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AMERICAN DEMOGRAT. r llie most perfect Govemme:it would be that which, emanating directly from the People, Governs least—Costs least —Dispenses Justice to all, and confers Privileges on None.—BENTHAM. VOL. I.i DR. WM. GREEN - EDITOR. AH2&XOAX DSIIOOF.AT. PUBLISHED WEEKLY, IN THE REAR OF J. BARNES' BOOKSTORE, MULBERRY STREET, MACON, GEO. AT TWO DOLLARS FDR ANNUM, {X3~ IN ADVANCE. -CG Rates of Advertising, Ac, One square, of 100 words, or less, in small type, 75 cents for the tirst insertion and 50 cents for each subsequent inser tion. All Advertisements containing more than 100 and less than 1200 words, will be charged as two squares. To Yearly Advertisers, a liberal deduction will be made. tCf- N. B Bales of LAND, by Administrators, Executors, or Guardians, are required, by law, to be held on the first Tuesday in the month, between the hours of 10 in the fore noon, and 3 in the afternoon, at the Court-House in the Coun ty in which the property is situaied. Nonce of these must be given in a public Gazette, SIXTY DAYS, previous to the day of sale. Sales of PERSONAL PROPERTY, must be advertised In the same manner, FORTY DAYS previous lo ihe day of sale. Notice to Debtors and Cieditors oi an Estate, must be pub lished .FORTY Days. Notice that application will be made to the Court of Ordi nary, far leave to sell LAND, must be published FOUR MONTHS. Notice for leave to sell NEGROES, must be published for FOUR MONTiIS, before any order absolute shall be made th reon bv ihe Court. REMITTANCES BY MAIL -“A Postmaster may en close money m a letter to the publisher of a newsjiaper, to pay the subscription of a third person, and frank th* letter, if written by himself.” Amos KendaU , P. MO. COMMUNICATIONS addressed to the Editob Post Paid. P 01. THY. From the Knickerbocker. Some years ago, a clever countryman, returned from abroad, thus mourned his ignorance of French language, that “universal tongue Never go to France Unless you know the lingo, If yo t do, like me, You’ll repent, hy Jingo! Staring like a fool, And silent as a mummy, There 1 stood allone, A nation with a dummy! "Chaises stands for chairs, They christen letters “Wllies They call their mothers “mares,” And all their daughters “fillies !” Strange it was to hear ; I’ll tell you what a good ’un ; They call’d their leather “queer,” And all their shoes are “woollen.” Signs I had to make For ovary little notion; Limbs all going, like A teleoraph in motion ; For wine 1 reeled aliout To show my meaning fully, And maka a pair of horns, To ask for “beef and bully.” If I wanted bread, My jaws 1 set a goinu; A nd asked for new laid eggs By clapping hands and crowing! If 1 wished a ride, » I’ll tell you how I got it; On my stick astride, I made believe to trot it! «r :=-» Extract from the “battle of Lake Regilßis,” one Os Macaulays Lays of Ancient Rome. But fiercer grew the fighting Around Valerius dead; For Titus dragged hy the foot, And Aulus by the head. “ On, Latinos, on !” quoth Tilus, “ See how the rebels fly !” “ Romans, stand firm!" quoth Aulus, “ And win this fight or die! They must not give Valerius To raven and to kite; For aye Valerious loathed the wrong, And aye upheld the right: And for your wives and babies In the front rank he fell. Now play the men for the good house That loves the people well!” Then tenfold round the body The roar of battle rose, Like the roar of a burning forest, When a strong northwind blows. Now backward, and now forward, Rocked furiously the fray, Till none could see Valerius, And none wist where he lay. For shivered arms anJ ensigns Were hea;ied there in a mound, And corpses still, and dying men That writhed and gnawed the ground; And wounded horses kicking, And snorting purple foam : Right well did such a couch befit A Consular of Rome. DEATH'S CONQUEST. BY SUIKLEY. The glories of our birth and state Are Shadows, not substantial things : There is no armour against fate: Death lays his icy hands on kings. Sceptre and crown Must tumble town, And in the dust he equal made With the poor crooked scythe and spade. Some men with swords may reap the field, And plant fresh laurels where they kill; But their strong nerves at last must yield, They tame but one another still; Earlv or late They stoop to fate. And must give up their murmuring breath, When they, pale captives, creep to death. . The garlands wither on your brow; Then boast no more your mighty deeds; Upon death's purple altar now, See where the victoi-victim bleeds; All heads must come To the cold tomb: Only the action of the just, Snell sweet, and blossom io the dllst. DEMOCRATIC BANKER FREE TRADE; DOW DtJTZES; NO DEBT; SEPARATION FROM RANKS; ECONOMY; RETRENCHMENT; AND A STRICT ADHERENCE TO THE CONSTITUTION.-**.