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Beautiful the chi•dreu's faces I Spite of all that mars and sears; To my inmost heart appealing; Calling forth love's tenderest feeling; Steeping all nip soul with tears. Elogneut the children's faces— Poverty's lean look, which saith, Save us I save us 1 woe surround us; Little knowledge sore confound us; Life is but a lingesriug death. Give us light amid our darkness; Let us know the goud from ill; Hate us not for all our blindness; Love u; lead us, show us kindness— YOI cmr. make ,us what you will. We are willing; we are ready; We would learn, it you would teach; We have hearts that yearn towards duty We have minds alive to beauty; Souls that any height ran reach Raise us by your Christian knowledge; Consecrate to man one powers; Let no take our proper station; We, the rising generation Let us stamp till ago as ours I We Allan be what you will make u.; Make no wine, and make us good I Make Un groat( in time of trial; Teach as temperance, calf denial, Patience, kiadnes, fortitude ! Look into our childish fumes; See ye not our willing hearts ? Only love Wl—only lend Ili; Only let us know you need us, And we all will do our parte. Wo are thousands—many dsousande I Every day our ratihs increase; Let or march ,Lencath your banner, We, the le:lion of tree honor. Combating for love and peace! Train us I try us! days slide onward, They can neer be ours again; Save as I save I from our undoing I • gave from ignorance and ruin; Make us 'Worthy to Mt ktex Send us to our weeping mothers, ' Angel clamped in heart and brow I We may be our fathers' teachers; We may be the mightiest preachers, In the day that dawneth now Suoh the children's mute appealing ! All my inmost soul was stirred; And my heart was bowed with sadness, When a ery like summer's gladness, Said, 'The ehildren's prayer is heard !' Nbiorical ,*ltctclj. THE CATACOMBS OF ROME. (Continued ) This question of the number of the dead in the caincombs opens the way to many other curious questions. Tl ie l engt h of time that the catacombs were used as burial places; the probabili . ty of others, beside Christians, being bur. ied in them; the number of Christians at Rome during the first two centuries; in comparison with the total number of the inhabitants of the city; and how fur the public confession of Christianity attended with peril in ordinary times at Rome, pre viously to the conversion of Constantine, so auto require ;secret and hasty burial of the dead;—these are Points demanding solution, but of which we will take up on ly those relating immediately to the cata combs. • There can, of course, be no certainty with regard to the petiod when the first Christian catacomb was begun nt Rome. but it was probably within a few years after the first preaching of the Gospel there. The Christians would naturally desire to separate themselves in burial from the heathen, and to avoid everything the senehlance of pagan rites. And what mode o f sepulture sennturn I for them to adopt, in the new and affecting circum• stances of their lives, as that which was already familiar to them in the account of the burial of their Lord ? They knew that he had been “wrapped in linen, and laid in a sepulchre which was hewn nut of is rack, and n stone had been rolled un the door of the sepulchre." They would he buried 98 ho was. Moreover, there was a general and ardent expecta tion among them of the second coming of the Saviour; they believed it to lie near at bend; and they believed also that then the dead would be called from their graves clothed once more in their bldies, and that ns Lazarus rose from the tomb at the voice of his Master, so in that awful day when judgment should be passed upon the earth their dead would rise nt the call of the same beloved voice. But there were, in all probabtly, other more direct, though not more powerful reasons, which led th m to the choice of this mode of burial : We rend that the Saviour sea buried—at least, the phrase ', appears applicable to the whole account of his entombment—" as the manner of the Jews is to bury." The Jewish ponu ulation at Rome in the early imperial times woe very large. They clunz, as Jews have clung wherever they have been scat tered, to the memories and customs of their coun.ry,—and that they retained their ancient mode of sepulchre was curi• ously ascertained by Homo, the first ex, plover of the catacombs. In the year IS -02, he discovered n catacomb on what is called Monte Verde.---the southern ex tremity of the Janiculum, outside the walls of Rome, near to the Porto Portese.