he alleged,been directed in a dream. The spring forth- with became famous, and an entry in the Historical Chron- icle for Sunday, May 5th, records that above 10,000 persons had visited it, deserting Bristol, Bath, and other popular resorts. Numerous pamphlets were published for and against the new waters, and a letter in their favor, which appeared in the London Daily Advertiser for the 31st of August, signed "Z. Z.," is "supposed to be wrote " by " J e F g." Fielding was, as may be remembered, a Somersetshire man, Sharpham Park, his birthplace, being about three miles from Glastonbury, and he testifies to the "wonderful Effects of this salu- brious Spring " in words which show that he had himself experienced them. But they brought him no permanent relief in spite of their salubrity. The Glastonbury Springs are now neglected, but they continued popular for many years, and at one time their pump room almost rivaled that at Bath. All this time, pinched by poverty and gout, and racked by fever and trouble, Fielding was finding a spare hour now and then to devote to the last of the fictions which have won him immortality. Like "Tom Jones," it came upon the world with but little preliminary ad- xxx HENRY FIELDING. vertisement. In Sylvanus Urban's list of publica- tions for December, 1751, No. 17 is noticed as "Amelia, in 4 books, 12 mo., by Henry Fielding-, Esq." "Fielding-," wrote Walpole, "hath written a new book, and they tell me put himself in it, though whether as rogue or hero I have not yet read. But what we won- der at is where and how he finds time to write at all." There was, indeed, food for wonder in this; but Fielding's productivity was entirely superior to circum- stances. His enormous energy defied the ravages of disease until physical decay became too complete' for mental sustension. And indeed, the signs of growing weakness show themselves in "Amelia," and hint at the miserable circumstances under which most of that book must have been produced. "What nights of toil and pain, what racking headaches and distracting har- assments by debts and duns must be behind its pages, only the author himself knew. The wonder is not that it has the faults it has, but that it has no more. IX. "Amelia" was published by Fielding's regular pub- lisher, Andrew Millar. According to the General Ad- vertiser, its day of issue was December 19, 1751, but it is dated 1752. The work was dedicated to Ralph Allen. Millar paved the way for it by some of the familiar tricks of advertising of which he was fond. In one he said: " To satisfy the earnest demand of the publick, this work has been printed at four presses ; but the proprietor, notwithstanding, finds it impossible to get them (sic) bound in time, without spoiling the beauty of the impres- sion, and therefore will sell them sew'd at half-a-guinea." This was open enough, but, according to Scott, Millar adopted a second expedient to assist "Amelia" with the booksellers: HENRY FIELDING. xxxi " He had paid a thousand pounds for the copyright; and when he began to suspect that the work would be judged inferior to its predecessor, he employed the fol- lowing stratagem to push it upon the trade. At a sale made to the booksellers, previous to the publication, Mil- lar offered his friends his other publications on the usual terms of discount; but when he came to " Amelia," he laid it aside as a work expected to be in such demand that he could not afford to deliver it to the trade in the usual manner. The ruse succeeded — the impression was anxiously bought up, and the bookseller relieved from every apprehension of a slow sale." Scott makes but small account of "Amelia," of which he writes : " 'Amelia ' was the author's last work of importance. It may be termed a continuation of ' Tom Jones,' but we have not the same sympathy for the ungrateful and dissolute conduct of Booth, which we yield to the youthful follies of Jones. The character of Amelia is said to have been drawn for Fielding's second wife. If he put her patience, as has been alleged, to tests of the same kind, he has, in some degree, repaid her by the picture he has drawn of her feminine delicacy and pure tenderness. Fielding's novels show few instances of pathos ; it was, perhaps, inconsistent with the life which he was compelled to lead ; for those who see most of human misery, become necessarily, in some degree, hardened to its effects. But few scenes of fictitious distress are more affecting than that in which Amelia is described as having made her little preparations for the evening, and sitting in anxious expectation of the return of her unworthy husband, whose folly is, in the meantime, preparing for her new scenes of misery. But our sympathy for the wife is disturbed by our dislike of her unthankful husband, and the tale is, on the whole, unpleasing, even though re- lieved by the humors of the doughty Colonel Bath, and the learned Dr. Harrison, characters drawn with such xxxii HENRY FIELDING. force and 'precision as Fielding alone knew how to em- ploy." Mr. Dobson, a much more lenient, if later, critic, finds, however, ample apology for ''Amelia's" weaknesses. " There are " says he," several reasons why — superficially speaking — ' Amelia ' should he 'judged inferior to its pre- decessor.' That it succeeded ' Tom Jones ' after an interval of a little more than two years and eight months would he an important element in the comparison, if it were known at all definitely what period was occupied in writing ' Tom Jones.' All that can be affirmed is that Fielding must have been far more at leisure when he composed the earlier work than he could possibly have been when filling the office of a Bow Street magistrate. But, in reality, there is a much better explanation of the superiority of ' Tom Jones ' to ' Amelia ' than the merelj r empirical one of the time it took. 'Tom Jones,' it has been admirably said by a French critic, ' est la condensa- tion et le resume de toute une existence. C'est le re- sultat et la conclusion de plusieurs annees de passions et de pensees, la formule derniere et complete de la philosophie personnelle que Von s'est faite sur tout ce que Von a vu et senti.' Behind ' Tom Jones ' there was the author's ebullient youth and manhood ; behind 'Amelia ' but a section of his graver middle age. That, as some have contended, ' Amelia ' shows an intellectual falling off cannot for a moment be admitted, least of all upon the ground — as even so staunch an admirer as Mr. Keightley has allowed himself to believe — that certain of its incidents are obviously repeated from ' The Modern Husband ' and others of the author's plays. At this rate ' Tom Jones ' might be judged inferior to ' Joseph Andrews,' because the Political Apothecary in the 'Man of the Hill's ' story has his prototype in the ' Coffee- House Politician,' whose original is Addison's Uphol- sterer. The plain fact is, that Fielding recognized the failure of his plays as literature ; he regarded them as HENRY FIELDING. xxxiii dead, and freely transplanted what was good of his for- gotten work into the work which he hoped would live. In this, it may be, there was something of indolence or haste, but assuredly there was no proof of declining powers." Johnson was thoroughly captivated with the book. Notwithstanding that on another occasion he paradoxi- cally asserted that the author was a " a blockhead" — " a barren rascal" — he read it through without stopping, and pronounced Mrs. Booth to be " the most pleasing heroine of all the romances." Richardson, on the other hand, found " the characters and situations so wretchedly low and dirty" that he could not get farther than the first volume. With the professional reviewers, a certain " Criticulus" in the Gentleman's Magazine excepted, it seems to have fared but ill ; and although these adverse verdicts, if they exist, are now more or less inaccessible, Fielding has apparently summarized most of them in a mock trial of " Amelia" before the " Court of Censorial Enquiry," the proceedings of which are recorded in Nos. 7 and 8 of the Covent Garden Journal. The book is in- dicted upon the Statute of Dullness, and the heroine is charged with being a "low Character," a " Milksop" and a " Fool;" with lack of spirit and fainting too frequently, with dressing her children, cooking, and other " servile Offices;" with being too forgiving to her husband; and lastly, as may be expected, with the inconsistency already amply referred to, of being "a Beauty without a nose." The other characters are raked over in a similar manner and spirit of satire. In spite of critics, however, the books started well. The ingenious expedients of Andrew Millar appear to have so far succeeded that a new edition of " Amelia " was called for on the day of publication, and though it fell far short of the success of " Tom Jones " in a literary sense, its publication was profitable to the publisher at least. It is not recorded that Fielding got more by it xxxiv HENRY FIELDING. than his original £1,000, which, indeed, came at an au- spicious moment, for the publication of " Amelia " found his fortunes at their lowest ebb for years, and his body in none of its old condition to protract the heroic struggle that it had waged so manfully with fate. The same old Fielding, to the last, however. It is told of him, even in these days of decadence, how he went to Johnson to bor- row money to pay tax arrearages on his house, and com- ing homeward, met an old college chum and took him in and dined him and emptied his pockets to relieve his dis- tress though the tax gatherer might throw him out of doors. "But I have called twice for the money," said the collector. " Well friendship called for it and had it," answered Fielding, "Call again." And Dr. Hurd, after- wards Bishop of Worcester, wrote in a letter from the Inner Temple at this time : " I dined with Ralph Allen yesterday, where I met Mr. Fielding — a poor, emaciated, worn-out rake, whose gout and infirmities have got the better even of his buffoon- ery." That Fielding had not long before been dangerously ill, and that he was a martyr to gout, is fact ; the rest is probably no more than the echo of a foregone conclusion, basen upon report, or dislike to his works. Hurd praised Richardson and proscribed Sterne. He must have been wholly out of sympathy with the author of " Tom Jones." At any rate, it is some satisfaction to reflect that this censorious formalist was called by Johnson a " word- picker," and by franker contemporaries " an old maid in breeches." Richardson wrote exultantly of "Amelia" to one of his admirers, " Captain Booth, madame, has done his business," predicted dead failure for the book, and fore- told that it would be the author's last novel. It was so, but at the dictation of a power very different from the Pharisaical author of " Pamela" and the carping critics who supported him. HENRY FIELDING. xxxv X. The completion of " Amelia " found its author in a very bad way physically, indeed. His gout had become chronic and aggravated. There were forebodings of dropsy. Time and again his physicians commanded him to absolute inactivity and freedom from care. The satire of this prescription is exquisite in its perfection. In order to cure himself, Fielding would have had to starve him. self to death. He did nothing of the kind though. Like a sentinel at his post, he remained in harness in defiance of anguish and flashes and glooms of hopefulness and despair that would have distracted and overturned a feebler mind. "'Tis not the labor that tires me," he writes to a friend at this period, " nor the trouble of thinking. Ideas grow with growth and expand with their execution. If I were a score of years younger, what could I not accomplish ? " Alas ! it was the old story of powers that mature while men decay. A black and bitter life's lesson was bearing splendid fruits at a day too late for the gardener to en- joy them. Fielding still seems to have cherished hopes for another work of fiction after " Amelia." He hints at it obscurely in the few letters he found time to write, and several times alluded to it in casual conversation. But he appears never to have got beyond the germ of the idea, and never to have even skeletonized the plan for its performance. In the profound depths of his deep and daring brain, this last infant of his proud originality died stillborn. But he wrote all the same. He started the Covent- Garden Journal, as a sort of critical and censorious review of the Great Britain in which he was so great a figure. The Covent- Garden Journal was a bi-weekly paper, in which Fielding, under the style and title of " Sir Alexander Drawcansir," assumed the office of censor of Great Britain. The first number of this new venture was xxxvi HENRY FIELDING. issued on January the 4th, 1752, and the price was three- pence. In plan and general appearance it resembled the Jacobite 's Journal, consisting mainly of an introduc- tory essay, paragraphs of current news, often accom- panied by pointed editorial comment, miscellaneous articles and advertisements. One of the features of the earlier numbers was a burlesque, but not very successful, " Journal of the Present Paper War," which speedily in- volved the author in actual hostilities with the notorious quack and adventurer, Dr. John Hill, who for some time had been publishing" certain impudent lucubrations in the London Daily Advertiser under the heading of The Inspector; and also with Smollett, whom he (Fielding) had ridiculed in his second number, perhaps, on account of a certain little paragraph in the first edition of " Pere- grine Pickle." Smollett, always irritable and combative, retorted by a needlessly coarse and venomous pamphlet, in which, under the name of " Habbakkuk Hilding, Jus- tice, Dealer and Chapman," Fielding was attacked with indescribable brutality. Another, and seemingly un- provoked, adversary whom the "Journal of the War" brought upon him was Bonnel Thornton, afterwards joint- author with George Colman of " The Connoisseur," who, in a production styled Have at you All; or, the Drury Lane Journal, lampooned Sir Alexander with remarkable rancour and assiduity. Mr. Lawrence has treated these "quarrels of authors " at some length; and they also have some record in the curious collections of the elder Disraeli. As a general rule, Fielding was far less per- sonal and much more scrupulous in his choice of weapons than those who assailed him; but the conflict was an un- dignified one, and, as Scott has justly said, " neither party would obtain honor by an inquiry into the cause or con- duct of its hostilities." In the enumeration of Fielding's works, says Mr. Dobson very justly, it is somewhat difficult (if due proportion be observed) to assign any real importance to efforts like the HENRY FIELDING. xxxvii Covent Garden Journal. Compared with, his novels, they are insignificant enough. But even the worst work of such a man is notable in its way, and Fielding's con- tributions to the Journal are by no means to be despisc formed therefore of the visit which had lately happened, 152 JONATHAN WILD. 