# True humanity usefully exerted

Calculated to promote the Interests of Reli- gion, Virtue, and Humanity. No. X.
True
Humanity
USEFULLY EXERTED. AN AFFECTING STORY.
"By the light of a lamp, that glimmered in the fireleſs chim- ney, he ſaw lying on a bare bedſtead, without any other co- vering than the relicks of their own rags, a man, a woman, and two children, ſhuddering with cold, though huddled together to ſhare the little warmth which exhauſted nature ſtill ſupplied them with."
To which is added,
THE
Effects of Gratitude
TIMEOUSLY APPLIED.
DUNBAR:
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WHOLESALE AND RETAIL.
True Humanity uſefully exerted.
Ah! little think the gay licentious proud, Whom pleaſure, power, and affluence ſurround; ———————How many drink the cup Of baleful grief, or eat the bitter bread Of miſery.Sore pierc’d by wintry winds, How many ſhrink into the ſordid hut Of cheerleſs poverty.
AS Benevolus was returning home from the Tavern late one night, he was accoſted by a female, who had ſomething in her air and manner ſo different from thoſe out-caſts of humanity, who offer themſelves to caſual proſtitution in the ſtreets, that his curioſity was ſtruck, and he ſtopped to take more particular notice of her. She appeared to be about fifteen. Her figure was elegant, and her features regular; but want had ficklied o’er their beauty; and all the horrors of deſpair gloomed through the languid ſmile ſhe forced when ſhe addreſſed him.
The ſigh of diſtreſs, which never ſtruck his ear without affecting his heart, came with double force from ſuch an object. He viewed her with ſilent compaſſion for ſome ​moments; and reaching her a piece of gold, bad her go home, and ſhelter herſelf from the inclemencies of the night, at ſo late an hour. Her ſurpriſe and joy at ſuch unexpected charity overpowered her. She dropped upon her knees, in the wet and dirt of ⟨the⟩ ſtreet, and raiſing her hands and eyes ⟨toward⟩ heaven, remained in that poſture for ⟨ſome⟩ moments, unable to give utterance to {{reconstruct|the} gratitude that filled her heart.
Such a ſight was more expreſſive then all ⟨the⟩ powers of eloquence. He raiſed her tenderly from the ground, and ſoothing her with words of comfort, offered to conduct ⟨her⟩ to ſome place, where ſhe might get that ⟨refreſhment⟩ of which ſhe appeared to be in ⟨too⟩ great want. "0! Sir," (ſaid ſhe, ⟨preſſing⟩ the hand that had raiſed her, with her ⟨cold⟩ trembling lips) "my deliverer, ſent by heaven to ſave me from deſpair, let me not think of taking refreſhment myſelf till I have firſt procured it for thoſe whoſe greater wants I feel ten thouſand times more ſeverely then my own."
"Who can they be?" (interrupted Benevolus with anxious impatience) "Can humanity feel greater wants, than thoſe under which you are ſinking?"
"My father" (exclaimed ſhe burſting into ⟨tears⟩) "languiſhing under infirmities, acquired in the ſervice of his country; my mother, worn out with attending on him, ​and both periſhing of want, (heaven grant they are not already dead!) together with two infant brothers, inſenſible of the cauſe of their diſtreſs, and crying to them for a morſel of bread, which it is not in their power to give."———
"Where can ſuch a ſcene of wretchedneſs be hidden from relief? I’ll go with you myſelf directly! but ſtop! let us firſt procure ſome comfortable nouriſhment from ſome of the houſes, which are kept open at this late hour, for a very different purpoſe. Come with me! ⟨we⟩ have no time to loſe."—With theſe words, he went directly to a tavern, and inquiring what victuals were dreſſed in the houſe, loaded her with as much as ſhe could carry of the beſt, and putting a couple of bottles of wine in his own pockets, walked with her to her habitation, which was in a blind alley, happily for her not very far diſtant, as weakneſs, together with the conflict of paſſions ſtruggling in her heart, made her ſcarce able to go.
