THE PHILOSOPHER AND THE FISHWIFE

 

Oil on board, 51cms x 61cms. 2021

 While reading a book about the Scottish Enlightenment I came across an amusing account of an accident that happened to the famous philosopher, David Hume(1711-1776) which he related in a letter to a friend. By this time in his life he was not only a philosopher but a highly regarded historian and his books were read all over Europe. By never marrying and careful budgeting he had managed to amass a modest fortune of one thousand pounds a year, which in those times was enough to keep him in considerable opulence. He was affable, courteous and amusing, so much so that his smiling corpulence was seen as a decoration to all the best dinner tables. The fact that most of Scotland regarded Hume as a shocking atheist was passed over by those that knew and loved him, for if he was an atheist, he wore it lightly.

As a symbol of his affluence he purchased a house in the brand new St. Andrews Square. To get there from the old town, where most of his socialising still took place, was not easy. Edinburgh is a place of crags, ravines and valleys and the great north bridge connecting the black, stinking old town to the new St Andrews Square was yet to be completed. The North Loch had been drained but left a stinking bog polluted by the effluent from tanneries, butchers shambles and the night soil emptied into the numerous closes. Only a narrow path, created by custom and practice, made it's way across this fetid swamp.

The sun had sunk well below the western hills by the time Hume had made his fond good byes and set out carefully across the narrow track. Somewhere along the path he stumbled, or more likely after too much claret, staggered. The stagger became a slide and his body had a hard time keeping up with his legs, which ended thigh deep in the obnoxious mud. He stood there for a moment, swaying and trying to catch his breath. He was glad not to have gone in head first, but every time he tried to move his feet were sucked further into the mud. Night was falling and there was no one about. What was he to do? He needed help to get out of the bog and started shouting "HELP! HELP!" No answer. He had been stranded there for some time when a strange, humped back figure shuffled out of the gloom. As it grew closer he realised with relief that it was a fishwife with her wicker creel on her back.

"Madam! Madam! Oh dear, kind fishwife, please help me out."

Her look of surprise turned to one of contempt.

"I ken you! You're Davy Hume, the infidel. Whit wad I help you for?"

"Madam. Madam, I'm a poor lost soul stuck in the mud. Is it not your Christian duty to help those in distress?

She thought on this.

"Weel, that's true. I'll help ye if you recite the Lords Prayer and the Apostolic Creed."

As it happened, Hume had been brought up in a deeply religious family, which probably initiated  his contempt for religion. He took a deep breath and regurgitated what he  regarded as mumbo-jumbo word perfect and even with commendable feeling. 

He limped and dragged himself up the slope to St Andrews Square. His feet hurt on the sharp, unfinished road as he had lost his shoes to the bog. His fine, silken hose dragged round his ankles encrusted with disgusting filth and his best white breeches were ruined. Fortunately, no one of 'quality' witnessed his passing. Only an old soldier employed as a night watchman on the building site looked up from his blazing fire and touched his bonnet as a sign of respect. 

"A braw nicht for a walk Sur."

Then he turned and stared into the fire. He had seen much stranger and more terrible sights in the shambles of battle.

Etching by John Kay,1742-1826,