of June 1791; and a large portion of his childhood was passed amidst
the peaceful verdant scenery of East Hampton, in that State, where his
father was principal of a small academy. When John was five years old,
his father moved to Boston in a similar scholastic capacity, and there
remained eight years; after which, the subject of this memoir returned
to New York, and entered the counting-house of a firm in which an
elder brother had been partner. But he never took to the dull drudgery
of a mercantile life. When only thirteen years old, he contributed a
dramatic criticism to a juvenile paper of which he was editor, and it
was republished in the columns of the _New York Evening Post_. Soon
after this he entered Union College, but only remained a year; after
which, owing to the pecuniary difficulties of his father, he found
himself under the necessity of pushing his fortune in the world alone
and unaided.
Payne now devoted his time to studying for the stage, for which he
displayed considerable aptitude; and made his first public appearance
at the Park Theatre, New York, as Young Norval in the tragedy of
_Douglas_. This _début_ was a complete success. From New York he
went to Boston, where he again appeared as Young Norval, and also as
Romeo, Rolla, and other characters. In cultured Boston, he became
even more the rage than in the great emporium of commerce. After
a time he returned to New York, thence he visited Baltimore—where
he was enthusiastically received; subsequently proceeding to South
Carolina and other Southern States. He came to Washington in 1809, and
attracted great attention, one admiring critic declaring that ‘a more
extraordinary mixture of softness and intelligence was never associated
in a human countenance; and his face was an index of his heart—he was
a perfect Cupid in beauty.’ In January 1813, Payne sailed for England,
and in Liverpool was welcomed by William Roscoe, who presented him
to John Kemble, Coleridge, Campbell, Southey, Byron, and others; and
got for him an engagement at Drury Lane Theatre, in the character of
Young Norval. Great applause greeted the youthful American actor,
particularly in the death-scene at the end of the play.
Payne performed for a month in London, and then went the round of
several of the principal English cities, after which he proceeded to
Dublin, where, in conjunction with the celebrated Miss O’Neil, he
played in various well-known dramas. He now visited Paris, where he
met and became intimate with his distinguished countryman, Washington
Irving; and formed a friendship with Talma, the French tragedian. Once
more he returned to England; but on this occasion he was less of a
novelty, and did not retain his former success.
About this time he commenced his career as a dramatic author, one of
his first efforts in this line being the tragedy of _Brutus_, produced
at Drury Lane Theatre in 1818, the famous Edmund Kean taking the
principal part. The play was a success, being performed to crowded
houses for seventy-five nights. Upwards of fifty plays of various
descriptions were written by Payne, and their pecuniary returns
enabled him to live comfortably during his nineteen years’ residence
in Europe. But the production which has achieved such a world-wide
fame, and rendered its author an honoured name in many a household,
was his _Home! Sweet Home!_ This beautiful song was composed in Paris
one dull October day when Payne was living in humble lodgings near the
Palais-Royal. The depressing influences of his surroundings, something
in the atmosphere which seemed to harmonise with his own feelings, and
his solitary lot in life, were instrumental in drawing forth the simple
pathos and tender yearnings of the song. As originally composed, it
ran, according to some accounts, as follows:
’Mid pleasures and palaces though we may roam,
Be it ever so humble, there’s no place like home;
A charm from the skies seems to hallow us there
(Like the love of a mother
Surpassing all other),
Which, seek through the world, is ne’er met with elsewhere.
There’s a spell in the shade
Where our infancy played
Even stronger than time, and more deep than despair.
An exile from home, splendour dazzles in vain:
Oh! give me my lowly thatched cottage again;
The birds and the lambkins that came at my call;
Those who named me with pride,
Those who played by my side,
Give me them! with the innocence dearer than all.
The joys of the palaces through which I roam,
Only swell my heart’s anguish—there’s no place like home.
