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“The white cottage!” cried the doctor, lor
upwards of an hour Dr. Barnabv had been mute
and motionless upon his chair. Mirth and weasi
ness,* sun and rain, had succeded each other with
out.eliciiing a syllable from his lips. His
ence was forgotten by everybody ; evey eye turned
quickly upon whenhe uttered these three words,
“The white cottage! ’ ... 0 „
“What interest do you take in it doctor/
asked the countess.
“Mm Dieu> m'idamc. Pray forget that I spoke.
The cottage will come down undoubtedly since
such has been your good pleasure.”
“Butwhy should you regret the old shed'?’
“ I —Mon Dieu ! it was inhabited by persous I
loved—and —” •
“ And they think of returning to it, doctor V ”
“They are long since dead, madam; they
died when I was young!” and the old man
gazed m )urnfully at the white cottage, which rose
amongst the trees upon the hill-side, like a daises
in a green field. There was a brief silence.
“.Madam,” said one of the guests in a low
voice to Madame de Moncar, “ there is mystery
here; Observe the melanchoUy % of our Escula
pius. Some pathetic drama has been enacted in
yonder house ; a talc of love, perhaps. Ask the
doctor to tell it us.”
“Yes, yes! ” was murmuied on all sides, “a
tale, a story! And should it prove q! little inter
est, at any rate the narrator will divert us.”
“ Not so, gentleman,” replied Madame de Mon
car, in the same suppressed voice. “If I ask
Dr. Barnaby to tell us the history of the white
cottage, it is on the express condition that no one
laughs.” All having promised to be serious and
well-behaved, Madame de Moncar approached
the old man. “ Doctor,” said she, seating her
self beside him, “ that house, I plainly see, is
connected with some reminiscence of former days,
stored preciously in your memory. A\ iil } r ou
tell it us ? I should be grieved to cause you a
regret which it is in my power to spare you ; the
house shall remain it you tell me why you love it.
Dr. Barnaby seemed surprised, and remained
silent. The countess drew still nearer to him.—
“ Dear doctor! ” said she, “ see what wretched
weather; how dreary everything looks. You are
the senior of us all ; tell us a tale. Make us for
get rain, and fog, and cold.”
Dr. Barnaby looked at the countess with great
astonishment.
“There is no tale,” he said, “What occurred
in the cottage is very simple, and has no interest
but forme, who loved the young people ; stran
gers would not call it a tale. And lam unaccus
tomed to speak before many listeners. Besides
what I should tell you is sad, and you came to
amuse yourselves.” And again the doctor rested
his chin upon his stick.
“Dear doctor,” resumed the countess, “the
white cottage shall stand if you say why you
love it.”
The old man appeared somewhat moved; he
crossed and uncrossed his legs; took out his snuff
box, returned it to his pocket without opening it ;
then looking at the countess —“ \ou will not pull
it down ?” he said, indicating with his thin and
tremulous hand the habitation visible at the hori
zon.
“ I promise you I will not.”
“ Well, so be it; Twill do that much for them;
I.will save the house in which the} r were happy.
“ Ladies,” continued the old man, “I am but a
. poor speaker; but I believe that even the least
eloquent succeed in making themselves under
stood when they tell what they have seen. This
story, I warn you beforehand, is not gay. To
dance and to sing, people send fora musician;
they call in the physician when they suffer, and
are near to death.”
A circle was formed round Dr. Barnaby, who,
his hands still crossed upon his cane quietiy com
menced the following narrative, to an audience
prepared beforehand to smile at his discourse.
“ It was a long time ago, when 1 was young —
fori, too, hive been young. Youth is a fortune
that bo longs to all the world —to the poor as well
as to the rich—but which abides with none. 1
had just passed my examination ; I had taken my
physicians degree, and 1 returned to my village
to exercise my wonderful talents, well convinced
that, thanks to me, men would now cease to die.
