The name of Tom Paine is familiar to every Englishman. Had I not been
previously acquainted with him I should have contrived an interview
with him during my stay 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 experiences,
so long a period of storms and convulsion, must have afforded him.
It was not without considerable difficulty that I discovered his
residence, for the name of Thomas Paine is now odious in France, far
more so than in England. A bookseller’s shop in the Palais Royal
appeared a likely place for inquiries, but I had no sooner mentioned
his name than the bookseller, his wife and a bystander fell upon me,
in the most unmerciful manner, calling Paine “_Scélérat, bandit,
coquin!_” and ascribing to him the resistance Leclerc had received
from the negroes of St. Domingo, of which repulse to French arms they
had just received intelligence, so that I found it necessary to decamp
as soon as possible.
Being at a loss how to proceed, I determined to inquire at the hotel
of the American Minister, where I was informed that Paine lived at a
bookseller’s in the Rue du Théâtre Français, an American bookseller,
who inhabited No. 2. I immediately repaired to the house, and after
mounting to the second storey, was shown into a little dirty room,
containing a small wooden table and two chairs. “This,” said the
portress, who had guided me upstairs, “is Mr. Paine’s room; he is
taking a nap, but will be here presently.” I never saw such a filthy
apartment in the whole course of my life. The chimney hearth was a
heap of dirt. There was not a speck of cleanliness anywhere. Three
shelves were filled with paste-board boxes, each labelled after the
manner of a Minister of Foreign Affairs: “Correspondance Américaine,
Ditto Britannique--idem Française. Notices politiques. Le Citoyen
Français,” &c. In one corner of the room stood several huge bars of
iron, curiously shaped, and two large trunks; opposite the fireplace a
board covered with pamphlets and journals, having more the appearance
of a dresser in a scullery than a sideboard. Such was the wretched
habitation where I found Thomas Paine, one of the founders of the
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 dwelling
of the apostle of Freedom from the gorgeous mansions tenanted by the
apostles of the French Republic!
After I had waited for a short time, Mr. Paine came downstairs, dressed
in a long flannel gown.
[Sidenote: INTERVIEW WITH PAINE]
I was shocked by his altered appearance. Time seemed to have made
dreadful ravages over his frame, and a settled melancholy was visible
over his countenance. He pressed me by the hand, his countenance
brightened as he recollected me, and a tear stole down his cheek. Nor
was I less affected than himself. “Thus we are met once more, Mr.
Paine, after a separation of ten years, and after we have both been
severely weather-beaten.”
“Aye,” he replied, “and who would have thought that we should meet in
Paris,” he continued, with a smile of contempt; “they have shed blood
enough for liberty, and now they have liberty in perfection, no honest
man should live in this country, they do not and cannot understand the
principles of free government. They have conquered half Europe only to
make it more miserable than before.”
I replied that I thought much might yet be done for the Republic.
“Republic!” he exclaimed, “this is no Republic! I know of no Republic
but that of America, and that is the only place for men like you and I.
It is my intention to return as soon as possible. You are a young man,
and may see better times. For myself I renounce all European politics.”
I enumerated my objections, concluding with the want of society and the
apprehension I had of contracting yellow fever. These objections he
met by declaring there was as good and even _better_ society in
America than in Europe; and as to the yellow fever, proper precautions
would cause it wholly to disappear. In the course of our long
conversation about America he put into my hands a letter written to him
by Mr. Jefferson, the President of the United States.
It was dictated with the freedom of an old friend. Mr. Jefferson began
by congratulating Mr. Paine upon his determination to settle finally
in the New World, for he says he will find on his return a favourable
change in the political opinions of the citizens, who are happily
come back to those enlightened principles which he, Mr. Paine, had
so usefully contributed to spread over the world. As Mr. Paine had
expressed a desire to return in a _public manner_, he states that
the sloop of war which brought the Minister Livingston from France
would return at a given time and convey him to America if he could make
it _convenient_ to take advantage of the occasion. The rest of
the letter is couched in terms of the warmest friendship, assuring Mr.
Paine of a hearty reception.
When I had perused this letter he observed that only four persons now
survived who had acted in concert during the American Revolution,
John Adams,[1] Jefferson,[1] Livingston[1] and himself. He continued
laughingly: “It would be a curious circumstance if I were sent as
Secretary of Legation to the British Court, which outlawed me. What a
hubbub it would create at the King’s levée to see Tom Paine presented
by the American ambassador! All the bishops and great ladies would
faint away; the women supposing I came to rob and ravish them, the
bishops to rob and ravish their titles. I think it would be a good
joke!”
But he finally added that this was not a probable event to occur at
his time of life, but that he should dispose of his American property,
live on the interest, and amuse himself by writing memoirs of his life
and correspondence, two volumes of which he had already completed. The
estate he possesses in America is valuable, he estimates it at about
£7000.
I inquired how he had passed his life since we parted. He gave a long
account of his occupations since he was sent to prison. During our
invasion of Holland he went to Brussels, where he passed a few days
with General Bruno, with a view, he declared, of accompanying him to
Holland, “to see the last of John Bull.” But he said that in France and
in the French army there was but one opinion concerning that event,
_i.e._, the final certain success of the English.
[Sidenote: PAINE AND LADY S.]
When he was in prison he wrote “The Age of Reason,” and amused himself
by carrying on a correspondence with Lady S----, under the assumed name
of “The Castle in the Air.” To this her ladyship answered under the
title of “The Little Corner of the World.” This correspondence still
continues.
He showed me some of it, which, notwithstanding the dreadful places in
which it was composed, is beautiful and interesting. He is the author
of that beautiful song on the death of General Wolfe, which a few years
ago was in every one’s mouth. The following extract from one of his
manuscript essays affords a competent idea of his manner in treating
subjects less solemn and invidious than politics.