by Howard Fast
Thomas Clewes, heading a deputation of miners, came to see him, short, wide-set men, the grime in their hair, in their eyes, in their skin, talking a broad Welsh brogue, Clewes saying:
“Be you Paine?”
“I’m Paine.”
“And it’s said you’re preparing an answer for that damned jackal Burke?”
“I am.”
“We be miners,” Clewes said. “We’re looking for a way, a leader, and a means. Things are bad, and I’ll not have to tell you how bad they be. What are ye writing?”
“A handbook for revolution,” Paine smiled.
“And what’s in it to set a man to thinking?”
Paine read:
“The foreign troops began to advance towards the city—” Paris, he explained. “—The Prince de Lambesc, who commanded a body of German cavalry, approached by the Palace of Louis XV, which connects itself with some of the streets. In his march, he insulted and struck an old man with his sword. The French are remarkable for their respect for old age—”
The miners, watching him narrowly, nodded slightly.
“—and the insolence with which it appeared to be done, uniting with the general fermentation they were in, produced a powerful effect, and a cry of ‘To arms! To arms!’ spread itself in a moment over the city.
“Arms they had none, nor scarcely any who knew the use of them; but desperate resolution, whenever hope is at stake, supplies, for a while, the want of arms. Near where the Prince de Lambesc was drawn up, were large piles of stones collected for building the new bridge, and with these the people attacked the cavalry. A party of the French guards, upon hearing the firing, rushed from their quarters and joined the people; and night coming on, the cavalry retreated.
“The streets of Paris, being narrow, are favorable for defense, and the loftiness of the houses, consisting of many stories, from which great annoyance might be given, secured them against nocturnal enterprises; and the night was spent with providing themselves with every sort of weapon they could make or procure; guns, swords, blacksmiths’ hammers, carpenters’ axes, iron crows, pikes, halberts, pitchforks, spits, clubs, etc., etc. The incredible numbers in which they assembled the next morning, and the still more incredible resolution they exhibited, embarrassed and astonished their enemies. Little did the new ministry expect such a salute. Accustomed to slavery themselves, they had no idea that Liberty was capable of such inspiration, or that a body of unarmed citizens would dare to face the military force of thirty thousand men. Every moment of this day was employed in collecting arms, concerting plans, and arranging themselves into the best order which such an instantaneous movement could afford. Broglio continued lying round the city, but made no further advances this day, and the succeeding night passed with as much tranquillity as such a scene could possibly admit.
“But defense was not the object of the citizens. They had a cause at stake on which depended their freedom or their slavery. They every moment expected an attack, or to hear of one made on the National Assembly; and in such a situation the most prompt measures are sometimes the best. The object that now presented itself was the Bastille; and the éclat of carrying such a fortress in the face of such an army could not fail to strike terror into the new ministry, who had scarcely yet had time to meet. By some intercepted correspondence, it was discovered that the Mayor of Paris, M. Defflesselles, who appeared to be in the interest of the citizens, was betraying them; from this discovery, there remained no doubt that Broglio would reinforce the Bastille the ensuing evening. It was therefore necessary to attack it that day; but before this could be done, it was first necessary to procure a better supply of arms than they were then possessed of.