My .village is not far from here. From the little
window of my room, I beheld yonder white house
upon the opposite side to that you now discern. —
You certainly would not find my village hand
some. In my eyas it was superb ; I was born
there, and I loved it. We all see with our own
eves the things we love. God suffers us to be
sometimes a little blind ; for He well knows
that in this lower world a clear sight is not al
ways profitable. To see, then, this neighbor
hood appear smiling and pleasant, and 1 lived
happily. The white cottage alone, each morn
ing when I opened my shutters, impressed me
disagreeably; it was always closed, still and sad
like a forsaken thing. Never had I seen its win
dows open and shut, or the door ajar ; never had
I known its inhospitable garden gate give passage
to human being, lour uncle, madam, who had
no occasion for a cottage so near his chateau,
sought to let it; but the rent was rather higher
than any body here was rich enough to give. It
remained empty, therefore, whilst in this hamlet
every wiudow exhibited two or three children’s
faces peering through the branches of gilliflower
at the first noise in the street. But one morning,
on getting up, I was quite astonished to see a
long ladder resting against the eottage wall;
a painter was painting the window-shutters green,
whilst a maid-servant polished the panes, and a
gardener hoed the flower-beds.
“All the better,” said 1 to myself; “a good
roof like that, which covers no one, is so much
lost.”
From day to day the house improved in ap
pearance. Pots of flowers veiled the nudity of j
the walls; the parterres were planted, the walks
weeded and gravelled, and muslin curtains,
white as snow, shone in the sun-rays. One day
a post-chaise rattled through the village, and
; drove up to the little-house. \Y ho were the stran
gers ! None knew, and all desired to learn. Toi
a longtime nothing transpired without of whal
passed within the dwelling. r l he rose-trees
bloomed, and the fresh-laid lawn grew verdant;
| still nothing was known. Many were the com
mentaries upon the mystery. 1 hey were adven
turers concealing themselves —they were a young
man and his mistress —in short, everything was
guessed except the truth. . The truth is so simple,
that one does not always think of it; once the
mind is in movement, it seeks to the right and to
the left, and often forgets to look straight before it..
The mystery gave me little concern. No matter
; who is there, thought 1; they are human, there
fore they will not be long without suffering, and
then they will send for me. I waited impatiently.
At last one morning a messenger came from
Mr. William Meredith, to request me to call upon
him. I put on my best coat, and endeavoring
to assume a gravity suitable to my profession, J
; travereset! the village, not without some little
pride at my importance. That day many en
| vied me. The villagers stood at their doors to
! see me pass. “He is going to the white cot
tage !” they said ; whilst I, avoiding all appear
ance of haste and vulgar curiosity, walked delib
erately, nodding to inv peasant neighbors. —
“ Good-day mv friends,” I said ; “ I will see
you by-and-by ; this morning lam busy.” And
thus I reached the hill-side.
On entering the sitting room of the mysterious
house, the scene I beheld rejoiced my eye-sight.
Everything was so simple aud elegant. Flowers,
the chief ornament of the apartment, were so
tastefully arranged, that gold would not better
have embellished the modest interior. While
muslin was at the windows, white calico on the
chairs—that was all; but there were roses and
jessamine, and flowers of all kind, as in a garden.
The light was softened by the curtains, the at
mosphere was fragrant; and a young girl or wo
man, fresh and fair as all that surrounded her, re
clined upon a sofa, and welcomed me with a smile.
A handsome young man seated near her on an
ottoman, rose when the servant annuonced Dr.
Barnabv.
“ Sir,” said he, with a strong foreign accent,
“ I have heard so much of your skill that I expec
ted to see an old man.”
“ I have studied diligently, sir,” I replied. “I
am deeply impressed with the importance and re
sponsibility of my calling; you may confide in me.”
“ Tis well,” he said. “I recommend my wife
to your best care. Her present state demands ad
vice and precaution. She was born in a distant
•land ; for my sake she has quitted family and
friends. I can bring but my affection to her aid,
for lam without experience. I reckon upon you
sir. If possible, preserve her from ail suffering.”
Ashe spoke, the young man fixed upon his
wife a look so full of love, that the large blue eyes
of the beautiful foreigner glistened with tears of
gratitude. She dropped the tiny cap she was
embroidering, and her two hands elapsed the band
of her husband. I looked at them, and I ought
to have found their lot enviable, but, somehow or
othor, the contrary was the case. I felt sad ; I
could not tell why. I had often seen persons
weep, of whom I said—They are happy ! I saw
William Meredith and his wife smile, and I could
not help thinking they had much sorrow. I seat
ed myself near my charming patient. Never
have 1 seen anything so lovely as that sweet face,
shaded by long ringlets of fair hair.