— This gate is in the Transtiberine district. and in this quarter of Rotne the Jews dwelt. The catacomb resembled in its general form and arrangements those which were of Christian origin ;--but here no Chistian emblem was found. On the contrary, the only emblems and articles that Bosio describes as having been seen were plainly of Jewish origin. The set , en-branched candlee.tick was painted on the wall t the word ' , Synagogue" was read on n portion of n broken inscription; and tile whole catacomb had an air of mean ness and poverty which was appropriate to the condition of the mass of the Jews at Rome. It seemed to be beyond doubt that it was a Jewish cemetery. In the course of years. though the changes in the external condition and the cultivation of Monte Verde, the access to this catacomb has been lost. Padre Marchi mode inef• fectual efforts a few years since to find an entrance to it, and Bosio's account still re• mains the only one that exists concerning it. Supposing tie Jews to have followed this 'node of in,erment at Rome, it would have been n strong motive for its adoption by the early Christians. The first con v rte in Rome. as St. Paul's Epistle shows were, in great part, from among the Jews. The Gentile and the Jewish Christians made one community, and the Gentile s adopted the manner of the Jews in piecing their dend, i•wrapped in hues cloths, in new tombs hewn out of the rock " • Belieiing, then, the catacombs to have been begun within n few years alter the first preaching of Christianity in Rem., there' is abundant evidence to prove that their construction was continued during the time when the Church was persecuted or simply tolerated, and that they were exiended euring a considerable time after Christianity became the estnblished erred of the empire. , Indeed, several catacombs now known were not begun until some time after Constantine's cor. version. They continued to be usbd as burial places cer. tainly as lute ns the sixth century. This use seems to have been given tip at the time of the frequent desolation of the land around the walls of Roine by the incur sinus of barbarians. and ihe custom grade• ally discontinued as never retained. 'l•he catacombs then fell into neglect, were lost sight of, and their very existence was al• must forgotten. But during the first five hundred yt,ears of our era they were 'he burial places of a souther or greater portion of the citizens of Route,—and as not a single church of that tune remains. they are, and contain in themselves, the most important monuments that exist of the " LIBERTY AND UNION, NOW AND FOREVER, ONE AND INSEPARABLE. " HtTNTTNGDON, PA., WEDNESDAY, MARCH 17, 1858. Christian history of Rome for all that lung period. It has been much the fashion during the fait two centuries, among a certain class of critics hostile to the Romon Church, and somstimes hostile to Christianity. to endea vor to throw doubts en the fact of this im mense amount of underground work having been Becalm, !kited by the Christians.— It has been said that the catacombs were in part the work of the heathens, and that the Christians made use of excavations which they found ready to their hand. Such and other assertions have been put forward with great confidence; but there is one over. wheltning and complete answer to all ouch doubts,—a visit to the catacombs thetn• selves No skepticism can stand again -t such arguments as are presented there.— Every pathway is distinctly the- work of Christian hands; the whole subterranean city is fitted with a host of the Christian dead. But there are other convincing proofs of the character of their makers. These are of a curiously simple descrip tion, and ore due chiefly to the investign tiorist of late years. Nine tenths of the catacombs now known are cut through one of the volcanic locks which abound in the neighborhood of Rome. Of the three chief varieties of volcanic rock that exist there, this is the only one which is of little use for pa rposes of art or trade. It rowel not breve been quarried for profit It would riot have been quarried, therefore, by the Romans, except for tire pur l noes of burial, —anti the only inscriptions and other indi. cations t.f the character of the occupants of these burial places prove that they were Christian They are very diflerent from the sepulchres of the great and rich fitful lies of Rome, who lined the Appian. the Nommen, nod Flamini. nys with their tombs, even now magnificent in ruin ; dif• ferent, too, front the r,ltembaria. or pigeon.. holes, in which the ashes of the less wen! thy were packed sway; and still mere di - ferent from the sad undistinguished ditch that received the bodies of the poor : "Hoc misers: plebi stabat commune septa cruni." It not unfrequently happens in the soil of the Campagna, that the vein of harder rock in which the catacombs are quarried assumes the soft and sandy character which belongs to it in a state of decompo. sition. The ancient Romans dug this sand as the modern Romans do; rind it seems probable, from the fact that some of the catacombs open out into arenaria. or sand pits, as in the case of the famous one of St. Agnes, that the Christians, in time Of persecution, when obliged to bury with secrecy, may have chosen n locality near some disused sandpit, or near a sandpit belonging the one of their own umber, for the easier concealment of their work. and for the safer removal of the quarried tufa. In such cases the tufa mac have been