 He carries facts as united mankind in an ageless devotion, the love of home. Common to every race of the earth's people, love of home has been the foundation stone of civilization. Fundamentally, it inspired Americans of ideas and courage to found a nation, to build it and make it great. To all Americans, one song expresses this love and the meaning and dignity of the American home. That song is Home Sweet Home, written by that meteoric genius whose story the cavalcade of America brings you tonight. John Howard Payne. With your Don Burris and the DuPont cavalcade orchestra play, Heaven Can Wait. 1791. Chris and John Howard, the boy received his early education in Boston, steeping his young ambitious mind in theatrical traditions and coming to astonish back bay audiences as a sensationally remarkable child actor. Then in 1804, the Payne family returned to New York and for over a year, young John Howard worked in a counting house and dreamed of literature and the drama. One morning in 1806, from the offices of the New York Evening Post, John Seaman confers with its editor, William Coleman. Read this review of James Fennell's Hamlet. We recommend to Mr. Fennell that he, by all means, sit up in a chair. As he lay upon the floor, he reminded us of the passage. Extended, long and large, lay floating mania rudas and bulk is huge. Also, we enter our critical protest against the black and white leg. There's too much method in this line of madness. Clever to say the least. Who wrote it? What have I told you? It was a boy just past 13. That wasn't written by a boy. You saw him this morning. Where? In my outer office. I sent for him. You know, John, we both ought to know a boy like that. The master Payne, will you come this way, please? Yes, sir. I want to thank you. Come in, my boy. This is my friend John Seaman. How do you do, sir? How are you, my boy? We've been reading your Thespian mirror. I'd like to reprint that Fennell review. Oh, please don't, sir. You see, my father doesn't like my being interested in the theater. What does your father do, son? Nothing, now. He was a school master. Oh, I see. Are you really only 14? Well, yes, sir. How do you manage to go to the theater? I save up for gallery seats, sir. You see, I have to help my father in Mother's Hill. But I go to the park theater every chance I get. Judging from this article, you go there for a purpose. Well, sir, I want to be an actor and write plays, too. You need a proper education, son. You're going to be a dramatist. I know, sir. Have you thought about college? Yes. Yes, I've thought about it, but... Anyone who can write dramatic criticisms at 14, like a veteran... Coleman, I'm going to help this boy. John, I'm going to send you to Union College. From there on, it's up to you. John went to Union College, and on his mother's death, he left to come to New York to begin one of the most brilliant careers in the annals of the American Theater. He made his debut February 24th, 1889, on the stage of New York's historic old playhouse, The Park, America's first great theater. The 2,000 seats of the auditorium were filled. The play, Douglas, with 17-year-old John Howard Payne in Scottish kilts, the young novel. In the wings, his father stands with a boy's patron, John Seaman. And as the warriors move, each fellow is held in constant fear. Aren't you proud of yourself, love, Mr. Payne? Maybe I was wrong to oppose him, but the stage of the act is always a no-manage. The boy's like everything. Yep, certainly. He is, please, isn't he? Mr. Seaman, how was it? Wonderful, my boy. Great. The manager said they wanted to keep me on for six more nights. He came to me just before the last act. Magnificent, my boy. Magnificent. Thank you, Mr. Price. You're very kind. We must discuss plans for our new star. Boston must see him, then Providence, fill it out with your Baltimore. Perfect. When do we start? You'd better start changing that costume so you can come to my supper. Don't leave by the stage door, though. There's a crowd out there all waiting to see you now. I'll hurry. Pardon me, Father. Pardon you, Mr. Seaman. A prodigy, gentlemen, a veritable prodigy. He'll go far, that boy, and after America has seen him, then London and World Stardom, you mark my words. For the next four years, John Howard Payne was the youthful wonder of the theatre. Praise and adoration were showered on him. Then, just turned 22, he captivated the London public at Britain's Grayson Stately Temple of Theatrical Tradition, Drury Lane. Known as the American Rocious, he achieved phenomenal success in Romeo