The _Boston Congregationalist_, however, has given the following as
the authentic form in which the author sent out his immortal song—the
original manuscript being in the possession of an old lady in America,
to whom at one time John Howard Payne was greatly attached:
’Mid pleasures and palaces though we may roam,
Be it ever so humble, there’s no place like home;
A charm from the skies seems to hallow us there,
Which, seek through the world, is ne’er met with elsewhere.
Home! home! sweet, sweet home!
There’s no place like home, there’s no place like home.
An exile from home, splendour dazzles in vain:
Oh! give me my lowly thatched cottage again;
The birds singing gaily, that come at my call;
Give me them with the peace of mind, dearer than all.
Home! home! &c.
How sweet, too, to sit ’neath a fond father’s smile,
And the cares of a mother to soothe and beguile.
Let others delight ’mid new pleasures to roam,
But give me, oh! give me the pleasures of home.
Home! home! &c.
To thee, I’ll return, overburdened with care;
The heart’s dearest solace will smile on me there;
No more from that cottage again will I roam,
Be it ever so humble, there’s no place like home.
Home! home! &c.
The song was afterwards rewritten by its author, and introduced into an
opera called _Clari, the Maid of Milan_, a play sold by him, in 1823,
to Charles Kemble, of Covent Garden Theatre, for two hundred and fifty
pounds; the music being composed by Sir Henry Bishop. In the opera, the
song ran as we now know it:
’Mid pleasures and palaces though we may roam,
Be it ever so humble, there’s no place like home;
A charm from the sky seems to hallow us there,
Which, seek through the world, is ne’er met with elsewhere.
Home! home! sweet, sweet home!
There’s no place like home, there’s no place like home.
An exile from home, splendour dazzles in vain:
Oh! give me my lowly thatched cottage again;
The birds singing gaily, that came at my call;
Give me them—and the peace of mind, dearer than all.
Home! home! sweet, sweet home!
There’s no place like home, there’s no place like home.
_Clari_ had a great run, the chief _rôle_ being taken by Miss Maria
Tree, whose singing of the simple song caused a wonderful sensation,
gifted as she was not only with a beautiful and expressive face, but
with a fine voice which thrilled her hearers. More than one hundred
thousand copies of the song as set to music were sold by the publishers
within a year of its publication; but poor Payne reaped no pecuniary
benefit from this source, nor did even his name appear as the author.
A story is told by the American newspapers that the power of the song
once liberated its author from captivity. John Howard Payne was a warm
personal friend of John Ross, the famous Cherokee Indian chief, and
they were together when the Cherokees were ordered to remove from their
home in Georgia to the prairie-lands west of the Mississippi River.
Many refused to go; so the militia were ordered to scour the country
and arrest all who stayed behind. Payne and Ross were seated before the
fire in a miserable log-cabin, when seven or eight militiamen burst
in, secured their prisoners, mounted them on horses, and led them
away. As they left the hovel, rain began to fall, and continued all
night, so that every man was thoroughly drenched. Towards midnight,
one of Payne’s escort, to keep himself awake, began humming ‘Home!
home! sweet, sweet home!’ and Payne said: ‘I never expected to hear
that song under such circumstances and at such a time. Do you know the
author?’—‘No!’ said the soldier. ‘Do you?’—‘Yes,’ answered Payne; ‘I
am.’—‘Ho! ho!’ laughed the soldier. ‘You composed it, did you? Oh! tell
the horse that! Look here. If you composed it—but I know you didn’t—you
can say it all without stopping. It says something about pleasures and
palaces, and cottages and birds. Now, pitch into it, and reel it off;
and if you can’t, you’ll have to walk.’ Payne ‘pitched’ into it, and
‘reeled it off’ greatly to the satisfaction of his guardian, who vowed
the composer of such a song should never go to prison if he could help
it. When the party reached Milledgeville, the headquarters, they were,
after a preliminary examination, and much to their agreeable surprise,
discharged.