#. C. 1.1. ifOl.V. From the Boston Christian Wurld. WASHINGTON AI.LSTON. The funeral of Mr. Allston brought with it many remembrances. I have known him between forty and fifty years, and, with ihe exception of the time he passed in Europe, have never been long removed from his society. He was in an important sense a public man. He lived, and he labored, for his own age, and lor the coming time. It is grateful to gather up somewhat of that, which so long an acquaintance has furnished of such a man, which is scattered through so many years, and which memory has so kindly treasured. Mr. Allston was born in Charleston, S. C., Nov. sth, 1799: he died July 9, 1843, iu Cambridge, Massachusetts, aged 03 years. When a lad, he was sent to Newport, R. I, and was placed at a school in one of the best private ins:itutions for teach ing in the country. It had been for some time the custom, and continued long aft ter, lor parents iu the Southern States to send their sous to the same achool. They were placed uuder the immediate charge, as boarders, of the master, and thus the best care was provided for them. At school, Allston showed a decided interest for the art. He was constantly drawing, and his books were filled with his ef forts. lie entered Harvard College in 1795, when sixteen years old, and grad uated in 1800 with a poem. At college he. never forgot the ari, to which he had always devoted so much of his life. A friend who was iu college with him, and who succeeded him in ihe room he occu pied in Mr., afterwards Prof. Hedge’s louse, told me, that the room deciared its former tenant. The walls and win dows bore ample evidence of the love of the art. Some drawings of that, and an earlier period, are in the possession of Dr. Waterhouse, in Cambridge, among which is a series tracing rural architec ture, from its simple to its more perfect state. I have in my possession a draw ing of this period, with the following on the back : “ Drawn when in college, in 1797, by Washington Allston.” It is a single figure, in a perfectly black back ground. It represents a maniac crush ing a dove iu his right hand. Mr. Sully saw this work some years ago, and ex pressed his admiration at it; and his sur prise too, at the drawing of the figure, and at the skilful and beautiful arrange ment of the drapery. 1 have another work, a painting of about the same peri od. This is from the ‘Robbers’ of Schil ler, in that scene of the play in which Charles de Moor is meditating suicide in the forest. Another work which belongs to the same class, but is of the school pe riod, which I once had, is from the ‘ of Udolphos. It is in Indian ink. Iri the back ground, a castle, the battlements of which reach nearly to the top of the sheet. It fills most of the back ground. The fore ground is occupied by figures. "These pictures are particularly named, because they indicate the tone of feeling of the author at an early age. They show how largely the romantic, and the tragic, belonged to this period ; and these had power with him through life. The ‘ Bloody Hand,’ a picture of terrible in terest, is a later, but a very striking illus tration of this remark. It shows how strong and how persistent were the in tellectual characteristics which were a mong the first to declare themselves, aud which may have afterwards been more or less restrained by the higher aspira tious and accomplishments of the artist’s exalted genius. Along with these, however, was fre quently manifested another, and quite an opposite train of thought. This was playful, and showed itself in the humor ous and the burlesque. At College, this was frequently seen. Exercise books, both his own, and those of his classmates, often exhibited this faculty in ail sorts of illustration. He made copies while there of pictures belonging to the college.— One from a copy of a portrait of Cardinal Bentivoglio, was among these. One could hardly have been much in the society of Mr. Allston, especially up on such terms as to be admitted to his painting room, and to so much kindness and interest as he habitually manifested, without insensibly acquiring a fondness for the labor in which he obviously took such a deep pleasure. Some of my ear liest recollections of him are of those qualities which always win the young, and bring such into direct sympathy with whom who possesses them. Those who were thus early the companions of Air. Allston, and artists 100 who became his associates at a later period, felt almost at once that he was their friend. He be came their counsellor, their intellectual teacher. He unfo'ded generously the mysteries of his art, and examined pa tiently the progress of his disciples. If he saw promise of excellence in them, in the art which he so deeply loved, he said so; and alter such a manner as to secure the utmost devotion of the disci ple to his work. So strong was this re lation of teacher recognised by some of those who were so highly favored, and in one too confessedly the greatest living artist of his age, that he obtained from MACON, WEDNESDAY, AUGUST 9, 1843. them the appellation of ‘ master.’ They addressed him so ; and it was beautiful to see this preamaturely old man with his flowing locks of almost silvery white ness, surrounded by these young artists, who loved to visit him; and to hear them in the joyousness of their early time, with reverence talking with honored ‘master,’ and with all the freedom and naturalness which belonged to their first manhood. More than forty years ago, the writer was so much attracted by the the artist’s life, which he had abundant opportunities of observing in this noble example, that he resolved to devote him self to the art. After giving much time to it, it was abandoned, and another pro fession adopted in its stead. Mr. Allston regretted the change. Mr. A. had anoth er friend, one for whom he felt and al ways expressed deap regard, in whom he saw promise of high excellence in the art, but who had also given his life to another calling. His interest in his art was so strong, that he could not but ex press it whenever occasion occurred ; and in allusion one day to his friends now re ferred to, he said, “ Law and medicine have spoiled two artists.” Having resolved to devote his life to the art, Mr. Allston, upon leaving col lege, turned his attention to the m.ans of its highest culture. These did not exist in his own country, and he made his ar rangements for a long residence abroad. He disposed ot his paternal estatein South t.'aroiina, aud never afterwards resided there, and then embarked for Europe. He divided his time between London, Paris and Rome. He laid a broad foun dation for future excellence and fame, in paiient study in every department of painting. Knowing that drawing formed the best part of his foundation, he studied the anatomy of the human figure in the living man, and in the almost living sculptures of antiquity. The proportions, the exact proportions of its several divis ions were thoroughly ascertained. The motions of which the body is capable, the whole capacity of the joints to move, and the abtions, and states of the exter nal muscles, iu ail possible uses of them, were exactly learned. The peculiar structure of the external skm, which to the common eye appears to be a perfectly smooth and polished surface, was seen by him, as it is by the minute anatomist, to be composed of alternate elevations and depressions, formed by almost invis ible lines crossing each other at determi nate angles; and he saw that to produce the eflect of such a surtace something more was necessary than covering a piece of canvass wiih a smooth coat of paint. The effect could only be produced by such an artificial arrangement or use of the material as would have upon light an effect precisely similar to that which the living skin produces. He once said to me that he was highly pleased with a casual remark made by a very learned critic of the art, who one day stopj el be fore his easel while he was at work, cop ying a great work of One of the old mas ters. ‘ Yon have it,’ said he, “you have the secret of their mode of painting, you can copy their works.”* f»ow without knowing and strictly following the ex act process which Mr. Allston pursued from the dead coloring to the last touches of his pencil, nobody can successfully copy his pictures. He used to remark in connection with the peculiarities of the human skin, how much depended on sur face simply, in sculpture. The ancients knew this well, he said, and selected marble, not for its whiteness alone, but because of its structure, which absorbs, instead of reflects the light which falls upon it, and which last is the case with those stones which have not the structure of marble. He devoted all required time abroad, to modelling, that he might give visible form beforehand to his idea, in cases where great accuracy of drawing, and a true, adjustment of light and shade, were demanded. He continued the prac tice late in life, and showed in this addi tional labor, his deep love of truth, the highest truth, in cases too where an error in drawing might never have been and - If you had said to him, “ why, nobody would have seen that,” his an swer would at once have been, “ but I should.” Like other artists, he availed himself of the living figure, whenever it was presented to him in such perfection as gave to it high value to him, and where he could employ it. His friends will not forget the facilities of this kind which they may have afforded him. I have dwelt thus fully on the education of our friend, because as it was begun wisely, it was never lost sight of iu all his after years. He was a student every day, and I may say, every night, he lived. At night he made studies, and sketches; and wrote and read, and above all, thought; and in the day he gave his thought an outward life upon the can vas. He was, considering his frequent infirmities in health, and these for years have been great and well known to his friends—he was one of the most industri ous men I have known, and we shall see •The only copy I recollect to have ieen made at this time, is one of the “ Marriagre at Cana,” by Paul Veronese. This copy was preserved by Mr. Allston, principally on account of the richness, variety, and harmony of color which it possesses. The principal figures are portraits of the artist, and of several dis tinguished historical men. hereafter how great was his accomplish ment. He carried to London the result of his vast labdr on the Continent, as a student of the art, namely, a minJ richly stored with the means of the