In a letter addressed to her husband, one of Mrs. Prentiss’ oldest friends now living, Miss Julia D. Willis, has furnished the following reminiscences of her early years.  While they confirm what has been said about her childhood, they are especially valuable for the glimpses they give of her father and mother and sister.  The Willis and Payson families were very intimate and warmly attached to each other.  Mr. Nathaniel Willis, the father of N. P. Willis the poet, was well known in connection with “The Boston Recorder,” of which he was for many years the conductor and proprietor.  Both Mr. and Mrs. Willis cherished the most affectionate veneration for the memory of Dr. Payson.  So long as she lived their house was a home to Mrs. Payson and 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 care for my entertainment by telling a story, or propounding a riddle, or providing an entertaining book to beguile the time till Louisa’s return.