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. CHAPTER III. 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 be en 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 pretence of assist- ing their causes, was in reality undermining the liber- ties 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 florid 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 to 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 contri- butions on you he pleases: but are those sums appropri- JONATHAN WILD. 153 ated to the uses for which they are raised ? Your fre- quent convictions at the Old Bailey, those depredations of justice, must too sensibly and sorely demonstrate the contrary. What evidence doth he ever produce for the prisoner which the prisoner himself could not have pro- vided, 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 injuries 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 ex- orbitancy of his plunders visible only in the dreadful con- sequences 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 required by it ; witness that silk night- gown, 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 New- gate 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 em- broidered with silk, and his velvet cap, bought with the same price, are ensigns 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 prof- itable when dishonor is the condition. If, therefore, Newgate " Here the only copy which we could pro- cure of this 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 154 JONATHAN WILD. 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 plun- der of Newgate, were admitted to some share under their leader, so the abettors 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 remark- able was, that the debtors, who were entirely uncon- cerned in the dispute, and who were the destined plunder of both parties, should interest themselves with the ut- most 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 cant language, signifies plunder, as loudly as the thieves them- selves. 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 inhabit- ants 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 thai he should sell it and divide the money for the good of the whole, he waved that motion, saying it was not jet time, that he should find a better opportunity, that the clothes wanted cleaning, with many other pretences, 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 man- ner. This behavior of Wild greatly incensed the debtors, particularly those by whose means he had been pro- moted. They grumbled extremely, and vented great in- JONATHAN WILD. 155 dignation 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 sheep-fold, a great man is in society. Now, when one wolf is in possession of a sheep-fold, 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 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 rapine of the prig who now plun- ders us for fear of an exchange ? Surely no : but I answer, it is better to shake the plunder off than to ex- change the plunderer. And by what means can we effect this but by a total change of 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 con- fined 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 priggism 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 sacri- fice our private views ; not to give up the interest of the whole for every little pleasure or profit which shall accrue 156 JONATHAN WILD. to ourselves. Liberty is consistent with no degree of honesty inferior to this, and the community where this abounds no prig will have the impudence or audacious- ness to endeavor to enslave; or if he should, his own de- struction 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 priggism 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 priggism, our roguery in plainer words, and preserve our liberty, or to give up the latter in the preservation and preference of the former?" This speech was received with much applause ; how- ever, Wild 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 bra- vado than real use or advantage in these trappings. As for the nightgown, its outside indeed made a glittering tinsel appearance, but it kept him not warm, nor could the finery of it do him much honor, since every one 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, could scarce serve to amuse his own vanity when this was cool enough JONATHAN WILD. 157 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 labo- riously endeavored to paint in this history, it is probable he never took (*. e. robbed the prisoners of) a shilling which he himself did not pay too dear for. CHAPTER IV. TJie dead-warrant arrives for Heartfree ; on which occasion Wild betrays some human weakness. The dead-warrant, as it is called, now came down to Newgate for the execution of Heartfree among the rest of the prisoners. And here the reader must excuse us, who profess to draw natural, not perfect characters, and to record the truths of history, not the extravagances of romance, while we relate a weakness in Wild of which we are ourselves ashamed, and which we would willingly have concealed, could we have preserved at the same time that strict attachment to truth and impartialhyy which we have professed in recording the annals of this great man. Know then, reader, that this dead-warrant did not affect Heartfree, who was to suffer a shameful death by it, with half the concern it gave Wild, who had been the occasion of it. He had been a little struck the day before on seeing the children carried away in tears from their father. This sight brought the remembrance of some slight injuries he had done the father to his mind, which he endeavored as much as possible to obliterate ; but, when one of the keepers (I should say lieutenants of the castle) repeated Heartfree's name among those of the malefac- tors who were to suffer within a few days, the blood forsook his countenance, and in a cold still stream moved heavily to his heart, which had scarce strength enough left to return it through his veins. In short, his body so 158 JONATHAN WILD. visibly demonstrated the pangs of his mind, that to escape observation he retired to his room, where he sullenly gave vent to such bitter agonies, that even the injured Heartfree, had not the apprehension of what bis wife had suffered shut every avenue of compassion, would have pitied him. When his mind was thoroughly fatigued and worn out with the horrors which the approaching fate of the poor wretch who lay under a sentence which he had iniquit- ously brought upon him had suggested, sleep promised him relief ; but this promise was, alas ! delusive. This certain friend to the tired body is often the severest enemy to the oppressed mind. So at least it proved to Wild, adding visionary to real horrors, and tormenting his imagination with phantoms too dreadful to be described. At length, starting from these visions, he no sooner re- covered his waking senses, than he cried out— " I may yet prevent this catastrophe. It is not too late to dis- cover the whole. " He then paused a moment ; but great- ness, instantly returning to his assistance, checked the base thought, as it first offered itself to his mind. He then reasoned thus coolly with himself :— " Shall I, like a child, or a woman, or one of those mean wretches whom 1 have always despised, be frightened by dreams and vis- ionary phantoms to sully that honor which I have so dif- ficultly acquired and so gloriously maintained ? Shall I, to redeem the worthless life of this silly fellow, suffer my reputation to contract a stain which the blood of millions cannot wipe away ? Was it only that the few, the simple part of mankind, should call me rogue, perhaps I could submit ; but to be for ever contemptible to the prigs, as a wretch who wanted spirit to execute my undertaking, can never be digested. What is the life of a single man ? Have not whole armies and nations been sacrificed to the honor of one great man ? Nay, to omit that first-class of greatness, the conquerors of mankind, how often have numbers fallen by a fictitious plot only to satisfy the JONATHAN WILD. 159 spleen, or perhaps exercise the ingenuity, of a member of that second order of greatness, the ministerial ! What have 1 done then ? Why, I have ruined a family, and brought an innocent man to the gallows. I ought rather to weep with Alexander that I have ruined no more than to regret the little I have done." He at length, there- fore, bravely resolved to consign over Heartfree to his fate, though it cost him more struggling than may easily be believed, utterly to conquer his reluctance, and to ban- ish away every degree of humanity from his mind, these little sparks of which composed one of those weaknesses which we lamented in the opening of our history. But, in vindication of our hero, we must beg leave to observe that Nature is seldom so kind as those writers who draw characters absolutely perfect. She seldom creates any man so completely great, or completely low, but that some sparks of humanity will glimmer in the former, and some sparks of what the vulgar call evil will dart forth in the latter ; utterly to extinguish which will give some pain, and uneasiness to both ; for I apprehend no mind was ever yet formed entirely free from blemish, unless perad venture that of a sanctified hypocrite, whose praises some well-fed flatterer hath gratefully thought proper to sing forth. CHAPTER V. Containing various matters. The day was now come when poor Heartfree was to suffer an ignominious death. Friendly had in the strong- est manner confirmed his assurance of fulfilling his prom- ise of becoming a father to one of his children and a hus- band to the other. This gave him inexpressible comfort, and he had, the evening before, taken his last leave of the little wretches with a tenderness which drew a tear 100 JONATHAN WILD. from one of the keepers, joined to a magnanimity which would have pleased a stoic. When he was informed that the coach which Friendly had provided for him was ready, and that the rest of the prisoners were gone, he embraced that faithful friend with great passion, and begged that he would leave him here; but the other de- sired leave to accompany him to his end, which at last he was forced to comply with. And now he was proceeding towards the coach when he found his difficulties were not yet over; for now a friend arrived of whom he was to take a harder and more tender leave than he had yet gone through. This friend, reader, was no other than Mrs. Heartfree herself, who ran to him with a look all wild, staring, and frantic, and having reached his arms, fainted away in them without uttering a single syllable. Heart- free was, with great difficulty, able to preserve his own senses in such a surprise at such a season. And indeed our good-natured reader will be rather inclined to wish this miserable couple had, by dying in each other's arms, put a final period to their woes, than have survived to taste those bitter moments which were to be their por tion, and which the unhappy wife, soon recovering from the short intermission of being, now began to suffer. When she became first mistress of her voice she burst forth into the following accents : — " O my husband ! Is this the condition in which I find you after our cruel sepa- ration ? Who hath done this ? Cruel Heaven ! What is the occasion ? I know thou canst deserve no ill. Tell me, somebody who can speak, while I have my senses left to understand, what is the matter?" At which words several laughed, and one answered, " The matter ! Why no great matter. The gentleman is not the first, nor won't be the last : the worst of the matter is, that if we are to stay all the morning here I shall lose my dinner." Heartfree, pausing a moment and recollecting himself, cried out, "I will bear all with patience." And then, ad- dressing himself to the commanding officer, begged he " HE COULD NOT FORBEAR RENEWING HIS EMBRACE. JONATHAN WILD. 1C1 might only have a few minutes by himself with his wife, whom he had not seen before since his misfortunes. The great man answered, " He had compassion on him, and would do more than he could answer; but he supposed he was too much a gentleman not to know that something- was due for such civility." On this hint, Friendly, who was himself half dead, pulled five guineas out of his pocket, which the great man took, and said he would be so generous to give him ten minutes ; on which one ob- served that many a gentleman had bought ten minutes with a woman dearer, and many other facetious remarks were made unnecessary to be here related. Heartfree was now suffered to retire into a room with his wife, the commander informing him at his entrance that he must be expeditious, for that the rest of the good company would be at the tree before him, and he supposed he was a gentleman of too much breeding to make them wait. This tender wretched couple were now retired for these few minutes, which the commander without carefully measured with his watch ; and Heartfree w T as mustering all his resolution to part with what his soul so ardentry doted on, and to conjure her to support his loss for the sake of her poor infants, and to comfort her with the promise of Friendly on their account ; but all his design was frustrated. Mrs. Heartfree could not support the shock, but again fainted away, and so entirely lost every symptom of life that Heartfree called vehemently for assistance. Friendly rushed first into the room, and was soon followed by many others, and, what was remark- able, one who had unmoved beheld the tender scene between these parting lovers was touched to the quick by the pale looks of the woman, and ran up and down for water, drops, &c, with the utmost hurry and confusion. The ten minutes were expired, which the commander now hinted ; and seeing nothing offered for the renewal of the term (for indeed Friendly had unhappily emptied his pockets), he began to grow very importunate, and at 162 JONATHAN WILD. last told Heartfree he should be ashamed not to act more like a man. Heartfree begged his pardon, and said he would make him wait no longer. Then, with the deepest sigh, cried, " Oh, my angel !" and, embracing his wife with the utmost eagerness, kissed her pale lips with more fervency than ever bridegroom did the blushing cheeks of his bride. He then cried, " The Almighty bless thee ! and, if it be His pleasure, restore thee to life ; if