and Juliet, Hamlet, Barbarossa, and his old vehicle, Douglas. But success spread in Providence, and one night in his dressing room... Come in. Oh, Miss Tree. Well, you're looking rather mournful for a young man who's the talk of London. It's these bills and the creditors who go with them. I just don't seem to know how to handle them. But with your success, Mr. Tay... Perhaps I'm spending too much money. Well, if you will, consort with all the famous names in England. The Kembles, Coleridge, Zovey. Oh, I've heard about your social science, Mr. Tayne. Let's not talk about me. I'm glad you're in the play tonight, Miss Tree. You know, I heard you singing the other day at rehearsal. You have a lovely voice. You should be an operetta. Oh, that's what I want to do, Mr. Tayne. I love singing, but no one's given me a chance. Not yet. Yes? Oh, you, Brigis. Yes, it's a letter for you, sir. Just delivered to America, I think. See, my brother's handwriting. Mr. Tayne, are you all right? My father's dead. Oh, I'm so sorry. They're both gone now. Mother, father, makes you feel lost... or alone. I know. And you're so far away from home. Home? I guess I never really had a home, since I was quite a small boy. We lived on Long Island then. House in the country. Dick Orchard. Yes, that was home. But we left it years ago. I suppose you'd rather be left alone. I'll go. No, don't go. Stay for a while, and after the play we'll get some supper and we'll talk. We'll have a long talk about your singing. Will you? Will you please? Tonight? All right. Yes, yes, I will, Mr. Tayne. Thank you. Thank you very much, Miss Tree. There was the charm and fashion of the Regency in the streets and parks of London that summer. But although John Howard Payne passed from drawing room to drawing room in the elegant townhouses of the period, there came to him the realization when the guests departed and the carriages left that there was no place he was really wanted. He was looking for something that always eluded him. And one day he met the golden-haired Mary Godwin. Mary. Mary. That is going to shut tea, John. It's getting cold. No, I've been sitting here for the last hour swallowing tea in oceans, and we've talked about everything from the lakes of Kalani to the Prince Regent's new basket. Let's talk about something that really matters. Really matters, John? Well, your eyes, for one thing, they do. I've been trying to make up my mind what color they are. They're dark. Darkness is so uncertain. John, do you think I'm uncertain? I don't know, Mary. So much in the world that's uncertain. I'd hate to think you were. Listen, my dear, you know how it is to love one so deeply that every minute you're apart is an intolerable agony? John, listen to me. Mary, can't you see what I mean? John, listen to me. We can be happy together, Mary. All the happiness means a home, friends. We make life wonderful and beautiful. John, dear, listen. Yes? I... John, I want you to read this. It was written by a very dear friend of mine. I always carry it with me. Written by a friend of yours. On my heart, my accent's sweet. A peace and pity fell. Like dew on flowers half dead. Thy lips didn't meet mine tremblingly. Thy dark eyes threw their soft persuasion on my brain. Charming away its dream of pain. First you'd be shilling. You see, John, I'm not uncertain. Gone were pain's hopes. And the delights of London's society had little charm. Meanwhile, the rocket flare of his first success failed to become a fixed light in the sky. The same fate that pursues so many youthful prodigies overtook John Howard Payne. He lost his stippling look, put on too much weight, sank deeper into debt. Then he moved on to Paris, where he made adaptations of popular French dramas for the English stage. We find him in Montmartre several years later in 1822. He and Washington Irving, none too prosperous himself in those days, have been collaborating on a new play. After all, John, this life isn't too bad. Oh, Hackwick, I know. He earns a living. Bohemian life isn't so bad when you're young, Irving. If only people didn't crowd around and call you a genius when you were a mere boy. No confound all that. Let's go out and have some supper. Oh, by the way, I scribbled off a little poem this afternoon. Odd thing. All of a sudden I felt very alone in a strange city. You know what I mean? I certainly do. You remember that tune we heard in Sicily? Well, I've passed it on to Henry Bishop. We can use it in Clare. And the poem I wrote this afternoon fits the melody exactly. Remember it, uh... Not the way you have it. But