It is sad to think that his last hours were embittered for the want of a friend. Washington had long before forgotten him while a prisoner in the Luxembourg. Samuel Adams had condemned him. John Adams has it in his heart to blast his memory, and four years after he is dead writes to Jefferson, "Joel Barlow was about to record Tom Paine as the great author of the American Revolution. If he was, I desire that my name may be blotted out forever from its record." This came from the man who twice deserted his post in the trying hour of his country; once for four months when at the head of the war committee, and once for seven months when president of the nation. It came from the man who said: Jefferson had stolen his ideas from him to put into the Declaration of Independence. "Blotted out," No! John Adams, your name will live forever on the records of your country. You were sometimes a great man. But by the side of Thomas Paine, on the records of your country, you stand thus:
John Adams, Member of Congress, the Colossus of debate, signer of the Declaration of Independence, famous in the world, chief of the war committee, on whom great trusts were imposed, in whom great faith was had, in the first trying crisis of the new nation DESERTED HER. _Brave in his home by the sea._
Thomas Paine, the Junius of England, author of Common Sense and the Declaration of Independence, whose fame is unknown, on whom no trust was imposed by the public, undertakes the business of a world; enlists in the army of Washington, and in the first trying crisis of the new nation, by the inspiration of his pen, SAVED HER. _Bravest when stout hearts fail._
Franklin, the firm friend, has been dead these nineteen years, and many more of the old first friends had gone the same way. His mind now reverts to his home in England, and the religion of his father haunts his affections. He asks to be buried in the Quaker burying-ground, and is refused, lest this act of decency should offend the sanctified followers of Fox. It is as well. The old man's will records, that if this be not granted him on account of his father's religion, he was to be buried on his own farm at New Rochelle. On the 8th of June, 1809, he took his final leave of the world. "I have lived," said he, "an honest and useful life to mankind; my time has been spent in doing good; and I die in perfect composure and resignation to the will of my Creator--God."