not, I beseech Him we may presently meet again in a better world than this." He was breaking from her, when, perceiving her senses returning, he could not for- bear renewing his embrace, and, again pressing her lips, which now recovered life and warmth so fast that he begged one ten minutes more to tell her what her swoon- ing had prevented her hearing. The worthy commander, being perhaps a little touched at this tender scene, took Friendly aside, and asked him what he would give if he would suffer his friend to remain half an hour ? Friendly answered, anything ; that he had no money in his pocket, but he would certainly pay him that afternoon. " Well, then, I'll be moderate," said he; "twenty guineas." Friendly answered, " It is a bargain." The commander, having exacted a firm promise, " Then I don't care if they stay a whole hour together ; for what signifies hid- ing good news? the gentleman is reprieved;" of which he had just before received notice in a whisper. It would be very impertinent to offer at a description of the joy this occasioned to the two friends, or to Mrs. Heartfree, who was now again recovered. A surgeon, who was happily present, was employed to bleed them all. After which the commander, who had the promise of the money again confirmed to him, wished Heartfree joy, and shak- ing him very friendly by the hands, cleared the room of all the company, and left the three friends together. JONATHAN WILD. 163 CHAPTER VI. In which the foregoing happy incident is accounted for. But here, though I am convinced my good-natured reader maj' almost want the surgeon's assistance also, and that there is no passage in this whole story which can afford him equal delight, yet, lest our reprieve should seem to resemble that in the Beggars' Opera, I shall endeavor to show him that this incident, which is undoubtedly true, is at least as natural as delightful ; for we assure him we would rather have suffered half man- kind to be hanged than have saved one contrary to the strictest rules of writing and probability. Be it known, then (a circumstance which I think highly credible) that the great Fireblood had been, a few days before, taken in the fact of a robbe^, and carried before the same justice of the peace who had, on his evidence, committed Heartfree to prison. This magistrate, who did indeed no small honor to the commission he bore, duly considered the weighty charge committed to him, by which he was intrusted with decisions affecting the lives, liberties, and properties of his countrymen. He therefore examined always with the utmost diligence and caution into every minute circumstance. And, as he had a good deal balanced, even when he committed Heartfree, on the excellent character given him by Friendly and the maid ; and as he was much staggered on finding that, of the two persons on whose evidence alone Heartfree had been com- mitted, and had been since convicted, one was in Newgate for a felony, and the other was now brought before him for a robber}', he thought proper to put the matter very home to Fireblood at this time. The young Achates was taken, as we have said, in the fact ; so that denial he saw was in vain. He therefore honestly confessed what he knew must be proved ; and desired on the merit of the discoveries he had made, to be admitted as 164 JONATHAN WILD. evidence against his accomplices. This afforded the happiest opportunity to the justice to satisfy his con- science in relation to Heartf ree. He told Fireblood that, if he expected the favor he solicited, it must be on con- dition that he revealed the whole truth to him concern- ing the evidence which he had lately given against a bankrupt, and which some circumstances had induced a suspicion of ; that he might depend on it the truth would be discovered by other means, and gave some oblique hints (a deceit entirely justifiable) that Wild himself had offered such a discovery. The very mention of Wild's name immediately alarmed Fireblood, who did not in the least doubt the readiness of that gkeat man to hang any of the gang when his own interest seemed to require it. He therefore hesitated not a moment, but, having obtained a promise from the justice that he should be accepted as an evidence, he discovered the whole false- hood, and declared he had been seduced by Wild to depose as he had done. The justice, having thus luckily and timely discovered this scene of villainy, alias greatness, lost not a moment in using his utmost endeavors to get the case of the unhappy convict represented to the sovereign, who im- mediately granted him that gracious reprieve which caused such happiness to the persons concerned ; and which we hope we have now accounted for to the satis- faction of the reader. The good magistrate, having obtained this reprieve for Heartf ree, thought it incumbent on him to visit him in the prison, and to sound, if possible, the depth of this affair, that, if he should appear as innocent as he now began to conceive him, he might use all imaginable methods to obtain his pardon and enlargement. The next day therefore after that, when the miserable scene above described had passed, he went to Newgate, where he found those three persons, Heartfree, his wife, and Friendly, sitting together. The justice informed JONATHAN WILD. 165 the prisoner of the confession of Fireblood, with the steps which he had taken upon it. The reader will easily con- ceive the many outward thanks, as well as inward grat- itude, which he received from all three ; but those were of very little consequence to him compared with the secret satisfaction he felt in his mind from reflecting on the preservation of innocence, as he soon after very clearly perceived was the case. When he entered the room Mrs. Heartfree was speak- ing with some earnestness : as he perceived, therefore, he had interrupted her, he begged she would continue her discourse, which, if he prevented by his presence, he desired to depart ; but Heartfree would not suffer it. He said she had been relating some adventures which per- haps might entertain him to hear, and which she rather desired he would hear, as they might serve to illus- trate the foundation on which this falsehood had been built, which had brought on her husband all his misfor- tunes. The justice very gladly consented, and Mrs. Heartfree, at her husband's desire, began the relation from the first renewal of Wild's acquaintance with him ; but, though this recapitulation was necessary for the information of our good magistrate, as it would be useless, and perhaps tedious, to the reader, we shall only repeat that part of her story to which only he is a stranger, beginning with what happened to her after Wild had been turned adrift in the boat by the captain of the French privateer. CHAPTER VII. Mrs. Heartfree relates her adventures. Mrs. Heartfree proceeded thus : " The vengeance which the French captain exacted on that villain (our hero) persuaded me that I was fallen into the hands of a 166 JONATHAN WILD. man of honor and justice ; nor indeed was it possible for any person to be treated with more respect and civility than I now was ; but this could not mitigate my sorrows when I reflected on the condition in which I had been betrayed to leave all that was dear to me, much less could it produce such an effect when I discovered, as I soon did, that I owed it chiefly to a passion which threat- ened me with great uneasiness, as it quickly appeared to be very violent, and as I was absolutely in the power of the person who possessed it, or was rather possessed by it. I must, however, do him the justice to say my fears carried my suspicions farther than I afterwards found I had any reason to carry them : he did indeed very soon acquaint me with his passion, and used all those gentle methods which frequently succeed with our sex to prevail with me to gratify it ; but never once threatened, nor had the least recourse to force. He did not even once insin- uate to me that I was totally in his power, which I my- self sufficiently saw, and whence I drew the most dreadful apprehensions, well knowing that, as there are some dis- positions so brutal that cruelty adds a zest and savor to their pleasures, so there are others whose gentler inclina- tions are better gratified when they win us by softer methods to comply with their desires; yet that even these may be often compelled by an unruly passion to have recourse at last- to the means of violence, when they de- spair of success from persuasion ; but I was happily the captive of a better man. My conqueror was one of those over whom vice hath a limited jurisdiction ; and, though he was too easily prevailed on to sin, he was proof against any temptation to villainy. " We had been two days almost totally becalmed, when, a brisk gale rising as we were in sight of Dunkirk, we saw a vessel making full sail towards us. The cap- tain of the privateer was so strong that he apprehended no danger but from a man-of-war, which the sailors dis- cerned this not to be. He therefore struck his colors, and JONATHAN WILD. 161 furled his sails as much as possible, in order to lie by and expect her, hoping- she might be a prize." (Here Heart- free smiling, his wife stopped and inquired the cause. He told her it was from her using the sea-terms so aptly : she laughed, and answered he would wonder less at this when he heard the long time she had been on board : and then proceeded.) " This vessel now came alongside of us, and hailed us, having perceived that on which we were aboard to be of her own country; they begged us not to put into Dunkirk, but to accompany them in their pursuit of a large English merchantman, whom we should easily overtake, and both together as easily conquer. Our captain immediately consented to this proposition, and ordered all his sail to be crowded. This was most unwel- come news to me ; however, he comforted me all he could by assuring me I had nothing to fear, that he would be so far from offering the least rudeness to me himself, that he would, at the hazard of his life, protect me from it. This assurance gave me all the consolation which my pres- ent circumstances and the dreadful apprehensions I had on your dear account would admit. (At which words the tenderest glances passed on both sides between the hus- band and wife). " We sailed near twelve hours, when we came in sight of the ship we were in pursuit of, and which we should probably have soon come up with, had not a very thick mist ravished her from our eves. This mist continued several hours, and when it cleared up we discovered our companion at a great distance from us ; but what gave us (I mean the captain and his crew) the greatest uneasi- ness was the sight of a very large ship within a mile of us, which presently saluted us with a gun, and now appeared to be a third-rate English man-of-war. Our captain declared the impossibility of either fighting or escaping, and accordingly struck without waiting for the broadside which was preparing for us, and which perhaps would have prevented me from the happiness I now 168 JONATHAN WILD. enjoy." This occasioned Heartfree to change color; his wife therefore passed hastily to circumstances of a more smiling- complexion. " I greatly rejoiced at this event, as I thought it would not only restore me to the safe possession of 1113^ jewels, but to what I value beyond all the treasures of the uni- verse. My expectation, however, of both these was some- what crossed for the present ; as to the former, I was told they should be carefully preserved ; but that 1 must prove my right to them before I could expect their restora- tion, which, if I mistake not, the captain did not very eagerly desire I should be able to accomplish ; and as to the latter, I was acquainted that I should be put on board the first ship which they met on her way to England, but that they were proceeding to the "West Indies. " I had not been long on board the man-of-war before I discovered just reason rather to lament than to rejoice at the exchange of my captivity ; for such I concluded my present situation to be. 1 had now another lover in the captain of this Englishman, and much rougher and less gallant than the Frenchman had been. He used me with scarce common civility, as indeed he showed very little to any other person, treating his officers little better than a man of no great good breeding would exert to his meanest servant, and that too on some very irritating provocation. As for me, he addressed me with the insol- ence of a basha to a Circassian slave ; he talked to me with the loose license in which the most profligate liber- tines converse with harlots, and which women abandoned only in a moderate degree detest and abhor. He often kissed me with very rude familiarity, and one day attempted farther brutality ; when a gentleman on board, and who was in my situation, that is, had been taken by a privateer and was retaken, rescued me from his hands, for which the captain confined him, though he was not under his command, two days in irons ; when he was released (for I was not suffered to visit him in his JONATHAN WILD. 169 confinement) I went to him and thanked him with the utmost acknowledgment for what he had done and suffered on my account. The gentleman behaved to me in the handsomest manner on this occasion ; told me he was ashamed of the high sense I seemed to entertain of so small an obligation of an action to which his duty as a Christian and his honor as a man obliged him. From this time I lived in great familiarity with this man, whom I regarded as my protector, which he professed himself ready to be on all occasions, expressing the ut- most abhorrence of the captain's brutality, especially that shown towards me, and the tenderness of a parent for the preservation of my virtue, for which I was not myself more solicitous than he appeared. He was, in- deed, the only man 1 had hitherto met since my unhappy departure who did not endeavor by all his looks, words, and actions, to assure me he had a liking to my unfortu- nate person ; the rest seeming desirous of sacrificing the little beauty they complimented to their desires, without the least consideration of the ruin which I earnestly repre- sented to them they were attempting to bring on me and on my future repose. " I now passed several days pretty free from the cap- tain's molestation, till one fatal night." Here, perceiving Heartfree grew pale, she comforted him by an assurance that Heaven had preserved her chastity, and again had restored her unsullied to his arms. She continued thus : " Perhaps I gave it a wrong epithet in the word fatal; but a wretched night I am sure I may call it, for no woman who came off victorious was, I believe, ever in greater danger. One night I say, having drank his spirits high with punch, in company with the purser, who was the only man in the ship he admitted to his table, the cap- tain sent for me into his cabin ; whither, though unwill- ingly, I was obliged to go. We were no sooner alone together than he seized me by the hand, and, after affronting my ears with discourse which I am unable to 170 JONATHAN WILD. repeat, he swore a great oath that his passion was to be dallied with no longer ; that I must not expect to treat him in the manner to which a set of blockhead landmen submitted. ' None of your coquette airs, therefore, with me, madame,' said he, 'for I am resolved to have you this night. No struggling nor squalling, for both will be impertinent. The first man who offers to come in here, I will have his skin flay'd off at the gangway.' He then attempted to pull me violently towards his bed. I threw myself on my knees, and with tears and entreaties be- sought his compassion ; but this was, I found, to no pur- pose. I then had recourse to threats, and endeavored to frighten him with the consequence ; but neither had this, though it seemed to stagger him more than the other method, sufficient force to deliver me. At last a stratagem came into my head, of which my perceiving him reel gave me the first hint ; I entreated a moment's reprieve only, when, collecting all the spirits I could muster, I put on a constrained air of gaiety, and told him with an affected laugh, he was the roughest lover I had ever met with, and that I believed I was the first woman he had ever paid his addresses to. 