# Reading for Winter Evenings/A Friend in Need

A FRIEND IN NEED.
George Cornish, a native of London, was brought up to the sea. After making several voyages to the East Indies in the capacity of mate, he obtained the command of a ship in the country trade there, and passed many years of his life in sailing from one port to another of the Company's different settlements, and residing at intervals on shore with the superintendants of their commercial concerns. Having by these means raised a moderate fortune, and being now beyond the meridian of life, he felt a strong desire of returning to his native country, and seeing his family and friends, concerning whom he had received no tidings for a long time. He realized his property, settled his affairs, and, taking his passage for England, arrived in the Downs, after an absence of sixteen years.
He immediately repaired to London, and went to the house of an only brother whom he had left possessed of a genteel place in a public office. He found that his brother was dead, and the family broken up; and he was directed to the house of one of his nieces, who was married and settled at a small distance from town. On making himself known, he was received with great respect and affection by the married niece, and a single sister who resided with her; to which good reception, the idea of his bringing back with him a large fortune did not a little contribute. They pressed him, in the most urgent manner, to take up his abode there, and omitted nothing that could testify their dutiful regard to so near a relation. On his part, he was sincerely glad to see them, and presented them with some valuable Indian commodities which he had brought with him. They soon fell into conversation concerning the family events that had taken place during his long absence. Mutual condolences passed on the death of the father: the mother had been dead long before. The captain, in the warmth of his heart, declared his intention of befriending the survivors of the family, and his wishes of seeing the second sister as comfortably settled in the world as the first seemed to be.
"But," said he, "are you two the only ones left? What is become of my little smiling play-fellow, Amelia? I ​remember her as if it were yesterday, coming behind my chair, and giving me a sly pull, and then running away that I might follow her for a kiss. I should be sorry if any thing had happened to her."—"Alas! Sir," said the eldest niece, "she has been the cause of an infinite deal of trouble to her friends. She was always a giddy girl, and her misconduct has proved her ruin. It would be happy if we could all forget her."—“What, then!" said the uncle, "has she dishonoured herself? Poor creature!"—"I cannot say," replied the niece, "that she has done so in the worst sense of the word; but she has disgraced herself and family by a hasty foolish match with one beneath her; and it has ended, as might he expected, in poverty and wretchedness.”—"I am glad," returned the captain, "that it is no worse; for though I much disapprove of improper matches, yet young girls may fall into still greater evils; and where there is no crime, there can be no irreparable disgrace. But who was the man, and what did my brother say. to it?"—"Why, Sir, I cannot say but it was partly my father's own fault; for he took a sort of liking to the young man, who was a drawing-master employed in the family, and would not forbid him the house after we had informed him of the danger of an attachment between Amelia and him. So, when it was too late, he fell into a violent passion about it, which had no other effect than to drive the girl directly into her lover's arms. They married, and soon fell into difficulties. My father, of course, would do nothing for them; and when he died, he not only disinherited her, but made us promise no longer to look upon her as a sister."—"And you did make that promise?" said the captain, in a tone of surprise and displeasure.—"We could not disobey our parent," replied the other sister; "but we have several times sent her relief in her necessities, though it was improper for us to see her."—“And pray what is become of her at last; where is she now?"—"Really, she and her husband lave shifted their lodgings so often, that it is some time since we heard any thing about them."—“Some time! how long?"—"Perhaps half a-year or more."—"Poor outcast!" cried the captain, in a sort of half-muttered voices "I have made no promise, however, to renounce thee. Be pleased, madam," he continued, addressing himself gravely to the married niece, "to favour me with the last direction you had to this unfortunate sister. She blushed, and looked confused; and at length, after a good deal of searching, presented it to her uncle. "But, my dear Sir," said she, "you will not think of leaving us to-night. My servant shall make all the inquiries yon choose, and save you the trouble ​and to-morrow you can ride to town, and do as you think proper."—"My good niece," said the captain, "I am but an indifferent sleeper; and I am afraid things would run in my head, and keep me awake. Besides, I am naturally impatient, and love to do my business myself. You will excuse me." So saying, he took up his hat, and without much ceremony went out of the house, and took the road to town on foot, leaving his two nieces somewhat disconcerted.