In the summer of 1832, Mr Payne returned to New York at a time when
cholera was desolating the city, and was joyfully received by his many
friends, a complimentary benefit being arranged for him at the Park
Theatre, where he first made his bow as an actor. For the next ten
years he resided in America, during which he engaged in a considerable
amount of literary work, and travelled extensively both in the North
and South, until in 1842 he was appointed to the post of American
consul at Tunis. However, he was not permitted very long to enjoy his
new post, for in less than three years he was recalled by President
Polk, who, to gratify a political associate, gave the appointment to
another.
This was a great disappointment to Payne, who had ably fulfilled his
duties, and was engaged in writing a history of Tunis, which he had now
to abandon; but to console himself, he made a tour in the continent,
visiting Italy, France, and other places, returning to Washington in
1847. During this, his last sojourn in the capital, he gathered around
him an extensive circle of friends, and kept up a correspondence with
many of those eminent in literature and art, whose acquaintance he had
formed both in his own country and in Europe. The exertions of those
who knew his worth, and the claims he had upon his country, were at
last successful, and Mr Payne was again appointed to the post he had
before filled, being re-installed as consul at Tunis.
In May 1851, the author of _Home! Sweet Home!_ bade farewell to his
country for the last time, and in a few weeks afterwards entered upon
the duties of his office at Tunis, with high hopes of continuing his
former career of usefulness. But it had been otherwise decreed, for
ere another year had passed, John Howard Payne had ceased from his
wanderings, while his country had to lament the loss of one of her
gifted sons. He died on the 9th of April 1852, and his body was laid in
the Protestant cemetery of St George at Tunis, the grave being covered
by a white marble slab, with a simple epitaph, and on the four edges
of the marble the four lines—a line to each:
Sure, when thy gentle spirit fled
To realms beyond the azure dome,
With arms outstretched, God’s angels said:
‘Welcome to Heaven’s Home! sweet Home!’
After lying more than thirty years in a foreign tomb, the last remains
of John Howard Payne have now been transferred to a grave in his native
land. To Mr W. Corcoran, a well-known and philanthropical citizen of
Washington, is due the initiation of the scheme and the credit of
defraying all the expenses connected with the bringing home of the
remains of his countryman from Tunis, after the necessary permission
had been obtained from the Secretary of State. Payne’s grave in the
cemetery at Tunis had been well kept, and, besides the marble slab
above mentioned, was indicated by a large pepper-tree which had been
planted by one of his friends who was present at his death and burial.
Two of the small company who witnessed the interment of the poet, M.
Pisani and an old Arab dragoman who was deeply attached to Mr Payne,
were present at the exhumation of his body. The coffin was found to be
much decayed, and little more than the skeleton, and some portions of
the uniform in which the lonely exile had been buried, rewarded the
reverential care with which the sad duty was performed. After being
inclosed in a leaden and two outer wooden coffins, the honoured remains
were deposited in the small Protestant church until the vessel which
was to transport them to Marseilles was ready to sail. As the body was
being carried into the church, the poet’s own immortal song was sweetly
sung by an American lady who was present, with a pathos which deeply
affected the little gathering of friends and mourners—an appropriate
_requiem_ to the kindly and gentle spirit whose cherished dust was once
more to be borne back to his native land. On the 9th of June 1883, the
remains were laid in their last resting-place in the Oak Hill Cemetery,
Washington; and of all the monuments to distinguished men in that
distinguished city, none surely will attract more visitors than that
erected to the memory of the author of _Home! Sweet Home!_
COMMON COLDS.
It is impossible, with the prevalence of damp, fogs, and frost, to
keep entirely free from colds. It is easy to say: Avoid all exposure
to their causes; don’t go out in wet weather; don’t sleep in damp
bedclothes; and don’t get overheated by exercise. The majority of
people, both old and young, are obliged to go out, and occasionally to
do risky things, however much they may wish to avoid the unpleasantness
of a cold. So colds are ‘caught,’ as the saying goes, and people find
a difficulty in getting rid of them. Those who have coddled themselves
before its arrival, do not derive much benefit from an extra coddling;
and those who do not care to take precautions, allow the cold to run
its course, rather than make a fuss over it.