“ What is your age, madam ? ”
“ Seventeen.”
“Is the climate of your native country very
different from ours? ”
“ I was born in America—at New Orleans.—
Oh ! the sun is far brighter than here.”
Doubtless she feared she had uttered a regret,
for she added—
“ But.every country is beautiful when one is
in one’s husband’s house, with him, and awaiting
his child! ”
Her gaze sought that of William Meredith ;
then, in a tongue 1 did not understand, she spoke
a few words which sounded so soft that they must
have been words of love.
After a short visit I took my leave, promising
to return. I did return, and, at the end of two
.months, I was almost the friend of this young
couple. Mr. and Mrs. Meredith were not selfish
in their happiness; they found time to think of
others. They saw that to the poor village doctor,
whose sole society is that of peasants, those days
were festivals upon which he passed an hour in
hearing the language of cities. They encour
aged me to frequent them —talked to me of their
travels, and soon, with the prompt confidence
characterising youth, they told me their story. —
It was the girl-wife who spoke: —
“ Doctor,” she said, “ yonder, beyond the seas,
I have father, sisters, family, friends, whom I long
loved, until the day when I loved William. But
then I shut my heart on those who repulsed my
lover. William’s father forbade him to wed me,
because he was too noble for the daughter ol an
American planter. My father forbade me to love
William, because he was too proud to give his
daughter to a man whose family refused her a
welcome. They tried to separate us; but we
loved each other. Long did we weep and sup
plicate, and implore the pity ol those to whom
we owed obedience ; they remained inflexible,
ann we loved ! Doctor did you ever love ? I
would you had, that you might be indulgent to us.
We were secretly married, and we fled to France.
Oh how heautiful the ocean appeared in those
early days of our affection ! The sea was hos
pitable to the fugitives. Wanderers upon the
waves, we past happy days in the shadow of our
vessel’s sails, anticipating pardon from our friends,
and dreaming a bright future. Alas ! we were
too sanguine. They pursued us ; and, upon pre
text of some irregularity of form in our clandes
tine marriage, William’s family cruelly thought to
separate us. We found, concealment in the midst
of these mountains and forests. Under a name
which is not ours we live unknown. M} r father
has not forgiven —he has cursed me ! That is
the reason, doctor, why I cannot*always smile,
even with my dear William by my side.”
(To be Continued.)
A F R IE N DOF THE FAMILY.
SAVANNAH, THURSDAY JUNE 14, 1840.
MP The steamship Cherokee, had 122 cabin and 10 steer
age passengers.
The Mobile boat failed to make the connection, being a few
miles below Montgomery when the last train left that city.
R. W. GRAND LODGE, I. O. O. F. OF GEORGIA.
The annual communication took place in this city on Wed
nesday and Thursday, the 6th and 7th insts.
The following officers were elected and installed for the
ensuing year:
E. PARSONS, of No. 3., M. W. Grand Master.
M. WOODRUFF, “ 6., R. W. Dep. G. Master.
J. A. KNIGHT, “ 2., R. W. Grand Warden.
J. IST. LEWIS, “ 1., R. W. Grand Sec’ry.
J. P. COLLINS, “ 3., R. W. Grand Treasurer.
S. COHEN, “ 1., R. W. Grand Representative.
The M. W. Grand Master appointed
JOSEPH FELT, of No. 9., W. Grand Chaplain.
GILBERT BUTLER, “ 1., W. “ Marshal.
C. C. MILLAR “ 9., “ “ Conductor.
W. M. DAVIDSON, “ 3., “ “ Guardian.
District Deputy Grand Masters.
S. G. Willson, for Richmond, Greene nnd Clarke.
M. Woodruff, R. W. D. G. M., for Muscogee, Troupe nnd
Talbott.
J. M. Bivins, for Bibb, Houston and Pulaski.
W. IT. Robinson, for Macon, Doolv and Sumpter.
N. C. Jones, for Baker, Thomas and Decatur.
E. Bothwell, for Burke, Jefferson and Baldwin.
W. B. Winn, for Bibb and Murray.
J. 11. Jossey, for Pike, Henry and DeKalb.
Twenty-one Lodges were represented, and charters grant
ed to the following new Lodges.
