Today marks the anniversary of Thomas Paine’s death. In the current climate of fear and uncertainty — as well as fierce struggle against injustice, it seems appropriate to celebrate the moral resilience of a man who resisted force, orthodoxy and oppression — even with his last breath.

Here are my thoughts on the death of Thomas Paine, in a post from 2016:

“My own mind is my own church.”

The following passage, from the opening pages of Thomas Paine’s The Age of Reason has always been one of my favorites. Here, Paine famously lays out the tenets of his religious belief in simple, stirring language:

“I believe in one God, and no more; and I hope for happiness beyond this life.

“I believe the equality of man, and I believe that religious duties consist in doing justice, loving mercy, and endeavouring to make our fellow creatures happy.”

It’s easy to see why these words, clear and heartfelt, are so often quoted. But as usual, Paine is only getting started. Next comes a set of caveats and clarifications:

“But lest it should be supposed that I believe many other things in addition to these, I shall, in the progress of this work, declare the things I do not believe, and my reasons for not believing them.

“I do not believe in the creed professed by the Jewish church, by the Roman church, by the Greek church, by the Turkish church, by the Protestant church, nor by any church that I know of. My own mind is my own church.

“All national institutions of churches, whether Jewish, Christian, or Turkish, appear to me no other than human inventions set up to terrify and enslave mankind, and monopolize power and profit.”

Again as usual, Paine leaves us with no doubt as to exactly where he stands on the subject of religion. But it’s what comes next that is, for me, not just the most interesting, but the truly revolutionary part of Paine’s argument. Here, Paine the critical thinker steps beyond the language of creed (“I believe”) and begins to address — and then to question — the nature of belief itself.

“I do not mean by this declaration to condemn those who believe otherwise. They have the same right to their belief as I have to mine. But it is necessary to the happiness of man, that he be mentally faithful to himself. Infidelity does not consist in believing, or in disbelieving: it consists in professing to believe what he does not believe.

“It is impossible to calculate the moral mischief, if I may so express it, that mental lying has produced in society. When a man has so far corrupted and prostituted the chastity of his mind, as to subscribe his professional belief to things he does not believe, he has prepared himself for the commission of every other crime. He takes up the trade of a priest for the sake of gain, and in order to qualify himself for that trade, he begins with a perjury. Can we conceive any thing more destructive to morality than this?”

Paine points out the dangers of what we would today call self-deception — what he, more bluntly, calls “mental lying.”

In fact, throughout The Age of Reason, as in so much of his work Paine insists on the need to interrogate belief: to ask ourselves exactly where our beliefs come from, why we hold to them — and where they may lead us. For Paine, received wisdom on any subject is always, always — something to be questioned, and frequently something to be resisted.

“Every place has its Bastille …”

How do cruelty and authoritarianism make their inroads into government and culture? Thomas Paine had some very clear ideas about that. The following passage is from Part One of Rights of Man, first published in 1791.

“When despotism has established itself for ages in a country, as in France, it is not in the person of the King only that it resides. It has the appearance of being so in show, and in nominal authority; but it is not so in practice, and in fact. It has its standard every where. Every office and department has its despotism, founded upon custom and usage.

Every office and department has its despotism, founded upon custom and usage. Every place has its Bastille, and every Bastille its despot.

Every place has its Bastille, and every Bastille its despot. The original hereditary despotism resident in the person of the King, divides and subdivides itself into a thousand shapes and forms, till at last the whole of it is acted by deputation. This was the case in France; and against this species of despotism, proceeding on through an endless labyrinth of office till the source of it is scarcely perceptible, there is no mode of redress. It strengthens itself by assuming the appearance of duty, and tyrannises under the pretence of obeying.”

“Let them call me rebel”

So many of Paine’s words still have meaning and resonance for us today, I’ve decided to add a new regular feature to this blog: weekly quotations from the man himself, most of which require very little explanation. Here’s the first:

“Let them call me rebel, and welcome, I feel no concern from it; but I should suffer the misery of devils, were I to make a whore of my soul by swearing allegiance to one, whose character is that of a sottish, stupid, stubborn, worthless, brutish man. I conceive likewise a horrid idea in receiving mercy from a being, who at the last day shall be shrieking to the rocks and mountains to cover him, and fleeing with terror from the orphan, the widow and the slain of America.”

— from The American Crisis 1, December 1776

Paine, of course, is referring to George III, but his words may conjure a more familiar figure, or that of any dictator.

Thomas Paine Day

I celebrated Thomas Paine’s birthday for the first time in 2010. It was an inspired impulse, almost a whim. I bought a dozen red roses and a bottle of French brandy at the local market and took them home – where an already-framed portrait of Paine (downloaded from the internet) perched on my writing desk, right next to the computer monitor. I trimmed the roses, arranged them in a big clear-glass mug, and set them next to the picture. Perfect. Or … nearly. I fussed with the tableau until I liked it well enough to snap a phone picture of my small tribute to America’s most radical Founder. I poured myself a glass of brandy, toasted the great man’s memory, and settled down to read his work for an hour or so. The End.

Except it wasn’t the end. It was only the beginning. The hardy roses obliged me by lasting that entire week and into the next. My writing desk was next to my bed, so every morning when I got up, the first thing to engage my eye was usually my little memory-altar to Paine, and that – throughout that week and into the next – made me absurdly happy.