To both, perhaps, an explanation of what a cold really is may be
useful, not only for prevention, but for cure. The cause is simply
this: The skin, with its myriads of perspiration pores, becomes
contracted by long exposure to damp or cold, and thereby prevents the
secretion which is necessary to health being carried off in the natural
manner. The amount of insensible perspiration in a healthy person
daily is about two pints. Thus, when it cannot pass off through the
outer skin, it is diverted inwardly upon the mucous surfaces of the
body, and the first symptoms of a cold in the head set in. There is
a tightness in the nose and forehead, sneezing, and watering at the
eyes, and a redness in the interior of the nose, from excess of blood.
After a day or two, a thin running from the nose sets in, and the salts
in it, which should pass off by the skin, make the upper lip red and
sore. The question is, therefore, knowing the nature of a cold, what
is the best way to restore the natural action of the skin, and get
rid of its substitute as soon as possible? Many ways are recommended.
A Dover’s powder—which consists of ipecacuanha and opium—is without
doubt one of the best remedies at the commencement, for if taken at
night with a good basin of gruel or tumbler of negus, it sets up a
strong perspiration, and the skin, forced into action, may thus regain
its tone. However, this is not always successful, unless the sufferer
can remain indoors for a few days, and keep a room at an equable
temperature of about sixty-five degrees Fahrenheit. Another good
remedy—if the patient’s constitution admits of it—is a Turkish bath,
where, after an hour in a heat of one hundred and thirty to one hundred
and fifty degrees, the tepid douche should be used instead of the cold,
because the object in view is not only to open the sweat-pores for a
time, but to keep them properly relaxed. Cold water would of course
cause them to contract. Perhaps the best, and one of the easiest, is to
abstain as much as possible from liquids. By this means the supply of
fluid which goes to keep up the running cold is cut off, and with it
the discharge. If persevered in for a day, this remedy may completely
cure a slight cold, and keep a bad one very much under.
Colds are either pooh-poohed or made much of. Too much care, however,
cannot be taken to prevent a cold getting worse and gaining a hold.
People of the most robust constitutions have succumbed to them; and
apart from the inconvenience and waste of time which they entail,
there is always the probability of more serious symptoms manifesting
themselves. The air-tubes may become congested, and a bad cough result
before they are relieved; or the person may have become debilitated
by the head-cold, and, unable to resist the further progress of its
effect, may be victimised by inflammation of the lungs, bronchitis, or
serious congestion of the lungs. The most sensible plan, in so variable
a climate as ours, is in the first place to harden one’s self as much
as possible by not being too much afraid of cold when one is perfectly
well; and next, when a cold, however slight, has been caught, to do
one’s hardest to get rid of it by one of the above-mentioned remedies.
Damp as a cause of cold is very hard to avoid. We all know that wet
feet or damp clothes are injurious; but we cannot always provide for
emergencies. A traveller may suddenly find that he is put into a
damp bed, and has no alternative but to sleep there. Now, hydropathy
has taught us that people do not necessarily catch cold from sleeping
in wet or damp things, provided a sufficient amount of dry clothing
is put over that which is wet, to prevent any chilliness being felt.
This, then, is a safe principle to act upon; and a traveller thrown
into such awkward circumstances, may make the best of a bad job, and
sleep with impunity in his damp bed, provided he puts all available
coverings on the outside, and so insures a tolerable amount of warmth
and comfort; at the same time he ought to lay aside the sheets and
sleep in the blankets. It is easier to guard against damp feet; for
with woollen socks—which are the best non-conductors of heat, and the
least liable to retain perspiration—and a pair of cork soles placed in
good strong boots, no fear need be entertained of moisture affecting
the skin. In rain or snow, no doubt the moisture may penetrate through
the upper leather. The best precaution against this is to rub them with
vaseline, or oil, or melted fat, before setting out. Damp feet are the
most prominent causes of colds and chilblains amongst children. Those,
therefore, who have to go to and from school in all weathers, should
not only have cork soles inside their boots and the outer surface well
greased, but should take warm slippers to school with them to change.
