IX.—THE BATTLE OF THE PEN.
And on the summer days of '75, that stranger in the brown coat, was
seen walking up and down, in front of the old State House, his great forehead
shown in full sunlight, while with hands placed behind his back, he
went slowly along the pavement.
Then that humble man would stride to his lonely garret, seize the quill,
and scratch down the deep thoughts of his brain! Then forth again, for
a walk in the State House square—up and down under these old trees, he
wanders all the afternoon—at night, there is a light burning in yonder
garret window, burning all night till break of day!
Let us look in that garret window—what see you there?
A rude and neglected room—a little man in a brown coat, sitting beside
an old table, with scattered sheets of paper all about him—the light of an
unsnuffed candle upon his brow—that unfailing quill in his hand!
Ah, my friends, you may talk to me of the sublimity of your battles,
whose poetry is bones and skulls—but for me, there is no battle so awfully
sublime, as one like this, now being fought before our eyes.
A poor, neglected Author, sitting in his garret,—the world, poverty, time,
and space, all gone from him—as with a soul kindled into one steady blaze,
he plies that fast-moving quill. That quill puts down words on that paper,
words that shall burn into the brains of Kings, like arrows winged with fire,
and pointed with vitriol!
Go on brave Author, sitting in your garret alone, at this dead hour—go
on—on through the silent hours—on, and God's blessings fall like breezes
of June upon your damp brow—on, and on, for you are writing the Thoughts
of a Nation into Birth!
For many days, in that year '75, was that little man in a brown coat,
seen walking up and down the State House square—look yonder! There
in you garret, night after night, burns that solitary light—burns and burns
on, till the break of day.
At last the work is done! At last grappling the loose sheets in his
trembling hands—trembling, because feverish with the toil of the brain—
that author goes forth. His book is written, it must now be printed—
scattered to the Homes of America! But look ye—not one printer will
touch the book—not a publisher but grows pale at the sight of those dingy
pages! Because it ridicules the British Pope—ridicules the British Monarchy—because
it speaks out in plain words, that nothing now remains to
be done, but to declare the New World free and Independent!
This shocks the trembling printers; touch such a mass of treasonable
stuff—never! But at last a printer is found—a bold Scotchman, named
Robert Bell—he consents to put these loose pages into type—it is done;
and on the first of January, 1776, Common Sense burst on the People of
the new world! Bursts upon the hearts and homes of America, like a light
from heaven! That book is read by the Mechanic at his bench, the Merchant
at his desk, the Preacher in his pulpit reads it, and scatters its great
truths with the teachings of Revelation!
“It burst from the Press”—says the great Doctor Rush,—“with an
effect which has rarely been produced by types or paper, in any age or
country!”
That book of Common Sense said strange and wonderful things: listen
to it for a moment:—
“But where, say some, is the King of America? I'll tell you, friend, he
reigns above, and doth not make havoc of mankind, like the Royal Brute of
Britain! Yet that we may not appear to be defective in earthly honors, let
a day be solemnly set apart for proclaiming the Charter, let it be brought
forth, placed on the divine law, the Word of God; let a crown be placed
thereon, by which the world may know, that so far as we approve of Monarchy,
that in America the law is King. For as in absolute governments
the king is law, so in free countries the Law ought to be king, and there
ought to be no other. But lest any ill use should afterwards arise, let the
crown at the conclusion of the ceremony, be demolished, and scattered
among the People, whose Right it is!”
Was not that bold language, from a little man in a brown coat, to a great
King, sitting there in his royal halls, at once the Tyrant and the Pope of
America?
Listen to “COMMON SENSE” again:
“A greater absurdity cannot be conceived of, than three millions of
people, running to their sea coast, every time a ship arrives from London,
to know what portion of Liberty they should enjoy.”
Or again—here is a paragraph for George of England to give to the
Archbishops of Canterbury, to be read in all churches after the customary
prayers for the Royal Family:—
“No man,” says Common Sense, “was a warmer wisher for a reconciliation,
than myself, before the fated 19th April, 1775,”—the day of the
Massacre of Lexington—“but the moment the event of that day was made
known, I rejected the hardened, sullen-tempered Pharoah of England
forever; and disdain the wretch, that with the pretended title of Father
of his People, can unfeelingly hear of their slaughter, and composedly sleep
with their blood upon his soul.”
Listen to the manner in which this great work concludes:
* * * Independence is the only bond that can tie us together. * * * * *
Let the names of Whig and Tory be extinct; and let none other be heard
among us, than those of a good citizen; an open and resolute friend: and
a virtuous supporter of the rights of Mankind, and of the Free and Independent
States of America.
Need I tell you, my friends, that this work, displaying the most intimate
knowledge of the resources of America—the nerve of her men, the oak of
her forests, the treasures of her mines,—displaying an insight into the future
greatness of the American Navy, that was akin to Prophecy, need I tell
you, that this work, cutting into small pieces the cobwebs of Kingship and
Courtiership—the pitiful absurdity of America being for one hour dependent
upon Britain—struck a light in every American bosom—was in fact the
great cause and forerunner of the Declaration of Independence!
And is there a heart here that does not throb with emotion, at the
name of the author of that Declaration, Thomas Jefferson, the Statesman-Hero?
And do your hearts throb at the mention of his name, and yet refuse to
pay the tribute of justice to the memory of his brother-patriot, his forerunner
in the work of freedom, the Author-Hero of the Revolution—Thomas
Paine?