“There was, adjoining to the city, a large magazine of arms deposited at the Hospital of the Invalids, which the citizens summoned to surrender; and as the place was not defensible, nor attempted much defense, they soon succeeded. Thus supplied, they marched to attack the Bastille; a vast mixed multitude of all ages, and of all degrees, armed with all sorts of weapons. Imagination would fail in describing to itself the appearance of such a procession, and of the anxiety for the events which a few hours or a few minutes might produce. What plans the ministry was forming were as unknown to the people within the city as what the citizens were doing was unknown to the ministry; and what movements Broglio might make for the support or relief of the place, were to the citizens equally as unknown. All was mystery and hazard—”
Paine looked up at the broad, dark faces of the Welsh miners, and saw in their eyes a light, an almost warlike gleam that he knew of old. He went on—
“That the Bastille was attacked with an enthusiasm of heroism, such as only the highest animation of Liberty could inspire, and carried in the space of a few hours, is an event which the world is fully possessed of. I am not undertaking a detail of the attack, but bringing into view the conspiracy against the nation which provoked it, and which fell with the Bastille. The prison to which the new ministry were dooming the National Assembly, in addition to its being the high altar and castle of despotism, became the proper object to begin with. This enterprise broke up the new ministry, who now began to fly from the ruin they had prepared for others. The troops of Broglio dispersed, and himself fled also.…”
Paine finished reading, and the miners stood there silent, impassive except for their eyes—fire in their eyes—regarding him as they turned over in their minds what he had just read, stories current in the newspapers only a few months past; but how vastly different in Paine’s account from the mocking, supercilious sneers of the British reporters! Paine saw, and he thought that they could see the turmoil in the Paris streets as the mob became something else than a mob, as they died and organized and found their own strength.
Clewes said slowly, “So that would be yer writing, Mr. Paine.”
“That and more. Does it set a man thinking?”
“It sets him thinking of this and it sets him thinking of that,” Clewes smiled. “But what is a man to do?”
“For the time being, wait. Have you any arms?”
“We be working men, not soldiers and not gentlemen hunters, so where would we be hiding muskets, Mr. Paine?”
“There’s none among you can work with iron?”
“Aye, we have a smith or two.”
“Can he turn his hand to a musket barrel instead of a horse’s hoof?”
“That he might. But we be peaceful family men, Mr. Paine. We nurse a grievance, and it might be a small one or a big one, according to them what judge. What the Frenchies did is a matter of their own, and I don’t judge a cousin of mine who took up arms with yer General Washington. Some say it’s wrong for a man to go down into the pits for tuppence a day; some say it’s right. Some say it’s wrong for the man that raises the beef to starve while the squire that eats it is fat and red as a jack o’ lantern. Some say it’s not a nice thing to watch yer wife die in childbirth for want of a little hot broth, to see yer children’s bellies blow up, and others say it’s something that has always been and always will be. To my mind, there were some free men on these islands once, and there might be again.”
“There might be,” Paine said evenly.
“Then we’ll be waiting, and who knows but that the smiths might not turn their hands to this and that.”
So he was in it again, neck deep, and again when he walked the streets—of London this time—it was with the knowledge that many men might sleep better if Tom Paine were dead. The book was finished and published, dedicated to George Washington, titled The Rights of Man. Actually, the publication came about without too much difficulty, with less than had attended Common Sense, considering that this was London and not Philadelphia. The first printing, undertaken by a Mr. Johnson of St. Paul’s Churchyard, was suddenly indignantly thrust back at Paine, Johnson exclaiming:
“My God, sir, this is treason, treason pure and simple!”
“And you’ve just discovered that,” Paine smiled. “Here the book is set and gone to press,
a thousand sheets folded and dry, and you’ve suddenly discovered that it’s treason. Is that your publishing policy, not to read nor to understand a manuscript until it’s set and printed—or have you been entertaining a little correspondence with Mr. Burke and Mr. Walpole about my scribbling? I think you’re a dirty little man!”
“I’ll not be insulted in my shop, sir.”
“You can’t be insulted,” Paine said.
Romney, the painter, recommended that Paine go to see Jordan, on Fleet Street, and Paine did, with the preamble to Jordan:
“It’s probably treason, sir, so don’t print first and discover that later.”
“So you’re Paine,” Jordan laughed. “And neither horns nor whiskers—I’m glad to meet you.” Grimy with ink, thin and hatchet-faced, he made Paine think, “In love with his trade and ready to die for the right word. He’ll print the devil’s manifesto, if he believes in it.”
“Let’s look at the treason,” Jordan said.
They put heads together, and for a whole afternoon they read. When they came to the sort of thing such as the following, Paine read aloud and Jordan pulled on his lower lip and became very judicious:
“Titles are but nicknames, and every nickname is a title. The thing is perfectly harmless in itself, but it marks a sort of foppery in the human character, which degrades it. It reduces man into the diminutive of man in things which are great, and the counterfeit of women in things which are little.…”
“Treason?” Jordan grinned.
