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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