Daily globe. [volume] (St. Paul, Minn.) 1878-1884, 1883-02-18

only on the mission field but also at home,
in SO presenting the duty ofrepentance that
souls shall be converted. No NEW Theol-
ogy' or old theology is successful if it does
not keep its practical work of bringing
souls into allegiance to God far ahead of
its efforts to correct their theories or be-
lief.
! A LATE Musical Herald gives touching
reminiscence of the author of ''Sweet
Home whose pathetic, melting melody,
like the British morning drum beat that
follows the rising sun around the world, has
many times encompassed the earth, NOV
ing all hearts in all nations, by its simple.
natural pathos. Sweet Home" as the
readers OF the GLOBE we'll know, was
written by J. Howard Payne. He COM
posed it in 1925. He received $3.50 for it.
He sold it to Charles Kemble. Undoubted-
ly Payne felt gratifed at the time by the
amount received-so little likely are peo-
pie to realize the value of their compost
tions until the public has decided upon
them. The public soon pronounced most
favorably upon Home, Sweet Home"
when it was sung by the
famous actress, Ellen Tree. Though the
sacred sweetness of home was so poetical-
ly and pathetically limmed by Payne, it is
well known that Payne, himself, was home
less, a shelterless wanderer through most
of his life. Chow Often" said he, "have
been in the heart of Paris, Berlin, London,
and other cities, and heard persons play
ing Sweet Home" without shilling in
my pocket to buy the next meal, or a
place to lay my head" The tune which
has been so welded to the verses Of this
song that it seems impossible TO think of
the one apart from the other, was COM
posed by Sir Henry Rowley Bishop in
1929. It is not so generally known that
there is hymn by the same
title; yet it has had an ex-
tensive representation in the stand
ard hymn books, and has been much sung.
It was written in 1887 by the Rev. David
Denham, Baptist minister in England,
and it begins,
""Mid scenes OF confusion and creature COM
The author did excellent ministerial work
IN Margate, London, and Cheltenham, bat
was called IN early life to the home of
which he wrote:
81 sigh from the body of sin to be free,
Which binders my Joy and communion with
thee;
Though now my temptations like pillows may
foam,
All, all will be peace, when Pm with thee at
home.
Home, home, sweet, sweet home,
Prepare me, dear Savior, for glory, my home. "
Thus the sweet singers that so enthused
the world with their melodies, go from the
sad vicissitudes of earthly sorrows to en-
ter INTO the full fruition of peaceful, heav-
emily beatitudes.
A LETTER from Paris announcing the
death of Gustave Dore, says, notwithstand-
ing his great success with the pencil, he died
of broken heart, because Of his failure as
a painter He was, perhaps, take him for
alI in all, the greatest illustrator the world
has ever known, but he wanted to be the
greatest painter, and nothing short
of that would satisfy his ambition.
His illustrious success in another direction
ne counted as nothing, because of his fail
ure as 8 painter. Yet, says the letter re-
ferred to, she could not paint at all. His
coloring was something unnamable; the
faults Of his drawing were too glaring
when he worked, as he loved to work, on a
large scale. His painting, in fact, was his
general incompetence in technique seen
through a powerful telescope. Yet he
would be painter or nothing. It was
useless to remind him that he had illus
trated Radicals as no man had ever illustrat-
ed him before; that his "Contes
Drolatiques" was a masterpiece, and
that in "Don Quixote" and Tenny-
son he was inferior only to him
self He would shake his head sadly-that
was not it. He work ed to the last on his
| illustrations, but only as pot-boilers''. All
day long he was climbing about over the
surface of some huge canvas in his large
studio on the Rue Bayard, and at night he
came home to earn his bread by the work
he despised, though the public considered
| that his sole title to glory. He worked half
the night, and he was up early the next
morning to paint once more. His want of
rest, his prodigious energy, must have
shortened his life, but the chief thing that
shortened it was sorrow. No one could
doubt that for moment at sight of him.
He had heavy, anxious look. All the
old boyish beauty of his face
which lasted long after he became man
was gone; the smooth, plump cheeks
seemed to be falling with their own weight;
the corners of the mouth went down. His
talk was worse than his look: he was alb
sence of mind personifsd. He could hard
" answer you; he was too much absorbed
in his own grief. He lived with his mother
until she died, and after that he still occu-
pied the quaint old family house in the
Rue st. Dominique, in which he had
passed SO many happy years. He never
married; he once had consuming tender
ness for Patti, and in being disappointed
of her never cared about another woman,
but his affection for his mother must have
had much to do with his life of celibacy
She always treated him as a great boy.
I