Of course the placement of Paine’s birthday could not have been more perfect in my view. January 29 falls roughly in the middle of the not-quite-two-months between Christmas and my own birthday in February. A low-key, self-designated holiday proved to be just the tonic for the blah (and here in the midwest, literally grey) period of “back to normal routine” after the big winter holidays. Paine’s birthday also made for a nice reflective pause in anticipation of my own birthday. But perhaps the best perk was that my marking of this day was entirely private (at first). A sweet little secret all my own. No one needed to know why I felt bubbly and festive strolling through the grocery aisles on a chilly January day, or why I was buying flowers and liquor with what felt like a silly grin on my face. No one had to know unless I decided to tell them. There was an almost illicit thrill in that. And there were no crowds of gift-buyers to jostle with, no rules to follow, no expectations to meet (or fail to meet). Nope. Just me, Mr. Paine, some beautiful words, and whatever moments of cozy reflection I could squeeze out of the day. I felt like I was making up something from scratch – a little bit like “Baxter Day” in the PBS Kids TV show Arthur.

When I learned that actually, folks had been celebrating Thomas Paine’s birthday since at least 1827 – with feasting, speeches, music and dancing (Dancing? What would the Quaker-raised Paine have made of that?) – I felt delighted anew, as if I had joined a community – a semi-secret fan club stretching back to the earliest days of the Republic.

And it seemed to me that my supposed “homemade holiday” needed to expand a little – to become, like Paine himself, a bit more public-spirited. And what better way to do that than share his words? So when I celebrated Paine’s birthday the following year, I bought the flowers and poured the brandy – but I also made a small gift of Paine’s words to the world, giving away three new copies of The Age of Reason on a book-exchange website (all of them snapped up within hours, as it happened). By 2012, it was five copies. Eventually, I was giving away not just The Age of Reason, but Rights of Man and Common Sense as well. To this day I love the thrill of sending Paine’s words off to strangers living in parts unknown.

And what words they are and how we need them – now more than ever. Happy Birthday, Thomas!

The Measure of Greatness

“He [Beethoven] never got his picture on bubble gum cards, did he? Have you ever seen his picture on a bubble gum card? Hmmm? How can you say someone is great who’s never had his picture on bubble gum cards?”

— Lucy Van Pelt, A Charlie Brown Christmas (1965)

Photo: Thomas Paine on Topps collector card, c. 1950s.

The Thomas Paine Fan Club No. 1 — Messages from the Past


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I ordered the book from Amazon. The seller had noted that it was a library discard. Still, an actual copy of something published in 1863, for less than fifty dollars, seemed like a steal.

It came to me rebound in one of those heavy institutional covers – plain black, stamped in bright gold letters along the spine: author, title, publication date. At less than 200 pages, it was a slim book, and I was impressed that “G. Vale –The Life of Thomas Paine” had actually been made to fit horizontally across the narrow spine. Inside, a book plate (front) and a card-pocket (back) – at a guess relics from the 1960s – informed me that this little piece of history had once belonged to Long Island University’s (no-longer-existing) Southampton College. The book plate, in narrow letters punched out by a manual typewriter, told me that the book was given to the university by a “Mr. Neil MacNeil.”

Inside the cover were 192 yellowing pages — a biography of Thomas Paine published during the Civil War, printed using old-school letter-press technology that left visible indentations in the paper. The page-edges had been trimmed to fit the new binding, of course – a sacrilegious practice that I was yet willing to overlook. I was holding in my hands one of the earliest attempts to restore Thomas Paine to the American public memory.

But I had not yet discovered the book’s best treasure, the thing that made it unique.

On the very last of the original pages, in a space left conveniently blank by the publisher, I found this note in faded ink, set down in old-fashioned longhand:


Thomas Paine

Thy fidelity to God and humanity shal be forever held sacred in the hearts of the American people. Yes generations yet unnumbered in the cycles of Eternity shal come fourth and delight to do the Honor.

June 25th, 1871

The inscriber left no signature – just three newspaper clippings pinned onto that last page. These are dated in pencil as published in 1877, and involve the tale of Paine’s many-times-debunked deathbed conversion to Christianity (a “libel” as our reader notes in pencil at the head of one of these clippings). The cuttings were in good condition – as un-yellowed as if they had been taken from a newspaper of last year, never mind over a century ago. At first I had trouble believing they were real. But examining the backs of these scraps convinced me that they were, in fact, genuine old newspaper articles. They contained nuggets of information such as the following:

A St. Petersburg dispatch of the 9th says a fanatical rising had taken place in the Tchetchensi country. One band of 500 insurgents were dispersed by the Russian troops, with a loss of ninety-nine killed and 250 wounded. The Russian loss was small.


Reverse side of one clipping from the book.

An explosion of gas occurred on the morning of the 9th, in the Wadesville Mines, near St. Clair, Pa. Fourteen men were imprisoned, and the bodies of six had been recovered up to the morning of the 10th. Eight were rescued alive, badly injured.

From statistics in the Railroad Gazette, it appears that Colorado built 154 ½ miles of railroad in 1876; California, Ohio, and Texas were the only states that built a greater number of miles during the year. The total mileage in this state [Iowa?] is put down at 950.

These cuttings paint images of a time both distant and familiar. Mine accidents. Chechen rebels (readily labeled as “fanatical” and “insurgents”) fighting oppression by the Russian government. States competing for technological bragging rights. In this world, as in our own, the ardent concerns of Thomas Paine – political liberty, the rights of working people, and the thrill of innovation – still have meaning and resonance for the American people.

