HOME, SWEET HOME One stormy evening in October, in the reign of King Louis of France, about seven years after Napoleon had been defeated at Waterloo, a penniless young American was, wandering about in the streets of Paris looking for a night's lodging. His name was John Howard Payne. In the gay French capital just at that time there was prejudice against Englishmen on account of the Wellington victory, and also some antipathy against Americans because they spoke only the English language. This friendless young American, footsore and hungry, who had just lost his situation as a play-actor in Drury Lane Theater, London, had been for hours seeking employment in Paris, looking upon its palaces and pleasures, and reminded by frequent rebuffs of his helplessness and loneliness, began to think of his childhood and the sweetness of his boyhood life. At length, passing by a humble dwelling, he chanced to discern through the window the outline of a warm home scene—a father, mother, and children sitting in the lamp-light, happy in each other's love. "Ah!" said the poor actor, with tears in his eyes, "there's no place like home!" and the words repeated themselves in his mind again and again. Suddenly remembering that on another street an English theater manager was quartered temporarily while seeking new plays, he sought him out, all the time repeating in song-like tone the refrain, "There's no place like home." By the time he reached the manager's room the refrain had become a finished melody, and the outcast was chanting to himself, though yet in rude form, the wonderful words which were soon destined to stir the world. 'Mid pleasures and palaces though we may roam, A charm from the sky seems to carry us there, Which, seek through the world, is not met with elsewhere There's no place like home, there's no place like home. An exile from home, splendor dazzles in vain; Give me them with the peace of mind dearer than all. Home! Home! sweet, sweet home! There's no place like home, there's no place like home! Persons of sense, such as Mr. Payne was, know a good thing when they find it, and the destitute young actor realized that out of his dreary experience he had hatched a bit of music and sentiment which would redound to his account. He soon conceived the idea of a play, "Clari, the Maid of Milan," and incorporated his song in it. The piece was produced at Covent Garden Theater in 1823, with music by Sir Henry Bishop. Few stage successes have ever been greater. Payne received $1,250 for it, and three hundred thousand copies of "Home, Sweet Home" were sold within a year. Yet Payne never found a home for himself. He was born in a little cottage on the outskirts of New York in 1791, went to London at the age of twenty-one, produced his song at the age of thirty-two, continued his wanderings over the earth until the age of sixty-one, and died at Tunis, North Africa, in 1852. For several years he had been serving as United States consul in that city, so that even in death he was an "exile from home." In 1882 a philanthropist of Washington, the late W. W. Corcoran, had the poet's body removed to the capital of the United States, believing this to be the proper place for the remains of the author of "Home, Sweet Home." In 1883 a monument was erected to his memory. The inscriptions on the shaft are simple. The front bears the name, dates of birth and death, etc. On the reverse side is carved the following quatrain: Sure, when thy gentle spirit fled To realms beyond the azure dome, With arms outstretched, God's angel said, |