Conversation with his physician, and his indifference about death—The minister sent for—Prayer—Meditation on life—Age of Reason—A swoon—Sees a spirit—The effort of the spirit to identify herself—His death—Funeral services—Doubting minister—Conversation with his spirit companion—Benediction, and opinions of the people—The end of wonders—Joy in his new sphere—The greeting—The woman and the doctor—His mother—Her welcome—His grave—The thoughts of the grave digger—Anxiety to reveal the truth—Promise to him of a coming time when it could be done with safety to mediums—Origin of sight—Thoughts of minds at his grave—Disclaims intentional wrong—Objections to religion—Visit to the minister—Conversation between the minister and servant—Prayer—Servant complains—Cheering conversation of Paine and his companion—Proposes to relate his experience, and signs his name.
In the progress of mind to the unseen world, there is no wonder within the range of human perception, analogous to the transition of the spirit in what is called death. I will relate the incidents of my experience. For some weeks previous to my exit, my attending physician gave me up as incurable. Still, he continued his visits, and experimented in every possible way his ingenuity and wisdom could devise, to control what he foresaw would terminate in my dissolution. At length, approaching my bedside, he said in a tremulous tone, “I fear you will not live to see the light of morning.” I replied, in a whisper, “I see no one, then, to do what will be required at my demise.”
“What do you require?” said the doctor.
“Only that my body be decently interred,” I responded.
I saw he felt moved by my indifference, and I requested him to invite the parish minister to make a prayer. He did so. I was still unmoved by his pathetic appeals to Heaven to bless my soul with the outpourings of his grace upon me. I felt no solicitude about my fate. All seemed dark and hopeless, with no ray of light to gladden the soul of a dying unbeliever in revelation. I was willing to see, but no light came to my relief. In this state of awful gloom, when midnight blackness offered no consolation, when the idolatry of monkish mockery gave no satisfaction, and when no ostentatious show of worldly gain or honor wearied my mind with their cares, I said, “what is life?” I answered, “’tis but a dream.” “Then what have I done which is not a dream?” I wondered. “There is my Age of Reason, and is that a dream?” I saw no dream in that work. It was a reality. It was my work. I saw it was not a dream. There was what the minister had not disturbed. He did not overthrow what it contained. He prayed against my infidelity, but he did not lessen my convictions in any position I had taken. No: weak and worn out with disease as I was, he made no issue with my attack upon his faith. He went away, and I saw him no more, till no more of flesh and blood imprisoned my spirit. I was well satisfied he was afraid of me. I was never more satisfied of the truth of my book. Still, it was not what I wanted. It did not aid me in my lone chamber of weakness and destitution. It gave me no solace, save the reflection that I had served the cause of human freedom, and had triumphed over the dogmatical assumptions of a miserable theology. I was not wholly satisfied that I was altogether right, but I was very certain that religionists were wrong. I saw the corruption and hypocrisy of those who professed to be Christians, and I was persuaded that what they taught upheld them in their hypocrisy. In this frame of mind, I neither felt wounded by their assaults upon my work, nor was I afraid of what would be my condition after death.
Near the close of my earthly life, I fell into a swoon, and I saw what was more evidence to me of a future life, than all I had ever heard or read. I saw my wisdom isolated, and torn in fragments. There came near me one whom I loved in my youth; one who was dear to me when I was in my years of prime; and who cherished an attachment for me, which even death had no power to dissolve. She had passed away. I had wept over her grave. I had mourned her death as the severest of all possible calamities. We were united. Nothing but the form of marriage was wanting to make us one in the sight of the world. We were married. I loved her as I never loved another. She was my idol; and never was homage more sincere and fervent than that which I gave her; never was my soul so willingly captivated as when I enjoyed her affection. Never was my distress equaled as when I saw her coffined for the grave. Oh, sadness! thou hast no wisdom for the bereaved! From that day to the period above related, I had no music like hers to cheer me onward through the night of my corroded sympathy, nor was there hope that we should meet on the plain of conjugal affinity which we now enjoy.
In that swoon, I saw her as in the bloom of her virgin innocence. She came to me and said, “Thomas! be of good cheer, I am with you.”
“Half wise am I to believe in an apparition, or have I lost my reason that I should see a ghost by my bedside?” I wondered to myself.
“Be not deceived. Do you not see me? Here is my hand, and here the ring with my name engraved, and do you not know my voice?” she replied.
“Indeed, your voice I know; I know all; but what are you?” may I ask.