"S . '-r. lllv at'." ' -1 " J'l T' J'i ' rit:. Ji'-I .1.-, I " in,,..-! ' A i h'w -. " .... .. .-c -t -. ! i;--"- THE BLESSINGS OE GOVEENMEMT, LIKE THE DEWS 0? HEAVEN, SHOULD BE DISTBXBTJTED ALIKE TJP01T THE HIGH AND THE LOW, THE EICH AND THE POOS. i i EBENSBURG, DECEMBER 28, 1854. VOL. 2. NO. 14. ,.11 JJ t T' :. OXVIM. X!iC3. TKRM8: THE DEMOCRAT & SENTINEL, is publish S1ed every Thursday' morning, in, Ebensburg, Cambria Co., Pa;, at $1 60 per annum, if paid vicix advanced if not $2 will be charged.' , ADVERTISEMENTS will be conspicuously in v serted at the following rates, viz : rj-l square 3 insertions, , , , , . 'Every subsequent insertion, 1 square 3 months, v , . , . "." i " , e, ... . . . J ':-- t i- -1 year,'' ' ' ' V ' - coVr' 1 year,' " '.'. 1 5 6 00 25 00 00 .12 00 25 00 60 00 t " Business Cards with one "copy of the , .Democrat- & Sekttnel. per year, ' : . 5 00 THE OLD DOOR. STONE. .a J Frances D. Gage, to whose pen we are indebt ed for the following beautiful poem, of the Old i -Door Stone," has written much that the admirers of minstrelsy might applaud, and nothing that they Cin -ith any kind of propriety condemn. WThose who are familiar with rural and pastorial Ufe that happy life, that neither " town, nor ver-lmrdened city!' can afford, will find m the poem we copy, the reflex of a thousand beautiful '. scenes, which all ought to be capable of iraagining, though few can describe. The author of the pcem In question, has accomplished all that we could , have desired. N. F. Times. ' " " A song, a song for the old door stone, !.' To every household dear; . t " That hallowed spot, where joys and griefs, Were shared for many a year, v.- When sank the sun to his daily rest, . "When the wild birds song'was o'er, .. When the toil and care of the passing day Annoyed the heart no morei -- ; Then' on that loved and time-worn spot We gathered one by one, ' , And spent the social twilight hour 'Upon the old door stone. . How 6weei.to me. do memories come Of merry cldldhood's hours, "When we sped blithely through the fields In search of budding flowers, Or gathered berries from the bush, s Or bending greenwood tree, Or chased, the light-winged butterfly WItfi pealing shouts of glee ; The freshest hour in memory's book Was spenfct set of sun, ,. 1:1 i-5 My weary head on mother's knee, ;Upon the ld door stono. ' -" That mother's face, that mother's form. Are graven on my heart, - And of life's holiest memories They form the dearest part ; " Her counsel and instructions given, .,: Of friendship love and truth. Have been my guardians and my guides. Through all the ways of youth ;N i" Aud yet I seem to hear again f ' Each loved and treasured tone, ' . .When I iu fancy sit me down, Upon the old door stone, t ' Long years have passed since mother died, ' " Yet she is with me still, . Whether a toiler in the vale, j Or a wanderer on the bill; . , Still with me at my morning care, : . Or evening's quiet rest, The guardian angel by my side, The kindest and the best. "A mother now, I often strive -To catch her thought and tone, ; ' For those who cluster round my knee, ' r. Upon my own door stone. And oft beneath those clustering vines Have kindred spirits met, And holy words breathed softly there .HTVows aB unbroken yet ; ." -, And friendships formed and plans devised, Aijd kindly pledges given, . 'And sweet commnaions there began, Far reaching into Heaven! ' rOh1 those who meet in love, "lang syne," ". In life's wide paths are thrown, x . .Yet many turn with longing heart, 'Back to the old door stone. , ; Years Lave flown by since those bright days ;i: And All the world is changed, And some who loved most kindly then - Are by the world enstranged; - Some fond hearts, too, then full of joy. Are cold and still this day! ,! Forsaken plans and withered hopes. Lie strewn o'er all the way, T And strangers' feet tread those old halls Where pattered once our own, And spend the pleasant twilight hour Upon the old door stone. The old door stone, the clustering vino, . Oh! may they long remain ; -And may tho honsehold band that's left Meet there but once again; Meet not to weep o'er pleasures past Or 'canvass joys to come Meet to revive the sacred loves r ' Once -centered in that hojie. - A brother and a sister, sleep, Our, parents both are gone ; Oh J it would be a saddened hour ': Upon that old door stone. : - .War Daguerreotyped. - The historian may now break hia taHeis and throw away his pen he is left entirely in the, background, eclipsed and buried by the daguerreotypist. Thia enterprising body, employed now"in the east, have already sent hometo Paris more than- four hundred pic tures representing the acta and deeds of the ftmy both on