broken down into the condition of sand for removal. In later times, as the catacombs were extended, the tufa dug out from one passage was carried in to the old passages no long used ; and thus its the catacomb exteimed in one direction, it was closed up in another, and the an• cient graves were concealed. This is now one of the great impellnnents in the way of modern exploration ; and the struts process is being repented at pres•mt ; for the Church allows none of the earth or stone to be removed that has !wen hulloes• ed as the resting place of this martyrs, and thus, as our passage is opetoil. anoth.. er hiss to be closed. The nrchteologist may rebel, but the priests have their sirs v. The ancient filling up was. IlOw..ver, pro du •tive of one gond result ; it preserte•d sortie of the g'Faves from the riling to which most were exposed during the pe riod of the desertion of the catacombs -- Most Of the graves which are new found with their tiled or marble front complete, and with the inscription of name or date upon them unbroken, are those which were thus secluaed. (to be continued) A Fighting Preacher. When the revolutionary war first broke nut, and Congress called upon the several Staten to furnish regular regiments for the Continental line, Peter liuhlenberg, a pastor in the Tenth Legion, 111011filUd SIB pulpit one fine morning, told tie congre gation he was going to the wars, and exor led as ninny of dim!' as could raise the pluck, to folio* hie example. Ills words took like wild fire--a regiment was soon raised—and Peter himself was a. polluted Colonel. Never was there a better choice Peter fought even better than he prayed. is regiment was ev. rywhere, where hard knoeks were going on--at Trenton at Princeton. at Brandywine, at Glertnantown at Monmouth, at Yorktown, and Peter wee always nt the head of his regiment. So prominent was he upon such occasions that with some of his adtritrers he obtain ed the name of 'Devil. Pete.' while by the army generally he was known as the 'Fighting Pitmen.' His skill seems to hove been equal to his gallantry, for in n short time he become n General and was one among the highly esteemed of Wash• ington's officers. He was n striking ex nipple of the fact that a man makes none the wor,e soldier for serving h,is Gre iner with fidelity. Gen Havelock teems to have been a man of very much the some build as Gen. Mublenberg. He was one of the genuine old school, Crninwellian breed--a real .fear the-Lord end-keep- your-powder-dry' generation. He preached to his men—he prayed with thorn—and even baptised' them. On one occasion he was court-mar tialed for this offence. An inquiry into the state of his regiment proved no sans• factory, that the Governor General said he wished he would baptise the whole ar my. Now, the exploits of this man and his little force. are absolutely marvellous.' Ile has shown rill the qualities of a great officer—one worthy to take his place by ; the side of the Wellington and Morlhor- ough. They have shown all the qualities' of the best and bravest soldiers. They fought FIX battles ib six day. each time against the odds of ten to one, and were victorious ever) time. They marched through a swamp of foes fighting at every step. in the burning Climate of India and at the rate of fifteen or twenty miles n day. They entered the city they were tent to relieve. and were immediately surrounded ass shut in by twenty times their num ber. Nothing daunted, they held on for months. fighting and victorious every day and living upon a few ounces of rice, with. out any of the usual supplies of Europe- 1 an soldiers. At last they were relieved, and the old parson had the glory and sat- ! infection of having by his indomitable bra• very. preserverance and skill, saved the lives or hundreds of his countrymen. The exploits of Have lock and his. men. dissipate the idea long enter tamed in England, and openly avowed by a former Ministry, that the more profligate the tir toy. the better the soldier. It is our firm belief that honesty. morality. and above all, reli'g4m, are essential to man in the performance of every duty, even the au ty of a soldier, and he trotter. if we ever bear a roan dispute this point, we will refer to figlitine old Havelock, and Iris glorious regiment of true blue Baptists. in support of our opinion. Depend upon it, a soldier does not fight the worse for cone. mending his soul to his maker if ho Richmond Whig. The Bachelor, A person hind of attending clubs—de voted to champagne and 'mid Madeira"— very print in his up. and—sporting ponder. ous gold chains—huge rings, and ilituinu live canes, is the subject of my theme. the HAMINLOR. The votary of single blessed neon is a decided rmo‘er of “woman's rights.'