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£Ei £CT 7A!tES •
THE VILLAGE DOCTOR.
• T X* n lMl d’aRBOL'TILLE.
( Concluded.)
“ Remain with me,’ she said; and W illiam, al
\vays content near his mother, seated him sol t at
her feet. She looked at him long, until a Hood
of tears prevented her distinguishing his gentle
countenance; then she drew him still nearer to
her, and pressed him to her heart. “Oh!” she
exclaimed, in a kind of delirium, “ it my soul,
on leaving my bodv, might become the soul ot
my child, how happy should I be to die!” No
amount of suffering could make her wholly de
spair of divine mercy, and when all human pos
sibility disappeared, this loving heart had gentle
dreams out of which it reconstructed hopes. But
how sad it was, alas! to see the poor mother
slowly perishing before the eyes ot her son, ot a
son who understood not death, and who smiled
when she embraced him.
“He will not regret me,” she said: “he will
not weep : he will not remember.’’ And she re
mained motionless in mute contemplation ot her
child. Her hand then sometimes sought mine:
“You love him, dear doctor ?” she murmured.
“1 will never quit him,” replied 1, “so long
as he has no better friends than myself.” God
in heaven, and the poor village doctor upon earth,
were the two guardians to whom she contided her
son.
Faith is a great thing ! This women, widowed,
disinherited, dying, an idiot child at her side, was
yet saved from that utter despair which brings
blasphemy to the lips ot death. An invisible
friend was near her, on whom she seemed to rest,
listening sometimes to holy words, which she
alone could hear.
One morning the sent for me early. She had
been unable to get up. With her wan, trans
parent hand she showed me a sheet of paper on
which a few lines were written.
“Doctor,” she said, in her gentlest tones, “ I
have not strength to continue; finish this letter!”
I read as follows :
“My Lord, —I write to 3*0 u for the last time.
Whilst health is restored to your old age, 1 suffer
and am about to die. 1 leave your grandson,
William Kysington, without a protector. My
Lord, this last letter is to recall him to your mem
ory ; 1 ask for him a place in your heart rather
than a share of your fortune. Os all the things
of this world, he has understood but one —his
mother’s love; and now she must leave him for
ever! Love him, my Lord, —love is the only
seniiment he can comprehend.”
She could write no more, L added—
“ Mrs. Wiiiiam Kysington has but few days to
live. What are Lord James Kysington’s orders
with respect to the child who bears his name 1
“ The Doctor Barnaby.”
This letter was sent to London, and we waited.
Eva kept her bed. Wiiiiam seated near her, held
her hand in his; bis mother smiled sadly upon
him, whilst I, at the other side of the bed, pre
pared potions to assuage her pains. Again she
began to talk to her son, as if no longer despair
ing that, after her death, some of her words might
recur to his memory. She gave the child all the
advice, all the instructions she would have given
to an intelligent being, Then she turned tome —
“ Who knows, doctor,” she said, “one day, per
haps, he will find my words at the bottom of his
heart ! ”
Three more weeks elapsed. Death approached,
and submissive as was the Christian soul of Eva,
she vet felt the anguish of separation and the sol
emn awe of the future. The village priest came
to see her, and when he left her I met him and
took his hand,
“ You will pray for her,” I said.
“I have entreated her to pray for me,” was his reply.
It was Eva Meredith’s last day. The sun had
set ; the window, near which she so long had sat
was open ; she could see from her bed the land
scape she had loved. She held her son in her
arms end kissed his face and hair, weeping sadly.
“Poor child ! what will become of you V Oh ! ”
she said, with tender earnestness, “ listen to me,
William —I am dying ! Y'our father is dead also ;
you are alone ; you must pray to the Lord. I be
queath you to liim who watches over the sparrow
upon the house-top. He will shield the orphan.
Dear child, look at me ! listen to me ! Try to un
derstand that 1 die, that one day vou may remem
ber me ! ” And the poor mother, unable to speak
longer, still found strength to embrace her child.