When they came to the door, ſhe would have gone up firſt for a light, but he was reſolved to accompany her, that he might ſee the whole ſcene in its genuine colours. He therefore followed her up to the top of the houſe, where opening the door of the garret, ſhe diſcovered to him ſuch a ſcene of miſery, as ſtruck him with aſtoniſhment. ​By the light of a lamp, that glimmered in the fireleſs chimney, he ſaw lying on a bare bedſtead, without any other covering then the relicks of their own rags, a man, a woman, and two children, ſhuddering with cold, though huddled together to ſhare the little warmth which exhauſted nature ſtill ſupplied them with.
While he ſtood gazing in horror at ſuch complicated wretchedneſs, his conductreſs ran to the bed-ſide, and falling on her knees, "O! Sir! Madam!" (exclaimed ſhe, in rapture) "Ariſe!" I have got relief from an angel of heaven."
"Take care!" (anſwered a voice, the hollow trembling of which was ſharpened by indignation) "take care it is not from a fiend of hell, who has taken advantage of your diftrefs to tempt you to ruin! for with whom elſe could you be till this time of night? But know, wretched girl, that I will never eat the earnings of vice and infamy. A few hours will put an end to my miſeries, which have received the only poſſible addition by this your folly."
"He muſt be ſuch indeed," (interrupted Benevolus, ſtill more ſtruck with ſentiments ſo uncommon in ſuch a ſituation) who could think of tempting her in ſuch circumſtances to any folly. I will withdraw, while you ariſe, and then we will consult what can be ſooneſt done to alleviate ​a diſtreſs, of which you appear ſo undeſerving."—While he ſaid this, he took the wine out of his pockets, and giving it to the daughter went directly down ſtairs, without waiting for a reply, and walking backward and forward in the ſtreets for ⟨ſome⟩ time, enjoyed the ſublimeſt pleaſure ⟨the⟩ human heart is capable of, in ⟨conſidering⟩ how he had relieved, and ſhould further relieve the ſufferings of objects ſo worthy of relief.
By the time he thought they might have learned from their daughter the circumſtances of her meeting with him, and taken ſome nouriſhment, he returned to them, when the moment he entered the room, the whole family fell upon their knees to thank him. Such humiliation was more than he could bear. He raiſed them, one by one, as faſt as he could, and taking the father’s hand, "Gracious God! (ſaid he) can a ſenſe of humanity be ſuch an uncommon thing among creatures, who call themſelves human, that ſo poor an exertion of it ſhould be thought deſerving of a return, proper to be made only to heaven? Oppreſs me not, Sir, I conjure you, with the mention, of what it would have been a crime, I could never have forgiven myſelf to have known I had not done. It is too late to think of leaving this place before to-morrow, when I will provide a better, if there ​is not any to which you chuſe particularly to go. I am not rich; but I thank heaven, that it has bleſſed me with ability and inclination to afford ſuch aſſiſtance as may be immediately neceſſary to you, till means may be thought of for doing more."
"O, Sir," (anſwered the mother) "well might my daughter call you an angel of heaven! You know not from what miſery you have already relieved———
"Nor will I know more of it at this time," (interupted Benevolus) "than that which I too plainly ſee. I will leave you now to your reſt, and return as ſoon as it is day.———
"Speak not of leaving us, Sir," (exclaimed the daughter, who was afraid that if he ſhould go away, he might not return) "What reſt can we take, in ſo ſhort a time? Leave us not, I beſeech you! leave us not in this place!”———
"Ceaſe, my child!" (interpoſed the father) "nor preſs your benefactor to continue in a ſcene of miſery, that muſt give pain to his humane heart."
"If my ſtaying will not give you pain," (anſwered Benevolus) "I will moſt willingly ſtay; but it muſt be on condition that our converſation points entirely forward to happier days. There will be time enough hereafter to look back."———
​Saying this, he ſat down on the bed-ſide, (for other ſeat the appartment afforded none) between the huſband and wife, with whom he ſpent the little remainder of the night, in ſuch diſcourſe, as he thought moſt likely to divert their attention from their preſent miſery, and inſpire their minds with better hopes, while the children, all but the daughter who hung upon his words, comforted at heart with a better meal, then they had long taſted, fell faſt alleep as they leaned their heads upon their mother’s lap.
