ved on Roanoke
Island or much frequented it, tell us," (says he) "that several of
their ancestors were white people and could talk in a book, as we do;
the truth of which is confirmed by gray eyes being found frequently
amongst these Indians and no others."

GEORGE DENISON PRENTICE.

~1802=1870.~

GEORGE DENISON PRENTICE was born in Preston, Connecticut, and was a
teacher and lawyer in early life. In 1830 he went to Kentucky, and a
year afterward became editor of the Louisville "Journal," which
position he held and made illustrious during the remainder of his
life. His wit and humor gave him great influence, and his paper,
afterwards consolidated with the "Courier" and known as the
"Courier-Journal," became a power in politics, commerce, and society.
A fine statue of him adorns the Courier-Journal building in
Louisville, and his fame is by no means forgotten. "Prenticeana" is a
collection of his witty and pungent paragraphs. See Memorial address
by his successor, Henry Watterson.

WORKS.

Life of Henry Clay.
Poems, edited by John James Piatt.
Prenticeana, [with life-sketch.]

Mr. Prentice's best known poem is the "Closing Year," which
elocutionists have kept before the public and which has often inspired
young poets to sad verses on the passing of time.

THE CLOSING YEAR.

(_From Poems._[12])

'Tis midnight's holy hour--and silence now
Is brooding, like a gentle spirit, o'er
The still and pulseless world. Hark! on the winds,
The bell's deep-notes are swelling. 'Tis the knell
Of the departed year.

No funeral train
Is sweeping past; yet on the stream and wood,
With melancholy light, the moonbeams rest,
Like a pale, spotless shroud; the air is stirred,
As by a mourner's sigh; and on yon cloud,
That floats so still and placidly through heaven,
The spirits of the seasons seem to stand--
Young Spring, bright Summer, Autumn's solemn form,
And Winter, with his aged locks--and breathe
In mournful cadences, that come abroad
Like the far wind harp's wild and touching wail,
A melancholy dirge o'er the dead Year,
Gone from the earth forever.

'Tis a time
For memory and for tears. Within the deep,
Still chambers of the heart a spectre dim,
Whose tones are like the wizard voice of Time,
Heard from the tomb of ages, points its cold
And solemn finger to t