At that moment an unaccustomed noise reached
my ears. The wheels of a carriage grated upon
the gravel of the garden drive. 1 ran to the door.
Lord James Kysington and Lady Mary entered
the house.
“ 1 got your letter,” said Lord James. “I was
setting out for Italy, and it was not much off’ my
road to come myself and settle the future desiiny
of William Meredith ; so here I am. Mrs. Wil
liam ? ”
“ Mrs. William K}'sington still lives, my lord,”
I replied.
It was with a painful sensation that I saw this
calm, cold, austere man approach Eva’s chamber,
followed by the haughty woman who came to wit
ness what for her was a happy event —the death
of her former rival! They entered the modest
little room, so different from the sumptuous apart
ments of their Montpellier hotel. They drew
dear the bed, beneath whose white curtains Eva,
pale but still beautiful, held her son upon her
heart. They stood, one on the right, the other on
the left of that couch ot suffering, without finding
a word of affection to console the poor woman
who looked up at them. They barely gave utter
ance to a few formal and unmeaning phrases. —
Averting their eyes from the painful spectacle ol
death, and persuading themselves that Eva Mere
dith neither saw nor heard, they passively awaited
her spirit’s departure—their countenance not even
forgoing an expression of condolence or regret.
Eva fixed her dying gaze upon them, and sudden
terror seized the heart which had almost ceased to
[throb. She comprehended for the first time, the
secret sentiments of Lady Mary, the profound in
difference and egotism of Lord James; she un
derstood at last that they were enemies rather
than protectors of her son. Despair and terror
! portrayed themselves on her pallid face. She
|made no attempt to soften those soulless beings.
Bv a convulsive movement she drew William
still closer to her heart, and, collecting her last
strength—
“ My child, m3’ poor child ! ” she cried, “ 3 T ou
have no support upon earth ; but God above is
good. My God ! succor m3 r child ! ”
With this cr3 s os iove, with this supreme
prayer, she breathed out her life ! her arms opened,
iier lips were motionless on William’s cheek.—
Since she no longer embraced her son, there
could be no doubt she was dead —dead in
the eves of those who to the very last had re
fused to comfort her affliction—dead without giv
ing Lad3 r Mary the uneasiness of hearing herplead
the cause of her son—dead, leaving her a com
plete and decided victor\’.
There was a moment of solemn silence ; none
moved or spoke. Death makes an impression
upon the haughtiest. Lady” Mary and Lord
James K3*singlon kneeled beside their victim’s
bed. In a few minutes Lord James arose, “Take
the child from his mother’s room,” he said, “and
come with me doctor; I will explain to you my
intentions respecting him.”
For two hours William had been resting on
the shoulder of Eva Meredith, his heart against
her heart, his lips pressed to hers, receiving her
kisses and hor tears. I approached him, and,
without expending useless words, 1 endeavored
to raise and lead him from the room ; but
he resisted, and his arms clasped his mother
more closely”. This resistance, the first the poor
child had ever offered to living creature, touched
my very soul. On mv renewing the attempt,
however, \Villiam yielded ; he made a movement
and turned towards me, and I saw his beautiful
countenance suffused with tears. Until that dav,
Willia m had never wept. J was greatly startled
and moved, and i let the child throw himself again
upon his mother’s corpse.
“Take him away”,” said Lord James.
“ Mv t lord ! ” I exclaimed, “he weeps ! Ah,
check not his tears ! ”
I bent over the child, and heard him sob.
“ Will lam ! dear William ! ” I cried, anxiously
taking his hand, “ why do 3’ou weep William ? ”
For the second time he turned his head towards
me; then with a gentle look, full of sorrow, “My
mother is dead,” he replied.
1 have not words to tell you whot I felt. Wil
liam’s eves were now intelligent; his tears were
sad and significant; and his voice was broken
as w hen the heart suffers. I uttered a cr3 T ANARUS; 1 al
most knelt down beside Eva’s bed.
“ Ah ! you are right. Eva ! ” I exclaimed, “not
to despair of the mercy of God ! ”
Lord James himself had started, Lady Mary
was as pale as Eva.