land and Bea, under all aspects and circumstances, and with most mathematic al precision. So far has this been carries that all the reports to the Iinister of War ase ac companied by daguerreotype pictures of most remarkable beauty and precision." Itnrij from tjje 6erman. THE HUNTSMAN; ! ok: SHOT THROUGH THE HEART. -I have a tale to tell, with a true German flavor, of a huntsman of the olden time, and of the ringing of a shot in the recesses of a forest. It is a tale taken from the lips of the people, and it may be true. I have its kernel from a German writer, Edmund Iloefer. - From village to town, and back from town to village no matter where- the narrow foot path runs at one end through smooth meadows, then descends into a wide hollow, of which the whole sweep is filled with a wood ; but at the other end, the path runs through the standing corn. From village to town, or back from town to village, men, women, and children hurry through the wood. No trodden grass betrays feet that have been truant from the beaten path. Not far from the bottom of the hollow there is an open space in the dense forest, and the trees on one side stand apart as if at the entrance to a narrow avenue. But the avenue is no path now, if it ever were one. It is choked up with underwood, matt ed with brambles and wild vines, and the nar row footway strikes directly across the forest lawn of grass and flowers in the little open glade; there is no sign of wavering in any wayfarer no turning aside to be detected. -There was assuredly another path here, for here there was set up a guide-post, useless for such purpose now, and overgrown with ivy ; one of its three directing boards being destroyed, or having rotted off, it looks like a rude cross set up in the forest, and the peas ants of the district though they are by this time all good Protestants look up at it with a prayerful ejaculation as they hurry by. . A party of English travellers dwelt for a few days in the adjacent town, and ocn dis covered that "the grand old forest oaks were good to dine under. They knew generally that the place was tiecursed, and was believed to harbor spectres if not worse things. Before this generation was born, a lord of the castle had gone suddenly abroad, and his lady moth er who remained at home had cursed the forest and permitted no wood to be felled, no labor to be done, in it. This enrse the family kept up and except use of the necessary paths, the forest had been for almost a century un touched by man." It was the more luxuriant for that, andhe smooth plot of grass in which the guiee-post stood, with very broad boughs and blue sky above, were floor and ceiling, as it seemed,' to the best - of picnio dining rooms. ' Only their own 'servants went with the holiday makers, who had dined well and were dancing merrily when first the shadows on the turf began perceptibly, to lengthen. The few rustics who came to and fro upon the path, had, all day long, looked more or less aghast at their proceedings. The last , who bad passed by, even presumed to stop, and urge that they would rteurn home before twilight closed. The wood, he said, is never safe for Christian men, and evil things lie yonder. His hand waved hurriedly towards ancient avenue, and he stepped on apace, for he had been venturesome in making any halt at all. " "Why there is a full moon to-night," said Clara Hough, one of the party ; "the best of the picnic is to come. If any fairies '"should appear we'll join out dance with theirs and as for ghosts, I should like to see one ! Is this one of their walking days ? What says the calendar?" "It is the feast of St. Egidiu's," said Mr. Eustace Wenn, who hoped, in time, to con vert Miss Hough into Mrs. Wenn. "St. Egidius' day is nothing in particular Of course we shall go home by moonlight, but I vote for an adventure. Let us break open that pathway and find out the demon of the wood. Something of course lies 'yonder. Who joins the exploring party ?" Women and men too grow superstitious in the twilight, wise as they may be. There were no volunteers. "My dear fellow," said the host, "join our next dance. The path you see is impervious." Mr. Wrenn leapt among the trees and shout ed back intelligence that it was easy with one pair of hands to cut away there even for a lady. "Then," said Miss Hough, following his lead, "by all means let us go." "Let them alone," said the host, "they are lovers, and they would not thank us for our company." The dance, therefore, was formed, and the young people went alone into the wood. The green leaves, the gleams of sunset coloring, the twittering of birds above, the moss and flowersjinderfoot, the pleasant exer cise of fighting down such