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Letter from Adam Smith , LL.D. to William Strahan , E sq. 2. - David Hume, Letters of David Hume to William Strahan [1756]Edition used:Letters of David Hume to William Strahan, ed. G. Birkbeck Hill (Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1888).
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Letter from Adam Smith, LL.D. to William Strahan, Esq.2.
Nov. 9, 1776. Dear Sir: It is with a real, though a very melancholy pleasure, that I sit down to give you some account of the behaviour of our late excellent friend, Mr Hume, during his last illness. Though in his own judgment his disease was mortal and incurable, yet he allowed himself to be prevailed upon, by the entreaty of his friends, to try what might be the effects of a long journey3. . A few days before he set out he wrote that account of his own life, which, together with his other papers, he has left to your care. My account, therefore, shall begin where his ends. He set out for London towards the end of April, and at Morpeth met with Mr John Home and myself, who had both come down from London on purpose to see him, expecting to have found him at Edinburgh4. . Mr Home returned with him, and attended him, during the whole of his stay in England, with that care and attention which might be expected from a temper so perfectly friendly and affectionate. As I had written to my mother that she might expect me in Scotland, I was under the necessity of continuing my journey. His disease seemed to yield to exercise and change of air; and, when he arrived in London, he was apparently in much better health than when he left Edinburgh1. . He was advised to go to Bath to drink the waters, which appeared for some time to have so good an effect upon him, that even he himself began to entertain, what he was not apt to do, a better opinion of his own health2. . His symptoms however soon returned with their usual violence, and from that moment he gave up all thoughts of recovery, but submitted with the utmost cheerfulness and the most perfect complacency and resignation. Upon his return to Edinburgh, though he found himself much weaker, yet his cheerfulness never abated, and he continued to divert himself, as usual, with correcting his own works for a new edition, with reading books of amusement, with the conversation of his friends; and sometimes in the evening with a party at his favourite game of whist. His cheerfulness was so great, and his conversation and amusements ran so much in their usual strain, that notwithstanding all bad symptoms, many people could not believe he was dying. ‘I shall tell your friend colonel Edmondstone3. ,’ said doctor Dundas to him one day, ‘that I left you much better, and in a fair way of recovery.’ ‘Doctor,’ said he, ‘as I believe you would not choose to tell any thing but the truth, you had better tell him I am dying as fast as my enemies, if I have any, could wish, and as easily and cheerfully as my best friends could desire.’ Colonel Edmondstone soon afterwards came to see him, and take leave of him; and on his way home he could not forbear writing him a letter, bidding him once more an eternal adieu, and applying to him, as to a dying man, the beautiful French verses in which the Abbé Chaulieu, in expectation of his own death, laments his approaching separation from his friend the Marquis de la Fare.4. Mr Hume's magnanimity and firmness were such, that his most affectionate friends knew that they hazarded nothing in talking and writing to him as to a dying man; and that so far from being hurt by this frankness, he was rather pleased and flattered by it. I happened to come into his room while he was reading this letter, which he had just received, and which he immediately showed me. I told him, that though I was sensible how very much he was weakened, and that appearances were in many respects very bad, yet his cheerfulness was still so great, the spirit of life seemed still to be so very strong in him, that I could not help entertaining some faint hopes. He answered, ‘Your hopes are groundless. An habitual diarrhœa of more than a year's standing would be a very bad disease at any age; at my age it is a mortal one. When I lie down in the evening I feel myself weaker than when I rose in the morning; and when I rise in the morning weaker than when I lay down in the evening. I am sensible, besides, that some of my vital parts are affected, so that I must soon die.’ ‘Well,’ said I, ‘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.’ He said that he felt that satisfaction so sensibly, that when he was reading, a few days before, Lucian's Dialogues of the Dead, among all the excuses which are alleged to Charon for not entering readily into his boat, he could not find one that fitted him: he had no house to finish, he had no daughter to provide for, he had no enemies upon whom he wished to revenge himself. ‘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 diverted himself with inventing several jocular excuses, which he supposed he might make to Charon, and with imagining the very 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 alterations1. .” 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 I might still urge, “Have a little patience, good Charon, I have been endeavouring to open the eyes of the public. If I live a few years longer, I may have the satisfaction of seeing the downfall of some of the prevailing systems of superstition.” But Charon would then lose all 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.”’ But though Mr Hume always talked of his approaching dissolution with great cheerfulness, he never affected to make any parade of his great magnanimity. He never mentioned the subject but when the conversation naturally led to it, and never dwelt longer upon it than the course of the conversation happened to require; it was a subject indeed which occurred pretty frequently, in consequence of the inquiries which his friends, who came to see him, naturally made concerning the state of his health. The conversation which I mentioned above, and which passed on Thursday the 8th of August, was the last, except one, that I ever had with him. He had now become so very weak that the company of his most intimate friends fatigued him; for his cheerfulness was still so great, his complaisance and social disposition were still so entire, that when any friend was with him he could not help talking more, and with greater exertion, than suited the weakness of his body. At his own desire, therefore, I agreed to leave Edinburgh, where I was staying partly upon his account, and returned to my mother's house here at Kirkaldy, upon condition that he would send for me whenever he wished to see me2. ; the physician who saw him most frequently, doctor Black3. , undertaking, in the mean time, to write me occasionally an account of the state of his health. On the twenty-second of August, the doctor wrote me the following letter:— 'since my last Mr Hume has passed his time pretty easily, but is much weaker. He sits up, goes down stairs once a day, and amuses himself with reading, but seldom sees any body. He finds that even the conversation of his most intimate friends fatigues and oppresses him, and it is happy that he does not need it; for he is quite free from anxiety, impatience, or low spirits, and passes his time very well with the assistance of amusing books.’ I received, the day after, a letter from Mr Hume himself, of which the following is an extract:—
August 23, 1776. ’My dearest friend,‘I am obliged to make use of my nephew's hand in writing to you, as I do not rise to-day. [There is no man in whom I have a greater confidence than Mr. Strahan, yet have I left the property of that Manuscript to my nephew David, in case by any accident it should not be published within three years after my decease. The only accident I could foresee was one to Mr. Strahan's life, and without this clause my nephew would have had no right to publish it. Be so good as to inform Mr. Strahan of this circumstance. You are too good in thinking any trifles that concern me are so much worth your attention, but I give you entire liberty to make what additions you please to the account of my life.] I go very fast to decline, and last night had a small fever, which I hoped might put a quicker period to this tedious illness; but unluckily, it has in a great measure gone off. I cannot submit to your coming over here on my account, as it is possible for me to see you so small a part of the day; but Dr Black can better inform you concerning the degree of strength which may from time to time remain with me. Adieu.’ [My Dearest Friend,David Hume. P.S. It was a strange blunder to send your letter by the carrier.]1. Three days after I received the following letter from Dr Black:— ’Edinburgh, Monday, August 26, 1776. ’Dear Sir, ‘Yesterday, about four o’clock, afternoon, Mr Hume expired. The near approach of his death became evident in the night between Thursday and Friday, when his disease became excessive, and soon weakened him so much, that he could no longer rise out of his bed. He continued to the last perfectly sensible, and free from much pain or feelings of distress. He never dropt the smallest expression of impatience; but when he had occasion to speak to the people about him, always did it with affection and tenderness. I thought it improper to write to bring you over, especially as I had heard that he had dictated a letter to you, desiring you not to come. When he became very weak it cost him an effort to speak, and he died in such a happy composure of mind that nothing could exceed it1. .’ Thus died our most excellent, and never-to-be-forgotten friend; concerning whose philosophical opinions men will no doubt judge variously, every one approving or condemning them according as they happen to coincide, or disagree with his own; but concerning whose character and conduct there can scarce be a difference of opinion. His temper, indeed, seemed to be more happily balanced, if I may be allowed such an expression, than that perhaps of any other man I have ever known. Even in the lowest state of his fortune, his great and necessary frugality never hindered him from exercising, upon proper occasions, acts both of charity and generosity. It was a frugality founded not upon avarice, but upon the love of independency. The extreme gentleness of his nature never weakened either the firmness of his mind, or the steadiness of his resolutions. His constant pleasantry was the genuine effusion of good-nature and good-humour, tempered with delicacy and modesty, and without even the slightest tincture of malignity, so frequently the disagreeable source of what is called wit in other men. It never was the meaning of his raillery to mortify; and therefore, far from offending, it seldom failed to please and delight even those who were the objects of it. To his friends, who were frequently the objects of it, there was not perhaps any one of all his great and amiable qualities which contributed more to endear his conversation. And that gaiety of temper, so agreeable in society, but which is so often accompanied with frivolous and superficial qualities, was in him certainly attended with the most severe application, the most extensive learning, the greatest depth of thought, and a capacity in every respect the most comprehensive. Upon the whole, I have always considered him, both in his lifetime, and since his death, as approaching as nearly to the idea of a perfectly wise and virtuous man, as perhaps the nature of human frailty will admit1. . I am ever, dear Sir, Most affectionately yours,Adam Smith. CHIEF EVENTS OF THE LIFE OF DAVID HUME
[2.]See post, pp. 346, 348. [3.]See post, p. 319, n. 2. [4.]See post, ib. [1.]See post, p. 321. [2.]See post, p. 323. [3.]Colonel Edmondstoune of Newton had served in the Expedition against France in 1746, when most likely he had become acquainted with Hume. Burton's Hume, i. 212. On Aug. 6, 1776, Hume wrote to John Home the poet:—‘Poor Edmondstoune and I parted to-day with a plentiful effusion of tears; all those Belzebubians1 have not hearts of iron.’ Mackenzie's Life of john Home, i. 65. [4.]‘Colonel Edmondstoune's letter has been preserved, and is as follows:—
Burton's Hume, ii. 510. [1.]Hume's final corrections were sent only thirteen days before his death (post, p. 342). [2.]See post, p. 344, n. 3, for Hume's thrift, in the case of a letter which he sent to Adam Smith. [3.]See post, p. 343, n. 2. [1.]The passages enclosed in brackets, which were not in the letter as published by Adam Smith, are taken from the original in the possession of the Royal Society of Edinburgh. [1.]Dr. W. Cullen wrote to Dr. Hunter on Sept. 17, 1776:—‘You desire an account of Mr. Hume's last days, and I give it you with some pleasure, for though I could not look upon him in his last illness without much concern, yet the tranquillity and pleasantry which he constantly discovered did even then give me satisfaction, and now that the curtain is dropped allows me to indulge the less alloyed reflection. It was truly an example “des grands hommes qui sont morts en plaisantant1 ; ” and to me who have been so often shocked with the horrors of the superstitious on such occasions, the reflection on such a death is truly agreeable. For many weeks before his death he was very sensible of his gradual decay, and his answer to inquiries after his health was several times that he was going as fast as his enemies could wish, and as easily as his friends could desire. He was not however without a frequent recurrence of pain and uneasiness, but he passed most part of the day in his drawing-room, admitted the visits of his friends, and with his usual spirit conversed with them upon literature, politics, or whatever else was accidentally started. In conversation he seemed to be perfectly at ease, and to the last abounded with that pleasantry, and those curious and entertaining anecdotes which ever distinguished him. This however I always considered rather as an effort to be agreeable, and he at length acknowledged that it became too much for his strength. For a few days before his death he became more averse to receive visits; speaking became more and more difficult for him; and for twelve hours before his death his speech failed altogether. His senses and judgment did not fail till the last hour of his life. He constantly discovered a strong sensibility to the attention and care of his friends, and amidst great uneasiness and languor never betrayed any peevishness or impatience.’ After recounting the anecdote about Lucian and the codicil to his will (post, p. 9, n. 10), Dr. Cullen continues:—‘These are a few particulars, which may perhaps appear trifling, but to me no particulars seem trifling that relate to so great a man. It is perhaps from trifles that we can best distinguish the tranquillity and cheerfulness of the philosopher, at a time when the most part of mankind are under disquiet, auxiety, and sometimes even horror. I consider the sacrifice of the cock as a more certain evidence of the tranquillity of Socrates than his Discourse on Immortality’. Thomson's Life of Dr. Cullen, i. 607. [1.]Dr. Blair, in a letter to Strahan dated April 10, 1778, said:—‘Poor David! what an irreparable blank does he make amongst us here. Taking him all in all, we shall never see the like1 Indeed, I cannot but agree with what Adam Smith says of him in the last sentence of his printed letter to you.’ Roseberyms. [3.]Colonel Edmondstoune of Newton had served in the Expedition against France in 1746, when most likely he had become acquainted with Hume. Burton's Hume, i. 212. On Aug. 6, 1776, Hume wrote to John Home the poet:—‘Poor Edmondstoune and I parted to-day with a plentiful effusion of tears; all those Belzebubians1 have not hearts of iron.’ Mackenzie's Life of john Home, i. 65. [4.]‘Colonel Edmondstoune's letter has been preserved, and is as follows:—
Burton's Hume, ii. 510. [1.]Dr. W. Cullen wrote to Dr. Hunter on Sept. 17, 1776:—‘You desire an account of Mr. Hume's last days, and I give it you with some pleasure, for though I could not look upon him in his last illness without much concern, yet the tranquillity and pleasantry which he constantly discovered did even then give me satisfaction, and now that the curtain is dropped allows me to indulge the less alloyed reflection. It was truly an example “des grands hommes qui sont morts en plaisantant1 ; ” and to me who have been so often shocked with the horrors of the superstitious on such occasions, the reflection on such a death is truly agreeable. For many weeks before his death he was very sensible of his gradual decay, and his answer to inquiries after his health was several times that he was going as fast as his enemies could wish, and as easily as his friends could desire. He was not however without a frequent recurrence of pain and uneasiness, but he passed most part of the day in his drawing-room, admitted the visits of his friends, and with his usual spirit conversed with them upon literature, politics, or whatever else was accidentally started. In conversation he seemed to be perfectly at ease, and to the last abounded with that pleasantry, and those curious and entertaining anecdotes which ever distinguished him. This however I always considered rather as an effort to be agreeable, and he at length acknowledged that it became too much for his strength. For a few days before his death he became more averse to receive visits; speaking became more and more difficult for him; and for twelve hours before his death his speech failed altogether. His senses and judgment did not fail till the last hour of his life. He constantly discovered a strong sensibility to the attention and care of his friends, and amidst great uneasiness and languor never betrayed any peevishness or impatience.’ After recounting the anecdote about Lucian and the codicil to his will (post, p. 9, n. 10), Dr. Cullen continues:—‘These are a few particulars, which may perhaps appear trifling, but to me no particulars seem trifling that relate to so great a man. It is perhaps from trifles that we can best distinguish the tranquillity and cheerfulness of the philosopher, at a time when the most part of mankind are under disquiet, auxiety, and sometimes even horror. I consider the sacrifice of the cock as a more certain evidence of the tranquillity of Socrates than his Discourse on Immortality’. Thomson's Life of Dr. Cullen, i. 607. [1.]Dr. Blair, in a letter to Strahan dated April 10, 1778, said:—‘Poor David! what an irreparable blank does he make amongst us here. Taking him all in all, we shall never see the like1 Indeed, I cannot but agree with what Adam Smith says of him in the last sentence of his printed letter to you.’ Roseberyms. [1]‘Edmondstoune was a member of what was called the Ruffian Club; men whose hearts were milder than their manners, and their principles more correct than their habits of life.’ [2]See post, p. 9. [1]‘Dr. Johnson added “something much too rough,” both as to Mr. Hume's head and heart, which I suppress.’ Boswell's Life of Johnson, v. 30. [1]‘In reference to a work so entitled, published at Amsterdam in 1732.’
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