“ Mother ! mother ! ” cried William, in tones
that filled m\ T heart with joy ; and then, repeated
ilie words of Eva Meredith—these words which
she had so truly said he would find at the bottom
of his heart —the child exclaimed aloud,
“1 am dving my son. Your father is dead ;
you are alone upoirthe earth ; 3’ou must pray to
the Lord ! ”
I pressed gentty with my hand upon William’s
shoulder, he obeyed the impulse, knelt down
joined his trembling hands—this time it was of
its own accord—and raising to heaven a look full
of life and feeling, “ My God have pity on me ! ”
he murmured.
1 took Eva’s cold hand. “Oh mother ! mother
of man3 T sorrows ! ” I exclaimed, “ can you hear
your child ? do 3'ou behold him from above ? Be
happy ! 3’our son is saved ! ”
Dead at Lad3 T Mary’s feet, Eva made her rival
tremble ; for it was not I who led William from
from the room, it was Lord James Kysington
who carried out his grandson in his arms.
I have little to acid, ladies. William recovered
his reason and departed with Lord James. Re
instated in his rights, he was subsequently his
grandfather’s sole heir. Science has recorded
a few rare instances of intelligence revived by a
violent moral shock. Thus does the fact 1 have
related find a natural explanation. But the good
women of the village, who had attended Eva
Meredith during her illness, and had heard her
fervent pra3’ers, were convinced that, even as she
had asked of Heaven, the soul of the mother had
passed into the body of the child.
“She was so good,” said the\’, “that God
could refuse her nothing.” This artless belief
took firm root in the country. No one mourned
Mrs. Meredith as dead.
“ She still lives,” said the people of the hamlet,
“ speak to her son and she wall answer you.”
And when Lord William Kysington, in po s_
session of* his grandfather’s property, sent each
year abundant aim ns to the village that had wit
nessed his birth and his mother’s death, the poor
folks exclaimed —“ There is Mrs. Meredith’s kind
soul thinking of us still ! Ah, when she goes to
heaven, it will be great pity for poor people ! ”
We do not strew flowers upon her tomb, but
upon the steps of the altar of the \ irgin, where
she so often prayed to Marv to send a soul to her
son. When taking thither their wreaths ot wild
blossoms, the villagers savto each other — 44 \\ hen
she prayed so fervently, the good \ irgin an
swered her softly : 4 1 will give thy soul to thy
child!”’
The cure has suffered our peasants to retain
this touching superstition ; and I myself, when
Lord William came to see me, when he fixed up
on me his eyes, so like his mother’s —when his
voice, which had a well-known accent, said, as
Mrs. Meredith was wont to say—‘‘Dear Doctor,
I thank you ! ” Then —smile ‘ladies if you will—
I wept, and I believed, like all the village, that
Eva Meredith was before me.
She, whose existence was but a long series of
sorrows, lias lett behind her a sweet, consoling
memory, which has nothing painful for who
loved her.
In thinking of her we think of the merev of
God, and those who have hope in their hearts,
hope with the greater confidence.
But it is very late, ladies—your carriages have
long been at the door. Pardon this long story ; at
my age it is difficult to be concise in speaking of
the events of one’s youth. Forgive the old man
for having made vou smile when he arrived, and
weep before he departed.”
These last words were spoken in the kindest and
most paternal tone, whilst a halt-smile glided
across Dr. Barnaby’slips. Alibis auditors now
crowded round him, eager to express their thanks.
But Dr. Barnaby got up, made straight for his ri
ding-coat of puce-colored taffety, which hung
across a chair back, and, whilst one ot the young
men helped him to put it on—“ Farewell, gentle
men ; farewell ladies,” said the village doctor.—
“ My chaise is ready ; it is dark, the road is bad ;
good-night ; I must be gone.” . .