obstacles as thorns and tendrils offered, the young gentleman smoothing the way for the young lady, as he hoped to smooth her way on other paths when she was an older lady tnd they travelled over years of life that seemed to be before them all such things made the little expedition as agreeable as might have been desired. There was another small break in the wood, and a broader avenue of smooth turf pierced the trees beyond it. Upon a hillock of large mossy stones that seemed at one time to have been assembled there together by an idlo man, the lovers sat to rest and talk for five minutes or longer of their own affairs. The gentleman spoke most; the lady looked much downwards and trifled with her little foot among the moss upon one stone larger than the others, . "Why, there is a great cross, and there are three un readable letters scratched upon this stone H said she. The first, I imagine i a G Let 5s ,0ni.,let M oa 1 'Ihi nP " shapen, I think, like a grave. Or Bhall we go back T I have a dread upon me." . But the Way for ward was easy and the sky was light, and to go on was to remain quietly together. The young people went on with their hearts open to each other, impressible enough," and quite as serious as they were happy. One or two fallen . trees were the only difficulties in the way by which they reached a third . and larger .open space. Passing by a carved stone fountain, full of a dry growth of moss, they saw a decayed house with its outbuild ings. The house was of gray stone, and seemed to lean against a slender round tower, -bound with ivy to the topmost turret. There was a terrace besore it with glass, and there were vestiges of flower-beds. Over the arched entrance-gate were set up three pairs of de caying antlers ; into the wall at the side of it was fixed a rusty chain with an iron collar, to which there was yet attached the skeleton of a dog.. All was silent, the tilight had set in; the birds were in their nests ; and in the old house it was evident that no man lived. The door stood half open. The two entered.' - Though uninhabited, the house was not unfurnished. ' Rusty guns and hunting knives hung on the walls, mouldering benches were in the outer hall; an inner room, of which the window was darkened by the foliage of, an untrimmed vine, had two soiled cups upon its table and a rusty coffee-pot. . There lay on a chair near it, a half-knitted stocking. , Out of this room, a door led into a smaller chamber, full of hunters' tools, in which there was a bed still tumbled ; and there was, among all the man's furniture in that room, a chest containing a woman's clothing and the clothes of little children. ,. In the recess of the win dow a silver cuy was set up, . as in the place of honor ; and on a table by the Bedside lay an old hunter's cap, a hymn-book, and a Bible - "The books," said the young English man, "will tell us wholived In this house.." Opening the Bible, he read to his companion the household chronicle set down on its first leaf : "1744. St. Bartholomew's Day. My father, Hans, Christoph, died. The lord count, who. was present, made me his succes sor as head forester. Hans Conrad Ducker," ."1752. St. .Fabian's Day. I married Gortrude Maria,' peasant Steinfurts daughter. Was on the above day, thirty-one years old, and my wife will be nineteen next St Bridget's. My happiness is complete. May heaven bless our union !" . -; ' ; ."1753. On the twelfth of July our first child born. He shall be called Hans Chris toph. -A cross follows and .the remark, "Died at midnight on the first of January, anno 1755." "1755. Annunciation Day. Our second son born. ' I am very glad. God bless him. He shall be called after my brother Peter Mi chael " A cross follows, and the note, "Died on St. Walpurgis, 1757." "1765; St. Hubert's Day. - Won the s3 ver cup with a master shot. The lord count praised my shooting before all the gentlemen." . "1750. St Anne's Day. A daughter born to me, Heaven bless her. She shall be called Gertrude Johanna." . "1756. St. Jvgidius'DajO My wife Ger trude Maria died of a shot in' the wood. I will not curse her God be a merciful judge to us both." ! "1771. . My lord the old count died on St. Valentine's Day! The young Lord Leonard Joseph Francis takes his place." There was no more to read. One entry in the list excited exactly the same thought in the lovers. This man it was evident had killed his wife on St. Egidius' day ; and they had on the same date, whispered their hearts' love over th murdered woman's grave. Then again, why did Uio oldhuntman register his sons as born into household, but his daughter as born Only to himself? These things the lovers noticed as they read the little chroni cle;' but