• hits a hatred of feminity in gene r,d when in the presence til eitibryn specimen of hit commonly denominated it "respon,i• hilly' —b dog cmisointly apprehensive that the little cherub of the cradle will use its vocal argans. Ile scarcely ever takes one of the dear creatures in his arms, fear ing l es t it might stain the spotless white of his t•arseilles vest—spoil his dainty cravat —twig with its tiny fingers at his ',nye rial " or crush in its childish glee, the ri sing hentity of his standing collar, clothed in all the dignity of starch. Ile is cousin unity quarrelling with his housekeeper. by whom he is culled nit insu &mole •bore; and very probably he entertains the same exalted opinion of her ladyship. Ile is semi to start nervously ehenever a rust ling of silk and satin betokens a lady's pre sence, looks earnestly for his heaver, casts longing eyes toward the door, and as soon as possible “absquittilates." But though he may lor a season enjoy his Bachelordont —smoke his .•long nines" and fresh Hava• nns. lounge on his Sofa, yawn over the last novel, and entertain supreme contempt 'or the rest of mankind, the priticooled portion especially, when his head is whitened by the frosts ti many winters, and tune has trucod deep lines npou his brow, when the infirmities of age lay him low upon his couch, and the fire and vigor of youthful days are gone, when the cold clammy sweats, emblematic of ap,roachtug death. gather upon his forehead and the dread realities of the tomb open befor him, would he not then appreciate woman's smiles, and would not her cheering presence coin. fart Ins declining years, and illumine life's rugged thorny paths, with the soothing words at love and kindness which drop like gems in priceless worth from her live 'rofit by this, Bachelor, take to thyself a rib" it thou wish to live happy and die beloved, Fearful Experience of a Lightning Rod r. Thomas Kingston, who has for sev eral years followed the business of putting up lightning rods, which, of course, re ipairrs steady nerves and a firm brain, met with an accident recently, by which, but for the most singular presence of mind, or rather. supernatural instinct, he would have fallen from a dizzy height, and been dashed to pieces. He is compelled to climb roofs, over chimneys, and up spires, a d fix a rod, with perfect coolness and precision, hundreds of feet above the level of the earth On the occasion to which we refer, Mr. K. had ascended St. Paul's Cathedral, hose spire is shout two hundred and thir ty-five feet high, near the h ad of Woad way, and gone to the very top, where ha ring loft his ladder below, he clung by his arms nod fastened the lust foot of the rod and attached its point, quite a heavy piece of metal, securely, as he thought. to the cross surmounting the steeple He laud just completed this difficult nod dam, gerous task, watched by a number of per sons in the street belcw, end while looking at the work and experiencing that antis- Notion which ra sults from hazard passed nod labor ata complisheil. of a sudden some thing heavy struck him and made his brain reel until lie could hardly eve. Instead of losing his hold at once, no would seem to have been the natural and inevitable result he clung with a pourer beyond himself, anal amid a w•il' superior to hi+ own, closer and instinctively to the spire. He knew not what had occurred, and to his co fused senses it appeared that the steeple w•ns tumbling; or slant some strange cause was about to bring the vast structure to the ground. Some forty seconds—an age to him— must have elapsed before he sufficiently collected his scattered throughts and sub. veiled consciousness to know that the en tire upper part of the rod had f Oen upon his head, causing the blood to tricle over his forehead, and nearly blind him. He was in a d , eadful perplexity, arid most dan gerous position. He feared, if he moved, he would go cleaving the air to n terrible lath omit) the stony street below—and at the same time he knew he could not, in the ili,•erilered gate of t.ia nerves. and his in , reasing weakness retain his grasp, more the result of fete than of feeling, much Insurer, If he stirren he might Atli; if he remained he cerminly would ; end so, determined to heat an effort for his life, he put one foot very cautiossly, then his arms and then inured the other fon.; and half a minute of exertion, and the greatest din ger, be touched the topmost round of the ladder, and in a few seconds more was in side the steeple and safe. Then it was Mr. K.'s great courage and strength forsook him ; his nerves and lous e', s relaxed ; he grew sick unto death; his knees gave way; his vision swum, and he sank upon the platform motionless and in• sensible. He must have lain there half an hour before he could rise and walk, and did not recover from the shock for store thin r. fortnight afterward. The people gazing up at him train the ryt describe the Scene as painful and ex• citing in the extreme. When they observed the rod fall, a thrill or horror rut through their hearts, and two women swanned away, for they expected to behold him the next moment dashed to pieces at their feet. Destiny had ordered otherwise, and Mr. K. still pursues his dangerous - avocation ; bat he says if he were to live a thousand years he never would forget the intense horror