When Dr. Barnaby was installed in his cabrio
let of green wicker-work, and the little gray cob,
tickled by the whip, was about to set off, Madame
de Moncar stepped quickly forward, and leaning
towards the doctor, whilst she placed one foot on
the step of his vehicle, she said, in quite- alow
voice—
“ Doctor, I make you a present of the white
cottage, and I will have it fitted upas it was when
you loved Eva Meredith ! ”
Then she ran back into the house. The car
riages and the green chaise departed in different
directions.
Bells Rung by Fog. —There was several points
on our Northern Coast and in other parts ot the
world were what are termed Fog Bells, are now
in operation for the purpose of giving alarm to
vessels when approaching the shore.— f l he idea
of bells being rung by fog, however, is so singu
lar, as tr> require an explanation of the mechan
ism employed. The apparatus which rings the
bell is wound up and detained in a wound state
by a lever extending from the machinery into the
open air. To the end of this lever is affixed a
a large sponge, which absorbs the moisture from
the fog, and by becoming heavy settles down the
lever, lets the machinery free, and thus rings the
bell. A cover is placed just above the sponge to
prevent absorption of rain.
Alcantage of knowing Spanish. —The Mexican
Mules do not understand English. It is useless
to speak to them in Anglo-Saxon—not a foot will
the budge; although no sooner do they hear the
“ mutas vamos sst! sst /” of the Mexican donkey
driver than they dart of at a gallop. A Califor
nia pilgrim, writing from Guadalaxara, states
that he has been compelled “at great expense,”
to lure an interpreter between himself and his
mule.
Glass. —At the Polytechnic Institution in Lon
don, is exhibited one pound of glass spun by
steam into four thousand miles, and woven with
silk into beautiful dresses and tapestry.
A FRIEND OF THE FAMILY,
A WEEKLY SOUTHERN NEWSPAPER, PUBLISHED
EVERY THURSDAY, BY
EDWARD J. PURSE.
TERMS:—T WO DOLLARS A YEAR.
Three Copies for one year, or one copy three years, $5 00
Seven Copies, - - - - - 10 0)
Twelve Copies, - - - - - - 15 00
%* Advertisements to a limited extent, will be inserted
at the rate of 50 cents for a square of nine lines or less, for
the first insertion, and 30 cents for each subsequent insertion.
Business cards inserted for a year at Five Dollars.
A liberal discount will be made to Post Masters who
will do us the favor to act as Agents.
Postmasters are authorized to remit money to Publishers
and all money mailed in presence of the Postmaster, and
duly forwarded by him, is &y>ur risk.
All communications to be addressed (post-paid) to
T. J. PURSE, Savaanah, G*.
REMOVAL.
THE Subscribers have removed to the ppacioui
store NO. 100 BRYAN STREET, thee doors below Unit
former location , where can be found a complete assortment o(
Crockery, Glass Ware and House Furnishing Goods at fovr
prices. COLLINS A BULKLEY.
June 28 6t
ROBERT N. ADAMS,
CABINET-MAKER AND UNDERTAKER,
No. 93 Broughton’ St., Savannah, Ga.,
IS prepared to execute all orders in his line at
the lowest prices, with dispatch. Orders from the country
promptly attended to. Ready-made coffins always on iumd,
and made to order at short notice.
jue 28 3mo
To llic Public.
THE Subscriber, having entered extensively
into the making of BRICK of a superior quality to any
manufactured in this c : fy. is prepared to fillordeis at the short
est notice, and as low as any establishment of the kind in or
near Savannah. WM. H. LLOVD.
June 21
ffl. \. 4 oiieu.
(Late of the firm of S. Solomons <s* Cos.)
COMMISSION AXD FORWARDING MERCHANT.
SAVANNAH, GA.
Agent for steam packets 11. L. Cook and Ivanhoe.
may 10
R SH& WEBSTE
ATTORNEYS AT LAW,
175 Bay-Street—Up-Stairs.
SAVANNAH, GEORGIA.
Mulford Marsh. Andrkw M. Webstir
Portrait* and ifiiniatiircft*
MR. VOIGT, who is for th3 present located at
the West er.d of the Academy, entrance opposite the
Presbyterian Church, respect fully requests those who propose
to avail themselves of his services, to engage their pictures
soonas conveniently practicable, as his stay in Suvnnnnh is
finite and. aur 19
Sio Re'ward.
