All his life he had been the disinterested friend of man. He had
labored not for money, not for fame, but for the general good. He had
aspired to no office. He had no recognition of his services, but had
ever been content to labor as a common soldier in the army of progress,
confining his efforts to no country, looking upon the world as his field
of action. Filled with a genuine love for the right, he found himself
imprisoned by the very people he had striven to save.

Had his enemies succeeded in bringing him to the block, he would have
escaped the calumnies and the hatred of the Christian world. And let me
tell you how neat they came getting him to the block. He was in prison,
there was a door to his cell--it had two doors, a door that opened in
and an iron door that opened out. It was a dark passage, and whenever
they concluded to cut a man's head off the next day, an agent went along
and made a chalk mark upon the door where the poor prisoner was bound.
Mr. Barlow, the American minister, happened to be with him and the outer
door was shut, that is, open against the wall, and the inner door was
shut, and when the man came along whose business it was to mark the door
for death, he marked this door where Thomas Paine was, but he marked the
door that was against the wall, so when it was shut the mark was inside,
and the messenger of death passed by on the next day. If that had
happened in favor of some Methodist preacher, they would have clearly
seen, not simply the hand of God, but both hands. In this country, at
least, he would have ranked with the proudest names. On the anniversary
of the Declaration, his name would have been upon the lips of all
orators, and his memory in the hearts of all the people.

Thomas Paine had not finished his career. He had spent his life thus
far in destroying the power of kings, and now turned his attention to
the priests. He knew that every abuse had been embalmed in scripture--