As ſoon as it was day, "Now, madam," (ſaid Benevolus, addreſſing himſelf to the mother) "I will go, and provide a place for your reception, as you ſay all places are alike to you. In the mean time accept of this trifle (giving her ten guineas) to provide ſuch neceſſaries, as you may indiſpenſibly want before you remove. When you are ſettled, we will ſee what further can be done. I ſhall be back with you within theſe three hours at moſt."
For ſuch beneficence there was no poſſibility of returning thanks; but their hearts ſpoke through their eyes, in a language ſufficiently intelligible to his. Departing directly to ſave both himſelf and them the pain of purſuing converſation that grew too diſtreſsful, he went without regard to change ​of dreſs or appearance, to look for a proper lodging for them, where he laid in ſuch proviſions of every kind, as he knew they muſt immediately want. This care employed him till the time he had promised to return, when he found ſuch an alteration in the looks and appearance of them all, as gave his heart delight.
"You ſee, Sir," (ſaid the mother, as ſoon as he entered) "the effects of your bounty: but do not think that vanity has made us abuſe it. Theſe cloaths, what we could raiſe on which has for ſome time been our ſole ſupport, where the purchaſe of happier times; and were now redeemed for much leſs than we muſt have given for the worſt we could buy."———
"Dear, madam," (interrupted Benevolus, taking her hand reſpectfully) "mention not any thing of the kind to me, I beſeech you. You will ſoon ſee ſuch times again."—Then turning to her huſband, "I have taken a lodging, Sir; (continued he) it is convenient, but not large, as I imagined would be your choice. I will call a coach to take us to it directly. If there are any demands here, let the people of the houſe be called up, and they ſhall be paid. I will be your purſe-bearer for the preſent."
"No, Sir," (replied the huſband) "there are not any. You have enabled us to diſcharge ​all demands upon us. People in our circumſtances, cannot find credit, becauſe they want it."
Benevolus would then have gone for a coach, but the daughter inſiſted on ſaving him that trouble; upon which he put the whole family into it, and walked away before them to their new lodging. It is impoſſible to deſcribe what theſe poor people felt, when they ſaw the proviſion he had made for their reception. The father, in particular, could not bear it, but ſinking into a chair, "This is too much!" (ſaid he, as ſoon as a flood of tears had given vent to the fullneſs of his heart) "This is too much. Support me, gracious Heaven, who has ſent this beſt of men to my relief, ſupport me under the weight of obligations, which the preſervation of theſe alone (looking round upon his wife and children) could induce me to accept."—Then adderſſing himſelf to Benevolus, "My heart is not unthankful (continued he) but gratitude in ſuch exceſs as mine, where there is no proſpect of ever making a return, is the ſevereſt pain."
Benevolus, who ſought none, attempted often to give the converſation another turn; but finding that they could ſpeak or think of nothing elſe as yet, he took his leave, promiſing to come the next day, when their minds ſhould be better ſettled, to conſult ​what more was in his power to ſerve them, having firſt privately taken an opportunity to ſlip a couple of guineas into the daughter’s hand, to avoid putting the delicacy of her father and mother to farther pain.
Fatigued in mind and body, from the height to which his tendereſt paſſions had been wound up by ſuch a moving ſcene, Benevolus went directly home, and throwing himſelf on a bed, ſlept till next morning, without diſturbance from pain or reflection.
As ſoon as he awoke the next day, he went to viſit his new family, where the happineſs, that gliſtened in every grateful eye, at his approach, made him happy. After ſome general chat, "It is my duty, Sir, (ſaid the father) to give you ſome account of myſelf, and of the cauſe of my falling into that depth of miſery, from which your beneficence relieved me, that you ſhould not think it has been laviſhed on objects altogether unworthy of it.