of those century like moments, when he seemed to hang upon the air more than two hundred feet shove the earth, and to be momentarily descending to a dreadful d TRUST IN GOD. When we borrow.trouble, and I ink (or ward into the future to see what Florins are'coming, and distress ourselves before they come as to how we shall avert them if they ever do come, we lose our proper trustfulness in God. When we tormell ourselves with ininginnry dangers, or tri ale. or rover-es, we have nlrearly parted with that perfect love which casteth o •t fear. Mothers sometimes fret themselves and are made iniseratle about the lutere career of their children—whether they will turn out drunkards or not. Now ah this to simply tin evidence of n lack Dl faith. There are many persons in good health, with all their faculties in active etterct.e, who. having nothing else to worry about, rob themselves of sleep at night by thinking. ilf they should eud drolly be taken away, what would be come of their families, and who would take carefof their children 1' Such din. trust of God is dishonorable to Christian men; and it is only because of His ex ceeding patience—which is the most won derftll attribute of the divine nature—that He does not signally punish it whenever it is manifested. When persons are taken sick, they ought to bear it with a gond grace. bat nine out of ten, even among Christian men;repine and murmur. When they are visited with any trouble, their first thot is apt to be. 'How greviously I am afflicted !' the nob!er shot would be,: 'How graciously lam sustainld !' When n cross is laid on them, thilf cry our. •What a burden I have to carry !' where. as they might better say. 'Whitt a burden Christ curries for me !' A Christian sni• lor, who lost one of his legs in the battle of 'Trafalgar. said that h« could very of. ten measure the faith of the people who conversed with him by the way in which they alluded to his misfortune. Nine out of ten would exch., 'what a pity that you lust your leg !' and only one in ten, •\Chat a blessing that the other wns preserved !' When God comes into the family and takes away one child, instead of complaining because fle bait taken one it would be wiser to thank Him that He has left the rest. Or He may crush a man's business, and step him of all his worldly wealth, and yet leave untouched and uninvaded what ii dearer than all— :he cradle of his only child Would it not be nobler for such a man to be thank ful for what God left. than to murmur ler what he took away—'The Lord giveth and the Lord triketh away,' but He al ways gives more than He takes. If God robs a man of his riches. Ile leaves him his health, which is he•tee than riches. If !le takes health, He leaves wealth; if He takes both, Ile leaves friends. And if tie tabs all these—house and home, and worldly goods—God's providence is not yet exhausted, and fle can make bfes• sings out of other things which remains. Ile never amps a man entirely bare. A tins tnay be left a beggar upon the high way, and yet be able to give unceasing testimony to Bed's goodness and grace. If men were to give thanks to God for what He permits them to have, rather than to utter complaints for what He wise. ly end graciously withholds, He might not unlikely give to them mare abundant. ly. if for no other reason than to increase their gratitude. An old man, who is now without home or friend—a stranger in a strange lurid, who earns a scanty crust of bread day by day, by selling steel pens and writing pa per from store to store, and from street to street in New York, said the other day, that though he had several times been so reduced as to be for a period of forty eight hours and longer without a morsel to eat, he never lost his trust in ['fool Bence, arid always rebuked himself when ever he complained at his lot ! This man's faith was genuine ! Ne was a he ro in rags, greater than many a hero in armor ! God's goodness is large and generous; only our faith in it is small and mean He carries the whole globe in his thoughtful providence, easier than a mother carries a babe in her arms. If we cannot see the end from the beginning, what 'natters it so long as He sees it ? What have we to do but to seek first the kingdom of ilod and Hie righteousness, and leave the test in frith to Him. We ought not to forget that an affec tionnte, confiding. tender faith, hobbit ally exercised, would save us of half the nnitoynnces or life, for it would lift us up above the reach of them. If an eagle were to fly low along the ground, every into might aim a dart at it, but when it soars into the druids, it is above every nr. row's reach. And they that trim , . in God shall mover up with wings us eagles; thee shall run nod not wean•, and they shall walk and not foist. Christ's invita tion is : 'Comae unto me, all ye that la• bor and are henvy laden. and I will give you rest Take my yoke upon you, and learn of me; fir lam meek and lowly in heart; arid ye shall find rest unto your soul. For my yoke is envy. and my bur del is ligltt.'