fullest suc cess ; and a capacity, a genius, to furnish occasions of their noblest use*. Having resided some time in London, he returned after a long residence to America. While on this visit, for such only it proved, he painted, at least for a time, in a room in an old house theh in Court street, and which had been occupied by a portrait painter named Smibert. He here, with his other more usual occupa tion, painted some portraits. He had painted a few, I think, before this time, among them one of the late Dr. Chan ning, and those of three other members of his family, which still remain. Among those painted in Court street, was one of the late Rev. Mr. Buckminster, and of others of his friends, since dead. I do not know if any of these portraits were finished, or delivered to the sitters. They were painted with the same elaborateness which marks all his works. If they were undertaken for profit, it must have been soon discovered that this could ne ver have been the result. A portrait by him of Mr. West, and one of his highly valued, and true friend, Mr. Samuel Williams, were in the late collection of his works made and exhibited in Boston. I was in London in 1809, and took oc casion one morning to call on Mr. West. I have not forgotten the hospitable wel come I received from onr distinguished countryman. He was then an o and man, but at work in his painting room, and as full of his art as he had ever been. Having walked with him through his gallery, literally his gallery, for the wails of the several rooms were covered by his own almost numberless works ; we sat down, and Mr. W. began to talk of A merica. Mr. Stuart was named, and an ecdotes told of him, of his works, and of bis ways, in London. Then Mr. Allston was alluded to. Mr. West at once be came animated. He expressed his deep interest in him. “He should never have left London,” said he. “ His course here was plain—his success certain. Here was the proper ground for his labor. He should never have gone to America—or if he went, it should only have been on a visit. This was his home.” His mar riage was alluded to. “ Never,” said the patriarch President of the Academy, “never should he have married. He was already married—married to the Art. He should have married no other.” I shall never forget the warmth, nay; the almost more than warmth, with which all this was uttered. It was a word but of the heart; and its deep earnestness spoke for its sincerity. The practice of the venerable men was not in perfect harmony with his theory, in his own case. In the gallery and near a cool window in an easy chair on wheels, sat his wife, feeble, old, and paralytic. He laid his hand gently on her shoulder, as we passed, saying in a low voice, “ Poor body I” as if to explain to me why I was not more formally introduced to her. During his residence in London, Mr. Allston painted many pictures. Among them was the ‘Resuscitation of the Young Man on touching the bones of the Prophet in the Cave,’ which picture is now in the | ossession of the Academy in Philadelphia. It was at this period that its author endured the full pressure of pecuniary embarrassment, lie told me he woke one morning with only a single sixpence left, and what was to be done, was a question of extremely diffi cult solution. His rooms were in Fitzroy square, in the house of a ]>ost-man. 1 think his name was Bridgen. He came in that very day, and handed Mr. A. a letter. He opened it, and to his surprise, and joy, it contained a bill of exchange, for a sum not far from a thousand pounds, being the amount for which the picture above mentioned had been sold. Here was wealth. It was magnified by the previous destitution. That want had been cheertully borne, for there was health, and hope, and comparative youth; to divide it between them. He was known too, by those who understood the great claim of his genius; and there was doubtless sustaining assurance that such a claim would be generously allowed. After remaining at home some time, Mr. Allston returned to England in 1811. It was during this his last visit abroad, that he painted some of his best pictures. Among these may be named his ‘Uriel;’ —his ‘ Jacob’s Vision’—the ‘ Release of Peter from Prison’—the * Desert,’ a land scape, which gets its name from the Prophet and the raven; bearing to him bread. The last he brought home with him ; and may we not express our deep regret that a work which he ranked far above all his others in the same kind, should net have found a purchaser, and a home in his country? In his deep want, he sold it for two hundred and fifty dollars to an English gentleman, Mr. Labouchere, now a member of Parli ament; who at the time was travelling here with a party of some of his most dis tinguished countrymen. Speaking one day to Mr. Allston of his ‘Uriel,* I asked him how he painted the light in which that angel dwelt. He told me that he first surrounded hinii and the rock of adamant on which he sat, with the prismatic colors, in the order in which the ray of light is decomposed by the prism. He laid them in with the strongest colors which represent them. He