I am deſcended from a good family, the fortune of which my father diſſipated in ſupporting a parliamentary intereſt for the miniſtry; the only return he received for which, and for his voice upon all occaſions, was a ſmall penſion for himſelf, and a pair of colours in the Guards for me, his only ſon, with promiſes indeed of farther proviſion, which were all forgotten when he died, happily for himſelf, before the end of the ​parliament, which as he had no proſpect of being returned again, would have left him at the mercy of creditors, whom it was not in his power to pay.
Though I was ſoon ſenſible that my beſt hopes died with him, I was ſo infatuated to a profeſſion, the moſt pleaſing to youthful idleneſs and vanity, that I laid out the little fortune of this beſt of women, whom I had married in my days of better hope, in the purchaſe of a company, in a marching regiment; at the head of which I flattered myſelf, that I ſhould meet ſome opportunity, in the war juſt then broke out, of meriting further promotion. But I found the vanity of ſuch a thought, when it was unhappily too late.
After ſeveral years careful ſervice, in the courſe of which I had ſealed some degree of reputation with my blood, in several warm actions, without advantage to myself, or prospect of any to my family, who now multiplied the cares of life ten thousand fold upon my head, I was driven by dispair to exchange my company, which I had bought, and therefore could have ſold again, the price of which would at leaſt have kept us from absolute ſtarving, for an higher rank in a younger regiment, juſt then ordered upon an expedition, the object of which raised, what was thought rational expectation of such profit, as ſhould ease me from the anxieties that made life a burden.
​Allured solely by this expectaion, I went accordingly. The expedition was successful. I did my duty. I was wounded in the course of it, to the extreme danger of my life. I entirely ruined my conſtitution by the severity of the climate; and on my return home was reduced to half-pay, without receiving so much prize-money as defrayed the extraordinary expences of the expedition, and of the illness, which I contracted in it; while those above me accumulated such wealth, as if divided in any degree of proportion, would have recompenſed the labours of us, who had literally borne the heat and burden of the day, and were now pining in discontent and misery, aggravated by a partiality so severely injurious.
In this ſituation, I resolved to throw myself at the feet of my Sovereign, and implore relief from the known goodness of his heart. But his throne was ſurrounded by those whose intereſt it was to keep the cries of his people from coming to his ears; and therefore, as it was neceſſary for me to make my errand known, I never could obtain acceſs to him.
The diſtress of this disappointment was ſtill farther heightened by the delays in the discharge of that half pay, which was now my only support; and the draw-backs it was subject to from the fees of office, even when ​it ſhould come to be paid, which were ſuch, that when I attempted to mortgage it, the wretch’s laſt resource, to put off ſtarving as long as he can, what I could get from those vultures, who faten upon the sufferings of a ſoldier, was scarce sufficient to satisfy our present wants. How then could I look forward for a family, dearer to me then life? What could support resolution, when hope was gone? Mine was unequal to the trial; and I was beginning to meditate on putting an end to a life of such misery, without conſidering that the sufferings of those, for whom I felt so much more than for myself, muſf be ſtill made heavier by such a base desertion of them, when heaven in its mercy viſited my family with a violent fever, which freed me from farther fears for the future welfare of my three eldeſt sons, and with difficultly spared two, whom you see before you. O! my poor boys! happy! thrice happier than us whom you left behind! Excuse this weakness. Sir, nature will force the involuntary tear in spite of reason; for were they not the children of my love?
During their illness, I loſt every other care in my attendance upon them; nor omitted any poſſible means to preserve lives, for which my fears foreboded nothing but unhappiness; but though their deaths freed me from a part of those fears, they ​left a melancholy void in my heart, which was more painful, if poſſible, than any fear. But I was not long ſenſible of that pain. My children were scarce laid in the grave, when the fever seized myself with such violence, that I soon loſt my senses, nor recovered them for above a month; and then only to feel the greateſt wretchedness, that was ever heaped upon a human creature.