'Addresses,' said he ; ' d— n your addresses ! I want to undress you.' I then begged him to let us drink some punch together ; for that I loved a can as well as himself, and never would grant the favor to any man till I had drank a hearty glass with him. * Oh ! ' said he, ' if that be all, you shall have punch enough to drown yourself in.' At which words he rang the bell, and ordered in a gallon of that liquor. I was in the meantime obliged to suffer his nauseous kisses, and some rudenesses which I had great difficulty to restrain within moderate bounds. When the punch came in he took up the bowl and drank my health ostentatiously, in such a quantity that considerably advanced my scheme. I folio wed him with bumpers as fast as possible, and was myself obliged to drink so much that at another time it would have staggered my own reason, but at present it JONATHAN WILD. 171 did not affect me. At length, perceiving- him very far gone, I watched an opportunity, and ran out of the cabin, resolving to seek protection of the sea if I could find no other ; hut Heaven was now graciously pleased to relieve me ; for in his attempt to pursue me he reeled backwards, and, falling down the cabin stairs, he dislocated his shoulder and so bruised himself that I was not only pre- served that night from any danger of my intended rav- isher, but the accident threw him into a fever which endangered his life, and whether he ever recovered or no I am not certain ; for during his delirious fits the eldest lieutenant commanded the ship. This was a virtuous and brave fellow, who had been twenty-five years in that post without being able to obtain a ship, and had seen several boys, the bastards of noblemen, put over his head. One day while the ship remained under his command an Eng- lish vessel bound to Cork passed by ; myself and my friend, who had formerly lain two days in irons on my account, went on board this ship with the leave of the good lieutenant, who made us such presents as he was able of provisions, and, congratulating me on my delivery from a danger to which none of the ship's crew had been strangers, he kindly wished us both a safe voyage. CHAPTER VIII. in which Mrs. Heartfree continues the relation of her adventures. "The first evening after we were aboard this vessel, which was a brigantine, we being then at no very great distance from the Madeiras, the most violent storm arose from the northwest, in which we presently lost both our masts, and indeed death now presented itself as inevitable to us : I need not tell my Tommy what were then my thoughts. Our danger was so great that the captain of the ship, a professed atheist, betook himself to prayers, and 172 JONATHAN WILD. the whole crew, abandoning- themselves for lost, fell with the utmost eagerness to the emptjing a cask of brandy, not one drop of which they swore should be polluted with salt water. I observed here my old friend displayed less courage than I expected from him. He seemed entirely swallowed up in despair. But Heaven be praised ! we were at last all preserved. The storm, after above eleven hours' continuance, began to abate, and by degrees en- tirely ceased, but left us still rolling at the mercy of the waves, which carried us at their own pleasure to the southeast a vast number of leagues. Our crew were all dead drunk with the brandy which they had taken such care to preserve from the sea ; but, indeed, had they been awake, their labor would have been of very little service, as we had lost all our rigging, our brigantine being reduced to a naked hulk only. In this condition we floated about thirty hours, till in the midst of a very dark night we spied a light, which, seeming to approach us, grew so large that our sailors concluded it to be the lantern of a man-of-war, but when we were cheering ourselves with the hopes of our deliverance from this wretched situation, on a sudden, to our great concern, the light entirely dis- appeared, and left us in a despair increased by the remem- brance of those pleasing imaginations with which we had entertained our minds during its appearance. The rest of the night we passed in melancholy conjectures on the light which had deserted us, which the major part of the sailors concluded to be a meteor. In this distress we had one comfort, which was a plentiful store of provision ; this so supported the spirits of the sailors, that they declared had they but a sufficient quantity of brandy they cared not whether they saw land for a month to come ; but indeed we were much nearer it than we imagined, as we perceived at break of day. One of the most knowing of the crew declared we were near the continent of Africa ; but when we were within three leagues of it a second violent storm arose from the north, so that we again gave over all JONATHAN WILD 173 hopes of safetj 7 . This storm was not quite so outrageous as the former, but of much longer continuance, for it lasted near three days, and drove us an immense number of leagues to the south. We were withm a league of the shore, expecting every moment our ship to be dashed to pieces, when the tempest ceased all on a sudden ; but the waves still continued to roll like mountains, and before the sea recovered its calm motion our ship was thrown so near the land that the captain ordered out his boat, declaring he had scarce any hopes oi saving her ; and indeed we had not quitted her many minutes before we saw the justice of his apprehensions, for she struck against a rock and immediately sunk. The behavior of the sailors on this occasion very much affected me ; they beheld their ship perish with the tenderness of a lover or a parent; the}' spoke of her as the fondest husband would of his wife ; and many of them, who seemed to have no tears in their composition, shed them plentifully at her sinking. The captain himself cried out, ' Go thy waj r , charming Molly, the sea never devoured a lovelier morsel. If 1 have fifty vessels, I shall never love another like thee. Poor slut ! I shall remember thee to my dying day.' Well, the boat now conveyed us all sale to shore, where we landed with very little difficulty. It was now about noon, and the rays of the sun, which descended almost perpendicular on our heads, were extremely hot and troublesome. However, we traveled through this ex- treme heat about five miles over a plain. This brought us to a vast wood, which extended itself as far as we could see both to the right and left, and seemed to me to put an entire end to our progress. Here we decreed to rest and dine on the provision which we had brought from the ship, of which we had sufficient for very few meals ; our boat being so overloaded with people that we had very little room for luggage of any kind. Our repast was salt pork broiled, which the keenness of hunger made so de- licious to my companions that they fed very heartily upon 174 JONATHAN WILD. it. As for myself, the fatigue of my body and the vexa- tion of my mind had so thoroughly weakened me, that I was almost entirely deprived of appetite ; and the utmost dexterity of the most accomplished French cook would have been ineffectual had he endeavored to tempt me with delicacies. I thought myself very little a gainer by my late escape from the tempest, by which I seemed only to have exchanged the element in which I was presently to die. When our company had sufficiently, and indeed veiy plentifully, feasted themselves, they resolved to ^enter the wood and endeavor to pass it, in expectation of finding some inhabitants, at least some provision. We proceeded therefore in the following order : one man in the front with a hatchet, to clear our way, and two others followed him with guns, to protect the rest from wild beasts ; then walked the rest of our company, and last of all the captain himself, being armed likewise with a gun, to defend us from any attack behind — in the rear, I think you call it. And thus our whole company, being four- teen in number, traveled on till night overtook us, without seeing anything unless a few birds and some very in- significant animals. We rested all night under the covert of some trees, and indeed we very little wanted shelter at that season, the heat in the day being the only inclemency we had to combat with in this climate. I cannot help telling you my old friend lay still nearest to me on the ground, and declared he would be my protector should any of the sailors offer rudeness ; but I can acquit them of any such attempt ; nor was I ever affronted by any one, more than with a coarse expression, proceeding rather from the roughness and ignorance of their education than from any abandoned principle, or want of humanity. " We had now proceeded very little way on our next day's march when one of the sailors, having skipped nim- bly up a hill, with the assistance of a speaking trumpet informed us that he saw a town a very little way off. This news so comforted me, and gave me such strength, JONATHAN WILD. 175 as well as spirits, that, with, the help of my old friend and another, who suffered me to lean on them, I, with much difficulty, attained the summit; hut was so absolutely overcome in climbing- it, that I had no longer sufficient strength to support my tottering limbs, and was obliged to lay myself again on the ground ; nor could they pre- vail on me to undertake descending through a very thick wood into a plain, at the end of which indeed appeared some houses, or rather huts, but at a much greater dis- tance than the sailor had assured us ; the little way, as he had called it, seeming to me full twenty miles, nor was it, I believe, much less." CHAPTER IX. Containing incidents very surprising. " The captain declared he would, without delay, pro- ceed to the town before him ; in which resolution he was seconded by all the crew ; but when I could not be per- suaded, nor was I able to travel any farther before I had rested myself, my old friend protested he would not leave me, but would stay behind as my g'uard ; and, when I had refreshed myself with a little repose, he would attend me to the town, which the captain promised he would not leave before he had seen us. " They were no sooner departed than (having first thanked my protector for his care of me) I resigned my- self to sleep, which immediately closed my eyelids, and would probably have detained me very long in his gentle dominion, had I not been awaked with a squeeze by the hand of my guard, which I at first thought intended to alarm me with the danger of some wild beast ; but I soon perceived it arose from a softer motive, and that a gentle swain was the only wild beast I had to apprehend. He began now to disclose his passion in the strongest man- 1T6 JONATHAN WILD. ner imaginable, indeed, with a warmth rather beyond that of both my former lovers, but as 3 r et without any attempt of absolute force. On my side, remonstrances were made in more bitter exclamations and revilings than I had used to any, that villain Wild excepted. I told him he was the basest and most treacherous wretch alive ; and his having cloaked his iniquitous designs under the appearance of vir- tue and friendship, added an ineffable degree of horror to them ; that 1 detested him of all mankind the most ; and could I be brought to yield to prostitution, he should be the last to enjoy the ruins of my honor. He suffered him- self not to be provoked by this language, but only changed his method of solicitation from flattery to bribery. He unripped the lining of his waistcoat, and pulled forth sev- eral jewels ; these, he said, he had preserved from infinite danger to the happiest purpose, if I could be won by them. I rejected them often with the utmost indignation, till at last, casting my eye, rather by accident than design, on a diamond necklace, a thought like lightning shot through my mind, and, in an instant, I remembered that this was the very necklace you had sold the cursed count, the cause of all our misfortunes. The confusion of ideas into which his surprise hurried me prevented me reflecting on the villain who then stood before me ; but the first recollec- tion presently told me it could be no other than the count himself, the wicked tool of Wild's barbarity. Good Heav- ens ! what was then my condition ! How shall I describe the tumult of passions which then labored in my breast? However, as I was happily unknown to him, the least suspicion on his side was altogether impossible. He im- puted, therefore, the eagerness with which I gazed on the jewels to a very wrong cause, and endeavored to put as much additional softness into his countenance as he was able. My fears were a little quieted, and I was resolved to be very liberal of promises, and hoped so thoroughly to persuade him of my venality that he might, without any doubt, be drawn in to wait the captain and crew's re- a o o a JONATHAN WILD. 177 turn, who would, I was very certain, not only preserve me from his violence, but secure the restoration of what you had been so cruelly robbed of. But, alas ! I was mis- taken." Mrs. Heartfree, again perceiving- symptoms of the utmost disquietude in her husband's countenance, cried out, " My dear, don't you apprehend any harm — but, to. deliver you as soon as possible from 3 r our anxiety — when he perceived I declined the warmth of his ad- dresses he begged me to consider ; he changed at once his voice and features, and, in a very different tone from what he had hitherto affected, he swore I should not de- ceive him as I had the captain ; that fortune had kindly thrown an opportunity in his way which he was resolved not foolishly to lose ; and concluded with a violent oath that he was determined to enjo} r me that moment, and therefore I knew the consequence of resistance. He then caught me in his arms, and began such rude attempts, that I screamed out with all the force I could, though I had so little hope of being rescued, when there suddenly rushed forth from a thicket a creature, which, at his first appearance, and in the hurry of spirits I then was, I did not take for a man ; but, indeed, had he been the fiercest of wild beasts, I should have rejoiced at his devouring us both. I scarce perceived he had a musket in his hand be- fore he struck my ravisher such a blow with it that he felled him at my feet. He then advanced with a gentle air towards me, and told me in French he was extremely glad he had been luckily present to my assistance. He was naked, except his middle and his feet, if I can call a body so which was covered with hair almost equal to any beast whatever. Indeed, his appearance was so horrid in my eyes, that the friendship he had shown me, as well as his courteous behavior, could not entirely remove the dread I had conceived from his figure. I believe he saw this very visibly ; for he begged me not to be frightened, since, whatever accident had brought me thither, I should have reason to thank Heaven for meeting him, at whose 178 JONATHAN WILD. hands I might assure myself of the utmost civility and protection. In the midst of all this consternation, I had spirits enough to take up the casket of jewels which the villain, in falling, had dropped out of his hands, and con- veyed it into my pocket. My deliverer, telling me that I seemed extremely weak and faint, desired me to refresh myself at his little hut, which, he said, was hard by. If his demeanor had been less kind and obliging, my desper- ate situation must have lent me confidence ; for sure the alternative could not be doubtful, whether I should rather trust this man, who, notwithstanding his savage outside, expressed so much devotion to serve me, which at least I was not certain of the falsehood of, or should abide with one whom I so perfectly well knew to be an accomplished villain. I therefore committed myself to his guidance, though with tears in my eyes, and begged him to have compassion on my innocence, which was absolutely in his power. He said, the treatment he had been witness of, which he supposed was from one who had broken his trust towards me, sufficiently justified my suspicion ; but begged me to dry my eyes, and he would soon convince me that I was with a man of different sentiments. The kind accents which accompanied these words gave me some comfort, which was assisted by the re-possession of our jewels by an accident strongly savoring of the dispo- sition of Providence in my favor. " We left the villain weltering in his blood, though beginning to recover a little motion, and walked together to his hut, or rather cave, for it was under ground, on the side of a hill ; the situation was very pleasant, and from its mouth we overlooked a large plain and the town I had before seen. As soon as I entered it, he desired me to sit down on a bench of earth, which served him for chairs, and then laid before me some fruits, the wild product of that country, one or two of which had an ex- cellent flavor. He likewise produced some baked flesh, a little resembling that of venison. He then brought forth JONATHAN WILD. 179 a bottle of brandy, which he said had remained with him ever since his settling 1 there, now above thirty years, during all which time he had never opened it, his only liquor being water ; that he had reserved this bottle as a cordial in sickness ; but, he thanked Heaven, he had never yet had occasion for it. He then acquainted me that he was a hermit, that he had been formerly cast away on that coast, with his wife, whom he dearly loved, but could not preserve from perishing ; on which account he had resolved never to return to France, which was his native country, but to devote himself to prayer and a holy life, placing all his hopes in the blessed expectation of meeting that dear woman again in Heaven, where, he was convinced, she was now a saint and an interceder for him. He said he had exchanged a watch with the king of that country, whom he described to be a very just and good man, for a gun, some powder, shot, and ball, with which he sometimes provided himself food, but more generally used it in defending himself against wild beasts ; so that his diet was chiefly of the vegetable kind. He told me many more circumstances, which I may relate to you hereafter : but, to be as concise as possible at present, he at length greatly comforted me by promising to con- duct me to a seaport, where I might have an oppor- tunity to meet with some vessels trafficking for slaves ; and whence I might once more commit myself to that element which, though I had already suffered so much on it, I must again trust to put me in possession of all I lovea. " The character he gave me of the inhabitants of the town we saw below us, and of their king, made me desirous of being conducted thither; especially as I very much wished to see the captain and sailors, who had behaved very kindly to me, and with whom, notwith- standing all the civil behavior of the hermit, I was rather easier in my mind than alone with this single man ; but he dissuaded me greatly from attempting such a walk 180 JONATHAN WILD. till I had recruited my spirits with rest, desiring- me to repose myself on his couch or bank, saying* that he him- self would retire without the cave, where he would re- main as my guard. I accepted this kind proposal, but it was long before I could procure any slumber ; however, at length, weariness prevailed over my fears, and I en- joyed several hours' sleep. When I awaked I found my faithful sentinel on his post and ready at my summons. This behavior infused some confidence into me, and I now repeated my request that he would go with me to the town below ; but he answered, it would be better advised to take some repast before I undertook the journey, which I should find much longer than it appeared. I consented, and he set forth a greater variety of fruits than before, of which I ate very plentifully. My collation being ended, I renewed the mention of my walk, but he still persisted in dissuading me, telling me that I was not yet strong enough ; that I could repose myself nowhere with greater safety than in his cave ; and that, for his part, he could have no greater happiness than that of at- tending me, adding, with a sigh, it was a happiness he should envy any other more than all the gifts of fortune. You may imagine I began now to entertain suspicions ; but he presently removed all doubt by throwing himself at my feet and expressing the warmest passion for me. I should have now sunk with despair had he not accom- panied these professions with the most vehement protest- ations that he would never offer me any other force but that of entreaty, and that he would rather die the most cruel death by my coldness than gain the highest bliss by becoming the occasion of a tear of sorrow to these bright eyes, which he said were stars, under whose benign in- fluence alone he could enjoy, or indeed suffer life." She was repeating many more compliments he made her, when a horrid uproar, which alarmed the whole gate, put a stop to her narration at present. It is impossible for me to give the reader a better idea of the noise which JONATHAN WILD. 181 now arose than by desiring him to imagine I had the hundred tongues the poet once wished for, and was vociferating from them all at once, by holloing, scolding, crying, swearing, bellowing, and, in short, by every dif- ferent articulation which is within the scope of the human organ. CHAPTER X. A horrible uproar in the Gate. But however great an idea the reader may hence con- ceive of this uproar, he will think the occasion more than adequate to it when he is informed that our hero (I blush to name it) had discovered an injury done to his honor, and that in the tenderest point. In a word, reader (for thou must know it, though it give thee the greatest horror imaginable), he had caught Fireblood in the arms of his lovely Laetitia. As the generous bull who, having long depastured among a number of cows, and thence contracted an opinion that these cows are all his own property, if he beholds another bull bestride a cow within his walks, he roars aloud, and threatens instant vengeance with his horns, till the whole parish are alarmed with his bellow- ing ; not with less noise nor less dreadful menaces did the fury of Wild burst forth and terrify the whole gate. Long time did rage render his voice inarticulate to the hearer ; as when, at a visiting day, fifteen or sixteen or perhaps twice as many females, of delicate but shrill pipes, ejaculate all at once on different subjects, all is sound only, the harmony entirely melodious indeed, but conveys no idea to our ears ; but at length, when reason began to get the better of his passion, which latter, being deserted by his breath, began a little to retreat, the fol- lowing accents leapt over the hedge of his teeth, or rather the ditch of his gums, whence those hedgestakes had long 182 JONATHAN WILD. since by a patten been displaced in battle with an amazon of Drury. * — " Man of honor ! doth this become a friend ? Could I have expected such a breach of all the laws of honor from thee, whom I had taught to walk in its paths ? Hadst thou chosen any other way to injure my confidence I could have forgiven it ; but this is a stab in the tender - est part, a wound never to be healed, an injury never to be repaired ; for it is not only the loss of an agreeable companion, of the affection of a wife dearer to my soul than life itself, it is not this loss alone I lament; this loss is accompanied with disgrace and with dishonor. The blood of the "Wilds, which hath run with such uninter- rupted purity through so many generations, this blood is fouled, is contaminated: hence flow my tears, hence arises my grief. This is the injury never to be redressed, nor ever to be with honor forgiven." — " M in a bandbox! ' : answered Fireblood ; "here is a noise about your honor! If the mischief done to your blood be all you complain of, I am sure you complain of nothing ; for my blood is as good as yours." — "You have no conception," replied Wild, " of the tenderness of honor; you know not how nice and delicate it is in both sexes ; so delicate that the least breath of air which rudely blows on it destroys it." — " I will prove from your own words," says Fireblood, " I have not wronged your honor. Have you not often told me that the honor of a man consisted in receiving no affront from his own sex, and that of woman in receiving no kindness from ours ? Now sir, if I have given you no affront, how have I injured your honor?" — "But doth not everything," cried Wild, " of the wife belong to the husband ? A married man, therefore, hath his wife's honor as well as his own, and by injuring hers you injure his. How cruelly you have hurt me in this tender part I need not repeat ; the whole gate knows it, and the world shall. I will apply to Doctors' Commons for my redress * The beginning of this «peech is lost. K h c c |z fl JONATHAN WILD. 183 against her; I will shake off as much of my dishonor as I can by parting- with her ; and as for you, expect to hear of me in Westminster-hall ; the modern method of repair- ing these breaches and resenting this affront." — "D — n your eyes ? " cries Fireblood; " I fear you not, norjdo I be- lieve a word you say." — "Nay, if you affront me person- ally, "say s Wild ' 'an other sort of resentment is prescribed . ' * At which word, advancing to Fireblood, he presented him with a box on the ear, which the youth immediately returned ; and now our hero and his friend fell to boxing, though with some difficulty, both being encumbered with the chains which the} 7 " wore between their legs: a few blows passed on both sides before the gentlemen who stood by stepped in and parted the combatants ; and now, both parties having whispered each other, that, if they outlived the ensuing sessions and escaped the tree, one should give and the other should receive satisfaction in single combat, they separated and the gate soon recov- ered its former tranquility. Mrs. Heartfree was then desired by the justice and her husband both, to conclude her story, which she did in the words of the next chapter. CHAPTER XI. The conclusion of Mrs. Heartfree's adventures. " If I mistake not, I was interrupted just as I was be- ginning to repeat some of the compliments made me by the hermit." — " Just as you had finished them, 1 believe, madam," said the justice. — " Very well, sir, " said she; "I am sure I have no pleasure in the repetition. He concluded then with telling me, though I was in his eyes the most charming woman in the world, and might tempt a saint to abandon the ways of holiness, yet my beauty inspired him with a much tenderer affection towards me 184 JONATHAN WILD. than to purchase any satisfaction of his own desires with my misery; if therefore I could he so cruel to him to re- ject his honest and sincere address, nor could submit to a solitary life with one who would endeavor by all possi- ble means to make me happy, I had no force to dread ; for that I was as much at my liberty as if I was in France, or England, or any other free country. I repulsed him with the same civility with which he advanced ; and told him that, as he professed great regard to religion, I was convinced he would cease from all farther solicita- tion when I informed him that, if I had no other objec- tion, my own innocence would not admit of my hearing him on this subject, for that I was married. He started a little at that word, and was for some time silent ; but, at length recovering himself, he began to urge the uncer- tainty of my husband's being alive, and the probability of the contrary. He then spoke of marriage as of a civil policy only, on which head he urged many arguments not worth repeating, and was growing so very eager and importunate that 1 know not whither his passion might have hurried him had not three of the sailors, well armed, appeared at that instant in sight of the cave. I no sooner saw them than, exulting with the utmost inward joy, I told him my companions were come for me, and that I must now take my