late in the evening when he ascended the “stand,” which was supported by the trunks of two magnificent forest trees, through which the setting sun poured with picturesque effect.  The ravages of ill health were apparent upon his face, and his high massive forehead was paler, and seemingly more transparent than usual.  His audience, some three or four hundred, was composed in a large degree of his old and early friends.  He seemed to feel deeply, and as there was nothing to oppose, he assumed the style of the mild and beautiful—­he casually alluded to the days of his early coming among his Southern friends—­of hours of pleasure he had massed, and of the hopes of the future.  In a few moments the bustle and confusion natural to a fatiguing day of political wrangling ceased—­one straggler after another suspended his noisy demonstration, and gathered near the speaker.  Soon a mass of silent but heart-heaving humanity was crowded compactly before him.  Had Prentiss, on that occasion, held the very heart-strings of his auditors in his hand, he could not have had them more in his power.  For an hour he continued, rising from one important subject to another, until the breath was fairly suspended in the excitement.  An uninterested spectator would have supposed that he had used sorcery in thus transfixing his auditors.  While all others forgot, he noticed the day was drawing to a close, he turned and looked toward the setting sun, and apostrophized its fading glory—­then in his most touching voice and manner, concluded as follows:—­

“Friends—­That glorious orb reminds me that the day is spent, and that I too must close.  Ere we part, let me hope that it may be our good fortune to end our days in the same splendor, and that when the evening of life comes, we may sink to rest with the clouds that close in on our departure, gold-tipped with the glorious effulgence of a well-spent life!”

In conclusion, I would ask, will some historian, who can sympathize with the noble dead, gather up the now fleeting memorials that still live in memory, and combine them together, that future generations may know something of the mighty mind of Prentiss.

The remains of the orator must ever be imperfect—­the tone of voice—­the flashing eye—­the occasion, and the mighty shout of the multitude, cannot be impressed; but still Prentiss has left enough in his brilliant career, if treasured up, to show posterity that he was every inch a man.  Let his fragmentary printed speeches—­let the reminiscences of his friends that treat of his power as an orator, be brought together, and unsatisfactory as they may be, there will be found left intrinsic value enough to accomplish the object.  There will be in the fluted column, though shattered and defaced, an Ionian beauty that will tell unerringly of the magnificent temple that it once adorned.

BATON ROUGE, July 9, 1850.

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[FROM HOUSEHOLD WORDS.]