they spoke only o the hunting cup, the marksman's prize, still in the window, looked at it, and returned into the other cham ber. Another door seemed to lead from it into other rooms. They walked in that di rection, and the young man saw that they were following a trail of dark stains on the floor r He did not point them out to his com panion. The door led to a narrow stair ; per-, haps the trail was there, but , there was no light by which it could be seen. The stair led to a room that had been prettily furnished, and of which the window opened upon a broad tcrraco that swept back towards the wood. the moon had just risen, and shone through this window. One pane had been broken, splinters of glass lay close under it. The ta ble was overthrown, a broken lamp, was on the floor ; also a book, hansomely bound, which seemed to have been ground under the heel, rather than trodden upon, by a strong man. The; English lady stooped to pick it up, but as she did so she saw by the moon light, stains upon the oaken boards, which made her suddenly recoil and lean, trembling, on her lover for support. They looked to wards the sofa, an old piece of furniture cov ered with blue damask; upon tyytoo, there was a large dark stain, and over it the bright moon cast the shadows of the two young peo ple. The shadow of a young man erect--tho shadow of a young girl clinging to it, vio lently trembling. ; ;- "Look! look"! Eustace," cried - the girl, "Those are not our shadows J" , r . "Indeed, love, they are " : "Did you hot tell me this was St. Egidius' dav?" .."'. Both started, for there was a sudden flut ter in the room, distinctly heard. The young man saw and pointed out that this was noth ing supernatural. .Beside an unpressed bed in one corner ot tne room, tnere were some more handsomely bound books upon a table; all in c ilded . red morocco covers. One of them lay open, and the evening breeze that entered through the broken pane oi giass naa touched some of its leaves. - "The lovers are a 1'on r timo absent,M whis nered partners to each other, as they danced their last dance on the grass about the guided rost: "If thev be lost in the wood, and we have to go a, hunting for them, it will be a pretty , midsummer night's dream." j Shrill whistling and loud shouting soon grew to be the amusecient of the company, and vere kept up until the missing pair Appeared. "But you do look as if you had been seeing ghosts," somebody said to them. "What are they like?" - ' ' . "The nearest thing to a ghost that we have seen,", said Mr. Wenn, "I seized and brought away with me. ' Here it is." He took a lit tle book out of his pocket, a book bound ' in red morocco, and beset with tarnished gild ingwhich he offered for the inspection of the company. - !: "Why, what fruit is this to Bring out of an oak-wood cried mine host ; "a corrupt ed French romance I" - - " Hie account brought home of the forest's deserted house, that had been at last seen by an English gentleman and lady, wa3 in a day or two town news, and the story to which it belonged, had by that time been duly fitted to it. This is the story : . . , Cohrad Ducker and his daughter one mor ning sat at brekfast, , many many years ago. "You ate spoiling my coffee,' Gertrude," said the forester, a stern-looking man ; "your ideas are astray Yo have been reading those detestable red books You must get married; be a housewife, girl." ' ' "I father;?" . ; '" : "Yes, yo. . Peter from beyond the moun tain came to ask for ou this morning. A husband like that would be good luck for a princess." ' ' '" ". ' r "But I cannot leave you, father, and my heart is in the forest. I should not like mar rying into the open land." ' "CM may breathe tne more freely in the open laid, girl; though for that I wouldn't leave thfc forest. Let it pass. Marry Gottfried SchlucU who lives close by, and has gone down on his kness lo you five times over " "He has been maried twice, father, and no man loves a second wife." : " , , "Bah!" said the huntsman, scowling sud nenly upon his daughter's face. "As you live, teli me the truth', Gertrude! What made yot spoil my coffee ?" "Father!" ' V . :. "Whai were yourjthoughts V 'Nothing, at least foolish. I was think ing only f this stocking that I am about, be cause it it so difficult to match my colors well, I am tirel of red and 'geen." ' The oli man suddenly rose, and said, ' The count will be heretto-day or to-morrow, Ger trude." j v : .