It also seems worth noting that the inscription and cuttings are from the 1870s. 1876, of course, was the American centennial year. There would have been renewed public interest in the American Founders. While the culture at large still denied that designation to Thomas Paine in the late nineteenth century, his devotees have never been in any doubt that he deserved that status. Our engaged reader of Paine’s life, reflecting in private, here predicts (accurately) a future time in which the unsung hero will be honored.

I often think of Paine devotees as members of a small and quasi-secret fan club that now (no longer so secret, but still a bit under the public culture radar) has come to span over two centuries. When I “meet” members of this club who have passed this way, leaving traces of their love for Paine in personal or published writings, I feel a bit like the fictitious Anne of Green Gables, who waxes poetic whenever she has the great good fortune to meet a “kindred spirit.” It is as though I have found a message in a bottle that is actually, miraculously, addressed to me, sent by a secret friend across time. This little note – a declaration of love both private and public – is addressed not just to Paine but to those future generations “yet unnumbered.”

I envision a quiet little army of such readers and writers, each keeping the flame of Paine’s ideas and his memory alive through these small covert actions over at least a century of establishment silence about Paine’s life and contributions. In 1871, as this particular reader was making reverent notation in the last pages of a book, Moncure Conway’s definitive, thoroughly researched life of Thomas Paine would not be published for another 21 years, in 1892.


Clipping on the death of Thomas Paine. The month of Paine’s death is given incorrectly. Paine died in June of 1809.

I can’t help wondering who this reader/curator was – this person who troubled to put a steel-nib pen into an inkwell and compose a personal note to Thomas Paine — sixty-eight years after his death. Eighty-eight years before I was born, and nearly a century and a half before the book would fall into my hands. A century before 1976, when the nation’s Bicentennial would provoke my own interest in the American Founders at age eleven.

Was our writer the mysterious “Mr. Neil MacNeil,” or someone else?

No doubt I’m doing a lot of projecting here. I keep notes of this kind in some of my own books. Some of them are addressed to Paine or to other writers. Many are addressed to myself, or to possible future readers. Sometimes I’m not sure who I’m addressing. Notes made in the margins and on the end-papers of books often seem to be in dialogue with both the published author and some other audience. William Blake is said to have defended Paine fiercely in the marginal notes penned into his own copy of The Age of Reason. There is at least one scholarly study of Thomas Jefferson’s volumes of marginalia.

Yet for me, the notes of an anonymous and so-called “ordinary” reader are no less fascinating or valuable. They are the material evidence someone’s reaction to the written word, as well as the wish to leave something of that reaction behind. Such notes are reminders that scholarship is not only for scholars, and that small acts of memory are the very things that come to build “history.”



Inscription and cuttings at the back of Vale’s biography of Paine, as I found them.


Poem: “Tom Paine’s Bones”

Tom Paine’s Bones
by C. Bichler
(2009, revised 2018)

This is you,
Tom Paine

this living America
where your bones
no longer rest

I imagine you
on whatever cosmic plane
you currently inhabit
scissors and tape
stuck in your back pocket
as in some 200-year-old

These are tools
for taking the measure
of the world

– of the space between worlds

A circle
of an inch diameter
has the same geometrical properties
as a circle
that would circumscribe the universe.

Do you
take the measure of us

The story of the whale
swallowing Jonah,
though a whale is large enough to do it,
borders greatly on the marvellous;
but it would have approached
to the idea of a miracle,
if Jonah had swallowed the whale.

I hear the smile
in your voice
I see you
over desk or drumheadPaine-Nate storm background-bw edge-poem f
quill working furiously
muttering to yourself
You pause
you scratch out
rake your fingers
through your hair
bend over the work
and keep going.

The words mock and cajole
flash and shimmer
across the distance of time
a universe of thought

like your tailor’s hands.

The flick
of a pen
becomes a fish-tail
too quick
for the eye to follow:

The glide of the smallest fish
in proportion to its bulk
exceeds us in motion
almost beyond comparison
and without

These are the known planets
and here
their orbits
each one extending
a bit farther
than the last
one after
after another
in a pond
strings of words
creating new worlds.

You measure
you cut
you fit
and then
–flash of the scratching quill,
gasp of astonishment–
you turn all inside out
the silver blade twists

a final

In this case,
which may serve for all cases
of miracles,
the matter would
decide itself
as before stated,
Is it more probable
that a man

should have swallowed a whale,
or told a lie?

They tried to kill you
over and over
dug up your corpse
buried your words
– a cosmic joke.

Your flesh
now broken
is somehow dispersed
through the whole universe
your scattered bones
now stardust

your words
your mind
are the air we breathe
in a sea of voices
transmitted across etherPaine Orerry merge 7 -- poem c

We know you
without knowing you
This world
is made
of your words
We know nothing
of the void

in which you
imagined us

The words spiral outward
taking the measure
of centuries

You are still here
with us.

This is you
Tom Paine
this new world
this breathing
living world
flesh of your flesh
bone of your bone

We are your body,
our soul.

*All quotes (in italics) taken from Thomas Paine’s The Age of Reason (1793-94).


Afterword: This poem was first drafted in 2009, during my initial discovery of the life and work of Thomas Paine.