When he arrived, he went without delay to the place mentioned, which was a by-street near Soho. The people who kept the lodgings informed him that the person he inquired after had left them several months, and they did not know what was become of him. This threw the captain into great perplexity; but, while he was considering what he should do next, the woman of the house recollected that Mr. Bland (that was the drawing-master's name) had been employed at a certain school, where information about him might possibly be obtained. Captain Cornish hastened away to the place, and was informed by the master of the school that such a man had, indeed, been engaged there, but had ceased to attend for some time past. "He was a very well-behaved, industrious young man," added the master, "but in distressed circumstances, which prevented him from making that genteel appearance which we expect in all who attend our school; so I was obliged to dismiss him. It was a great force upon my feelings, I assure you, Sir, to do so; but you know the thing could not be helped." The captain eyed him with indignant contempt, and said, "I suppose then, Sir, your feelings never suffered you to inquire where this poor creature lodged, or what became of his afterwards?"—"As to that," replied the master, "every man knows his own business best, and my time is fully taken up with my own concerns; but I believe I have a note of the lodgings he then occupied—here it is." The captain took it, and, turning on his heel, withdrew in silence. He posted away to the place, but there, too, had the mortification of learning that he was too late. The people, however, told him that they believed he might find the family he was seeking in a neighbouring alley, at a lodging up three pair of stairs. The captain's heart sunk within him; however, taking a boy as a guide, he proceeded immediately to the spot. On going up the narrow creaking staircase, he met a man coming down with a bed on his shoulders. At the top of the landing stood another, with a bundle of blankets and sheets. A woman with a child in her arms was expostulating with him, and he heard her exclaim, “Cruel! not to leave me one bed for myself and my poor children!"—"Stop!" ​said the captain to the man, "set down those things." The man hesitated. The captain renewed his command in a peremptory tone, and then advanced towards the woman. They looked earnestly at each other. Through her pale and emaciated features, he saw something of his little smiler; and at length, in a faint voice, he addressed her, “Are you Amelia Cornish?"—“That was my name," she replied.—"I am your uncle," he cried, clasping her in his arms, and sobbing as if his heart would break. “My uncle!" said she, and fainted. He was just able to set her down on the only remaining chair, and take her child from her. Two other young children came running up, and began to scream with terror. Amelia recovered herself. “Oh, Sir, what a situation you see me in!"—"A situation, indeed!" said he, "poor forsaken creature! but you have one friend left!"
He then asked what was become of her husband. She told him, that having fatigued himself with walking every day to a great distance for a little employment, that scarcely afforded them bread, he had fallen ill, and was now in an hospital; and that, after having been obliged to sell most of their little furniture and clothes for present subsistence, their landlord had just seized their only remaining bed for some arrears of rent. The captain immediately discharged the debt; and, causing the bed to be brought up again, dismissed the man. He then entered into a conversation with his niece, about the events that had befallen her. "Alas! Sir," said she, "I am sensible I was greatly to blame in disobeying my father, and leaving his roof as I did; but perhaps something might be alleged in my excuse—at least, years of calamity and distress may be an expiation. As to my husband, however, he has never given me the least cause of complaint—he has ever been kind and good; and what we have suffered has been through misfortune, and not fault. To be sure, when we married, we did not know how a family was to be maintained. His was a poor employment; and sickness and other accidents soon brought us to a state of poverty, from which we could never retrieve ourselves. He, poor man ! was never idle when he could help it, and denied himself every indulgence in order to provide for the wants of me and my children. I did my part, too, as well as I was able. But my father's unrelenting severity made me quite heart-broken; and though my sisters, two or three times, gave us a little relief in our pressing necessities,—for nothing else could have made me ask in the manner I did,—yet they would never permit me to see them, and for some time past have entirely abandoned us. I thought Heaven had abandoned ​us too. The hour of extremest distress was come; but you have been sent for our comfort."—"And your comfort, please God! I will be," cried the captain with energy: "you are my own dear child, and your little ones shall be mine too. Dry up your tears: better days, I hope, are approaching."
Evening was now coming on, and it was too late to think of changing lodgings. The captain procured a neighbour to go out for some provisions and other necessaries; and then took his leave, with a promise of being with his niece early the next morning. Indeed, as he proposed going to pay a visit to her husband, she was far from wishing to detain him longer. He went directly thence to the hospital; and, having got access to the apothecary, begged to be informed of the real state of his patient Bland. The apothecary told him that he laboured under a slow fever, attended with extreme dejection of spirits; but that there were no signs of urgent danger. "If you will allow me to see him," said the captain, "I believe I shall be able to administer a cordial more effectual, perhaps, than all your medicines." He was shown up to the ward where the poor man lay, and seated himself by his bedside. "Mr. Bland" said he, "I am a stranger to you; but come to bring you some news of your family." The sick man roused himself, as it were, from a stupor, and fixed his eyes in silence on the captain. He proceeded—“Perhaps you may have heard of an uncle that your wife had in the East Indies—he is come home, and—and—I am he." Upon this, he eagerly stretched out his hand, and taking that of Bland, which was thrust out of the bedclothes to meet it, gave it a cordial shake. The sick man's eyes glistened: he grasped the captain's hand with all his remaining strength, and, drawing it to his mouth, kissed it with fervour. All he could say was, "God bless you!—be kind to poor Amelia!" "I will—I will," cried the captain, "I will be a father to you all—cheer up—keep up your spirits—all will be well!" He then, with a kind look and another shake of the hand, wished him a good night, and left the poor man lightened at once of half his disease.