leave of him ; assuring him that I would always remember, with the most grateful ac- knowledgment, the favors I had received at his hands. He fetched a very heavy sigh, and, squeezing me tenderly by the hand, he saluted my lips with a little more eager- ness than the European salutations admit of, and told me he should likewise remember my arrival at his cave to the last day of his life, adding, O that he could there spend the whole in the company of one whose bright eyes had kindled — but I know you will think, sir, that we wo- men love to repeat the compliments made us, I will there- fore omit them. In a word, the sailors being now ar- rived, I quitted him with some compassion for the reluct- JONATHAN WILD. 185 ance with which he parted from me, and went forward with my companions. " We had proceeded but a very few paces before one of the sailors said to his comrades, ' D — n me, Jack, who knows whether yon fellow hath not some good flip in his cave ?" I innocently answered, the poor wretch had only one bottle of brandy. ' Hath he so ?' cries the sailor; ' 'Fore George, we will taste it;' and so saying- they im- mediately returned back, and mj^self with them. We found the poor man prostrate on the ground, expressing all the symptoms of misery and lamentation. I told him in French (for the sailors could not speak that language) what they wanted. He pointed to the place where the bottle was deposited, saying they were welcome to that and whatever else he had, and added he cared not if they took his life also. The sailors searched the whole cave, where finding nothing more which they deemed worth their taking, they walked off with the bottle, and, im- mediately emptying it without offering me a drop, they proceeded with me towards the town. " In our way I observed one whisper another, while he kept his eye steadfastly fixed on me. This gave me some uneasiness ; but the other answered, ' No, d — n me, the captain will never forgive us : besides, we have enough of it among the black women, and, in my mind, one color is as good as another. This was enough to give me violent apprehensions ; but I heard no more of that kind till we came to the town, where, in about six hours, I arrived in safety. " As soon as I came to the captain he inquired what was become of my friend, meaning the villainous count. When he was informed by me of what had happened, he wished me heartily joy of my delivery, and, expressing the utmost abhorrence of such baseness, swore if ever he met him he would cut his throat , but, indeed, we both concluded that he had died of the blow which the hermit had given him. 186 JONATHAN WILD. " I was now introduced to the chief magistrate of this country, who was desirous of seeing me. I will give you a short description of him. He was chosen (as is the cus- tom there) for his superior bravery and wisdom. His power is entirely absolute during his continuance ; but, on the first deviation from equity and justice, he is liable to be deposed and punished by the people, the elders of whom, once a year, assemble to examine into his conduct. Besides the danger which these examinations, which are very strict, expose him to, his office is of such care and trouble that nothing but that restless love of power so predominant in the mind of man could make it the object of desire, for he is indeed the only slave of all the natives of this country. He is obliged, in time of peace, to hear the complaint of every person in his dominions, and to render him justice ; for which purpose everyone may de- mand an audience of him, unless during the hour which he is allowed for dinner, when he sits alone at the table, and is attended in the most public manner with more than European ceremony. This is done to create an awe and respect towards him in the eye of the vulgar ; but lest it should elevate him too much in his own opinion, in order to his humiliation he receives every evening in pri- vate, from a kind of beadle, a gentle kick on his posteriors ; besides which he wears a ring in his nose somewhat re- sembling that we ring our pigs with, and a chain round his neck not unlike that worn by our aldermen ; both which I suppose to be emblematical, but heard not [the reasons of either assigned. There are many more par- ticularities among these people which, when I have an opportunity, I may relate to you. The second day after my return from court one of his officers, whom they call Schach Pimpach, waited upon me, and, by a French in- terpreter who lives here, informed me that the chief mag- istrate liked my person, and offered me an immense present if I would suffer him to enjoy it (this is, it seems, their common form of making love). I rejected the pres- JONATHAN WILD. 18? ent, and never heard any further solicitation ; for, as it is no shame for women here to consent at the first proposal, so they never receive a second. " I had resided in this town a week when the captain informed me that a number of slaves, who had been taken captives in war, were to be guarded to the seaside, where they were to be sold to the merchants who traded in them to America ; that if I would embrace this opportunity I might assure ni3 T self of finding a passage to America, and thence to England ; acquainting me at the same time that he himself intended to go with them. I readily agreed to accompany him. The chief, being advised of our designs, sent for us both to court, and, without mention- ing one word of love to me, having presented me with a very rich jewel, of less value, he said, than my chastity, took a very civil leave, recommending me to the care of Heaven, and ordering us a large supply of provisions for our journey. "We were provided with mules for ourselves and what we carried with us, and in nine days reached the seashore, where we found an English vessel ready to receive both us and the slaves. We went aboard it, and sailed the next day with a fair wind for New England, where I hoped to get an immediate passage to the Old : but Prov- idence was kinder than my expectation ; for the third day after we were at sea we met an English man-of-war homeward bound ; the captain of it was a very good- natured man, and agreed to take me on board. I accord- ingly took my leave of my old friend, the master of the shipwrecked vessel, who went on to New England, whence he intended to pass to Jamaica, where his owners lived. I was now treated with great civility, had a little cabin assigned me, and dined every day at the captain's table, who was indeed a very gallant man, and, at first, made me a tender of his affections ; but, when he found me resolutely bent to preserve myself pure and entire for the best of husbands, he grew cooler in his addresses, and 188 JONATHAN WILD. soon behaved in a manner very pleasing- to me, regarding my sex only so far as to pay me a deference, which is very agreeable to us all. " To conclude my story : I met with no adventure in this passage at all worth relating till my landing at Gravesend, whence the captain brought me in his own boat to the tower. In a short hour after my arrival we had that meeting which, however dreadful at first, will, I now hope, by the good offices of the best of men, whom Heaven forever bless, end in our perfect happiness, and be a strong instance of what I am persuaded is the surest truth, THAT PROVIDENCE WILL SOONER OR LATER PROCURE THE FELICITY OF THE VIRTUOUS AND INNOCENT. Mrs. Heartfree thus ended her speech, having before delivered to her husband the jewels which the count had robbed him of, and that presented her by the African chief, which last was of immense value. The good magistrate was sensibly touched at her narrative, as well on the consideration of the sufferings she had herself undergone as for those of her husband, which he had him- self been innocently the instrument of bringing upon him. That worthy man, however, much rejoiced in what he had already done for his preservation, and promised to labor with his utmost interest and industry to procure the abso- lute pardon, rather of his sentence than of his guilt, which he now plainly discovered was a barbarous and false imputation. CHAPTER XII. The history returns to the contemplation of greatness. But we have already, perhaps, detained our reader too long in this relation from the consideration of our hero, who daily gave the most exalted proofs of greatness in cajoling the prigs, and in exactions on the debtors ; which latter now grew so great, i.e., corrupted in their morals, JONATHAN WILD. 189 that they spoke with the utmost contempt of what the vulgar call honesty. The greatest character among them was that of a pickpocket, or, in truer language, a file ; and the only censure was want of dexterity. As to vir- tue, goodness, and such like, they were the objects of mirth and derision, and all Newgate was a complete col- lection of prigs, every man being desirous to pick his neighbor's pocket, and every one was as sensible that his neighbor was as ready to pick his ; so that (which is almost incredible) as great roguery daily was committed within the walls of Newgate as without. The glory resulting from these actions of Wild prob- ably animated the envy of his enemies against him. The day of his trial now approached ; for which, as Socrates did, he prepared himself ; but not weakly and foolishly, like that philosopher, with patience and resignation, but with a good number of false witnesses. However, as success is not always proportioned to the wisdom of him who endeavors to attain it, so are we more sorry than ashamed to relate that our hero was, notwithstanding his utmost caution and prudence, convicted, and sentenced to a death which, when we consider not only the great men who have suffered it, but the much larger number of vhose whose highest honor it hath been to merit it, we cannot call otherwise than honorable. Indeed those who have unluckily missed it seem all their days to have labored in vain to attain an end which Fortune, for rea- sons only known to herself, hath thought proper to deny them. Without any farther preface then, our hero was sentenced to be hanged by the neck: but, whatever was to be now his fate, he might console himself that he had perpetrated what Nee Judicis ira, nee ignis, Nee poterit ferrum, nee edax abolere vetustas. For my own part, I confess, I look on this death of hang- ing to be as proper for a hero as any other ; and I solemnly declare that had Alexander the Great been 190 JONATHAN WILD. hanged it would not in the least have diminished my re- spect to his memory. Provided a hero in his life doth but execute a sufficient quantity of mischief ; provided he be but well and heartily cursed by the widow, the orphan, the poor, and the oppressed (the sole rewards, as many authors have bitterly lamented both in prose and verse, of greatness, i.e. priggism), I think it avails little of what nature his death be, whether it be by the axe, the halter, or the sword. Such names will be always sure of living to posterity, and of enjoying that fame which they so gloriously and eagerly coveted ; for according to a great dramatic poet, Fame Not more survives from good than evil deeds. TV aspiring youth that fired Ephesian dome Outlives in fame the pious fool who rais'd it. Our hero now suspected that the malice of his enemies would overpower him. He therefore betook himself to that true support of greatness in affliction, a bottle ; by means of which he was enabled to curse, swear and bully and brave his fate. Other comfort indeed he had not much, for not a single friend ever came near him. His wife, whose trial was deferred to the next sessions, visited him but once, when she plagued, tormented, and up- braided him so cruelly, that he forbade the keeper ever to admit her again. The ordinary of Newgate had fre- quent conferences with him, and greatly would it em- bellish our history could we record all which that good man delivered on these occasions; but unhappily we could procure only the substance of a single conference, which was taken down in shorthand by one who over- heard it. We shall transcribe it, therefore, exactly in the same form and words we received it ; nor can we help regarding it as one of the most curious pieces which either ancient or modern history hath recorded. JONATHAN WILD. 191 CHAPTER XIII. - i dialogue, beticeen the ordinary of Newgate and Mr. Jonathan Wild the Great ; in which the subjects of death, immortality, and other grave matters, are very learnedly handled by the former. Ordinary. Good morrow to you, sir ; I hope you rested well last night. Jonathan. D — n'd ill ; sir. I dreamt so confoundedly of hanging, that it disturbed my sleep. Ordinary. Fie upon it ! You should be more resigned. I wish you would make a little better use of those instruc- tions which I have endeavored to inculcate into you, and particularly last Sunday, and from these words : Those who do evil shall go into everlasting fire, prepared for the devil and his angels. I undertook to show you, first, what is meant by everlasting fire ; and, sec- ondly, who were the devil and his angels. I then proceeded to draw some inferences from the whole*; in which I am mightily deceived if I did not convince you that you yourself was one of those angels, and, conse- quently, must expect everlasting fire to be your por- tion in the other world. Jonathan. Faith, doctor, I remember very little of your inferences ; for I fell asleep soon after your naming the text. But did you preach this doctrine then, or do you repeat it now in order to comfort me ? Ordinary. I do it in order to bring you to a true sense of your manifold sins, and by that means, to induce you to repentance. Indeed, had I the eloquence of Cicero, or of Tulry, it would not be sufficient to describe the pains of hell or the joys of heaven. The utmost that we are taught is, that ear hath not heard, nor can heart con- ceive. Who then would, for the pitiful consideration of the riches and pleasures of this world, forfeit such inesti- * He pronounced this word HULL, and perhaps would have spelt it so. St. * * * * * If once con- * no man * * * * * opportunity * * * * a ist * ari * * cinian 192 JONATHAN WILD. mable happiness ! such joys ! such pleasures ! such delights ? Or who would run the venture of such misery, which, but to think on, shocks the human understanding- ? Who, in his senses, then, would prefer the latter to the former ? Jonathan. Ay, who indeed ? I assure you, doctor, I had much rather be happy than miserable. But f * * * * # Ordinary. Nothing- can be plainer. * * * * * Jonathan. * * * vinced * * * * * lives of * * * * * whereas sure the clergy * * * better informed * * all manner of vice * * Ordinary. * are * atheist* * ( * hanged * * burnt * * oiled * oasted.