The expence of my children’s, and my own illness, had not only exhauſted all the money I had raised on the anticipation of my half-pay, but also obliged my wife to mortgage several of our beſt effects. Such a resourse never escapes the watchful eyes of people who keep lodging-houses. Our landlady no sooner perceived it, than ſhe seized upon the reſt, and then turned us out, the moment I could be removed without inſtant death.
In this ſituation, I muſt have periſhed in the ſtreets, had not a poor woman, whom my wife had been obliged to call in to her aſſiſtance when I ſickened, ſhared with us her habitation, in which you found us, as ſhe alſo did the earnings of her daily labour, till a chairman who was carrying a beau to a ball, threw her down with such violence, for not making haſte enough out of his way, that ſhe broke her leg, and was obliged to be taken to an hospital.
​From that time we supported life by morgaging the few cloaths we had brought upon our backs, without one ray of hope to tempt us to look forward, till they also were all gone, and the misery of cold added to that of hunger. In this condition, we had been two days without taſting bread, or feeling the warmth of fire, calling inceſſantly upon death to put that end to our diſtresses, which a ſense of religion, made ſtronger by my wretchedness, now prevented my daring to haſten, when my daughter ſtole out unknown to us to ſeek for charity in the ſtreets, where ſhe wandered without meeting any thing but inſults, and ſollicitations to vice, till heaven directed your ſteps to her.
Such was the reward of more then twenty years faithful and hard ſervice, in which I had fought the battles of my country, in oppoſite extremities of the globe, with honour, and been inſtrumental in making princely fortunes for the ſeveral commanders, under whom I ſerved.
This, Sir, is the ſum of my ſtory, in which I have been as brief as I could, to avoid giving you pain. We are now your creatures. The lives we enjoy are immediately the gift of your benevolence; a benevolence ſo critically timed, (for we could not have ſubſiſted many hours longer without it) as to raiſe a hope, that Providence, which ſent you to our relief, will not leave its work ​unfiniſhed, but ſave us from falling again into ſuch miſery, by means agreeable to its own wiſdom and goodneſs, though impoſſible for us in our preſent ſituation to foreſee."
It was ſome time before Benevolus, who had liſtened to the officer’s ſtory with ſympathetic attention, was able to ſpeak. Recovering himſelf at length, "fear not;" (ſaid he, in a broken voice) "never was the righteous forſaken; nor—nor—nor———I have ſome friends, Sir, who may ſerve—In the mean ⟨time⟩ take this (reaching him a bank-note for twenty pounds); I will not be refuſed! buſineſs call me for a few hours; but I will ſee you again in the evening."———Saying this, he hurried away to hide his emotions, without waiting for a reply, which indeed their gratitude left them not the power to make. He immediately applied to a nobleman, who held a diſtinguiſhed ſtation under the government, and who honoured Beneovolus with his particular intimacy; to him he related the melancholy ſtory, which ſo deeply affected his ſympathetic heart, that he inſtantly gave the father a place of conſiderable profit under him, which enabled ⟨this⟩ virtuous ſufferer once more to make his family perfectly happy.
THE
EFFECTS of GRATITUDE
TIMEOUSLY APPLIED.
"She looks, methinks, Of old Acaſto's line; and to my mind Recalls that patron of my happy life, From whom my liberal fortune took its riſe; Now to the duſt gone down; his houſes, lands, And once fair-ſpreading family, diſſolv'd.
Romantic wiſh! would this the daughter were!
When, ſtrict enquiring, from herſelf he found She was the ſame, the daughter of his friend, Of bountiful Acaſto; who can ſpeak The mingled paſſions that ſurpris'd his heart, And thro’ his nerves in ſhivering tranſport ran?
And art thou then Acaſto's dear remains! She, whom my reſtleſs gratitude has ſought So long in vain?
Tho’ poverty's cold wind, and cruſhing rain, Beat keen, and heavy, on thy tender years? O let me now, into a richer ſoil, Tranſplant thee ſafe!"
CLAUDIAN and Curio were two young perſons educated in the ſame houſe, and brought up to the ſame buſineſs, under the ſame maſter; but with this difference, that Claudian was the ſon, the other the ſervant ​of the worthy Morillus, and the former had a conſiderable independant fortune, while the latter had no eſtate but honeſt induſtry.