I don’t often write poetry. I tend to stumble or fall into it when prose seems inadequate – too unwieldy, too distant, or too analytical for a subject that demands immediate feeling. In this case, the event that provoked me to verse was Paine’s The Age of Reason, a book that thrilled me in ways I could not at first articulate. I was fascinated not just by Paine’s arguments, but his brilliant use of language – and above all by the complex personality revealed in his authorial voice. More compelling than fiction, in many ways Paine’s treatise on religion is still the best “story” I’ve ever read. And given that Paine’s writing, even during the most hard-headed argument, often soars into the poetic, it seemed an obvious and natural choice to integrate his words into the poem.

The title I blatantly stole from Graham Moore’s folksong “Tom Paine’s Bones,” which I encountered through actor/writer Ian Ruskin’s play and film about the life of Paine. I resisted that title at first, not wanting to seem unoriginal — but the poem was insistent. It would be called nothing else. 

Many thanks to my creative writing group at Washtenaw Community College, who offered helpful editing suggestions and encouraged me, at long last, to publish this piece.


Henry Redhead Yorke and Thomas Paine

Editor’s Introduction: In honor of Thomas Paine’s birthday, I thought it would be fun — and highly appropriate — to consider Paine, not as Founding Father and historical icon, but simply as a human being. I discovered the following essay by Henry Redhead Yorke while reading W.T. Sherwin’s Memoirs of the Life of Thomas Paine (1819) – one of the earliest attempts to provide a laudatory life of Paine and rehabilitate his public memory. Sherwin had reproduced the piece almost in its entirety from Yorke’s Letters from France 1802 (published in 1804).

HRY Portrait

Henry Redhead Yorke

Henry Redhead Yorke (1771/2-1813) is himself something of a mystery. The son of an enslaved black woman from Barbuda and a white Englishman, he was raised within the slave community of Antigua, until his father brought him to England at age six, to be raised and educated as a gentleman in Little Eaton in Derbyshire. A political radical as a young man, and a supporter of the French Revolution, Yorke was jailed for anti-government activities in England from November 1795 until March 1798. As scholar Amanda Goodrich (whose biography of Yorke is due out later this year) states: “He became a revolutionary radical in 1792, but then after a spell in prison for his activities he performed a complete volte face and took up an ultra-loyalist Tory position.” These later conservative views are evident in Yorke’s account of his time in Paris.

Thomas Paine, of course, remained a lifelong radical, but had noticeably soured on the French Revolution after his own imprisonment in France during the Reign of Terror. This shift in Paine’s attitude is brought to the forefront in Yorke’s account.

For me, what makes Yorke’s essay remarkable are the details it provides about Paine’s everyday life during the time he lived in France after his imprisonment and just before his return to the young American republic. Yorke is a master storyteller who turns his visit with Paine into a tale with dramatic structure and moments of both pathos and comedy. His portrait of Paine is evenhanded – compassionate, humorous, sharply observant, and quite candid about his subject’s virtues and flaws. While Yorke writes charming prose, he does not romanticize Paine. His description of Paine’s untidy apartment, for example, is fairly appalling. Yet at the same time, we see Paine moved to tears by the reunion with his old friend, and later in the sketch we are treated to the comic spectacle of Paine debating religion at a dinner party – tirelessly holding forth on the topic and all but literally arguing everyone else under the table. Yorke’s exasperation with his friend is evident, but it does not overshadow his genuine pleasure in Paine’s company.

Since Sherwin, many Paine biographers and scholars have regularly plucked a sentence or paragraph from Yorke’s colorful account, but the essay itself remains obscure. This is a shame, since it provides a lively and unique first-hand account of Thomas Paine the man.

Yorke also preserved one of Paine’s own most intriguing personal essays, “On Forgetfulness,” which undoubtedly would have been lost if Yorke had not made a copy during his visit. It originally appeared within the body of this essay, and other than a few of the author’s footnotes, it is the only thing I’ve left out of the version presented here – and that only because Paine’s piece stands so beautifully on its own that it merits a separate blog-post. (Coming soon.) I have also left Yorke’s punctuation, capitalizations, and spelling intact from his original published work.

From: Letters from France 1802, by Henry Redhead Yorke (1804)

The name of Thomas Paine is so familiar to every one, that had we not been previously acquainted with each other, I should have contrived to have had an interview with him, during my residence in Paris. Nearly ten years had elapsed since we were last together, and I felt deeply interested in learning his opinions concerning the French revolution, after all the experience, which so long a period of uninterrupted storms and convulsion, must necessarily have afforded him. Accordingly, he was amongst the first on whom I called, and I have since been frequently in his company.