“Depending how you look at it.” Paine felt more alive; more vital than at any time in the past eight years. He did not reflect that he had become in thought as well as in practice, a professional revolutionist, and that there was no other real happiness for himself than the plying of his trade; he only knew that he was in the rat trap of London, that soon he would be a hunted man, and that he minded the prospect not at all.
“I like this,” Jordan chuckled, and read: “Toleration is not the opposite of Intolerance, but is the counterfeit of it. Both are despotisms. The one assumes to itself the right of withholding Liberty of Conscience, and the other of granting it. The one is the Pope armed with fire and faggot, and the other is the Pope selling or granting indulgences. The former is Church and State, and the latter is Church and traffic.
“But Toleration may be viewed in a much stronger light. Man worships not himself, but his Maker; and the liberty of conscience which he claims is not for the service of himself, but of his God. In this case, therefore, we must necessarily have the associated idea of two beings; the mortal who renders the worship, and the IMMORTAL BEING who is worshiped. Toleration, therefore, places itself, not between man and man, nor between Church and Church, nor between one denomination of religion and another, but between God and man; between the being who worships, and the BEING who is worshiped and by the same act of assumed authority by which it tolerates man to pay his worship, it presumptuously and blasphemously sets itself up to tolerate the Almighty to receive it.
“Were a Bill brought into any Parliament, entitled, ‘An Act to tolerate or grant liberty to the Almighty to receive the worship of a Jew or a Turk,’ or ‘to prohibit the Almighty from receiving it,’ all men would startle and call it blasphemy. There would be an uproar. The presumption of toleration in religious matters would then present itself unmasked; but the presumption is not the less because the name of ‘Man’ only appears to those laws, for the associated idea of the worshiped and the worshiper cannot be separated. Who then art thou, vain dust and ashes! by whatever name thou art called, whether a King, a Bishop, a Church, or a State, a Parliament, or anything else, that obtrudest thine insignificance between the soul of man and its maker?”
“Treason, very possibly,” Jordan said. “Do you want me to publish your book, Mr. Paine?”
“I do.”
“Then I say the hell with treason and God damn it! I like your stuff.” They shook hands on that, and then Jordan, thoughtfully, suggested, “If you won’t take offense, Mr. Paine, let me suggest an edition to sell for three shillings, the price of Burke’s book. Wait a minute—”
Paine was staring at him, demanding, “Who can buy it for three shillings?”
“I said as a minor precaution, so that the wolves won’t come howling before the presses are cool. You know how they reason—they’ll see a good format and they’ll say, well, the people it reaches don’t matter, and at least that will give us time. Then, if you want me to, I’ll put out fifty thousand for sixpence and see myself hanged—”
“If I could believe you,” Paine said.
“God damn it, man, I don’t intend to live forever! Maybe only you can say what you put down here, but others have thought such things, and if you don’t believe me, you can get to the devil out of here!”
Paine smiled, offered his hand again, and said, “I don’t think, Mr. Jordan, that any of us will live forever.”
The book was published, and Paine was drunk for two days; the body drunk, the smallness, meanness, wretchedness of himself apparent only too well as he lay over a table in a tavern and saw exactly what was Paine, hated it, but triumphed mightily and exulted over what he had done, Common Sense, the Crisis Papers, and now The Rights of Man: that was himself, that was the brief, immortal spark; that turned empires upside down and gave man hope and brought him face to face with God. Drunk and howling foul songs, he was found by Blake, the poet, Romney, the painter, the former demanding of him:
“Paine, my God, what has gotten into you?”
“Glory! Glory!”
“Paine, get out of this stinkhole!”
“Glory! Glory! Glory!”
Blake took him home, gave him a bath, preached to him and confided, “Paine, you and I are much the same—that way is no good, I tell you, no good.” He had met Blake some months ago, spent an evening talking to him and telling tales of the revolution in America. Blake liked him, and after that they were together a good deal, Blake, Romney, Sharp the engraver, Hull, Barlow, Frost, and Audibert, friends of Blake, friends of Romney, curious misfit liberals in the fashionable world of eighteenth-century London. Now Blake read him poetry in his soft, deep voice, while Paine sighed, “Glory, glory, glory—”
He came to Jordan the next day and said, “Let me smell the ink—let me get a hand on the presses.”
