THE worst religion of the world was the Presbyterianism of Scotland as
it existed in the beginning of the eighteenth century. The Kirk had all
the faults of the Church of Rome without a redeeming feature. The Kirk
hated music, painting, statuary, and architecture. Anything touched with
humanity--with the dimples of joy--was detested and accursed. God was to
be feared--not loved.
Life was a long battle with the Devil. Every desire was of Satan.
Happiness was a snare, and human love was wicked, weak and vain. The
Presbyterian priest of Scotland was as cruel, bigoted and heartless as
the familiar of the Inquisition.
One case will tell it all:
In the beginning of this, the nineteenth century, a boy seventeen
years of age, Thomas Aikenhead, was indicted and tried at Edinburgh for
blasphemy. He had denied the inspiration of the Bible. He had on several
occasions, when cold, jocularly wished himself in hell that he might get
warm. The poor, frightened boy recanted--begged for mercy; but he was
found guilty, hanged, thrown in a hole at the foot of the scaffold,
and his weeping mother vainly begged that his bruised and bleeding body
might be given to her.
This one case, multiplied again and again, gives you the condition of
Scotland when, on the 26th of April, 1711, David Hume was born.
David Hume was one of the few Scotchmen of his day who were not owned
by the church. He had the manliness to examine historical and religious
questions for himself, and the courage to give his conclusions to
the world. He was singularly capable of governing himself. He was a
philosopher, and lived a calm and cheerful life, unstained by an
unjust act, free from all excess, and devoted in a reasonable degree to
benefiting his fellow-men. After examining the Bible he became convinced
that it was not true. For failing to suppress his real opinion, for
failing to tell a deliberate falsehood, he brought upon himself the
hatred of the church.
Intellectual honesty is the sin against the Holy Ghost, and whether God
will forgive this sin or not his church has not, and never will.
Hume took the ground that a miracle could not be used as evidence until
the fact that it had happened was established. But how can a miracle be
established? Take any miracle recorded in the Bible, and how could it be
established now? You may say: Upon the testimony of those who wrote
the account. Who were they? No one knows. How could you prove
the resurrection of Lazarus? Or of the widow's son? How could you
substantiate, today, the ascension of Jesus Christ? In what way could
you prove that the river Jordan was divided upon being struck by the
coat of a prophet? How is it possible now to establish the fact that the
fires of a furnace refused to burn three men? Where are the witnesses?
Who, upon the whole earth, has the slightest knowledge upon this
subject?
He insisted that at the bottom of all good was the useful; that human
happiness was an end worth working and living for; that origin
and destiny were alike unknown; that the best religion was to live
temperately and to deal justly with our fellow-men; that the dogma of
inspiration was absurd, and that an honest man had nothing to fear. Of
course the Kirk hated him. He laughed at the creed.
To the lot of Hume fell ease, respect, success, and honor. While many
disciples of God were the sport and prey of misfortune, he kept steadily
advancing.
Envious Christians bided their time. They waited as patiently as
possible for the horrors of death to fall upon the heart and brain of
David Hume. They knew that all the furies would be there, and that God
would get his revenge.
Adam Smith, author of the "Wealth of Nations," speaking of Hume in his
last sickness, says that in the presence of death "his cheerfulness was
so great, and his conversation and amusements ran so much in the usual
strain, that, notwithstanding all his bad symptoms, many people could
not believe he was dying. A few days before his death Hume said: 'I am
dying as fast as my enemies--if I have any--could wish, and as easily
and tranquilly as my best friends could desire.'"
Col. Edmondstoune shortly afterward wrote Hume a letter, of which the
following is an extract:
"My heart is full. I could not see you this morning. I thought it was
better for us both. You cannot die--you must live in the memory of your
friends and acquaintances; and your works will render you immortal. I
cannot conceive that it was possible for any one to dislike you, or hate
you. He must be more than savage who could be an enemy to a man with the
best head and heart and the most amiable manners."
Adam Smith happened to go into his room while he was reading the above
letter, which he immediately showed him. Smith said to Hume that he was
sensible of how much he was weakening, and that appearances were in many
respects bad; yet, that his cheerfulness was so great and the spirit of
life still seemed to be so strong in him, that he could not keep from
entertaining some hopes.
Hume answered, "When I lie down in the evening I feel myself weaker than
when I arose 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 Mr. Smith, "if it must be so, you have at least the
satisfaction of leaving all your friends, and the members of your
brother's family in particular, in great prosperity."
