nd her daughters,
whenever they visited Boston.

As a preacher Dr. Payson could not fail to make a strong impression even
on a child. Years ago in New York I once told Mrs. Prentiss, who was too
young, at her father's death, to remember him well in the pulpit, that
the only public speaker who ever reminded me of him, was Edwin Booth in
Hamlet. I surprised, and, I am afraid, a little shocked her, but it
was quite true. The slender figure, the dark, brilliant eyes, the
deep earnestness of tone, the rapid utterance combined with perfect
distinctness of enunciation, in spite of surroundings the best
calculated to repel such an association, recalled him vividly to my
memory.

My father's connection with the religious press after his removal from
Portland to Boston, brought many clergymen to our house, who often,
in the kindness of their hearts, requited hospitality by religious
conversation with the children, not church members, and presumably,
therefore, impenitent. I did not always appreciate this kindness as it
deserved, and often exercised considerable ingenuity to avoid being
alone with them. In Dr. Payson's case, I soon learned, on the contrary,
to seek such occasions. I was sure that before long he would look up
from his book, or his manuscript, and have something pleasant or
playful to say to me. His general conversation, however, was oftener on
religious than on any other subjects, but it was so evidently from the
fullness of his heart, and his vivid imagination afforded him such a
wealth of illustration, that it was delightful even to an "impenitent"
child. Years afterward when I read in his Memoir of his desponding
temperament, of his seasons of gloom, of the sense of sin under which
he was bowed down, it seemed impossible to me that it could be _my_ Dr.
Payson.

I visited Portland and was an inmate of his family, at the commencement
of the illness that finally proved fatal. He was not confined to his
bed, or to his room, but he was forbidden, indeed unable, to preach,
unable to write or study; he could only read and think. Still he did not
shut himself up in his study with his sad thoughts. I remember him as
usually seated with his book by the side of the fire, surrounded by his
family, as if he would enjoy their society as long as possible, and the
children's play was never hushed on his account. Nor did he forget the
young visitor. When the elder daughter, to whom my visit was made, was
at school, he would