If every schoolmistress could only be induced to make this change a
rule with every pupil, there would be far fewer absentees with bad
colds. A good plan, when a child has chilblains or a cold, is to make
a little flannel over-dress, which draws over the feet, and buttons at
the neck; no kicking off of the bedclothes will then be very serious;
whilst a cup of warm milk or arrowroot or gruel, drunk when the little
one is put to bed, is the best thing for keeping up the circulation in
the feet and hands and preventing the discomforts of broken chilblains.
These remarks of course apply principally to healthy children and
people. The delicate of all ages must obey their medical advisers, and
not risk a wet walk, however well secured against it, if they have been
forbidden to go out.
With all people, food is at the same time one of the principal aids
in combating colds and coughs. More heat-giving foods are required in
winter, to keep up sufficient warmth, and many people suffer simply
because they do not look upon the matter in this light. Parents will
tell you that their boys and girls will not eat fat meat or fat bacon,
or take salad dressed with oil, or take their porridge. Variety might
perhaps tempt them. They might be induced to eat bread crisply fried
in dripping either for breakfast or supper; or they might have gruel
or arrowroot just before going to bed, which would both warm and
sustain them; or, supposing they turn from all with dislike, a very
good investment would be to buy two or three dozen cheap boxes of
chocolate, and then dole out the boxes one by one, for the children to
take to school or eat with their lunch. Chocolate is both nutritious
and heat-giving, and nearly every child likes it. Care, however,
should be taken that pure chocolate is eaten. Thick soups, such as
pea, lentil, or potato soup, are very wholesome, and contain plenty of
heat-giving materials, whilst they are perhaps cheaper than chocolate.
Many children, indeed, might be saved from the doctor’s hands, if their
tastes were more consulted as to food, and they were given heat-giving
foods, which they liked, and would eat, instead of suet puddings or
fats, which they disliked.
‘NOT BEAUTIFUL!’
They say thou art not beautiful.
To _me_ thou art most fair!
And shrined within my faithful heart,
Thine image dear I wear.
In every glance, in every smile,
I see a nameless grace;
For love of mine, an angel’s soul
Shines through thy mortal face!
Thy hand is rough, and brown with toil,
Yet soft as summer rain;
With light and soothing touch it falls
Upon the brow of pain:
The sufferer feels its healing power
Rob death of half its sting,
And deems that little toil-stained hand
White as an angel’s wing.
And, sweetheart mine, no wildering lights
Flash from thy modest eyes;
Too timid is their downcast glance,
To startle or surprise;
Yet would I have them shining near,
To watch me when I pray,
To keep my heart from worldly thoughts,
Sweet eyes of gentle gray.
No modern fashions mar thy robe,
So softly flowing down;
Yet hangs a nameless dignity
Around that simple gown.
No pretty simpering queen of art,
Nor slave to fashion thou;
Thy pure and gracious womanhood
Is written on thy brow.
A throne of thought, that virgin brow
Hides in thy clustering hair,
Of ample breadth, that life may trace
Its noblest records there.
‘Not beautiful!’—my peerless queen!
What idle words they speak!
Who may not mark Love’s dawning blush
Shy mantling o’er thy cheek?
‘Not beautiful!’—my best beloved!
If sweet and humble worth
Crowns not with perfect loveliness,
Then nought is fair on earth.
The children fly from fairer forms,
To cluster round thy knee;
And that _they deem thee beautiful_,
By their fond looks I see!
My only love! I would not dare
To change thee if I could;
To me thou art most beautiful,
Because thou art so good.
To me thy gentle face must be
The loveliest ever seen—
The fairest face in all the world,
My love, my star, my queen!
FANNY FORRESTER.
* * * * *
Printed and Published by W. & R. CHAMBERS, 47 Paternoster Row, LONDON,
and 339 High Street, EDINBURGH.
* * * * *
_All Rights Reserved._