It was not without considerable difficulty that I discovered his residence, for the name of Thomas Paine is now as odious in France as it is in England, perhaps more so. A bookseller’s shop in the Palais Royale appeared the most likely place to inquire, and thither I immediately repaired. But I had no sooner mentioned his name, than the bookseller, his wife, his son, and a bye-stander, fell upon me in such an unmerciful manner, calling Paine scelerat, bandit, coquin, and ascribing to him, the resistance which Leclerc had experienced from the negroes of St. Domingo, of which they had just received intelligence, that I found it necessary to decamp without losing a moment of time. Being at a loss how to proceed, I determined to betake myself to the hotel of the American minister, and as I was passing through the Rue des Petits Peres, I saw over the gateway of White’s, in large letters, hotel de Philadelphie; in consequence of which, I entered and enquired for Thomas Paine. The master told me that he never came there now, but that he was sometimes to be found at the adjoining coffee house. Thus far, I was making some progress. On applying where I had been directed, I was informed, that he had not been there for several days, but that he lived at a bookseller’s in the Rue du Theatre Francais. A bookseller! after the dressing I had just received, a bookseller’s shop sounded very terrific in my ears. However, I was resolved, and set off with a good heart, being persuaded that if Paine lived there, neither the bookseller, his wife, his son, nor a bye-stander, would eat me. I took the precaution as soon as I had reached the street, to inquire how many booksellers lived in it, and the immediate answer was, that an American bookseller inhabited No. 4. After having mounted to the second story, I rang at the bell, and on a jolly looking woman opening the door, I asked in a meek and humble tone (for the reception I had met with at the Palais Royale was still in my mind) whether Mr. Paine lived there? After having surveyed me from head to feet, she answered in the affirmative, but said she believed he was not at home, and requested me to enter. As soon as I had walked into her apartment, she held the candle pretty close to my face, and said, “Do you wish to see Mr. Paine?” to which I instantly replied, “I am just come from England, and am extremely anxious to see him, as I am an old acquaintance whom he has not seen these ten years.” Even as the sun dispels the mist, so did this well-timed declaration change the features of her countenance, which now became nothing but smiles and joy. She continued; “He is taking a nap; but I’ll go and wake him.”

In two minutes she returned, and ushered me into a little dirty room, containing a small wooden table, and two chairs. “This,” said she, “is Mr. Paine’s room!” I never sat down in such a filthy apartment in the whole course of my life. The chimney hearth was an heap of dirt; there was not a speck of cleanliness to be seen; three shelves were filled with pasteboard boxes, each labelled after the manner of a minister of foreign affairs, correspondance Americaine, Britannique; Francaise; Notices politiques; Le citoyen Francais, &c. In one corner of the room stood several huge bars of iron, curiously shaped, and two large trunks; opposite the fire place, a board covered with pamphlets and journals, having more the appearance of a dresser in a scullery than a side-board. Such was the wretched habitation of Thomas Paine, one of the founders of American Independence; whose extraordinary genius must ever command attention; and whose writings have summoned to action the minds of the most enlightened politicians of Europe! How different the humble dwelling of this Apostle of Freedom, from those gorgeous mansions tenanted by the founders of the French Republic!

After I had waited a short time, Mr. Paine came down stairs, and entered the room, dressed in a long flannel gown. I was forcibly struck with his altered appearance. Time seemed to have made dreadful ravages over his whole frame, and a settled melancholy was visible on his countenance. He desired me to be seated, and although he did not recollect me for a considerable time, he conversed with his usual affability. I confess I felt extremely surprised that he should have forgotten me; but I resolved not to make myself known to him, as long as it could be avoided with propriety. In order to try his memory, I referred to a number of circumstances, which had occurred while we were in company, but carefully abstained from hinting that we had ever lived together. He would frequently put his hand to his forehead, and exclaim, “Ah! I know that voice, but my recollection fails!” At length, I thought it time to remove his suspense, and stated an incident which instantly recalled me to his mind. It is impossible to describe the sudden change which this effected in his appearance and manner; his countenance brightened, he pressed me by the hand, and a silent tear stole down his cheek. Nor was I less affected than himself. For some time, we sat without a word escaping from our lips. “Thus are we met once more Mr. Paine,” I resumed, “after a long separation of ten years, and after having been both of us severely weather-beaten.” “Aye,” he replied, “and who would have thought that we should meet at Paris?” He then inquired what motive had brought me here, and on my explaining myself, he observed, with a smile of contempt, “They have shed blood enough for liberty, and now they have it in perfection. This is not a country for an honest man to live in; they do not understand any thing at all of the principles of free government, and the best way is, to leave them to themselves. You see they have conquered all Europe, only to make it more miserable than it was before.” Upon this, I remarked, that I was surprized to hear him speak in such desponding language, of the fortune of mankind, and that I thought much might yet be done for the Republic. “Republic!” he exclaimed, “do you call this a Republic? why, they are worse off than the slaves at Constantinople; for there, they expect to be bashaws in heaven, by submitting to be slaves below, but here, they believe neither in heaven nor hell, and yet are slaves by choice. I know of no Republic in the world, except America, which is the only country for such men as you and I. It is my intention to get away from this place as soon as possible, and I hope to be off in autumn; you are a young man, and may see better times, but I have done with Europe, and its slavish politics.” I admitted that America might be always looked to as the country of forlorn hope, but that I entertained great doubts whether I should be happy in it; and I enumerated my objections, concluding with the want of society, and my apprehensions respecting the yellow fever, which I stated you had represented to me in a very unfavourable light. Both these objections he endeavoured to controvert, by shewing that there was as good society in America, and better in many respects, than in all Europe; and as to the yellow fever, it had been imported, and there could be no doubt it would wholly disappear by the pursuit of proper precautions; he then made use of some ingenious arguments to prove this, and affirmed that it had of late years, scarcely ever proved fatal to persons in easy circumstances, on account of their having withdrawn into the country at its first appearance. But, his argument carried irresistible conviction to my mind, when he insisted that it was the only circumstance, that had deterred Europeans from emigrating thither, which he illustrated by a comparative statement of the influx of population before and since the breaking out of that pestilential malady.