-' The gill's cheeks flushed as she replied, "I know it." "How; girl, how?" ,! ' Francis, father, brought me word he was to come on St. Egidius'- day." - "Ay, does he so," murmured the forester, pacing the room, thoughtfully ; "he comes on St. Egidius' day." '' " I have made his bed," the girl said, "and lighted , his fire. Arnold helped ue. But Arnold does not treat me as alitttle girl now, father, and you" ' Agisin the old man . stopped with a stern face lefore her; to ask, " What ' were your thoughts then, Gertrude ?" "When, father?" ' ' " When you spoilt my eoffee." Oh father," she replied,. sobbing. "You are too hard to me. You know this is Egidius Day, and nineteen years ago my mother died, as you have set down in the Bible. And I thought ' how it was that she should die of a Shot and you never speak of it, and you even forbid me to speak of it to others." The fixed clow of the old man's eyes upon her checked the girl's utterance. Silently he turned to take from the wall his cap and gun, then returning to her, drew her towards him, and said, in a hoarse voice, " near me, chud; I will believe youj and it S well. . Do not be eager for that story ; it is not good for your ears or for my ears. Why return to that ? It lies deepj and the grass grows thick above it. There .miffht come up with it stuff that would sting you that would take away your sight and hearinr. Qnly mind this. You think too much of somebody who should be as far from you as the sun from the moon, from whom you should fly as the hare from the wild cat. I tell you girl, he is false. He would betray you as surely as to-morrow comes after to-day. If you have done already more than think of him, may God pity you, for" here the man's utterance was choked; his bony hand was cold and damp "You ' would be better with a millstone round your neck, un der ten feet of water." ne turned suddenly away, whiftled to his dog, and left her. . Gertrude had never seen her father's gloom so terrible ; but she soon found a girl's relief in tears. The forester went out into the wood, sat for a long time motionless upon a grave like mound of stones under an oak-tree, his gun on his shoulder, his dog's nose thrust iri- quirinffly beneath his arm. He sat there till twilight, and went slowly homeward when the moon was rising.' From the terrace be hind the house he by chance raised his eyes towards a lighted window in the corner of the tower. There was alight burning in the room, a fire crackling, and a young girl was weeping on a young man s shoulder. . " At last in my arms again, my own forest flower T "Lord Count. Lord Count!" said Ger trude, " lot hope be at an end between us.' "But I am still your Leonard, andypuare to be my Ettle wife." . v "Mv fiither frightens me: your mother will oppose you. . ' ; My" mother ; yes. To avoid her anger we must wait. ' But your father ?" ' Lying on his shoulder she began to tell him all her feirs, which he endeavored to allay with kisses. A flash and a loud report. Glass breaks, and the young nobleman is sprinkled with the tlood.of Gertrude. She can utter but a single cry before she lies upon the sofa, quite dead, A few minutes afterwards, the old hunts man entered slowly, by the door. " Ducker! Ducker I" jthe count shouted in agoty, "here is murder donel Your beautiful Gertrude shot!" ! "Ay to be sure, she will not stir again," said Ducker. "It was a shot well aimed ' through the centre of the heart." The Count was bewildered at his coldness. " Thia is your Gertrude, father my Ger trude!" - "lour highness' Gertrude ! I thought she was only mine," . . ; He is mad," the Count cried. - " Ger trude ! beloved Gertrude ! from whatever quar ter the bhot came, my vengeance on tli as sassin P. ... '.Whence . the shot came," said Ducker; " I will show you." And he led him to the window. . "It came from beside yonder pine tree. A man sat there who suspected mis chief" ; " Wretch ! Madman ! Take your hand from me ! You have murdered your own daughter !" , " Take your hand also from, me!" said Ducker ; " I have powder and shot for your highness, if need be, in the other barrel. Wait with your hand off while I tell an old story." V " There was a Forester who loved a Count ess. That he did secretly and without speak ing, for he thought much of the difficulties in his way. However he was prudent, ad all ended well, and no man was the wiser. But there was a Count who loved the Wife of a Forester ; and that ended not well. For when the Forester discovered it, he took that which belonged to him. And the Count had a Son, and the Forester a Daughter. . The old man preached her many a lesson about rank, and frivolity, and betrayers ; but she loved that son, and he pretended equal love for her. So thus I took that which belonged to me." "Miserable assassin !" cried the count. " She was mine, mine, mine ! You tell me of sin and of passion, but our hearts were befoie God ; and our love was unspotted. We were betrothed ; I would Jiave.married her " .1 i The old man. pointed to the body, and laugh ed aloud. , . . ; " Her? You should have said that to her lady mother at the castle yonder." " No my mother ? the Countess P The young count, with ashen face, recoiled, and hurrying out, called to his servants, and spurred his horse borne to the castle, nis mother; the countess, heard all from him. Wheu she knew what he fierce huntsman had said, how dark a story he had told and what had been the end of it, her limbs became stiff with death ; she spoke, only to pronounce her curse upon whatever foot stepped in that huntsman's den of crime upon whatever man entered that wood to touch a stone of it. And then she died. Hans Ducker carried his daughter down, and Buried her among the flowers of his gar den. ' Then, shouldering his gun he went out of the house; and, except "when he spoke a word to Peter" beyond the mountains, never was seen more. The bowlings of a dog were heard for a few days in the wood ; they be came weaker and weaker, until all was still. And from that hour the stillness was unbroken. KeDort of the Commissioner of Indian Affairs. Col, Manypenny, Commissioner of Indian Affairs, in his annual report sets forth many facts of interest, and shows that the operations of his department during the year have been exceedingly large. The Indians in Nebraska and Kansas have ceded to the United States Government near ly fifteen millions of acres of land. The In dians, however, have caught some of the white man's spirit, and they demand a higher price than usual for the lnd in Kansas. They only agreed to give up these lands un der a pledge that they should have a reserve for a permanent home. There is trouble with the Indians on the Arkansas and Platte rivers, and it appears that while the agent is seeking them to pre sent amendments to treaties, they are quietly shooting down emigrants and robbing traders. The Commissioner- thinks something should be done for these misguided people, but ac knowledges that he cannot say what the 'something" should be, but suggests kind ness, and peaceiiu attempts to colonize tncm. The Commissioner gives some valuable in formation relative to the Choctaws, Chicka- saws, Creeks and Seminoles, and he also sug gests that no more removals of Indian tribes shall take place that is, that the reserved lands given, them by Government shall be se cured to them and their heirs forever. We quote the concluding remarks of the re- "In carn-ing out all the plans heretoiore devised for ameliorating the condition , of the aborigines of our continent, difficulties have arisen and obstacles nresentcd themselves on every side ; and it seems impossible now to devise any means for attaing these desirable ends, by which all difficulties could be obvia ted, all obstacles avoided. "But partial success has attended the la bors of the benevolent ; and the efforts of the department, when most faithfully directed, have not unfrequently proved a positive in jury. Auverse eiemenxs cave aiwajra ucvun work to thwart tne wisnes oi tne government and counteract the labors of the philanthrop ist, and these have unfortunately been but too often successful. Our former policy, and the inveterate determination of the Indian, to resist domestication, have combined to place him in a rituation where the lawless and un principled could always have access to him ; and such persons have, through all periods of our history, availed themselves of every op portunity to advise the ignorant and unletter ed child of the forest against his best inter ests, and have but too successfully instilled into their mind prejudices against those who were laboring for his good. "Thus have the niercileFS and heartless followed in his path, uttered his vanity, cor rupted hia morals, impressed upon and con firmed him in the belief that labor and the arte of peace are degrading, and his submis sion to them offensive to the Great Spirit, and directed and controlled his action aud made him the victim of their avarice. . 