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knows no Whig, no Democrat. While While man would do more to uphold the Union, or take more pride in its perpetuity, he is prepared to repel the slightest interference with the South, on the slavery question.

Mr. Yeadon's practice at the bar has yielded him remunerating emoluments; and he is, therefore, possessed of a very handsome fortune. Not only have his industry, and attention to business, been blessed, but his liberality also; for, while prudence has regulated his private affairs every public and private charity has found him a liberal benefactor.

Mr. Yeadon's capacity for usefulness has devolved on him the performance of many duties in civil and military life. He has filled, with approbation, many important public stations, and he is identified with nearly all of the charitable and school associations of the city. The Northern States, North Carolina, South Carolina and Georgia, are indebted to his pen for some of the finest descriptions of scenery, and the most graphic biographical sketches ever published in this country; an art of composition in which Mr. Yeadon is remarkably happy, and which causes his presence to be hailed with delight wherever he travels.

Mr. Yeadon's style of speaking is clear and brilliant. He has at ready command a large amount of, not only shining, but pure coin; and he expends it with ease and gracefulness. The visit of Mr. Webster to Charleston, in 1847, gave Mr. Yeadon a fine opportunity of displaying, not only the warmth of his heart, but of his eloquence too. As fair specimens of his extemporary style, we subjoin extracts from his speeches at the New England Society and Bar dinners to Mr. Webster.

At the first, being called on, Mr. Yeadon said "He presumed that the call made on him indicated that the company desired from him a sentiment merely, not a speech. That, after the brilliant and almost unparalleled display of oratory, eloquence, and exquisite wit, which had graced the occasion, it would be vain presumption in him to interrupt the further festivity of the evening with a set discourse. He could not forbear, however, giving expression to his gratitude for the courtesy which had made him a participator in the rich and

rare enjoyment, that had so signally marked this social and festive scene- -that had made him a guest of the family party, given to the favorite son of New England by the descendants of her pilgrim fathers, who had made the sunny South their home. It afforded him heartfelt pleasure to unite in doing honor to their distinguished guest. He honored him as the light and glory of our literature, the star, the sun of our intellectual sky-as bearing, in oratory and eloquence, the same relation to our country, that Demosthenes and Cicero bore to Greece and Rome; emblazoning her with an equal lustre--as having won, by a long life of illustrious public service, in the Senate, the cabinet, and the field of diplomacy, not only the title of New England's favorite son, but, also, that of the patriot statesman of America-and as standing forth, by universal acknowledgment, one of the greatest citizens of our great Republic; belonging not only to his native New Hampshire, and his adopted Massachusetts, but identified with the history, and contributing to the fame of his entire country; and, therefore, rightfully claimed as the common property of the nation. There was one particular, too, in which, as a Carolinian, and a Southron, he felt more than commonly proud to do grateful honor to Daniel Webster. In his own Massachusetts, and in the Congress of the Union, he had boldly and patriotically rebuked the mad spirit of fanaticism, that, under the banner of a false philanthropy, would preach a crusade against Southern rights and institutions, and stab to the heart the peace, the prosperity, nay, the very existence of the South. It was gratifying, also, to recal the fact that, in the year 1840, in the capital of the Old Dominion, under the October sun' of a Virginia sky, he, Mr. Webster, had given utterance,

before his entire country,' to the just, patriotic, and constitutional sentiment, and committed it to the wings of all the winds,' to be borne to every human ear, whether of friend or foe, of North or South, on all the responsibility that belonged to him—THAT THERE IS NO POWER, DIRECT OR INDIRECT, IN CONGRESS, OR THE GENERAL GOVERNMENT, TO INTERFERE, IN THE SLIGHTEST DEGREE, WITH THE INSTITUTIONS OF THE SOUTH.' He pro

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claimed that we, of the North and South, | were citizens of United States-united only for the purposes of common defence, common interest, and common welfare, but separate and independent in every thing connected with their domestic relations, and private concerns. Honor to the man who upholds the Constitution as the bond of our Union, and as the ægis of protection and bulwark of defence, to the separate interests and institutions, each and all, of our United States. could not conclude, said Mr. Yeadon, without expressing his delight also, at beholding his own native State thus extending welcome and courtesy to Massachusetts, the mother of industry, enterprize and refinement, in the person of her illustrious Senator. It was fitting that old Massachusetts, she that had rocked the cradle of the revolution at Lexington and Bunker's Hill, should be thus met with old affection, and time honored' hospitality, by South Carolina-which had not sung the lullaby of our young independence; but tuned its ear to other, and different music, the thunder of Fort Sullivan. He gave, as a sentiment,

"The reception of Mr. Webster in Charleston. The old Palmetto Fort exchanging a friendly salute with Bunker's Hill."

