That he bitterly regretted the writing and the publishing of the _Age of
Reason_ we have incontestable proof. During his last illness he asked a
pious young woman, Mary Roscoe, a Quakeress, who frequently visited him,
if she had ever read any of his writings, and being told that she had read
very little of them he inquired what she thought of them, adding, “From
such a one as you I expect a true answer.” She told him, when very young
she had read his _Age of Reason_, but the more she read of it the more
dark and distressed she felt, and she threw it into the fire. “I wish all
had done as you,” he replied, “for if the devil ever had an agency in any
work, he has had it in writing that book.”—_Journal of Stephen Grellet,
1809._
Dr. Manley, who was with him during his last hours, in a letter to
Cheetham, in 1809, writes: “He could not be left alone night or day. He
not only required to have some person with him, but he must see that he or
she was there, and if, as it would sometimes happen, he was left alone, he
would scream and halloo until some person came to him. There was something
remarkable in his conduct about this period, which comprises about two
weeks immediately preceding his death. He would call out during his
paroxysms of distress, without intermission, ‘O Lord, help me! God, help
me! Jesus Christ, help me! O Lord, help me!’ etc., repeating the same
expressions without the least variation, in a tone of voice that would
alarm the house. It was this conduct which induced me to think that he
abandoned his former opinions, and I was more inclined to that belief when
I understood from his nurse, who is a very serious, and I believe pious
woman, that he would occasionally inquire, when he saw her engaged with a
book, what she was reading, and being answered, and at the same time asked
whether she should read aloud, he assented, and would appear to give
particular attention. The doctor asked him if he believed that Jesus
Christ is the Son of God? After a pause of some minutes he replied, ‘I
have no wish to believe on that subject.’ ‘For my own part,’ says the
doctor, ‘I believe that had not Thomas Paine been such a distinguished
infidel he would have left less equivocal evidences of a change of
opinion.’ ”
The Roman Catholic Bishop, Fenwick, says: “A short time before Paine died
I was sent for by him.” He was prompted to do this by a poor Catholic
woman who went to see him in his sickness, and who told him if anybody
could do him any good it was the Catholic priest. “I was accompanied by F.
Kohlman, an intimate friend. We found him at a house in Greenwich, now
Greenwich street, New York, where he lodged. A decent-looking, elderly
woman came to the door, and inquired whether we were the Catholic priests;
‘for,’ said she, ‘Mr. Paine has been so much annoyed of late by other
denominations calling upon him, that he has left express orders to admit
no one but the clergymen of the Catholic church.’ Upon informing her who
we were, she opened the door and showed us into the parlor. ‘Gentlemen,’
said the lady, ‘I really wish you may succeed with Mr. Paine, for he is
laboring under great distress of mind every since he was told by his
physicians that he can not possibly live, and must die shortly. He is
truly to be pitied. His cries, when left alone, are heart-rending. “O
Lord, help me!” he will exclaim during his paroxysms of distress: “God,
help me! Jesus Christ, help me!” Repeating these expressions in a tone of
voice that would alarm the house. Sometimes he will say, “O God, what have
I done to suffer so much?” Then shortly after, “but there is no God,” then
again, “yet if there should be, what would become of me hereafter?” Thus
he will continue for some time, when, on a sudden, he will scream as if in
terror and agony, and call for me by name. On one occasion I inquired what
he wanted. “Stay with me,” he replied, “for God’s sake, for I can not bear
to be left alone.” I told him I could not always be in the room. “Then,”
said he, “_send even a child to stay with me, for it is a hell to be
alone._” _I never saw_,’ she continued, ‘_a more unhappy, a more forsaken
man. It seems he can not reconcile himself to die._’
“Such was the conversation of the woman, who was a Protestant, and who
seemed very desirous that we should afford him some relief in a state
bordering on complete despair. Having remained some time in the parlor, we
at length heard a noise in the adjoining room. We proposed to enter, which
was assented to by the woman, who opened the door for us. A more wretched
being in appearance I never beheld. He was lying in a bed sufficiently
decent in itself, but at present besmeared with filth; his look was that
of a man greatly tortured in mind, his eyes haggard, his countenance
forbidding, and his whole appearance that of one whose better days had
been one continued scene of debauch. His only nourishment was milk punch,
in which he indulged to the full extent of his weak state. He had partaken
very recently of it, as the sides and corners of his mouth exhibited very
unequivocal traces of it, as well as of blood which had also followed in
the track and left its mark on the pillow. Upon their making known the
object of their visit, Paine interrupted the speaker by saying, ‘That’s
enough, sir, that’s enough. I see what you would be about. I wish to hear
no more from you, sir; my mind is made up on that subject. I look upon the
whole of the Christian scheme to be a tissue of lies, and Jesus Christ to
be nothing more than a cunning knave and imposter. Away with you, and your
God, too! Leave the room instantly! All that you have uttered are lies,
filthy lies, and if I had a little more time I would prove it, as I did
about your imposter, Jesus Christ.’ Among the last utterances that fell
upon the ears of the attendants of this dying infidel, and which have been
recorded in history, were the words, ‘My God, my God, why hast thou
forsaken me?’ ”
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“Some thousand famous writers come up in this century to be forgotten in
the next. But the silver cord of the Bible is not loosened, nor its golden
bowl broken, though time chronicles his tens of centuries passed by....
You can trace the path of the Bible across the world, from the day of
Pentecost to this day. As a river springs up in the heart of a sandy
continent, having its father in the skies; as the stream rolls on, making
in that arid waste a belt of verdure wherever it turns its way; creating
palm groves and fertile plains, where the smoke of the cottage curls up at
eventide, and marble cities send the gleam of their splendor far into die
sky—such has been the course of the bible on earth.”—_Theodore Parker._
“I must die—abandoned of God and of men.”—_Voltaire._