In the course of our long conversation upon America, he put into my hands a letter, which he had recently received from Mr. Jefferson, the President. It was dictated with the ease, and freedom of one old friend writing to another. [Yorke’s Footnote: This letter has been wholly misunderstood, and misrepresented in the English newspapers; as I read it with great attention, the reader may depend on the accuracy of [my] account of it.] He [Jefferson] begins with congratulating Mr. Paine on his determination to exchange the Old for the New World, as he will find on his return, a very favourable change in the political opinions of the citizens of the United States, who are happily come back to those enlightened principles, which he, (Mr. Paine) had so usefully contributed to spread over the world. He trusts that this intelligence will afford him pleasure, and that in returning to a country where his principles are daily practised by the government, he will at length experience that happiness and repose, which his exertions in the cause of mankind deserve. As Mr. Paine had expressed a desire to return in a public manner, [Jefferson] states that the sloop of war, which had brought the minister Livingstone to France, would return at a given time, and convey him to America, if he could make it convenient to take advantage of the occasion. [Yorke’s footnote: This is the passage which has furnished so much ground for controversy between the London Journalists, as well as the Parisian. Several of the former stated, that Mr. Jefferson had sent a vessel for Mr. Paine, which was not true. But the expression “public manner,” is susceptible of two different constructions. First, it implies Mr. Paine’s wish, as a measure of personal security, to return in a government vessel; or, secondly, it implies a wish to return in a public capacity. In whatever sense the President received the application, it is evident the idea did not originate with him; and if he took it in the second, it is equally evident, that he eluded its meaning, by complying with it in the sense of the first. I have read this letter several times, and from the manner of it, viz. “As you express a wish to return in a public manner, &c.,” it does strike me forcibly, that Mr. Paine meant in some public capacity; and from what afterwards fell from him in conversation, respecting his return to Europe, which I have detailed in the text, my opinion (which I only venture) seems additionally strengthened.] The rest of the letter is in the usual tone of friendship, and assures Mr. Paine, he shall meet with an hearty welcome.

As soon as I had finished the perusal of the letter, [Paine] observed, that there now remained only four persons who had acted in concert during the American revolution, John Adams, (the late President) Jefferson, Livingstone, and himself. He then gave me two copies of Mr. Jefferson’s speech, which he said, he had caused to be printed in France, by way of contrast with the government of the First Consul. He continued, (laughing at the same time) “It would be a curious circumstance, if I should hereafter be sent as Secretary of Legation to the English court, which outlawed me. What a hubbub it would create at the King’s levee, to see Tom Paine presented by the American ambassador! All the bishops and women would faint away; the women would suppose I came to ravish them, and the bishops, to ravish their tythes. I think it would be a good joke.” I took this opportunity of suggesting, that he had not altogether given up Europe, since he thought of revisiting it in an official capacity. He answered, that it was possible, but not probable at this time of life; that he should dispose of his estate, live upon the interest, and amuse himself with mechanics, and writing memoirs of his life and correspondence, two volumes of which he had already completed.

What a hubbub it would create at the King’s levee, to see Tom Paine presented by the American ambassador! All the bishops and women would faint away; the women would suppose I came to ravish them, and the bishops, to ravish their tythes. I think it would be a good joke.

The estate which he possesses in America is valuable, and must produce more than, from his habits, he can spend. Many years ago he had been offered 1200 l. for it, afterwards, he said 2000 l. sterling was bidden, and at last Judge Greswold tendered him 4000 l. for it, which he also refused, because he knew it was worth more, as he estimates it at about 7000 l.

Upon my inquiring how he had passed his life since we parted, he gave a long account of his occupations, from the time that he was sent to prison. During [the English] invasion of Holland, he went to Brussels, where he passed a few days with General Brune, with a view, as he declared, of accompanying him to Holland, “to see the last of John Bull.” He stated, however, that in France and the French army, there was but one opinion concerning that event; and even General Brune himself had avowed, that it was impossible to prevent the final success of the English.

While he was in prison, he wrote his “Age of Reason,” and amused himself with carrying on an epistolary correspondence with Lady S[mthye], under the assumed name of “The Castle in the Air,” and her Ladyship answered, under the title of “The Little Corner of the World;” which has been continued to the present day without intermission. Some of this correspondence which he shewed me, is extremely beautiful and interesting; considering the dreadful places, times, and circumstances in which they were composed. You are not perhaps aware, that [Paine] is the author of that beautiful Song on the Death of General Wolfe, which many years ago was in every one’s mouth; however, [an] extract from a manuscript essay that he gave me, will afford you a competent idea of his manner of treating subjects, less solemn and invidious than politics. It will appear at full length, in the volumes he intends to publish on his return to America.

[Editor’s Note: Yorke refers here to Paine’s essay “To Forgetfulness” which was originally published within the body of his essay on Paine. I’ve left it aside here, to appear in a future blog-post on its own.]

