George E. Macdonald:
"O Champion, bravest in all the past!
O Freedom, fairest of all the dames.
Long may the pledge of your fealty last,
Forever united be your names.
And long as the flowers from the sod shall spring,
Touched by a May day's warmth and light,
A blossom and tear shall the lady bring
To drop on the grave of her faithful knight."
Paine was the prophet of his age. From the dim twilight of the eighteenth century his prophetic eye pierced through the intervening years to and beyond the gray dawn of the twentieth. And when he viewed man's progress and beheld his glorious destiny, this matchless seer "rang out the old, rang in the new," rang out the rule and tyranny of king, rang out the dogmas and the ghosts of priest; rang in the reign of liberty and justice, rang in the faith of Reason and Humanity.
Yes, in the cause of man the battle of his life was fought, a fierce and stormy conflict. And as the night of death closed over the eventful struggle, from her accursed abode the gaunt figure of Bigotry stalked forth, and with demoniac peals of laughter danced around his prostrate form, rejoicing that her deadliest foe was gone. Her imps still live. How often do we see one of them in the pulpit take up this good man's name, and after covering it with all the slime that the venomous spirit of calumny has distilled, hold it up before his congregation, and with a counterfeited look of holy horror, affecting all the meekness of an expiring calf, rolling up the whites of his snaky eyes to cover the blackness of his brutal soul, exclaim, "This is Tom Paine!"
Vile creatures! let them do their worst. Let them summon to their aid all their hideous allies. Let Ignorance array her countless hosts; let the dark shades of Prejudice becloud the sky; let Hatred rave and curse; let the darts of Calumny pierce the white breast of Truth, and Slander clothe the tongues of all their minions. They strive in vain. The Crisis is past, the Age of Reason has dawned. Common Sense is fast supplanting Superstition, the Rights of Man are bound to triumph, and the author-hero's name will gather lustre as the years roll by.
"That man is thought a knave or fool,
Or bigot plotting crime,
Who for the advancement of his kind,
Is wiser than his time.
For him the hemlock shall distil,
For him the axe be bared;
For him the gibbet shall be built,
For him the stake prepared.
Him shall the scorn and wrath of men
Pursue with deadly aim;
And malice, envy, spite, and lies
Shall desecrate his name.
But never a truth has been destroyed,
They may curse it, and call it crime;
Pervert and betray, and slander and slay
Its teachers for a time:
But the sunshine, aye, shall light the sky,
As round and round we run;
And the truth shall ever come uppermost,
And justice shall be done."
Ungrateful Athens bade her savior drain the poisoned cup. It did its work, the spark of life was quenched; but the name of Socrates shines on, undimmed by the flight of more than twenty centuries. Columbus languished in chains, forged by the nation he had made renowned; but no chains can bind the towering fame his genius won. Religious zealots sealed the lips of a philosopher; but could they stop the revolving earth? Could they control the rising tide that rolled upon the boundless sea of thought? No! the earth went round, the wave rolled on. To-day, the very church that persecuted Galileo reveres his name, accepts his teachings, and through his telescope, the instrument she once, condemned, her votaries, with eager eye and throbbing pulse, explore the starry fields of heaven. It is ever so: "Truth crushed to earth shall rise again." Each fierce Thermopylae she meets inspires some crowning Salamis. The wrongs of Thomas Paine shall be avenged. In vain his country passed to him the bitter cup; the fetters forged to chain his noble spirit to the dust were forged for naught; loving lips whisper, "It still moves!"
I pity the man whose soul is so small that he cannot rise above the level of his creed to do justice to those whose religious opinions have not been gauged by his particular standard. I am no Christian, but may I never become so ungrateful as to ignore my obligations to those who are. When war was desolating our fair land, and my young heart yearned to enlist in its defense, a Christian mother printed a kiss upon the cheek of her only boy and bade him go; Christian hands made the grand old flag we followed; Christian women visited our hospitals, ministering to the sick and wiping the death-damp from the brows of the dying; Christian generals led their troops on many a hard-fought field; and tonight the stately oak, the drooping willow, and the moaning pine stand sentinel by many a Christian soldier's grave. But they are not alone. Beside his Christian comrade—beneath the shadows of the same trees—a martyr to the same cause—sleeps the unbeliever. And would you strew with flowers and moisten with tears the grave that enfolds the one, and trample with scorn the turf that grows upon the other? Side by side they grandly marched to war; side by side they bravely fought; side by side heroically they fell; and in the murmuring stream that, wanders by their resting-place is heard the funeral chant of no religious creed, but nature's eternal sweet, sad requiem to all.
Go to the grave of Thomas Paine, my Christian friend. Stand beside the tomb where rest the ashes of this unappreciated genius. Take up his little volume "Common Sense." Open its pages and peruse its burning words. When done, unfold the map upon which are delineated "The Free and Independent States of America." Contemplate the inspiring picture wrought thereon—wrought by the author-hero's magic pen—then refuse the simple tribute of a tear or flower!
Who is responsible for the obloquy that has been cast upon the memory of this noble man? The church, the orthodox church alone, is responsible for it. And let me say to the church, it ill becomes you to point to the alleged moral delinquencies of this man while your own garments are soiled and crimsoned with the vice and crime of centuries. You claim that amid the thunders of Sinai God gave the Decalogue as a moral guide to man. Judged even by this standard the moral character of Thomas Paine will not suffer from a comparison with that of yours.