Vermont phÅ“nix. [volume] (Brattleboro, Vt.) 1834-1955, 1896-07-24
"HOme, Sweet Home"

Tine story Of how the immortal song was writ.
ten. told by John L. Hurst 10 a letter from Tunis
to Zions Herald
John Howard Payne, the author of
"Home, Sweet Home was already an old
man when he came to Tunis as United
States consul. Nothing suited the poet
better than such a post, both on account
of its isolation and the Oriental habits of
the people. He was fond Of telling the
story of his life, and particularly tn e cir
cumstances of his writing "Home, Sweet
Home Mr.. Payne has the reputation Of
being dissipated. This Is borne out by in e.
cidents limited at by him of his early years q.
An actor by profession, its temptations
were never completely overcome. The
poets greatest conidents in Tunis we're tn e
Chapele family, and to Alfred Chapelie,
then a young man. he often remarked !:
Nothing makes me so happy as an old
friend. a good book, and my pipe"
Mr. Payne, as reported by Mr.. Chapelie,
was man Of quiet and retiring habits. He
was great reader, for as a writer he had
done his work The old fire kindled in
his eyes when he told Of his career. His
tragedy of "Brutus' was his favorite, and
placed by him higher than his poem of
Home, Sweet Home" The collection of
scraps was a mania with him. His Moorish
study was Uttered with papers and maya
zines in several languages. Large drawers
were filled with his literary treasures.
'It was in the gardens of the Tuleries
that the words Of Home, Sweet Home
first came to me-" In this wise spoke Mr..
Payne one day to his friend, Mr.. Chapele.
81 had been pretty much over the world.
Actors get accustomed to a Bohemian life.
| could see il was beginning to tell on me,
so in time drifted TO Paris some way;
how, I've almost forgotten. But as wan
dered alone and without penny through
the city, became thoroughly homesick. l
took great liking TO the Tuileries. The
song of the birds, the sunlight or moon
light raining through the trees, the per-
fume Of those fowers-how they all re-
minded me of home"'
Whoever has been in Paris, especially in
the springtime, will appreciate these words
of the poet. A loyeier park than the Tuil-
cries could not be found. Here the little
girls wheel their dolls around in the tiniest
OF carriages, and the boys float their bal
looms. Over there a fountain is discharg-
ing a thousand showers, a rainbow con-
verting them Immediately into diamonds,
rubies and sapphires. The sparrows-how
tame and friendly they are. To get on
good terms with them one must larry.
Bring along a bun from the breakfast
table; suspicion disappears. But at first
only two or three of the dainty creatures
pproach-probably scouts sent out by the
aerial tribe. A dozen now come up, and
soon it would seem as if all the birds of
Paris had learned of the picnic and were
fastening hither as fast as their little wings
could bear them. They do not stop at
ones feet, but perch on ones hands, head
and shoulders. There never were heard
such cries of joy. The air is full of song.
In such place as this is il a wonder that
poet should be inspired?
Yes continued Mr.. Payne, "the SEN
timent had been running in my mind for
some time. / could not hit on the rhyme.
One evening as | was resting in the fuller
les, and the stars were venturing out from
their hiding places, the strain of a beauti-
full melody was borne on the air. 1t was a
Sicilian tune. had heard it years before.
1t was exactly what had been waiting for.
With heart full of home, hurried back
TO my lodgings in a remote part of Paris.
Before the night was over my work was
done. The tune made the poem. l was
getting desperate by this time. had hard
ly sou in my pockets; but one or two
friends helped me. Ny passage TO America
was paid. At last l got back. There were
sad changes. A few only were left. AT
ter all, there is no place like home