I have often been in company with Mr. Paine, since my arrival here; and I was not a little surprized to find him wholly indifferent about the public spirit of England, or the remaining influence of his doctrines among its people. Indeed, he seemed to dislike the mention of the subject; and when, one day, in order to provoke discussion, I told him I had altered my opinions upon many of his principles, he answered, “You certainly have the right to do so; but you cannot alter the nature of things; the French have alarmed all honest men; but still truth is truth. Though you may not think that my principles are practicable in England, without bringing on a great deal of misery and confusion, you are, I am sure, convinced of their justice.” Here, he took occasion to speak in terms of the utmost severity against Mr. — , who had obtained a seat in parliament, and said that “parsons were always mischievous fellows when they turned politicians.” This gave rise to an observation respecting his “Age of Reason,” the publication of which I said had lost him the good opinion of numbers of his English advocates. He became uncommonly warm at this remark, and in a tone of singular energy declared, that he would not have published it, if he had not thought it calculated to “inspire mankind with a more exalted idea of the Supreme Architect of the Universe, and to put an end to villainous imposture.” He then broke out with the most violent invectives against our received [religious] opinions, accompanying them at the same time with some of the most grand and sublime conceptions of an Omnipotent Being, that I ever heard or read of. In the support of this opinion, he avowed himself ready to lay down his life, and said, “the Bishop of Landaff may roast me in Smithfield, if he likes, but human torture cannot shake my conviction.” To this I answered, “The bishop of Landaff is a man of too enlightened, tolerant, and humane a disposition, to wish you roasted, or any other man for differing with you in opinion. You cannot say that his Apology does not breathe tolerance in every page.”— “Aye, it is an Apology, indeed, for priestcraft; but parsons will meddle and make mischief; — they always hurt their own cause, and make things worse than they were before; if he had said nothing, the church would have lost nothing; but I have another rod in pickle, for Mr. Bishop.” Here he reached down a copy of the Bishop’s work, interleaved with remarks upon it, which he read to me; after which, he admitted the liberality of the Bishop, and regretted, that in all the controversies among men, a similar temper was not maintained. But, in proportion as he appeared listless of politics, he seemed quite a zealot in his religious creed; of which the following is an instance.

He then broke out with the most violent invectives against our received [religious] opinions, accompanying them at the same time with some of the most grand and sublime conceptions of an Omnipotent Being, that I ever heard or read of.

An English Lady of our acquaintance, not less remarkable for her talents than for elegance of manners, entreated me to contrive that she might have an interview with Mr. Paine. In consequence of this, I invited him to dinner on a day when we were to be favoured with her company. But, as she is a very rigid Roman Catholic, I cautioned Mr. Paine before-hand, against touching upon religious subjects, assuring him at the same time, that she felt much interested to make his acquaintance. With much good nature, he promised to be discreet. Although the Lady I allude to, is perhaps one of the most liberal and tolerant of her sex, I knew that on this point she felt tenderly; for which reason, this preliminary hint was not ill timed.

For above four hours, [Paine] kept every one in astonishment and admiration of his memory, his keen observation of men and manners, his numberless anecdotes of the American Indians, of the American war, of Franklin, Washington, and even of his Majesty, of whom he told several curious facts of humour and benevolence. His remarks on genius and taste, can never be forgotten by those present. Thus far every thing went on as I could wish; the sparkling champagne gave a zest to his conversation, and we were all delighted. But alas! alas! an expression relating to his “Age of Reason,” having been mentioned by one of the company, he broke out immediately. He began with Astronomy, — addressing himself to Mrs. Y—, he declared, that the least inspection of the motion of the stars, was a convincing proof, that Moses was a liar. Nothing could stop him. In vain I attempted to change the subject, by employing every artifice in my power, and even by attacking with vehemence his political principles. He returned to the charge with unabated ardour. I called upon him for a song, though I never heard him sing in my life. He struck up instantly one of his own composition; but the instant he had finished it, he resumed his favourite topic. Every time he took breath, he gained fresh strength, and on he went, with inconceivable rapidity, until the ladies gradually stole unobserved from the room, and left another gentleman and myself to contest, or rather to leave him master of the field of battle.

I felt extremely mortified, and remarked that he had forgotten his promise, and that it was not fair to wound so deeply the opinions of the ladies. “Oh!” said he, “they’ll come again. What a pity it is that people should be so prejudiced!”— To which I retorted, that their prejudices might be virtues. “If so,” he replied, “the blossoms maybe beautiful to the eye, but the root is weak.” I desired him to prove it. He continued as follows, declaring that he could not do better than cite his own expressions, written years ago. “There is something exceedingly curious in the constitution and operation of prejudice. It has the singular ability of accommodating itself to all the possible varieties of the human mind. Some passions and vices are but thinly scattered among mankind, and find only here and there a fitness for reception. But prejudice, like the spider, makes every where its home. It has neither taste nor choice of place, and all that it requires is room. There is scarcely a situation, except fire or water, in which a spider will not live. So, let the mind be as naked as the walls of an empty and forsaken tenement, gloomy as a dungeon, or ornamented with the richest abilities of thinking, let it be hot, cold, dark, or light, lonely or inhabited, still prejudice, if undisturbed, will fill it with cobwebs, and live, like the spider, where there seems nothing to live on. If the one prepares her food by poisoning it to her palate and her use, the other does the same; and as several of our passions are strongly charactered by the animal world, prejudice may be denominated the spider of the mind.”

Upon my observing that I did not recollect the passage in any of his works, he stated, that it was written in America, twenty years ago, and might be found in one of his pamphlets, the name of which has escaped my recollection. But he repeated it, at our request, several times, and allowed me to write it down. One of the most extraordinary properties belonging to Mr. Paine, is, his power of retaining every thing he has written in the course of his life. It is a fact, that he can repeat word for word, every sentence in his “Common Sense, Rights of Man, &c. &c, which I attribute first, to the unparalleled slowness with which he composes every passage he writes; secondly, to its having been profoundly meditated, and lastly, to his dislike to every sort of reading. The Bible is the only book which he has studied, and there is not a verse in it, that is not familiar to him. Wonderful and productive as his mathematical genius is unquestionably, he has often assured me, that he never read any thing upon the subject. Indeed, he seems to have a contemptuous opinion not only of books, but of their authors; for in shewing me one day the beautiful models of two bridges he had devised, he observed that Dr. Franklin once told him, that “books are written to please, houses built for great men, churches for priests, but no bridge for the people.”