At the Bar dinner to Mr. Webster, Mr. Yeadon spoke as follows:

"He asked leave to pay a common and richly merited tribute to the three greatest men of the Union. The relations borne by their illustrious guest to his city, his State, his section, and the nation at large, naturally suggested to the minds and hearts of all present, two other distinguished citizens of our republic, his co-equals in greatness and fame, whose relations to city, State, section, and nation, were identical with his own. Boston, the Athens of America, Massachusetts, the cradle of the revolution, New England, the home of the Pilgrim Fathers, delighted to do honor to DANIEL WEBSTER, the bright star of the East. Lexington, the soul of hospitality and intelligence, Kentucky, the eldest of the Western sisterhood, the far and mighty West, in all its vast extent of territory presented the laurel to Henry Clay, the great statesman of the West, who now, alas, in sorrow and desolation, amidst the shades of his own beautiful Ashland, mourns, with crushed and anguished heart, a gallant son, laid as a sacrifice on the

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altar of his country. Charleston, the Queen City of the South, South Carolina, the soil of South, the home of chivalry and generous the evergreen palmetto, the South, the sunny sentiment, do homage to John C. Calhoun, the pure and lofty patriot, the fearless champion of the South. Each of these illustrious men, in his own section, stands unrivalled in greatness and in the popular heart; and yet each was regarded as the common property of the nation, which had reaped such a long harvest services in the Senate, in the cabinet and in advantage and fame from their illustrious the diplomatic field. At home, each towered in greatness and elevation, beyond compeer; but when viewed as the national plain, they rose in the similitude of three lofty and colossal columns, contrasted in their order of architecture, but equal in magnitude and height. He asked for permission then, as not inappropriate to the grateful occasion, to twine a common public. He gave Clay, Webster, and Calgarland for the three great men of the rehoun, the three pyramids of America. Colossal in intellectual proportions, and towering in moral grandeur, they as much exceed those of Egypt in greatness and glory, as the intellectual and the moral are above the physical, while liberty is worshipped and public worth they and their memory will be reverenced, is cherished in this land of the free. time may come when posterity will say: From yonder pyramids more than twenty centuries look down upon our actions.'"

The

In person, Mr. Yeadon is of respectable medium height, and somewhat stout. His head is what a phrenologist would admire, as happily proportioned, enough of the physical to give stability to the moral and intellectual, and his face is characterised by benevolent and intellectual expression. In disposition he is bland and courteous; and, though in moments of close attention to business, one may pronounce him occasionally and unconciliatory in manner, this arises more from anxiety to make progress with his engagements, than from a want of appreciation of the particular complaisances of life. Under an exterior sometimes forbidding, is beating a generous and sympathising heart, one ever open to the impressions of philanthropy; ever overflowing with kindness and urbanity.

In business the most minute particulars engage his observation or memory; and while, with some men, it requires hours of preparation, to make the transit from one department of business to another, he engages in the greatest variety

of transactions with ease and facility. | be directed to the elucidation of the history His literary labors are voluminous, and of South Carolina; a work for which he is will form a noble treasure in the letters of eminently qualified, not less by qualities of his native State. It is to be hoped, that industry in the collection of materials, than the correctness and fluency of his pen will from the elegant character of his diction.

AN ESSAY ON THE

LIFE AND WRITINGS OF FRANCOIS RABELAIS,

THE GOOD CURATE OF MENDON.

BY EUGENE LIES.

Rabelais est-il mort?

Non sa meilleure part ha repriz ses espritz.

JEAN TURQUET.

WE profess to be so far a disciple of
the great philosopher to whose fame these
pages are devoted, as to entertain the ut-
most abhorrence of bigotry, cant, and ex-
clusiveness, in all their forms, whether
based on national or sectarian prejudice.
The ephemeral literature of Great Britain
is particularly obnoxious on that score; it
is redolent with the offensive taint of self-
laudation. For this, we feel in some de-
gree prepared; but we have no patience
with a class of American writers who,
without the obvious excuse of their trans-
atlantic cotemporaries, endorse the con-
ceited blunders of the British press. We
will cite as a specimen the following criti-
cal dictum from a late number of a popu-
lar magazine of New York:-" An Anglo-
Saxon can appreciate, although he may
not altogether admire, Gallic wit; but a
Gaul is hopelessly incompetent to under-cupied a much more tenable position.
stand Saxon humor." We notice this re-
mark, not for its originality, but merely
because it is the echo of many others of
the same character, and to the same effect
-common places of British self-gratula-
tion, empty sounds, voces et preterea nihil,
which the authors of Great Britain have
uttered in the candor of ignorance, and
which our own writers repeat, because they
pass current in Great Britain. We
should like to know on what grounds rests
the common assumption that humor is the
exclusive property of the Anglo-Saxon
race, or that there exists such a thing as a

special Anglo-Saxon variety of humor.
What is humor?
We will not attempt a
definition which Addison has declared to
be so difficult. But we imagine that a
tolerably clear, though concise, idea of the
humorous style is conveyed, if not by the
epithet of joco serius, which Strabo applies
to the satires of Menippus, at least by
merely inverting that compound expres-
sion. Suppose that, catching the prevail-
ing mania of Neologism, we took the lib-
erty to qualify a work as serio jocose-
it may be that the word would appear ob-
scure-but if it meant anything at all, it
certainly would mean humorous. Had the
critic, whose remark we have noticed,
stated that humor is a thing so exquisite,
so delicate, and so inseparably woven with
expression, that it loses a great deal of its
effect in a translation, he would have oc-