He replied that he was so sensible of his situation that when he was
reading 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; "and I could not well," said he, "imagine what excuse I could
make to Charon in order to obtain a little delay. I have done everything
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; and I have, therefore, every reason
to die contented."
"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 this, you will be for making other alterations. There will be no
end to such excuses; so, my honest friend, please step into the boat.'
'But,' I might still urge, 'have a little patience, good Charon; I have
been endeavoring 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.' And Charon would then lose all
temper and decency, and would cry out, 'You loitering rogue, that will
not happen these many hundred years. Do you fancy I will grant you a
lease for so long a time? Get into the boat this instant.'"
To the Comtesse de Boufflers, the dying man, with the perfect serenity
that springs from an honest and loving life, writes:
"I see death approach gradually without any anxiety or regret.... I
salute you with great affection and regard, for the last time."
On the 25th of August, 1776, the philosopher, the historian, the
infidel, the honest man, and a benefactor of his race, in the composure
born of a noble life, passed quietly and panglessly away.
Dr. Black wrote the following account of his death:
"Monday, 26 August, 1776.
"Dear Sir: Yesterday, about four o'clock in the afternoon, Mr. Hume
expired. The near approach of his death became evident on the evening
between Thursday and Friday, when his disease became exhaustive, and
soon weakened him so much that he could no longer rise from his bed.
He continued to the last perfectly sensible, and free from much pain
or feeling of distress. He never dropped the smallest expression of
impatience; but when he had occasion to speak to the people about him,
always did it with affection and tenderness.... When he became very
weak, it cost him an effort to speak, and he died in such happy
composure of mind that nothing could exceed it."
Dr. Cullen writes Dr. Hunter on the 17th of September, 1776, from which
the following extracts are made:
"You desire an account of Mr. Hume's last days, and I give it to you
with great pleasure.... It was truly an example _des grands hommes qui
sont morts en plaisantant_; and to me, who have been so often shocked
with the horrors of superstition, 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 passed most of the time in his
drawing-room, admitting the visits of his friends, and with his usual
spirit conversed with them upon literature and politics and whatever
else was 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.... His senses and
judgment did not fail him to the last hour of his life. He constantly
discovered a strong sensibility of the attention and care of his
friends; and midst great uneasiness and languor never betrayed any
peevishness or impatience." (Here follows the conversation with Charon.)
"These are a few particulars which may, perhaps, appear trivial; but to
me, no particulars seem trivial which relate to so great a man. It is
perhaps from trifles that we can best distinguish the tranquilness and
cheerfulness of the philosopher at a time when the most part of mankind
are under disquiet, 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."
The Christians took it for granted that this serene and placid man died
filled with remorse for having given his real opinions, and proceeded to
describe, with every incident and detail of horror, the terrors of his
last moments. Brainless clergymen, incapable of understanding what Hume
had written, knowing only in a general way that he had held their creeds
in contempt, answered his arguments by maligning his character.
Christians took it for granted that he died in horror and recounted the
terrible scenes.
When the facts of his death became generally known to intelligent men,
the ministers redoubled their efforts to maintain the old calumnies,
and most of them are in this employment even unto this day. Finding it
impossible to tell enough falsehoods to hide the truth, a few of the
more intelligent among the priests admitted that Hume not only died
without showing any particular fear, but was guilty of unbecoming
levity. The first charge was that he died like a coward; the next that
he did not care enough, and went through the shadowy doors of the
dread unknown with a smile upon his lips. The dying smile of David Hume
scandalized the believers in a God of love. They felt shocked to see
a man dying without fear who denied the miracles of the Bible; who had
spent a life investigating the opinions of men; in endeavoring to prove
to the world that the right way is the best way; that happiness is
a real and substantial good, and that virtue is not a termagant with
sunken cheeks and hollow eyes.
Christians hated to admit that a philosopher had died serenely without
the aid of superstition--one who had taught that man could not make God
happy by making himself miserable, and that a useful life, after all,
was the best possible religion. They imagined that death would fill such
a man with remorse and terror. He had never persecuted his fellow-men
for the honor of God, and must needs die in despair. They were mistaken.
He died as he had lived. Like a peaceful river with green and shaded
banks he passed, without a murmur, into that waveless sea where life at
last is rest.