The new books were stacked already, one hundred in a pile. All over the world, in England, in France, in America, the good smell of printer’s ink was the same. Jordan described the selling, slow at first, mostly across the stands of his own shop; but it was picking up—three hundred copies to Wales, that at three shillings. “Have three hundred people in Wales three shillings to spend on a book?” Jordan asked.
There were a thousand of the cheap edition that crawled into Scotland; a sheriff, out from Carlisle, got two hundred, and that was before they were judged treasonable. But the sheriff had a nose for that sort of thing, and what else were you to say of something entitled Rights of Man? But a thousand got through and then two thousand more, and then it was set in Edinburgh by Thatcher McDowell, pirated, you might say, thirty thousand run off on cheap paper—was it any wonder that the mayor of Glasgow screamed that every Gillie in the hills, every weaver, every hand at a mill, and every smith’s apprentice was reading a piece of treasonable filth called Rights of Man?
They took out three thousand words and printed it on scrap and waste in Cardiff—a thousand copies to go into the mines in a man’s breeches.
London began to eat the three-shilling edition; every fop had it—for grins and wit and the sauce that could be flung at this man, Paine. “’Od’s blood,” they would say. “Listen to the beast go at the pater!” Walpole had it, Pitt had it, Burke and Fox—and they didn’t joke. At White’s, the Duke of Devonshire, who lived more of his ducal life at the gambling tables than anywhere else, kept an open copy of Paine’s book beside him, tearing leaves from it whenever he needed to light his pipe. Lord Grenville, the Foreign Secretary, read the book, tore it to
shreds, and made a mental note to hang the writer. But the Tory government, after they had collectively flushed through their first passion of rage, held a meeting at which Pitt arose and said firmly, thinking perhaps of his father, who had not desired to lose America, or thinking perhaps only of the Tory government:
“For the time being, gentlemen, we will do nothing at all. A book, even a scurrilous rag, which costs three shillings can do no harm unless we publicize it enough to make three shillings a price that must be paid.…”
In that they were wrong. Jordan told Paine, “Nothing can account for the way the expensive edition is going. I’ve published books long enough to know the size of the fashionable reading public here—even taking into account the politicians who read it as a chore. There’s a new audience here, an audience that never read a book before, an audience that’s reaching into its pockets and somehow finding three shillings.…”
A weaver, Angus Grey, sought Paine out and said, “And what would you think of weavers, Mr. Paine?”
“I’ve not thought of them. Who are you?”
“Nobody that matters,” the man said—ill-dressed, gaunt, dark-eyed, licking his lips slowly and purposefully. “But we have been reading your book and we have a mind to set things right. If we had a weapon or two, a musket or a little pistol, would there—” He let the question hang in the air.
“There might be,” Paine said.
“And when, Mr. Paine?”
“When the time comes,” Paine said. What more could he say? What more could he say to any of them who approached him, to any of the pinched, starved faces that hungered for a utopia they found in a book, a utopia of which America was the living proof.
And then ten, twenty, fifty thousand of the cheap edition disappeared into the gaping maw of London, Manchester, Sheffield, Liverpool … a fire was burning under England and the muffled reverberations began to be felt.
It came down like a pack of cards, and in the gray of dawn he ran away. It came tumbling down upon his head because he had not understood that no one thing, no one man, no one cause can move the world. When he wrote Common Sense, he told a people already stirred to war, already fiercely indignant, with arms in their hands, why they had roused themselves in their wrath, why they should go on fighting, and what they were fighting for. They had behind them a hundred years of armed independence, factual if not political; they had fought the Indians and they had fought the French, and they lived by their arms—and, for the most part, they were religious dissenters, Methodists, Puritans, Congregationalists, even the Catholics and Jews among them had fled to America for freedom.