No. 28, Central Lodge, Atlanta.
29, Betali “ Talbotton.
30, Holcombs “ Fort Valley.
31, Patton “ Drayton.
32, Wildey “ Americas.
33, Beckman “ McDonough.
A motion was made to move the seat of the Grand Lodge
to Macon.
SUBSCRIBING FOR BOOKS.
Asa general rule a person who makes it a practice to sub
scribe for books before they are published, pays dear for ‘* liis
whistle.” When a hoy one of these down east chaps got us
to subscribe for Kirkhams Elocution which was to be beauti
fully got up, for the extremely low price of one dollar and
fifty cents. In two or three months our book came to hand,
a plain 12mo, of about four hundred pages, common bind
ing—worth just half the money, (sells now for fifty cents)
we paid for it. Taken in we were that time, hut we de
termined never to buy a pig in the bag again, and we have
saved many a dollar by this speculation since. Sometimes pub
lishers are taken in as well as the public. A Bookseller of our
acquaintance once had some five hundred copies of a large
work sent from a publishing house in a northern city for
delivery to subscsibers obtained by one of those persons.
He called on a number of the gentlemen whose names was
on the list and they told him they knew nothing about the
matter, that they never had been even, solicited to subscribe.
The chap had taken their names off of the sign boards for
which he received one dollar per name, nnd had left for parts
unknown.
The frequency with which our city is visited by individuals
seeking subscribers, and the large amount of money drained
annually from the South, for clap-trap publications, compels
us to caution the public against such impositions, among
which class comes Frost’s Illustrated History of the United
Sgites —embellished with splendid wood engravings of tlie
cheapest quality, and splendidly bound in embossed coloured
sheepskin—and sold for only two dollars and fifty unts —
which would doubtless be cheap for half the money. One
other instance we must notice before we quit the subject—
The advertising charts. “ Misery loves company,” as the
saying goes, and other cities besides ours shared in this hum
bug. It is a sore subject with many, and have taught them a
lesson that may in the end prove of value to themselves and
our own mechanics, who, if they received proper encourage
ment at home would, in a few years, be able to compete with
t hose of any other part of our country for cheapness in the
matter of excellence they are equal—aye, in most instances,
superior to those of the north now.
ty* We are sorry to learn by a letter in the Chcroktt Ad
vocate that. our indefatigable Temperance Lecturer, D. p.
Jones, through whose exertions the cause lias advanced
steadily during the past two years, w 11 be compelled by* the
sickness of his family to discontinue his efforts until October,
“ HIGH LIFE BELOW STAIRS." ’
We are much pleased with tl* strictures of the Savan
nah^Re publican of the 6th inst., in an article under the above
caption. This class of our population have for the past few
years got quite beside themselves in many things— owners
have perhaps been too lax in discipline. One of the most
pernicious practices that exists is the hiring of their own
time and huckstering about the streets and in the market, by
which they readily make their wages, but become forever af.
ter good for nothing else. Another that did exist, but which
for the present has been abated, was the mania for hiring car
riages and vehicles on the sabbath nnd driving out into the
country, ostensibly to attend church, but really in most ca
ses to frolic and drink. There are four churches in tho city
appropriated to their exclusive use, and yet, with a knowledgn
of this fact, owners and guardians freely granted them ticket*
to attend those meetings in the country. Like children they
are not capable of self-government and unless owners taka
the trouble to think for them, their morals and manners goon
become corrupted.
THE MASONIC JOURNAL.
The May and June number is still further improved in
material and workmanship, and we hope the Journal mnv be
properly appreciated by the fraternity. We except however
to the following fling at other societies, which is not conceived
in the spirit of Masonry. True, they arc the sentiments of
Lorenzo Dow—one who has long passed from this lowor
world—but the editor, in making the selection endorses the
sentiments.
“ Other societies strive to make principles by proselyting,
but this does not. But in common with other societies, and
the public at large, they show their equality in paying their
proportion of the poor taxes, and also, the general kindness to
the neighbors’distresses; yet over and above all that, they
aim to help each other with their own money, which is not
begged from others, but is the fruit of their own earnings.