If there be anything sui generis in Anglo-Saxon humor, we plead ignorance and beg for light; but if humor, in all languages, be merely what we conceive it, a veil of mock gravity cast over pleasantry to make her more attractive, then all the writers, whether Greek, Latin, Spanish, Italian, or English, who have practised that artifice, are humorists. And above all, the prince of humorists is one Francois Rabelais, whom the critic had probably overlooked in making his sweeping asser

tion.

Why did not Rabelais write his own

life? No theme could have suited his
genius better; no pen could have better
graced the theme.
We do not hesitate to
say that such an autobiography would have
proved the most humorous of his works; a
relation of the most Pantagruelic incidents
by the author of Pantagruel. Unfor-
tunately, his life yet remains to be written,
and a few dates, a few facts, mentioned as
it were inadvertently by cotemporary
writers, some incidental allusions in his
correspondence, and scant official entries
that record several of his public acts, are
all the authentic materials which criticism
has been able to discover. On the other
hand, however, tradition has bountifully
supplied the defect. So universal was
Rabelais' reputation for facetiousness, that
for
years afterwards his countrymen attrib-
uted to him every merry saying or doing
that came to their knowledge. In this re-
spect, he shared the fate of all originals in
being made to father a long and spurious
progeny, which, living, he would have dis-
claimed indignantly. It is somewhat diffi-
cult to discriminate, in the vast number of
anecdotes attributed to Rabelais, the gen-
uine from the false; nor is it easy to re-
concile the conflicting accounts of several
most important particulars relating to him.
Yet the labors of modern criticism have
much facilitated the task, so that we are
enabled to furnish our readers with a tol-
erably consistent narrative of the leading
events of his life.

in his character, and redeemed-although
it failed altogether to refine-many a gross
instinct, many a sensual appetite. He be-
came thoroughly acquainted with ancient
literature, and even mastered the Greek lan-
guage, which at that time was but little
understood
understood or studied.

The more he followed his elegant pursuits, the greater became his contempt for the gross ignorance of his brethren at the convent. This feeling, which he took no pains to disguise, produced its obvious consequences. With the exception of two kindred spirits, whom a similarity of tastes united in friendship with him, the monks of Fontenay le Comte hated, while they envied, the accomplished Rabelais. The hatred of monks is not habitually inactive, and, on this occasion, the mercurial temperament of their victim furnished their vengeance with ready pretexts. The vigilant inquisition of revenge never slumbered till poor Rabelais was confined under sentence of perpetual imprisonment-in pace, as they called it, with cruel ironyin the subterraneous dungeons of the convent. There are several versions as to the particular offense for which so severe a punishment was visited upon him. Some state that he mixed with the wine of the monks certain atonic drugs whose enervating influence greatly annoyed the voluptuous fathers, whilst others raise against him the still more serious accusation of having done precisely the reverse. A more Francois Rabelais was born at Chinon, rational and probable account charges him in Touraine, about the year 1483. His with having caused great scandal by his father was either an apothecary, or an inn- conduct at a village holiday gathering, keeper; at all events, a man of some pro- where, in a drunken bout with some peasperty. Rabelais received the elements of ants of the neighborhood, he indulged in his education at the Abbey of Seuillé, eccentric and obscene vagaries. But the where he passed his time, to borrow his characteristic and most popular is the folown quaint expression, "in drinking, eat-lowing anecdote :-Tradition says, that he ing, and sleeping, in eating, sleeping, and drinking, and in sleeping, drinking, and eating. We next find him at a monastery, in the neighborhood of Angers, where he remained until he was sufficiently advanced in age to commence his noviciate. He then entered a convent of the Franciscan order, where he was finally ordained a priest sometime in or about the year 1511. In the solitude of the cloister, Rabelais lost no opportunity of gratifying that innate thirst of knowledge which, to the last hour of his life, formed a prominent trait

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unceremoniously dislodged the statue of the blessed Saint Francis from its pedestal by the altar in the church, and, dressing himself for the part, ascended the vacant place and prepared to personate the Saint during the service. This idea, which he may have borrowed from the Stylites of ancient times, and which the Ravels perhaps borrowed from him, he contrived to carry out for a while with becoming gravity. But Rabelais had none of the spirit of Saint Simeon about him; he was not born for a model artist. At the most impressive

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