WILL be paid by the subscriber for the appre-
Vs liension and delivery to him of his negro girl slave
named BETSEY, aged about 14 years, light complexion, and
about 4 feet sor 6 inches in height An additional reward of
$lO will be paid for proof to conviction of her ..being harbored
by any person. J. 11. STROUS.
June 21 •
Hack Carriages.
H MORSE, will be always found at the Rail
• Rond and Steam Boat Landings, in Rendinese to carry
Passengers and Baggage to any part of the City.
Orders left at D. Gass fle Co.’s Stable, near the Arsenti,
will meet with prompt attention. Fare the same as charged
by the Omn’buses. June 21
A CAKii.
THE undersigned having re-opened, with an
entire New Stock of DRUGS, CHEMICALS and
FANCY ARTICLES, at No. 139 (South side) Broughton
street, (formerly Walker’s Marble Yard.) is now ready U
furnish any thing in his line, at the shortest notice. SODA
WATER, made in his own peculiar way, sent to an}* part of
the city, and always to be had at the store, in the highest state
of perfection.
Prescriptions put up with care and despatch.
The subscriber having served the public long and faithfully,
respectfully solicits a share of their patronage,
apr 26 ‘ TIIOS. RYERSON.
IXOTIII\r
DIF, 11 SON & HE IDT offer for sale, Clothing,
JT Wholesale and Retail, at New York prices. No. 10,
Whitaker-street. apr 26
feiiiiimeft* S£vl real ou Ihe Salts.
A T MONTG OMER Y,
TWELVE MILKS FROM SAVANNAH.
\BONAUD respectfully informs his friends
t and the public gei.erally, that from the 21st inst., he will
be prepared to accommodate guests, to whom he promiaea
good attendance on accommodating terms, having good and
intelligent servants. Persons may be accommodated for board
per week, month or day, at the following rates, viz:
Board and Lodging, per week, $5 00
Do. do. per day 1 50
Horses well fed and attended to for 50 cents per day.
N. B. During the season there is an abundance of Fruit
on the place: and the table will also be provided w ith all kinds
of fish that the river will afford. apr 26
— —— -■ - . A■■
Situation Wanted.
A AOl NG MAN, as Clerk or Book keeper,
good references can be given to any person needing hit
services. Apply at this office. may 31
Lamp Oil.
JUST Received per ship Hartford, a lot of su
perior Sperm Oil, which is warranted pure. For aai*
very cheap at store, 111 Bay street.
apl 12 GEO. H. BROCK.
HOUSE AnlJ SIGN PAjWI‘3, 2L4Z1H3~ ACT
THE subscriber having taken the store No. 121, Brough
ton street, has re-commenced in the above business, and
will be happy to receive orders for work. He will also keep
or sale all kinds of mixed paints, window glass, putty, oil,
turpentine, Arc.
March 22, ’49. 3m. JOHN OLIVER.
To tho p lanters and Farmers of South
Carolina, Georgia, Alabama, Tenn
essee and Florida.
r AM THE AUTHORIZED AGENT for the
1 sale nnd purchase of the CAM ELINA SATIVA or
COLD OF PLEASURE SEED, a native of Siberia.
1 am now ready to fill all orders for the seed, and being au
thorized by the Company lo purchase the same, I will pay tb#
highest market price for all that mav be shipped to me i>
Savannah. WM. HUMPHREYS, Jr.,
may 31 Agent for the Company of New York.
BOOk - AND JOB PRINTING^
Os all kind., executed nt ihi. Office, with ueafneaa and
despatch.
HAVING lately put our Office in complete order
and made large additions to it, we have now the most ex
tensive Job Printing Office in the City and are prepared to
execute all kinds of PLAIN AND FANCY PRINTING,
with neatness and despatch, and on the most accomodating
terms. Office 102 Bryan-street, entrance on Bay Lane.
Savannah, March 22d, 1849. EDWARD J. PURSL