Z It. thlllitillgtl,ol,l . ) r ,,ollit 11 fl t.
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THE CHILDREN.
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.