let's hear the poem. All right. With 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, like the spell of a mother, surpassing all other, which speaks to the world as near mettle elsewhere. Home. Home, sweet, sweet home. There's no place like home. There's no place like home. I like it, John. I can just hear it now at Covent Garden in Clare. And Maria Tree is singing it. Such were the hazards of his strange nomads' life that when John Howard Payne returned to America in 1832, he was virtually penniless. For some time, he lived in the forests of Georgia with the Cherokee Indians and their leader, Chief Ross. He wrote pamphlets on their grievances and supported them in their opposition to the border authorities. Then one night, without government sanction, a troop of Georgia cavalry raided the Cherokee village. Payne and the Chiefs in Ross were taken prisoner. Now, Mr. Payne, just mount this horse and we'll be starting. Have you official warrant for this action? I'm going to protest to Washington. We'll see about all that when we get your army headquarters. How far is that? Oh, about 25 miles. Here, Pete, bring up that other horse for the Chief. Now, get mounted, Indian. Pete, you ride alongside these fellows. Company, mount! Well, Ross, there doesn't seem much else to do about it. Cherokee is used to injustice. I am sorry you, our friend, must suffer also. Oh, don't worry about me. Come forward! Anyway, Ross, a fine night for a ride. Look at that moon sliding up over the trees. What's that you're singing, soldier? Well, glad that's not sweet home. I'll ask you a question. Did you know you were just arrested? The author of that song you're singing, lad? You're the author of Home Sweet Home? Sure you are. And I wrote the Monroe Doctrine. Yes. Payne was held prisoner for a few days and then released. After that, his wanderings began again. Through the efforts of influential friends, he secured the post of American consul at Tunis on the northern coast of Africa. He was over 50 now, but at last the future looked secure. A little more coffee, please, Ahmed. Where is the vice consul? He comes now, Seedy. I have just seen him below in the street. Oh, there you are, Gale. Very pleasant here on the balcony. It's his hour. Will you have some coffee? No, thank you. Sit down. You know, Gale, I feel quite at home here. I want to tell you something amusing. The other day, at an official audience, the bay ordered one of these musicians... Mr. Payne, I've got bad news. I don't know just how to tell you. Here's a letter from the State Department. A new administration has come in at Washington. Well, yes, of course, my boy. A new consul has been appointed for Tunis and we... Well, sir, we've been recalled. Recalled. I expect I should have known. At home. Those just aren't words for me to use. Another period of wandering. In Italy, France, England, and again America. All homeless to the writer of Home Sweet Home. Finally in 1851, friends obtained the reappointment of John Howard Payne to the consular service at Tunis. But by the next winter, his health was failing rapidly. Over 60 years of age, he struggled to carry on his official duties. And with pathetic eagerness welcomed every friend who came across the sea from America to the shores of Tunis. It's so good of you to come, Phillip. And you say you saw my nephew Thatcher in New York? Yes, just before I sailed for Naples. He seemed well, but you. Is your health quite good, Mr. Payne? When I saw you today, I wondered if... What if this climate was suitable? Oh, I'm well enough. Did you enjoy your dinner, Phillip? That cook of ours manages pretty well, usually. But sometimes, for Americans, it's rather bizarre. I've never eaten anything quite like it. It was awfully good, Mr. Payne. But tell me, though, don't you ever feel rather lonely here? Not often. His highness today has been very kind. Why, when I returned here last summer, he himself came to the harbor to welcome me. The silhouettes were fired. The flags were out. I was pleased, I confessed. And look, he's presented me with that piano. What kind of him? Pianos are rare in this part of the world. This is the great trouble is I've never learned to make much use of one myself. I wish you'd play a bit. You used to play so well, my boy. I haven't kept up with it much, but I'll try. Thanks, Phillip. I don't hear music often. Not our music. Sometimes sitting here, I wonder why my life has taken so strange a course. Perhaps the fault lies in me. I don't quite understand. Success seems so easy when a man's young. People wonder a lot