—Hvu•y W. Beeches•. Cure for Cplds.—lt is said that fort . eight hours of total abstinence fruits ii .quids of all sorts will kill a cold entirely ; and lie wln tries this remedy may go out into tha air, and the more the better ; fur the more he walks and ereatev.exlialation trout the skin, the more he rubs his blend of water, and the inure thoroughly he breaks the bunk on which the nose and thrust and lungs rely fur the means of snaking them selves troublesome. p't'ln childhood be modest, in youth temperate. in mahhood just, in old age pro devt. VOL. XXIII. NO. 11. farmers' Column. BUTTER-MAKING. I noticed in the legraph, an article on Butter making, which claimed my atten tinn. As I have been prectically enraged in that I ranch of business for many years, I was such surprised that any one who hod been making butter fir thirty years, should say there was no Riven time to let milk stand before skimming. I hove el trays found that part to be of the most im portance of any one thing connected with the business: and if I ern not mistaken it is the very great cause why so such infe rior butter is found in our mnrkets. Is it not for want of is proper system and a knowledge of the whole business, that so much cnmpl:rined•of butter is madef I think it is. I will endeavor to give my lit tle experience in the art, and it has not been thirty years, it may benefit one broth er butter inalter. In the first place. I think it important that the cows have good, wholesome food, not turnips nor still•slops, but goad hay or grass. (as in season.) mixed with chard corn fodder, Indian meal, and wheirt•hrin. Then milk with careful, cl••an milkers, twice a day; struts, and keep the m lk ut temperature that will raise the cream in thirty six to forty eight hours, no'. longer. This part is very important. as there is more hotter spoiled befere skimming, than from any other part of the busine a. If the milk show., he a little curdled in the time stated, it will make the hotter batter. skimming should be done twice each day into tin vessels kept in a cool place, and caraltilly and thoroughly stirred at least every day. Churn once or twice n week , as may suit —twice will make the best butter. Be fore churning in cool weather, the cream is to he brought to the bright temperature, whirl, is sixty degrees, or a little higher if the wcather is cold sad the place of churn. log be not warm. There are two ways for temperine the crento—,b....... tig log into a warn, room near a stove over night or soine hours before churning, and stir several times till the right temper ature is attained. The other, which is the most speedy, is to ~ut the vessol containing the cream into a larger one containing hot or warts water ; stir well while in, end then take out and insert thermometer, (made for the purpose.) 'o see if the temperature bo right. The thermometer is an indispensa. ble port to make go , d butter, and there is no certainty without it. Toe next thing necessary it to temper the churn, by putting in some warm or hot water, according as the weather may be. It is important to have the cream kept es nearly rightas possible, that it tiny not be too long in churnirg, or to come too soon; either will injure the but ter. The churn tempered and the water poured out, pour in the cream, churn slowly and steadily until the butter comes after which gather well, churning but lit tle; the butter then may be t 'ken from the churn and pin into a cool, clean ttih previously wet, but containing no water, as water injures it - bah in quality and keeping. and should not be m'owed to come in contact with it in any wily, either before or after it is workt , d and printed. There is no difficulty in freeing it from the buttermilk. if it has come right, by thoroughly working it with a worker and cloth. Butter that has been washed in water, or pot into it slier bring printed, wil lull touch sooner in warm weather, and will not retain its color and flavor so well. 1 know I differ from many in this re spect The butter is now ready for salt ing, which is to be well mixed through; and then it is ready for working When partially worke I, it can be judged of whether more salt is needed, if so, apply it before it is toothed too dry, as the mi. plicatirm of salt to butter after it is worked dry, would have the effect to Make it streaked or spotted, as there would he no moisture in it to dissolve the salt. If the butter is intended for market, tv igh, print and put to harden on a stone in a cool place • The butter will harden better to warm weather, if it is covered with a moist cloth first, and then a blanket or a dry c.oth of too on the top. I have taken many thousand pounds 01 butter the Philadelphia market. aod have not had any occasion to use ice, though it was removed from the spring house mmtly ten or twelve hours before it wos'itlil in the intirket. If the above is not sufficiently explicit, I will endeavor to make it more seat some future. tirne.-, Germantown Telegraph. MirChnrito is the brightfno of gent,. or worth.