to meet with him in those books of lives so common with us,—­collections in which a certain number of deceased gentlemen are bound up together, so resembling each other in feature that one might suppose the narratives ground out by some obituary-machine and labelled afterward to suit purchasers.  Even this “sign-post biography,” as the “Quarterly” calls it, Paine has escaped.  He was not a marketable commodity.  There was no demand for him in polite circles.  The implacable hand of outraged orthodoxy was against him.  Hence his memory has lain in the gutter.  Even his friend Joel Barlow left him out of the “Columbiad,” to the great disgust of Clio Rickman, who thought his name should have appeared in the Fifth Book between Washington and Franklin.  Surely Barlow might have found room for him in the following “Epic List of Heroes":—­

  “Wythe, Mason, Pendleton, with Henry joined,
  Rush, Rodney, Langdon, friends of humankind,
  Persuasive Dickinson, the farmer’s boast,
  Recording Thompson, pride of all the host,
  Nash, Jay, the Livingstons, in council great,
  Rutledge and Laurens, held the rolls of fate.”

But no!  Neither author nor authorling liked to have his name seen in company with Thomas Paine.  And when a curious compiler has taken him up, he has held him at arm’s length, and, after eyeing him cautiously, has dropped him like some unclean and noxious animal.

Sixty years ago, Paine’s friends used to say, that, “in spite of some indiscreet writings on the subject of religion,” he deserved the respect and thanks of Americans for his services.  We think that he deserves something more at the present day than this absolute neglect.  There is stuff enough in him for one volume at least.  His career was wonderful, even for the age of miraculous events he lived in.  In America, he was a Revolutionary hero of the first rank, who carried letters in his pocket from George Washington, thanking him for his services.  And he managed besides to write his radical name in large letters in the History of England and of France.  As a mere literary workman, his productions deserve notice.  In mechanics, he invented and put up the first iron bridge of large span in England; the boldness of the attempt still excites the admiration of engineers.  He may urge, too, another claim to our attention.  In the legion of “most remarkable men” these United States have produced or imported, only three have achieved infamy:  Arnold, Burr, and Paine.  What are Paine’s titles to belong to this trio of disreputables?  Only these three:  he wrote the “Age of Reason”; was a Democrat, perhaps an unusually dirty one; and drank more brandy than was good for him.  The “Age of Reason” is a shallow deistical essay, in which the author’s opinions are set forth, it is true, in a most offensive and irreverent style.  As Dr. Hopkins wrote of Ethan Allen,—­

  “One hand was clenched to batter noses,
  While t’other scrawled ’gainst Paul and Moses.”