* * * dev * * his an * * * ell fire * * ternal da * * tion. Jonathan. You * * * to frighten me out of my wits. But the good * * * is, I doubt not, more merciful than his wick- ed * * If I should believe all you say, I am sure I should die in inexpressible horror. Ordinary. Despair is sinful. You should place your hopes in repentance and grace ; and though it is most true that you are in danger of the judgment, yet there is still room for mercy ; and no man, unless excommunicated, is absolutely without hopes of a reprieve. Jonathan. I am not without hopes of a reprieve from the cheat yet. I have pretty good interest ; but, if I can- not obtain it, you shall not frighten me out of my cour- age. I will not die like a pimp. D — n me, what is death ? It is nothing but to be with Platos and with Ceesars, as the poet says, and all the other great heroes of antiquity. ******* Ordinary. Ay, all this is very true ; but life is sweet t This part so blotted that it was illegible. JONATHAN WILD. 193 for all that ; and I had rather live to eternity than go into the company of any such heathens, who are, I doubt not, in hell with the devil and his angels, and, as little as you seem to apprehend it, you may find yourself there before you expect it. Where, then, will be your taunt- ings and your vauntings, your boastings and your brag- gings ? You will then be ready to give more for a drop of water than you ever gave for a bottle of wine. Jonathan. Faith, doctor ! well minded. What say you to a bottle of wine ? Ordinary. I will drink no wine with an atheist. I should expect the devil to make a third in such company ; for, since he knows you are his, he may be impatient to have his due. Jonathan. It is your business to drink with the wicked, in order to amend them. Ordinary. I despair of it ; and so I consign you over to the devil, who is ready to receive you. Jonathan. You are more unmerciful to me than the judge, doctor. He recommended my soul to heaven; and it is your office to show me the way thither. Ordinary. No ; the gates are barred against all revilers of the clergy. Jonathan. I revile only the wicked ones, if any such are, which cannot affect you ; who, if men were preferred in the church by merit only, would have long since been a bishop. Indeed, it might raise snay good man's indig- nation to observe one of your vast learning and abilities obliged to exert them in so low a sphere, when so many of your inferiors wallow in wealth and preferment. Ordinary. Why, it must be confessed that there are bad men in all orders ; but you should not censure too generally. I must own I might have expected higher promotion ; but I have learnt patience and resignation ; and I would advise you to the same temper of mind ; which, if 3 r ou can attain, I know you will find mercy. Kay, I do now promise you you will. It is true you are a 194 JONATHAN WILD. sinner ; but your crimes are not of the blackest dye : you are no murderer, nor guilty of sacrilege. And, if you are g-uiity of theft, you make some atonement by suffering for it, which many others do not. Happy it is indeed for those few who are detected in their sins, and brought to exemplary punishment for them in this world. So far, therefore, from repining at youv fate when you come to the tree, you should exult and rejoice in it ; and, to say the truth, I question whether, to a wise man, the catas- trophe of many of those who die by a halter is not more to be envied than pitied. Nothing is so sinful as sin, and murder is the greatest of all sins. It follows that whoever commits murder is happy in suffering for it. If, therefore, a man who commits murder is so happy in dying for it, how much better must it be for you, who have committed a less crime ! Jonathan. All this is very true; but let us take a bot- tle of wine to cheer our spirits. Ordinary. Why wine? Let me tell you, Mr. Wild, there is nothing so deceitful as the spirits given us by wine. If you must drink, let us have a bowl of punch — a liquor I the rather prefer, as it is nowhere spoken against in scripture, and as it is more wholesome for the gravel, a distemper with which I am grievously afflicted. Jonathan {having called for a boivl). I ask your par- don, doctor ; I should have remembered that punch was your favorite liquor. I think you never taste wine while there is any punch remaining on the table. Ordinary. I confess I look on punch to be the more eligible liquor, as well for the reasons I have before men- tioned as likewise for one other cause, it is the properest for a draught. I own I took it a little unkind of you to mention wine, thinking you knew my palate. Jonathan. You are in the right; and I will take a swingeing cup to your being made a bishop. Ordinary. And I will wish you a reprieve in as large a draught. Come, don't despair : it is yet time enough to JONATHAN WILD. 195 think of dying ; you have good friends, who very probably may prevail for you. I have known many a man re- prieved who had less reason to expect it. Jonathan. But if I should flatter myself with such hopes, and be deceived — what then would become of my soul ? Ordinary. Pugh ! Never mind your soul — leave that to me ; I will render a good account of it, I warrant you. I have a sermon in my pocket which may be of some use to you to hear. I do not value myself on the talent of preaching, since no man ought to value himself for any gift in this world. But perhaps there are many such sermons. But to proceed, since we have nothing else to do till the punch comes. My text is the latter part of a verse only : — To the Greeks foolishness. The occasion of these words was principally that philos- ophy of the Greeks which at that time had overrun great part of the heathen world, had poisoned, and, as it were, puffed up their minds with pride, so that they dis- regarded all kinds of doctrine in comparison of their own: and, however safe and however sound the learning of others might be, yet, if it anywise contradicted their own laws, customs, and received opinions, away with it — it is not for us. It was to the Greeks foolishness. In the former part, therefore, of my discourse on these words, I shall principally confine myself to the laying open and demonstrating the great emptiness and vanity of this philosophy, with which these idle and absurd sophists were so proudly blown up and elevated. And here I shall do two things : First, I shall expose the matter ; and, secondly, the manner of this absurd philosophy. And first, for the first of these, namely the matter. Now here w T e may retort the unmannerly word which our adversaries have audaciously thrown in our faces ; for what was all this mighty matter of philosophy, this heap 196 JONATHAN WILD. of knowledge, which was to bring such large harvests of honor to those who sowed it, and so greatly and nobly to enrich the ground on which it fell ; what was it but fool- ishness ? An inconsistent heap of nonsense, of absurdi- ties and contradictions, bringing no ornament to the mind in its theory, nor exhibiting any usefulness to the body in its practice. What were all the sermons and the sayings, the fables and the morals of all these wise men, but, to use the word mentioned in my text once more, foolishness ? What was their great master Plato, or their other great light Aristotle? Both fools, mere quibblers and sophists, idly and vainly attached to cer- tain ridiculous notions of their own, founded neither on truth nor on reason. Their whole works are a strange medley of the greatest falsehoods, scarce covered over with the color of truth : their precepts are neither bor- rowed from nature nor guided by reason; mere fictions, serving only to evince the dreadful height of human pride; in one word, foolishness. It may be perhaps ex- pected of me that I should give some instances from their works to prove this charge ; but, as to transcribe every passage to my purpose would be to transcribe their whole works, and as in such a plentiful crop it is diffi- cult to choose ; instead of trespassing on your patience, I shall conclude this first head with asserting what I have so fully proved, and what may indeed be inferred from the text, that the philosophy of the Greeks was FOOLISHNESS. Proceed we now, in the second place, to consider the manner in which this inane and simple doctrine was prop- agated. And here But here the punch by enter- ing waked Mr. Wild, who was fast asleep, and put an end to the sermon; nor could we obtain any farther account of the conversation which passed at this inter- view. JONATHAN WILD. 197 CHAPTER XIV. Wild proceeds to the highest consummation of human greatness. The day now drew nigh when our great man was to exemplify the last and noblest act of greatness by which any hero can signalize himself. This was the da} 7 of execution, or consummation, or apotheosis (for it is called by different names), which was to give our hero an oppor- tunity of facing death and damnation, without any fear in his heart, or, at least, without betraying any symptoms of it in his countenance. A completion of greatness which is heartily to be wished to every great man ; noth- ing being more worthy of lamentation than when For- tune, like a lazy poet, winds up her catastrophe awk- wardly, and bestowing too little care on her fifth act, dis- misses the hero with a sneaking and private exit, who had in the former part of the drama performed such notable exploits as must promise to every good judge among the spectators a noble, public, and exalted end. But she was resolved to commit no such error in this instance. Our hero was too much and too deservedly her favorite to be neglected by her in his last moments ; ac- cordingly all efforts for a reprieve were vain, and the name of Wild stood at the head of those who were ordered for execution. From the time he gave over all hopes of life, his con- duct was truly great and admirable. Instead of showing any marks of dejection or contrition, he rather infused more confidence and assurance into his looks. He spent most of his hours in drinking with his friends and with the good man above commemorated. In one of these compotations, being asked whether he was afraid to die, he answered, ' ' D — n me, it is only a dance without music." Another time, when one expressed some sorrow for his misfortune, as he termed it, he said with great fierceness, — " A man can die but once." Again, when 198 JONATHAN WILD. one of his intimate acquaintance hinted his hopes that he would die like a man, he cocked his hat in defiance, and cries out greatly — " Zounds ! who's afraid ?" Happy would it have been for posterity, could we have retrieved any entire conversation which passed at this season, especially between our hero and his learned com- forter ; but we have searched many pasteboard records in vain. On the eve of his apotheosis, Wild's lady desired to see him, to which he consented. This meeting was at first very tender on both sides ; but it could not continue so, for unluckily, some hints of former miscarriages inter- vening, as particular] y when she asked him how he could have used her so barbarously once as calling her b , and whether such language became a man, much less a gen- tleman, Wild flew into a violent passion, and swore she was the vilest of b s to upbraid him at such a season with an unguarded word spoken long ago. She replied, with many tears, she was well enough served for her folly in visiting such a brute ; but she had one comfort, however, that it would be the last time he could ever treat her so ; that indeed she had some obligation to him, for that his cruelty to her would reconcile her to the fate he was to-morrow to suffer ; and, indeed, nothing but such brutality could have made the consideration of his shameful death (so this weak woman called hanging), which was now inevitable, to be borne even without madness. She then proceeded to a recapitulation of his faults in an exacter order, and with more perfect memory, than one would have imagined her capable of ; and it is probable would have rehearsed a complete catalogue had not our hero's patience failed him, so that with the utmost fury and violence he caught her by the hair and kicked her as heartily as his chains would suffer him out of the room. At length the morning came which Fortune at his birth had resolutely ordained for the consummation of our hero's greatness : he had himself indeed modestly de- JONATHAN WILD. 109 clined tlie public honors she intended him, and had taken a quantity of laudanum, in order to retire quietly off the stage; but we have already observed, in the course of our wonderful history, that to struggle against this lady's decrees is vain and impotent ; and whether she hath de- termined you shall be hanged or be a prime minister, it is in either case lost labor to resist. Laudanum, therefore, being unable to stop the breath of our hero, which the fruit of hemp seed, and not the spirit of poppy seed, was to overcome, he was at the usual hour attended by the proper gentleman appointed for that purpose, and ac- quainted that the cart was ready. On this occasion he exerted that greatest of courage which hath been so much celebrated in other heroes ; and, knowing that it was im- possible to resist, he gravely declared he would attend them. He then descended to that room where the fetters of great men are knocked off in a most solemn and cere- monious manner. Then shaking hands with his friends (to wit, those who were conducting him to the tree), and drinking their healths in a bumper of brandj r , he ascended the cart, where he was no sooner seated than he received the acclamations of the multitude, who were highly ravished with his greatness. The cart now moved slowly on, being preceded by a troop of horse-guards bearing javelins in their hands, through streets lined with crowds all admiring the great behavior of our hero, who rode on, sometimes sighing, sometimes swearing, sometimes singing or whistling, as his humor varied. When he came to the tree of glory he was welcomed with an universal shout of the people, who were there assembled in prodigious numbers to behold a sight much more rare in populous cities than one would reasonably imagine it should be, viz. the proper catastrophe of a great man. But though envy was, through fear, obliged to join the general voice in applause on this occasion, there were not 200 JONATHAN WILD. wanting some who maligned this completion of glory, which was now about to he fulfilled to our hero, and endeavored to prevent it by knocking him on the head as he stood under the tree, while the ordinary was perform- ing his last office. They therefore began to batter the cart with stones, brickbats, dirt, and all manner of mis- chievous weapons, some of which, erroneously playing on the robes of the ecclesiastic, made