And provided they wish to extend their institution beyond
tho lit.le, narrow, contracted prejudices of local societies,
whom do they injure ? Let Truth and Justice answer tho
question !”
‘•The following description of a Hotel Dinner is so humor
ous and truthful that we cannot refrain from giving it entire.
A HOTEL DIN N ER.
FROM NOTES IN PENCIL, ON THE BACK OF A BILL OF FARE.
How startling is the sound of the dinner-gong! The tym
panum suddenly recoils beneath the swell of the brazen in
strument, and echoes the alarum to its fellow member of the
lower house, of which Appetite is the speaker. In a Inrge
hotel, the effect is magical. What a rush from all quarters of
the house to the dining-room ! Chambers, offices, closets, nro
hastily deserted by their occupants, that the elements of an
unspeakable hurly-burly may mingle at the tabh-d'hotc.—
Loungers in the street catch the sound with wonderful acute
ness, and hasten homewards to the hotel. The boarder under
the barber’s hands frets at the practitioner’s slowness, gets cut
while uttering a violent oath, starts up, looking dagger*, and
wiping the soap hastily from liis hnlf-shaved chin, scizos his
hat, and rushes to the place of feed.
In one dense crowd, they pour in at the door ; pushing and
squeezing, jostling and swearing, as if life itself depended upon
the celerity of their entrance. Dignity is nothing, decency is
nothing. A choice seat at table is every thing.
The twenty or thirty individuals who are already seated at
the head of the board, and in the intimate vicinity of the
choisest eatables, are ‘old heads;’ they have ‘cut their eye
teeth;’ they are ‘up to snuff;’ or, to cut the classicks, nnd
descend to homely English, they know how to live in an
American hotel; an accomplishment by no means to be light
ly regarded. Every day about halt an hour before the din
ner-hour, they station themselves near the door of the dining
room, and with a patience worthy of Job, await its opening.
Barely does John, the waiter, have time to sound the gong,
the notes of which I have said are so magical, before they
dart by him, and the last Vibration of the brazen monitor finds
the men of brass seated at the table. Some unsofistiented
persons may think this a. contemptible subserviency to the
appetite ; it so they do the worthies much injustice. Their
motives are of a high order; an honor to themselves, and a
great light to the world. Example is every thing. Punctu
ality is a jewel. Washington said so, and he was a ninn of
veracity. The hour to dine, as specified in tho rules and
regulations, posted up in the ‘ office,’ was three. Not one
minute before norafter three, but three precisely. Some in
considerate man may think that a minute or two out of tho
way could make no material difference. Don’t trust such an
one with the conveyance of your wife and five small children
to a steam-boat pier! Ten chances to one he misses the boat.
‘Time is money,’ and two minutes lost daily, is seven hundred
and forty minutes per annum. At this rate, supposing a man
to live seventy years—a fair computation when we consider
the caoutchouc case of joice Ileth—thirty five days, eleven
hours, and four-sixtieths are wasted in a life time, by being
two minutes behind hand at dinner 1 Shades of Washington,
Franklin, and Dr. Alcott! —what a dissipation of money ! It
was of this that the men at the door ruminated. They wished,
like Washington, to set a good example, in being punctual.
If, in virtuously striving to excel in such a cause, they tread
on each other’s corns, and tumble over each other’s heels,
making themselves appear excessively ridiculous, it is our bu
siness not to laugh at, but to condole with them as martyrs
who suffer for our sake. Many a gouty toe has been ground
into torture, in its owner’s generous emulation to be the first
,l nd most punctual at the dinner-table. What disinterested
martyrdom!
The crowd have squeezed themselves into the room. Such
a scrambling and jostling for scats ? Spare the crockery.
The din—from din comes dinner—redoubless. Such an out
cry! Babel is music to it. ‘Waiter!* ‘Waiter!* ‘John!*
‘ Waiter !’ * Thomas !’ * Thomas!’ * Waiter!’ ‘ John!’ Thom
as!’ Soup!’ ‘Soup!’ ‘Soup!’ were reiterated in all octaves,
from contralto to soprano. I was a ‘ looker-on in Vienna/
when the scenes which follow occurred* and 1 * speak th#
hings which I do know.’