Some years ſince, the parent and maſter dying, the young traders were left to themſelves: Curio declined an offer of partnerſhip with his young maſter, merely becauſe it was more then he could in reaſon expect: and Claudian generouſly advanced him a ſum of money to engage in trade with for himſelf, as a reward for his diſintereſtedneſs.
Curio, who knew he traded at preſent with another’s ſtock, and had only induſtry and frugality for the means to repay the loan, and ſettle himſelf in eaſe and happineſs, became the moſt diligent trader, and greateſt ſlave to a ſhop that ever kept one.—No debaucheries over night kept him in bed the next morning, and his doors were open two hours before, and at leaſt an hour after any of his neighbours.—Curio lived in his ſhop, and knew no idle moment there: his conſtant attendance brought him conſtant buſineſs; his obliging behaviour, and the probity of his dealings made every cuſtomer a friend to him, ſo that whoever once bought of him, never afterwards bought any where elſe.
The firſt year’s balance gave him power to pay his generous benefactor, which he ​did with the warmeſt thanks; and before another was elapſed, he was become the favourite of every worthy perſon in the neighbourhood; and the ſobriety of his life recommended him ſo far to the clergyman of the place, one of the worthieſt of his function, that he found no obſtacle in the way of his addreſſes to this gentleman’s daughter.
His better fortune made no alteration in his temper; he naturally indeed entered on a ſomewhat more expenſive way of living on his having a wife, but ſhe was as frugal and as prudent as himſelf, and they ſoon calculated a certain ſtandard of expence, ſomething within what their preſent profits would afford, and determined to ſave a little from that till their increaſe of trade ſhould enable them in the ſucceeding years to ſpend more, without being more extravagant. It is eaſy to conceive that ſuch a family muſt ſave money yearly; and, in ſhort, the end of the ſecond year ſaw them worth more than from ſuch a capital, and from ſo ſmall beginnings, one would expect.—While this was the life of Curio, his young maſter, whoſe eaſy fortune ſet him above the neceſſity of induſtry, was carrying on the ſame trade in a very different manner.
It is the moſt dangerous of all errors, though too common a one, for a man to imagine he can play with buſineſs, and do what he pleaſes when his affairs are eaſy without it. There is no middle ſtate in the ​trading world; induſtry will bring riches, idleneſs beggary, nor is there any ſettled medium between theſe.
Claudian ſeemed indeed to have all the falſe notions of the generality of our young traders; and too many in this city are ruined daily by the ſame, yet that they are ſtill propagated among numbers as the ſecrets of trading, is a truth as certain as the goſpel.
Claudian’s affairs began now to run greatly behind-hand, without his knowing it; out that which others plan out as a laſt relief when they find themſelves juſt going, was now likely to prove ſo to our young gentleman trader, without his knowing it. A young lady who accidentally came into his ſhop one day, when he was preſent, took away both what ſhe bought, and her tradeſman’s heart alſo.
In ſhort, Claudian watched her home. He was prudent enough, before he went any farther, to inform himſelf whom ſhe was, and found her to be a perſon of a good family, with ten thouſand pounds fortune.
As Claudian was a man of a polite and engaging behaviour, he ſoon found means of introducing himſelf into the family; and as he imagined himſelf more than an equal match for her, he made it his firſt ſtep to ſettle matters with her father. This man had indeed no liking to this ſort of gentleman-trading that Claudian carried on; but ​his private fortune made him appear unexceptionable in reſpect of money, and ſoon convinced the old gentleman of the advantages of his way of carrying on buſineſs. He found leſs difficulty to get the lady’s conſent than her father’s, and all was harmony and good underſtanding between them.
When things were in this ſtate, the lady’s fortune was enquired more in earneſt into, on Claudian’s part, and his, on her father’s. No miſtake appeared about hers; but, alas! the looking into his affairs on this occaſion, was the firſt notice the intended bride-groom had of his approching ruin. His books were indeed full of long debts, and the current account of caſh in trade was ſomething conſiderable, but his fortune was almoſt all drawn out of his banker’s hands, and though he had much more owing to him than from him, yet his debts to his traders were not ſmall.