about you, Mr. Paine. Yes, I suppose they do. They just can't imagine why you've never married or had, well, sir, a home. A man so gifted. People like to have illusions about me, Phillip. Mary home, you see? Phillip, did I ever tell you about Mary Godwin? Mary Shelley. I knew her in London. That was quite a hopeless love. What a lovely girl Anne-Marie Tree was, Phillip. She was a young actress who first sang Home Sweet Home. That was Clary at Covent Garden. She's Mrs. Bradshaw now. Only we could learn to face reality sooner. Take stock of our faults in you. Life would be a better thing for all of us. Oh, don't stop, Phillip. Play something more. There's one song I'd like to play for you, Mr. Paine. Well, now, I was rather hoping you'd come to that, Phillip. Strange, isn't it, hearing that song? An old man here in Africa. Two weeks later, Paine, aged 62, was dead. He was buried in Tunis among strangers. Many years later, in 1883, his body was brought back to Washington with honors, placed beneath the memorial shaft in Oak Hill Cemetery. Home at last. Perhaps John Howard Paine was a man who never fulfilled his early promise. Luck and success smiled on him in youth and passed him by. But his courage seldom faltered through the long years of a devious and defeated life. There's a strange justice in the fact that this wanderer, a lonely man, should have left Americans a song of home which will never be forgotten. Now here's Basil Risedale speaking to the DuPont Company and bringing us another story from the wonder world of chemistry. The science of chemistry does many jobs that are little known to the public, but are fine examples of better things for better living. When I say dye stuff, you probably think of fabrics of the fast colors developed by chemists. But unless you're a doctor, you wouldn't be likely to think of your health in connection with dyes. Just the same, the health of the whole nation depends a great deal on the tiny fraction of the dye business devoted to biological stains. These biological stains are the dyes that make germs visible on the glass slides put under a microscope, helping the doctor determine quickly what disease he has to fight. A good example of this is shown by diphtheria, which was almost impossible to detect in its early stages. The three or four days it used to take to diagnose diphtheria often made the difference between life and death. Today, at the first sign of a suspicious sore throat, the doctor makes use of a dye called methylene blue that has a peculiar effect on the rod-shaped diphtheria germ, staining it blue at both ends. Other biological stains serve to identify other diseases, and thus dyes do an extra job as the eyes of medical science, saving human lives by giving warning of danger. Well, here's another curious tale. Nearly everyone knows about the important job done by industrial explosives in blasting tunnels, in mining coal and metals, draining swamps, and many others. But have you heard how American scientists searching for the lost continent of Appalachia are using an explosive to map the sea bottom? To do this, they set off the explosive on the floor of the ocean, creating artificial earthquakes that are recorded on sensitive, submerged instruments. When pulled up from the depths, these instruments show wavy lines that tell geologists all sorts of facts about the rock structure below sea bottom, even though it's covered by water three miles deep. Many examples are queer indeed. For instance, out of cellulose, DuPont makes a new kind of sponge. A sponge with special advantages for bathing, cleaning, dishwashing, and many other uses. But how do you suppose it does a job in the game of baseball? Well, a sporting goods manufacturer discovered that this sponge material made excellent stuffing for catcher's mitts. And many a hot curve now speeds over the plate to smack into a cushion made by chemistry. And these are only a few examples of the many little-known jobs that chemistry does. Yes, extra service by products of chemical research. Giving added meaning to the DuPont pledge, better things for better living through chemistry. This week, the Cavalcade of America will present the story of Patrick Henry. And our special guest speaker will be the man who is the historical advisor of the Cavalcade of America, the eminent historian James Treslow Adams. On tonight's program, the part of John Howard Payne was played by Ray Collins. Till next week, then, at this time, this is Thomas Chalmers saying good night and best wishes to DuPont. This is the Columbia Broadcasting System.