next with transparent color blended them so intimately together, that he re produced the original ray. “So dazzling bright was it,” said he, “ that it made your eyes twinkle as you looked at it.” This was said so naturally, so simply, that you never dreamed that it was self praise at such great success. It was merely the expression of the feeling, which would have filled him, may I not say with equal pleasure, from whose mind soever it might have proceeded? And so when asked one day how he got his light for his ‘Belshazzar’s Feast:’ “ from the mysterious letters on the wall; the Mf.ne, Menu, Tekel, Uphausin. The lamp in that vast hall grows dim in the brightness of that supernatural light.” It needs not that memory should be made of the latest works of Mr. Allston. I refer here to those which he has fur nished, and those which he had time 6n ly to forward in the last years lie has passed at home. They mtist be fixed in the memory of every day lover of the art here. They have been painted a* mongst us, and many Os them belong to ourselves. In some sense, they dr many of them, make rt distinct epoch in the professional lift* df their author. I refer particularly td his pictures of women ; of which within a few years, he has finished so many. These form the crown, the fitting, the beautiful crown, of that vast work, the foundations of which were laid so broad and so deep in profound study, and which rose in such majestic and har monious proportions, the growth of a mighty genius, and which the stern dis cipline of a solemn life did never disturb; He worked on, when other men might have sunken, worn down and exhamted by discouragements, and which nothing but a great faith, and as great a purpose, could have so withstood. Look, too, at the landscapes which he has within a few years finished, and learn how fresh was the power, when the man was so depressed; 1 once attempted to give to him the reason why his landscapes al ways gave me so much pleasure. I knew, I said, they were not copies, por traits of any particular scene, but I al ways looked at them as so many limited portions of the outward world, the most beautiful of them too, which he had ta ken without the least violence, from their surrounding relations, and placed them before me in the proportions of absolute truth, for admiration and love. His re ply was, “ You have paid me the high est compliment which could be paid to me.” I have alluded to the amount of Mr. Allston’s works. Some idea of this may be got from the collection made here some years ago, and which has before been named. The kindness and respect which made that collection, gave him the deepest pleasure. It was a gathering for the last time of the children of his gen ius—of his youth, and of his age—as to their father’s house. With what joy mast he not have welcomed these his long scattered progeny, and how grateful must the associated leeling have been, that they were assembled for his honor, and for his good I Grateful to his fnends must be the memory of that act of rever ence for his genius, for that kind interest in his welfare! But to form in any measure a true estimate of the amount of his lalior in his art, we must bear in mind that many of his works in America were not obtained; and that a far greater num ber remain in Europe. Justice to such a life demands that in any estimate of its accomplishment, the nearest approxi mation to the whole truth should be made. Tuis topic at once suggests a nother which deserves epecial regard. I refer to the time occupied "by Mr; Allston, in painting a picture. This al ways depended on circumstances. Whilo abroad he worked much more rapidly, and more successfully, than at home. One of his largest pictures he began and finished in London in six weeks—his “ Uriel.” “ I painted it,” he said to me, “at a heat.” So it was with the ‘ Des ert,’ one of his largest, and as he said, his very best work in its kind, and which it most deeply grieved him so to part with. That was painted in three weeks; He lived then in the atmosphere of the art. He was surrounded by distinguished ar tists, aud had constant and easy access to the best works of art; He was kuown to men of large wealth, and of high rank, to whom the putronage, and the honor, of genius, were habitual, natural, and grateful. He was the associate of litera ry men, of the first name of their time, many of whom loved him as their near est friend. Surrounded, and sustained by such influences, he worked constant* ly, and always with effect. All this it was, which led Mr. West so deeply to regret his leaving Europe; Much of all this did not, and could not be found here. Nay, such has been the difficulty to ob tain the tools of his art, the very materi als by which to work, that he has lost months in the last year in the mistakes which have been made in executing his orders for colors. Years have passed since he began that great work, which death has left unfiuisned-rthe * Feast of Belshazzar.’ How deep and how melan chdliy, must have been his interest in that great work! It was to be the com plement of the labors of life. It tvas to be the enduring record of an elevated, a noble fame. There were circumstances in the history of that picture, which, to such a man, could hardly have failed to add deep, corroding distress to such in interest. I see him iu his loneliness, and in his infirmity, slowly climbing that ladder on which he must work, if he work at all, with his pallet, and his brush, to make on that wide spread can vass, another mark which in the coming shade of evening would tell the heavy story of another day. Years and years of such days, were his. But he was faith ful to duty, and took courage, and worked bn. I once asked Mr. Stuart concerning this picture. 1 knew he had seen it, and could form some idea of the time it would require for its completion. “It is a grand work, sir,” said Mr. Stuart.—“A great deal has been done on it but it can never be finished;” *‘ And why not ?” I asked; “Because, sir, of its vastness. Mr. Allston’s mind grows by, and beyond his work. What he dobs in one month, becomes imperfect to the next, by the ve ry growth of his mind ; sb sir, it must l e altered: He can never be satisfied with what is best done in one part of the pic ture, for it will cease to be so when he has finished another. The picture will never be finished, sir.” Such were al most the very words of that great artist, and for whose genius Mr. Allston had the profounde:t respect. There is a por trait of Mr* Stuart’s in this city, which his brother in the art, has often pro nounced the masterpiece in its kind, of the age. Some idea may be got of the labor which has been bestowed on the ‘ Feast’ from the following in its history which Mr. A. himself gave me. From * some changes which were required in the drawing, it became necesaary to low er the lamp which hung from the ceiling. The room in whicli the feast is celebra ted is two hundred feet long, with a col onadc running through its length. In order to alter the lamp, it was necessary to change the whole architecture of the hall. To do this, and to keep the per spective true, an entirely new drawing in chalk lines and circles was necessary, so that every column, and every part of every column, and of the whole interior, should be in its place. “Full twenty thousands of these lines and circles.” said Mr. Allston, “ were made, and it took six weeks of hard labor to draw them. The very first movements of my brush over this vast surface will obliterate ever ves tige of this toil, that being itself but the dead coloring for future laboring.” This anecdote is given to show, not a morbid fastidiousness, a mere whimsicality, but to manifest how strong was the love of truth in the artist; and how much more patiently he could bear any thing and every thing which might be said to him, rather than dismiss such a work from his hands, (a work in which others had a di rect interest as well as himself,) with er rors and defects in it, which must have impaired it value, hurt his own charac ter, and tarnished his fame. Who that is at all conversant with the art does not recollect parallel cases of the same thing, which are scatter and over its whole histo ry ? Who does ndt know of the whole pictures which lie hid under later works —of altered parts of pictures too, which the ingenuity of the laliorious picture dealer, and picture cleaner, has brought to light ? Some of these have been mote valued, I know, than the substitutions; But their authors did not so value them, and in such a case who is to be the judge 7 The worked for they highest, and they knew when that highest was ohtained. What has here been offered from mem ory, is stated simply for its historical bear ings. It belongs to a life—to the life of a man who has" by what he has attempt ed, and especially by what he has done, impressed himself deeply upon his age, and will be borne upon its wide annals, to the succeding times. Is it not justice to such a man, now that the silence of the grave has allowed friendship and rever ence to speak, that they should tell of his profourid love of truth in all he did, and of the strong convictions of solemn duty which gave character to his whole life ? I have spoken of Mr. Allston as an ar tist. He is also known as an author. Os his written works I need not speak. Os their history I know no very important facts. Os their value, the decision has already been made. But one can hardly leave even so'imperfect a sketch as this is, without saying a few words of a char acter which combined such various qual ities, each of which, in its degree, was so distinctive of the individual man. Mr. Allston, leaving entirely out of view his artist'c endowments, and which embrace his literary, as well as his professional characteristics—Mr. Allston was, so to speak, the most individual man I have ever known. But while he was this, all that which most distinguished him, nev er separated him from others; but on the contrary, from his use of it, it attracted every body to him who made his ac quaintance. He was a gentleman. And I mean by this, that courtesy in him had its growtn and being in true reverence. His manner, which at once told you hi# I NO. 13*