'Such' influences are believed to be as for midable and more uhscrupulouslhan at any former period of our history ; and ' when we add to them the train of ever-recurring' and never-ending difficulties that beset the weak er, in the battle of life with the strongest race, we perceive, in the present condition of the red man and the dangers that encompass him, additional motives to call into active ex ercises in his behalf all the energies of the benevolent and good of the land. "Aa a Christian Government and people, our obligations and duties are of the highest and holiest character, and we are accountable to the Maker of all men for the manner in which we discharge them. Having faithfully employed all the means placed within our reach to improve the Indian race and preserve it from extinction, we can, with a good eon science and strong faith, leave the issue in the hands of our Common Father." Debtor and Creditor. After the close of the Mexican war and the cession of treaty to us of Upper California, the world was astonished by the announce ment, toward the close of 1848 or the begin, ning of 1849, that immense deposits of gold had been discovered in that country. As soon as the truth of this report was establish ed, vast numbers of persons, young and .old, flocked to that country. There was a per fect stampede of people from every State in the Union. Property was sacrificed to raise money with which to reach this El Dorado, where fortunes for all were suppose! to be awaiting the mere effort to gather them. The Louisville Journal presents some interesting figures to determine, if possible, the question as to whether the old States are debtors to California for her gold, or California debtor to the old States for her operatives and pro ducts. It is supposed that from 1849 to 1854, inclusive, there has been an average of 150,000 persons, who have been during that time either in California or on their way gor ing or returning. The time js six years for 150,000 persons., or one year for 900,000 per sons. . i Now if we estimate the average value ' of this labor at S25 per month each, or 300 per year, we have (270,000,000) two hun dred and seventy millions of dollars as the value of the labor taken from the e'astern side of the Rocky "Mountains and placed on its western side In addition to this, it cost on an average $200 per head as the expenses of removal from one country to another. This makes ($180,000,000) one hundred and eighty millions of dollars as the cost of remo val. The sums together make the sum total of ($450,000,000) four hundred and fifty millions of dollars drained from the eastern side of the United States. To ascertain the amount of the gold obtained from that coun try, we propose to take the gold coinage of the mint. This coinage was in 1849, $9,007,761 1850, 31,981,738 1851, 62,614,492 1852, 56,816,187 1853, . 46,998,945 1854, (estimated,) 42,000,000 Total coinage, 249,349,123 As these figures make the sum total of aU the gold coined at the mint, and a portion of it is known to have been obtained from other sources than California, the credit will rather be in excess than too small, but still we pro pose to add to this amount twenty millions more, as an allowance for unminted gold sold to workers in jewelry and plate, and which has been consumed in the arts. The state ment will then stand thus -California Dr. To labor and outfits, $450,000,000 Credit by product of gold coin and nature 269,349,223 Dr. balance, v . $180,650,877 This shows there is a balance due us in lost labor and capital of over one hundred and eigthy millions of dollars. Wisconsin. The exports from Milwaukie alone, this year, will reach the large sum of $5,OUO,000. . The aggregate exports of the State of Wis consin, during the same period, will reach $10,000,000. The Milwaukie Sentinel saya iis assured that the value of the lumber which has come down the Wisconsin river this year, is $1,008,500. - At least as much more, we presume, has come down the streams north of the Wisconsin. As to the lead, the quantity exported in 1852 from Galena, was thirty-six thousand pounds, valued at one million four hundred thousand dollars, and nine-tenths of this came from Wisconsin. The product has not decreased, while the price has largely in creased this year; so that we think full two millions' worth of the mineral has been ship ped from Western Wisconsin during the cur rent season. LTpon all these points, however, we hope to obtain and publish full and accu rate statistics during the winter. Meantime, it is safe to say. and something to boast of, that Wisconsin, a six year old State, with a population estimated at 450,000, has this year, exported of her surplus not less than ten mil- . lions of tbjUars worth of grain, lumber and provisions. ' Australia. In Australia complaints are made of the reckless and continuous shipment of goods from England The gold returns were steady and large. As compared with the correspon ding period of last year, the amounts brought ; into Melbroune by escort from the let of Ju ly to the 10th of September was 41.622 ounces, against 464,410 in 1863; but, astbe quantities brought by hand were much largtr than formerly, the actual total, it ia' believed, ' would show a conbiderable augmentation,. 4 I i if j i. i -, n n 4 I I j i I! t It .' ; i
Significant historical Pennsylvania newspapers