's later life was not altogether a happy one, and he felt some
resentment against the world, although it may not have been justified.
He was unmarried, but was no more homeless than most bachelors. He
exiled himself voluntarily from his own country, and so lost much of the
delightful result of his own early popularity. He may have been reduced
to privation and suffering, but it was not for long at a time. Some
writers have sought to heighten effect by making the author of the
greatest song of home a homeless wanderer. The truth is that Payne's
unhappiness was largely the result of his own peculiarities. He was
given to poetic exaggeration, for there is now known to be little stern
fact in the following oft-quoted writing of himself:

"How often have I been in the heart of Paris, Berlin, London or some
other city, and have heard persons singing or hand organs playing _Sweet
Home_ without having a shilling to buy myself the next meal or a place
to lay my head! The world has literally sung my song until every heart
is familiar with its melody, yet I have been a wanderer from my
boyhood. My country has turned me ruthlessly from office and in my old
age I have to submit to humiliation for my bread."

Upon his own request he was appointed United States consul at Tunis, and
after being removed from that office continued to reside there until his
death. He was buried in Saint George's Cemetery in Tunis, and there his
body rested for more than thirty years, until W. W. Corcoran, a wealthy
resident of Washington, had it disinterred, brought to this country and
buried in the beautiful Oak Hill Cemetery near Washington. There a white
marble shaft surmounted by a bust of the poet marks his last home. On
one side of the shaft is the inscription:

John Howard Payne,
Author of "Home, Sweet Home."
Born June 9, 1792. Died April 9, 1852.

On the other side is chiseled this stanza:

"Sure when thy gentle spirit fled
To realms above the azure dome,
With outstretched arms God's angels said
Welcome to Heaven's Home, Sweet Home."

Much sentiment has been wasted over Payne, who was really not a great
poet and whose lack of stamina prevented him from grasping the power
already in his hand. We should remember, too, that the astonishing
popularity of _Home, Sweet Home_ is doubtless due more to the glorious
melody of the air, probably composed by some unknown Sicilian, than to
the wording of the two stanzas