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David Hume's Deathbed Wit
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During his final illness, Hume imagines what excuses he might make to Charon, ferryman of the dead.
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Source: The Oxford Book of Literary Anecdotes, ed. James Sutherland (Oxford, 1987) ISBN 0192819364
Music: Among the Clouds, by Darren Curtis
Images:
Transcript:
I've always liked reading David Hume, because,
in addition to being very good prose, his
writing seems to crackle with the spark of
humanity and good cheer, qualities not found
in every philosopher's writing.
So I was very pleased to come across this
anecdote of David Hume's final days, in which
he maintained his wit and good cheer in the
face of his imminent death.
His friend, the Scottish printer and naturalist
William Smellie, relates this anecdote from
Hume’s final illness.
Adam Smith observed to Hume that though he
was quite ill, “your cheerfulness is so
great, and your spirit of life so strong,
that I must entertain some faint hopes of
your recovery.”
Mr. Hume answered, “Your hopes are groundless….”
Mr. Smith replied, “If it must be so, you
have at least the satisfaction of leaving
all your friends, your brother’s family
in particular, in great prosperity.”
Mr. Hume said he felt that satisfaction so
sensibly that, a few days before, when reading
Lucian’s Dialogues of the Dead, among all
the excuses which are usually made to Charon
by souls who are backward to be ferried in
his boat over the river Styx, he could not
find one that suited him.
He had no house to furnish, no children to
provide for, nor any enemies upon which he
wished to be revenged.
“I could not well imagine,” said he, “what
excuse I could make to Charon, in order to
obtain a little delay.
I have done every thing of consequence which
I ever meant to do, and I could at no time
expect to leave my relations and friends in
a better situation than that in which I am
now likely to leave them: I, therefore, have
all reason to die contented.”
He then amused himself with some whimsical
excuses which he supposed he might make to
Charon, and with imagining the surly answers
which it might suit the character of Charon
to return to them.
“Upon further consideration,” said he,
“I thought I might say to him, ‘Good Charon,
I have been correcting my works for a new
edition.
Allow me a little time that I may see how
the public receives the alterations.
But Charon would answer, ‘When you have
seen the effect of these, you will be for
making other alterations.
There will be no end of such excuses; so,
honest friend, please step into the boat.’”
But Mr. Hume said, “I might still urge,
‘Have a little patience, my good Charon,
I have been endeavouring to open the eyes
of the public.
If I live a few days longer, I may have the
satisfaction of seeing the downfall of some
of the prevailing systems of superstition.’
But Charon would then lose his temper and
decency.
‘You loitering rogue, that will not happen
these many hundred years.
Do you fancy I will grant you a lease for
so long a term?
Get into the boat this instant, you lazy loitering
rogue!’”
That’s an anecdote of David Hume’s final
weeks, from William Smellie’s book, Literary
and Characteristical Lives.
Thanks for watching today; goodbye.
Scroll down for transcript.
Source: The Oxford Book of Literary Anecdotes, ed. James Sutherland (Oxford, 1987) ISBN 0192819364
Music: Among the Clouds, by Darren Curtis
Images:
Transcript:
I've always liked reading David Hume, because,
in addition to being very good prose, his
writing seems to crackle with the spark of
humanity and good cheer, qualities not found
in every philosopher's writing.
So I was very pleased to come across this
anecdote of David Hume's final days, in which
he maintained his wit and good cheer in the
face of his imminent death.
His friend, the Scottish printer and naturalist
William Smellie, relates this anecdote from
Hume’s final illness.
Adam Smith observed to Hume that though he
was quite ill, “your cheerfulness is so
great, and your spirit of life so strong,
that I must entertain some faint hopes of
your recovery.”
Mr. Hume answered, “Your hopes are groundless….”
Mr. Smith replied, “If it must be so, you
have at least the satisfaction of leaving
all your friends, your brother’s family
in particular, in great prosperity.”
Mr. Hume said he felt that satisfaction so
sensibly that, a few days before, when reading
Lucian’s Dialogues of the Dead, among all
the excuses which are usually made to Charon
by souls who are backward to be ferried in
his boat over the river Styx, he could not
find one that suited him.
He had no house to furnish, no children to
provide for, nor any enemies upon which he
wished to be revenged.
“I could not well imagine,” said he, “what
excuse I could make to Charon, in order to
obtain a little delay.
I have done every thing of consequence which
I ever meant to do, and I could at no time
expect to leave my relations and friends in
a better situation than that in which I am
now likely to leave them: I, therefore, have
all reason to die contented.”
He then amused himself with some whimsical
excuses which he supposed he might make to
Charon, and with imagining the surly answers
which it might suit the character of Charon
to return to them.
“Upon further consideration,” said he,
“I thought I might say to him, ‘Good Charon,
I have been correcting my works for a new
edition.
Allow me a little time that I may see how
the public receives the alterations.
But Charon would answer, ‘When you have
seen the effect of these, you will be for
making other alterations.
There will be no end of such excuses; so,
honest friend, please step into the boat.’”
But Mr. Hume said, “I might still urge,
‘Have a little patience, my good Charon,
I have been endeavouring to open the eyes
of the public.
If I live a few days longer, I may have the
satisfaction of seeing the downfall of some
of the prevailing systems of superstition.’
But Charon would then lose his temper and
decency.
‘You loitering rogue, that will not happen
these many hundred years.
Do you fancy I will grant you a lease for
so long a term?
Get into the boat this instant, you lazy loitering
rogue!’”
That’s an anecdote of David Hume’s final
weeks, from William Smellie’s book, Literary
and Characteristical Lives.
Thanks for watching today; goodbye.
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