The old gentleman, in conſequence of all this, now refuſed his daughter; the diſtreſs on her part, as well as Claudian’s, was very ſincere and affecting, and they parted with the ſincereſt agonies on both ſides, nor could the intreates of the old people prevent the young lady from engaging herſelf by a moſt ſolemn vow, never to marry any other perſon.
Claudian now began to new model his afafairs, to collect his money and call in his debts; but his ſervants went off in the nigh ​⟨with⟩ a great part of his ready caſh. Many ⟨of⟩ his debtors were dead, many more ⟨diſperſed⟩ in the priſons abroad.—But his ⟨creditors⟩ were ready enough to make their appearance: they had heard that his treaty of marriage was broken off; they had heard ⟨alſo⟩ on what occaſion. The consequence ⟨was⟩, that they all fell upon him at once, and ⟨sized⟩ both his person and his remaining ⟨affects⟩. Happily, in this exigence, he ⟨recollected⟩ the man he had once been ⟨generous⟩ to; he thought on Curio: him he ⟨went⟩ for immediately, gave him full power ⟨to⟩ act for him, and beſought him to ⟨endeavour⟩ at bringing his affairs to a compoſition. ⟨This⟩ grateful man engaged himſelf without ⟨heſitation⟩ for the whole, relieved his friend, ⟨took⟩ him home, called in his debts, and ⟨made⟩ up the remainder of the payment out ⟨of⟩ his own fortune. Nor did he ſtop here, ⟨but⟩ taking him aſide one day, "My dear ⟨Claudian⟩" ſaid he, "there was a time in ⟨which⟩ you were ſo generous as to offer me a ⟨partnerſhip⟩ I had no right to expect. My ⟨buſineſs⟩ is now as valuable as yours was ⟨then⟩; but whereas you owed me nothing, I ⟨cannot⟩ but remember, I owe every thing to ⟨you⟩: my gratitude therefore prompts me to ⟨make⟩ the ſame kind of offer at this day, as ⟨your⟩ generoſity urged you then to do.—⟨Accept⟩ therefore freely, and without ſcruple, ⟨an⟩ equal ſhare of all that your goodneſs has ⟨enabled⟩ me to procured."
​It was not without difficulty, that ⟨Claudian⟩ was prevailed on to come into the views ⟨of⟩ his friend. However, being ⟨importuned⟩ he at laſt accepted the generous offer; ⟨and⟩ having ſo done, reſolved to make ⟨himſelf⟩ worthy of it. Every one ſaw the ⟨goodneſs⟩ of Curio’s heart, and every one was ⟨now⟩ witneſs to the change it wrought in his ⟨friend⟩ who quickly became more diligent than ⟨he⟩ had ever been remiſs.—Succeſs was the natural conſequence of the united efforts ⟨of⟩ the merchants. Claudian had now ⟨nothing⟩ to lament but the loſs of his love, ⟨whose⟩ idea was too ſtrongly imprinted in his ⟨mind⟩ for him ever to forget her. But in this too fortune was now favourable to him.—A ⟨relation⟩ of his dying, left him a ſum twice as ⟨large⟩ as he had at firſt poſſeſſed. ⟨Enraptured⟩ with the opportunity of making at once ⟨both⟩ himſelf and his lovely miſtreſs happy, ⟨he⟩ ſlew directly to her, renewed his ⟨addreſſes⟩ and eaſily obtained the conſent of her parents.—He married this idol of his ⟨heart⟩ threw his whole fortune into trade, in ⟨which⟩ Curio continued his partner; their ⟨families⟩ were united, and they lived in harmony among themſelves, and a bright example ⟨to⟩ all about them.
F I N I S
Printed by G Miller, Dunbar.
This work was published before January 1, 1929, and is in the public domain worldwide because the author died at least 100 years ago.
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