The captain went home to the coffee-house where he lodged, got a light supper, and went early to bed. After meditating sometime with heartfelt satisfaction on the work of the day, he fell into a sweet sleep, which lasted till day-break. The next morning early, he rose, and sallied forth in search of furnished lodgings. After some inquiry, he met with a commodious set, in a pleasant airy situation, for which he agreed. He then drove to Amelia, and found her and her children neat and clean, and as well dressed as her poor wardrobe ​would admit. He embraced them with the utmost affection, and rejoiced Amelia's heart with a favourable account of her husband. He then told them to prepare for a ride with him. The children were overjoyed at the proposal, and they accompanied him down to the coach in high spirits. Amelia scarcely knew what to think or expect. They drove first to a warehouse for ready-made linen; where the captain made Amelia furnish herself with a complete set of every thing necessary for present use for the children and herself, not forgetting some shirts for her husband. Thence they went to a clothes shop, where the little boy was supplied with a jacket and trowsers, a hat, and great coat, and the girl with another great coat and a bonnet. Both were made as happy as happy could be. They were next all furnished with new shoes. In short, they had not proceeded far, before the mother and three children were all in complete new habiliments, decent, but not fine; while the old ones were all tied up in a great bundle, and destined for some family still poorer than they had been.
The captain then drove to the lodgings he had taken, and which he had directed to be put in thorough order. He led Amelia up stairs, who knew not whither she was going. He brought her into a handsome parlour, and seated her in a chair. "This, my dear," said he, "is your house. I hope you will let me, now and then, come and see you in it." Amelia turned pale, and could not speak. At length, a flood of tears came to her relief, and she suddenly threw herself at her uncle's feet, and poured out thanks and blessings in a broken voice. He raised her; and, kindly kissing her and her children, slipped a purse of gold into her hand, and hurried down stairs.
He next went to the hospital, and found Mr. Bland sitting up in bed, and taking some food with apparent pleasure. He sat down by him. "God bless you, Sir!" said Bland: "I see now it is all a reality, and not a dream. Your figure has been hunting me all night; and I have scarcely been able to satisfy myself whether I had really seen and spoken to you, or whether it was a fit of delirium. Yet my spirits have been lightened, and I have now been eating with a relish I have not experienced for many days past. But may I ask how is my poor Amelia, and my little ones?"—"They are well and happy, my good friend,” said the captain; "and I hope you will soon be so along with them." The apothecary came up, and felt his patient's pulse. "You are a lucky doctor, indeed, Sir," said he to Captain Cornish: "you have cured the poor man of his fever. His pulse is as calm as my own." The captain consulted him about the safety of removing him; ​and the apothecary thought that there would be no hazard in doing it that very day. The captain waited the arrival of the physician, who confirmed the same opinion. A sedan chair was procured; and, full directions being obtained for the future treatment, with the physician's promise to look after him, the captain walked before the chair to the new lodging. On the knock at the door, Amelia looked out of the window; and, seeing the chair, ran down, and met her uncle and husband in the passage. The poor man, not knowing where be was, and gazing wildly around him, was carried up stairs, and placed upon a good bed, while his wife and children assembled round it. A glass of wine, brought by the people of the house, restored him to his recollection; when a most tender scene ensued, which the uncle closed as soon as he could, for fear of too much agitating the yet feeble organs of the sick man.
By Amelia's constant attention, assisted by proper help, Mr. Bland shortly recovered; and the whole family lost their sickly emaciated appearance, and became healthy and happy. The kind uncle was never long absent from them, and was always received with looks of pleasure and gratitude that penetrated his very soul. He obtained for Mr. Bland a good situation in the exercise of his profession, and took Amelia and her children into his special care. As to his other nieces, though he did not entirely break off his connexion with them, but on the contrary showed them occasional marks of the kindness of a relation, yet he could never look upon them with true cordiality. And as they had so well kept their promise to their father of never treating Amelia as a sister, while in her afflicted state, he took care not to tempt them to break it, now that she was in a favoured and prosperous condition.
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