One of the most extraordinary properties belonging to Mr. Paine, is, his power of retaining every thing he has written in the course of his life. It is a fact, that he can repeat word for word, every sentence in his “Common Sense, Rights of Man, &c. &c.

These models exhibit an extraordinary degree, not only of skill, but of taste, in mechanics; and are wrought with extreme delicacy, entirely by his own hands. The largest is nearly four feet in length; the iron works, the chains, and every other article belonging to it, were forged, and manufactured by himself. It is intended as the model of a bridge, which is to be constructed across the Delaware, extending 480 feet with only one arch. The other is to be erected over a lesser river, whose name I forget, and is likewise a single arch, and of his own workmanship, excepting the chains, which instead of iron, are cut out of pasteboard, by the fair hand of his correspondent, the Little Corner of the World, whose indefatigable perseverance is extraordinary. He was offered 3000 l. for these models, and refused it. The iron bars which I before mentioned that I noticed in a corner of his room, were also forged by himself, as the model of a crane, of a new description. He put them together, and exhibited the power of the lever, to a most surprizing degree.

It would require the leisure, and faculty of Jamie Boswell [biographer of Dr. Samuel Johnson] himself, to detail all the conversations, which I had with Mr. Paine, or the opinions and anecdotes which he recounted. I am sure they would fill a volume. I shall therefore conclude this account of him, with a few words, respecting his acquaintance with Bonaparte.

When the Hero of Italy had returned to Paris, in order to take the command of that Army of England, with whose left wing he afterwards set off to conquer the department of the Thames, on the burning sands of Egypt, he called on Mr. Paine, and invited him to dinner. In the course of his rapturous ecstacies, [Bonaparte] declared, that a statue of gold, ought to be erected to [Paine] in every city in the universe; he also assured him, that he always slept with his book [Rights of Man], under his pillow, and conjured him to honour him with his correspondence and advice. When the military Council at Paris, who directed all the movements of Bonaparte, (though he has the merit of them) came to a serious consultation about the invasion of England, Mr. Paine was invited to assist at the sitting. After they had ransacked and examined all the plans, charts, and projects of the Old Government, Bonaparte submitted to them, the propriety of hearing what Citizen Paine had to say upon the subject. But I should have stated, that without one dissentient voice, they were all of opinion, the measure was impracticable, dangerous even in idea, and still more so in the attempt. General D’Arcon, a celebrated engineer [Yorke’s footnote: He directed the siege of Gibraltar, in the American War], was one of this Council, and present on the occasion. He laughed at the project, and said, that all those plans and schemes, had better be made cartridge paper of, for there was no Prince Charles (meaning the Pretender) now-a-days; and that they might as well attempt to invade the moon, as England, with its superior fleet at sea. “Oh!” exclaimed Bonaparte, “but there will be a fog.”— “Ah!” replied D’Arcon, “and there will be an English fleet in that fog.” — “Cannot we pass?” said Bonaparte; “Doubtless,” answered the other, “by diving twenty fathom under water;” then looking steadfastly at the Hero, “General,” said he, “the earth is our own, but not the sea. We must recruit our fleets, before we can hope to make any impression on England, and even then, the enterprize would be fraught with perdition, unless we could raise a diversion among the people.” Then Bonaparte: “that is the very point I mean; here is Citizen Paine, who will tell you, that the whole English nation, except the royal family, and the Hanoverians who have been created peers of the realm, and absorb the greatest part of the land property, are ardently burning for fraternization.” Paine being called upon, said, “It is now several years since I have been in England, and therefore I can only judge of it, by what I knew when I was there. I think the people are very disaffected, but I am sorry to add, that if the expedition should escape the fleet, I think the army would be cut in pieces. The only way to kill England, is to annihilate her commerce.” This opinion was backed by all the Council, and Bonaparte, turning to Paine, asked how long he thought it would take to annihilate the English commerce? Paine answered, that every thing depended on a peace. From that hour, Bonaparte never spoke to him, and when he had finished his adventures in Egypt, and had stolen back to France, [Bonaparte] passed by [Paine] the grand dinner, that was given to the Generals of the Republic, a short time before his usurpation, staring him in the face, and saying to General Lasnes, in the hearing of Paine, “the English are all alike in every country, — they are all rascals.”

Mr. Paine thinks the Egyptian expedition was determined on, in consequence of the rejection of this project of Bonaparte by the Council; as it never was either in their contemplation, or that of the government, to invade England, but only to keep us upon the qui vive, and to divert our attention from other objects. Besides which, the popularity and inflammatory mind of Bonaparte were so excessive, that they were glad to get rid of him at any rate. Paine entertains the most despicable opinion of Bonaparte’s conduct, military as well as civil, and thinks him the completest charlatan [that] ever existed.

[Yorke’s footnote: It may be thought strange, that a man, like Paine, educated in the passive principles of the Quakers, and himself very timid, at least, in appearance, should be competent to give an opinion on military operations. But I can assure the reader, there are many eminent French Generals, who have attached the highest credit to his advice, although he had never seen the countries, in which that advice was beneficial.]