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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.’