him so expeditious in his repetition, that with wonderful alacrity he had ended almost in an instant, and conveyed himself into a place of safety in a hackney-coach, where he waited the conclusion with a temper of mind described in these verses : Suave mari magno, turbantibus eequora ventis, E terra alterius magnum spectare laborem. We must not, however, omit one circumstance, as it serves to show the most admirable conservation of character in our hero to the last moment, which was, that, whilst the ordinary was busy in his ejaculations, Wild, in the midst of the shower of stones, &c, which played upon him, applied his hands to the parson's pocket, and emptied it of his bottle-screw, which he carried out of the world in his hand. The ordinary being now descended from the cart, Wild had just opportunity to cast his eyes around the crowd, and give them a hearty curse, when immediately the horses moved on, and with universal applause our hero swung out of this world. Thus fell Jonathan Wild the great, by a death as glorious as his life had been, and which was so truly agreeable to it, that the latter must have been deplorably maimed and imperfect without the former ; a death which hath been alone wanting to complete the characters of several ancient and modern heroes, whose histories would then have been read with much greater pleasure by the wisest in ail ages. Indeed we could almost wish that whenever Fortune seems wantonly to deviate from her JONATHAN WILD. 201 purpose, and leaves her work imperfect in this particular, the historian would indulge himself in the license of poetry and romance, and even do a violence to truth, to oblige his reader with a page which must he the most delightful in all the history, and which could never fail of producing an instructive moral. Narrow minds may possibly have some reason to be ashamed of going this way out of the world, if their con- sciences can fly in their faces and assure them they have not merited such an honor ; but he must be a fool who is ashamed of being hanged, who is not weak enough to be ashamed of having deserved it. CHAPTER XV. The character of our hero, and the conclusion of this history. We will now endeavor to draw the character of this great man ; and, by bringing together those several features as it were of his mind which lie scattered up and down in this history, to present our readers with a perfect picture of greatness. Jonathan Wild had every qualification necessary to form a great man. As his most powerful and predomi- nant passion was ambition, so nature had, with consum- mate propriety, adapted all his faculties to the attaining those glorious ends to which this passion directed him. He was extremely ingenious in inventing designs, artful in contriving the means to accomplish his purposes, and resolute in executing them ; for as the most exquisite cunning and most undaunted boldness qualified him for any undertaking, so was he not restrained by any of those weaknesses which disappoint the views of mean and vul- gar souls, and which are comprehended in one general term of honesty, which is a corruption of honosty, a word derived from what the Greeks call an ass. He was 202 JONATHAN WILD. entirely free from those low vices of modesty and good- nature, which, as he said, implied a total negation of human greatness, and were the only qualities which abso- lutely rendered a man incapable of making a considerable figure in the world. His lust was inferior only to his ambition ; but, as for what simple people call love, he knew not what it was. His avarice was immense, but it was of the rapacious, not of the tenacious kind ; his rapacious- ness was indeed so violent, that nothing ever contented him but the whole ; for, however considerable the share was which his coadjutors allowed him of a booty, he was restless in inventing means to make himself master of the smallest pittance reserved by them. He said laws were made for the use of prigs only, and to secure their prop- erty ; they were never therefore more perverted than when their edge was turned against these ; but that this generally happened through their want of sufficient dex- terity. The character which he most valued himself upon, and which he principally honored in others, was that of hypocrisy. His opinion was, that no one could carry priggism very far without it ; for which reason, he said, there was little greatness to be expected in a man who acknowledged his vices, but always much to be hoped from him who professed great virtues : wherefore, though he would always shun the person whom he dis- covered guilty of a good action, yet he was never deterred by a good character, which was more com- monly the effect of profession than of action ; for which reason he himself was always very liberal of honest pro- fessions, and had as much virtue and goodness in his mouth as a saint ; never in the least scrupling to swear by his honor, even to those who knew him the best ; nay, though he held good-nature and modesty in the highest contempt, he constantly practised the affectation of both, and recommended this to others, whose welfare, on his own account, he wished well to. He laid down several maxims as the certain methods of attaining greatness, to JONATHAN WILD. 203 which, in his own pursuit of it, he constantly adhered. As, 1. Never to do more mischief to another than was neces- sary to the effecting his purpose ; for that mischief was too precious a thing- to be thrown away. 2. To know no distinction of men from affection ; hut to sacrifice all with equal readiness to his interest. 3. Never to communicate more of an affair than was necessary to the person who was to execute it. 4. Not to trust him who hath deceived you, nor who knows he hath been deceived by you. 5. To forgive no enemy; but to be cautious and of ten dilatory in revenge. 6. To shun poverty and distress, but to ally himself as close as possible to power and riches. 7. To maintain a constant gravity in his countenance and behavior, and to affect wisdom on all occasions. 8. To foment eternal jealousies in his gang, one of another. 9 . Never to reward any one equal to his merit ; but always to insinuate that the reward was above it. 10. That all men were knaves or fools, and much the greater number a composition of both. 11. That a good name, like money, must be parted with, or at least greatly risked, in order to bring the owner any advantage. 12. That virtues, like precious stones, were easily coun- terfeited ; that the counterfeits in both cases adorned the wearer equally, and that very few had knowledge or discernment sufficient to distinguish the counter- feit jewel from the real. 13. That many men were undone by not going deep enough in roguery ; as in gaming any man may be a loser who doth not play the whole game. 14. That men proclaim their own virtues, as shopkeepers expose their goods, in order to profit by them. 15. That the heart was the proper seat of hatred, and the countenance of affection and friendship. 204 JONATHAN WILD. He had many more of the same kind, all equally good with these, and which were after his decease found in his study, as the twelve excellent and celebrated rules were in that of King- Charles the First ; for he never promul- gated them in his lifetime, not having- them constantly in his mouth, as some grave persons have the rules of vir- tue and morality, without paying the least regard to them in their actions : whereas our hero, by a constant and steady adherence to his rules in conforming every- thing he did to them, acquired at length a settled habit of walking by them, till at last he was in no danger of inadvertently going out of the way ; and by these means he arrived at that degree of greatness which few have equaled ; none, we may say, have exceeded : for, though it must be allowed that there have been some few heroes who have done greater mischiefs to mankind, such as those who have betrayed the liberty of their country to others, or who have undermined and overpowered it themselves; or conquerors who have impoverished, pil- laged, sacked, burnt, and destroyed the countries and cities of their fellow-creatures, from no other provocation than that of glory, i. e. as the tragic poet calls it, a privilege to kill, A strong temptation to do bravely ill ; yet, if we consider it m the light wherein actions are placed in this line, Laetius est, quoties magno tibi constat honestum ; when we see our hero, without the least assistance or pre- tence, setting himself at the head of a gang which he had not any shadow of right to govern ; if we view him main- taining absolute power and exercising tyranny over a lawless crew, contrary to all law but that of his own will ; if we consider him setting up an open trade publicly, in defiance not only of the laws of his country but of the common sense of his countrymen ; if we see him first contriving the robbery of others, and again the defraud- JONATHAN WILD. 205 ing the very robbers of that booty which they had ven- tured their necks to acquire, and which, without any hazard, they might have retained, here sure he must appear admirable, and we may challenge not only the truth of history, but almost the latitude of fiction, to equal his glory. Nor had he any of those flaws in his character which, though they have been commended by weak writers, have (as I hinted in the beginning of this history) by the judicious reader been censured and despised. Such was the clemency of Alexander and Ceesar, which nature had so grossly erred in giving them, as a painter would who should dress a peasant in the robes of state, or give the nose or any other feature of a Venus to a satyr. What had the destroyers of mankind, that glorious pair, one of whom came into the world to usurp the dominion and abolish the constitution of his own country ; the other to conquer, enslave, and rule over the whole world, at least, so much as was well known to him, and the shortness of his life would give him leave to visit ; what had, I say, such as these to do with clemency ? Who cannot see the absurdity and contradiction of mixing such an ingredient with those noble and great qualities I have before men- tioned ? Now, in Wild everything was truly great, almost without alloy, as his imperfections (for surely some small ones he had) were only such as served to de- nominate him a human creature, of which kind none ever arrived at consummate excellence. But surely his whole behavior to his friend Heartfree is a convincing proof that the true iron or steel greatness of his heart was net debased by any softer metal. Indeed, while greatness consists in power, pride, insolence, and doing mischief to mankind — to speak out — while a great man and a great rogue are synonymous terms, so long shall Wild stand unrivaled on the pinnacle of greatness. Nor must we omit here, as the finishing of his character, what indeed ought to be remembered on his tomb or his statue, the 206 JONATHAN WILD. conformity above mentioned of his death to his life ; and that Jonathan Wild the Great, after all his mighty ex- ploits, was, what so few great men can accomplish— hanged by the neck till he was dead. Having thus brought our hero to his conclusion, it may be satisfactory to some readers (for many, I doubt not, carry their concern no farther than his fate) to know what became of Heartfree. We shall acquaint them, therefore, that his sufferings were now at an end ; that the good magistrate easily prevailed for his pardon, nor was contented till he had made him all the reparation he could for his troubles, though the share he had in bring- ing these upon him was not only innocent but from its motive laudable. He procured the restoration of the jew- els from the man-of-war at her return to England, and, above all, omitted no labor to restore Heartfree to his reputation, and to persuade his neighbors, acquaintances, and customers of his innocence. When the commission of bankruptcy was satisfied, Heartfree had a considerable sum remaining ; for the diamond presented to his wife was of prodigious value, and infinitely recompensed the joss of those jewels which Miss Straddle had disposed of. He now set up again in his trade ; compassion for his un- merited misfortunes brought him many customers among those who had any regard to humanity ; and he hath, by industry joined with parsimony, amassed a considerable fortune. His wife and he are now grown old in the pur- est love and friendship, but never had another child. Friendly married his eldest daughter at the age of nine- teen, and became his partner in trade. As to the younger, she never would listen to the addresses of any lover, not even of a young nobleman, who offered to take her with two thousand pounds, which her father would have will- ingly produced, and indeed did his utmost to persuade her to the match ; but she refused absolutely, nor would give any other reason when Heartfree pressed her, than that she had dedicated her days to his service, and was JONATHAN WILD. 207 resolved no other duty should interfere with that which she owed to the best of fathers, nor prevent her from being- the nurse of his old age. Thus Heartfree, his wife, his two daughters, his son-in- law, and his grandchildren, of which he hath several, live all together in one house ; and that, with such amity and affection towards each other, that they are in the neigh- borhood called the family of love. As to all che other persons mentioned in this history in the light of greatness, they had all the fate adapted to it, being every one hanged by the neck, save two, viz. Miss Theodosia Snap, who was transported to America, where she was pretty well married, reformed, and made a good wife ; and the count, who recovered of the wound he had received of the hermit and made his escape into France, where he committed a robbery, was taken, and broke on the wheel. Indeed, whoever considers the common fate of great men must allow they well deserve and hardly earn that applause which is given them by the world ; for, when we reflect on the labors and pains, the cares, disquietudes, and dangers which attend their road to greatness, we may say with the divine that a man may go to Heaven with half the pains ivhich it costs him to purchase hell. To say the truth, the world has this reason at least to honor such characters as that of Wild : that, while it is in the power of every man to be perfectly honest, not one in a thousand is capable of being a complete rogue ; and few indeed there are who, if they were inspired with the vanity of imitating our hero, would not after much fruitless pains be obliged to own themselves inferior to Mr. Jonathan Wild the Great. University of CaUfornia Library Los Angeles UC SOUTHERN REGIONAL LIBRARY FACILITY AA 000 264 072