Born at New York, June 9, 1792: died at Tunis, April 10, 1852. An American dramatist, actor, and song-writer. He first appeared on the stage at New York in 1809, and fulfilled a number of engagements in other cities as “The American Juvenile Wonder,” etc. He played also in England and Ireland, part of the time with Miss O’Neill. He retired from the stage in 1832, and was in Tunis as American consul 1843–45 and 1851–52. He is famous as the author of “Home, Sweet Home” (originally in the opera of “Clari”), and was author and translator and adapter of more than 60 plays.

Personal

  (Paris). Mary Lamb has begged me to give her a day or two. She comes to Paris this evening, and stays here a week. Her only male friend is a Mr. Payne, whom she praises exceedingly for his kindness and attentions to Charles. He is the author of “Brutus,” and has a good face.

  I hope it will bring you here. I should be most glad of that. I have a room for you, and you shall order your own dinner three days in the week. I must retain my own authority for the rest.

  My Dear Sir:—It affords me great pleasure to comply with your request for the words of “Home, Sweet Home.” Surely there is something strange in the fact that it should have been my lot to cause so many people in the world to boast of the delights of my home, when I never had a home of my own, and never expect to have one, now—especially since those here at Washington who possess the power, seem so reluctant to allow me the means of earning one!

  I became acquainted with him as the editor of the Thespian Mirror, when he was about thirteen years of age. A more engaging youth could not be imagined; he won all hearts by the beauty of his person and his captivating address, the premature richness of his mind and his chaste and flowing utterance.

  How much of Payne’s success on the stage was due to his absolute merits as an actor, and how much to the curiosity he excited as a precocious lad, doing or attempting to do, work that only the most finished and mature tragedians had ever undertaken before in America, it is, of course, difficult now to determine. He certainly was associated, and in equal parts, with some of the most distinguished men and women in his profession, and with them he shared the honors and the applause. It must be confessed, however, that he did not grow in popularity as he grew in years, and that his later engagements were less successful, in a pecuniary way, than those of his youth. He seems to have become careless and indifferent, to have devoted less time to study and preparation, and it is believed that he was dissatisfied with the profession, and with his position in it, even before he went abroad in 1813.

  And here, for the benefit of those who can appreciate an incident which seems almost unique in its pathos, I submit the following: One winter night in London, Payne was without money or credit, had not where to lay his head. He tried to quiet the pangs of hunger and homelessness by looking in at the windows, and from the areas scenting good cheer. It was Christmas eve, the snow fell fast, the wind was sharp and keen. At one luxurious house the hungry man stopped and watched the lighting of the Christmas tree. Its candles streamed brightly on the pavement, and among the evergreens he could see the red berries of holly, the toys and garlands, and the pretty heads of children. They danced and clapped their hands while the presents were being distributed and the air rang with shouts of laughter and screams of delight. When the merriment had spent itself a little, one young girl went to the piano and warbled “Sweet Home,” while the family joined in the rousing chorus. And what a story! John Howard Payne—“Home, Sweet Home”—not a penny in the world—a lonely grave overlooking the ruins of Carthage—a death journey of several thousand miles—and a monument in the metropolis of his native land.

  To write the life of such a man as John Howard Payne is a task that requires much forbearance and a good judgment of human character. His varied talents, and his constantly changing disposition to follow this object and the other, causes the writer some difficulty in finding a climax to any of the many vocations which Mr. Payne attempted throughout his life. Yet with all the perplexities of his kaleidoscopic sort of mind, that at the least touch or turn of thought would lead him off to another form as unlasting as the one that had gone before, we cannot fail to see something to admire, and to make his life highly interesting to the reader.

General

  Thirty-six consecutive performances of “Brutus,” each attended by crowded and brilliant audiences, may be cited as a proof of the deep impression created by Kean in the character of the Roman patriot. The tragedy, or rather compilation, of “Brutus” exhibits no particular originality or skill on the part of Howard Payne, but when efficiently acted it is highly effective, and will never go in want of an intellectual and appreciative audience.

  “Brutus, or the Fall of Tarquin,” a historical tragedy, by John Howard Payne. There is no originality or genius displayed in this drama, but, when well acted, it is highly effective on the stage.

  The acknowledged difficulty of writing a really great song brings to mind the fact that of all the songs endeared to us by early and familiar association there is not one that Americans can claim exclusively except this. Tender old ballads by the score we borrow from the Irish, Scotch, English and German, but of our own there is but one. The wonderful influence of “Home, Sweet Home” is not easily explained. Its spell is one of feeling, subtle as a perfume, which eludes the scalpel of the critic and defies analysis. Simple as the utterance of a child, it has the pathos of a strong man’s yearning. It touches the heart by its suggestion of sympathy with all other hearts, and its soft tones bring to the dullest ear some echo of what Wordsworth calls

  Payne seems to have been a little inclined to the hearsay that the world owed him a living. The success of the beautiful music which has floated his commonplace words across the sea of time seems to have deceived him into the idea that he was an unappreciated genius, which was hardly true. We are told that it made him sad to hear the music boxes of foreign cities pour forth his immortal song when he had not a shilling in his pocket or a place to lay his head. But it was not his song which the hand-organs played; it was the unknown Italian’s glorious melody; and if there are statues to be raised to-day, that unknown should have as high as the best of them.