by Walter Pater
And yet the Discourse of Vulgar Errors, seeming, as it often does, to be a serious refutation of fairy tales — arguing, for instance, against the literal truth of the poetic statement that “The pigeon hath no gall,” and such questions as “Whether men weigh heavier dead than alive?” being characteristic questions — is designed, with much ambition, under its pedantic Greek title Pseudodoxia Epidemica, as a criticism, a cathartic, an instrument for the clarifying of the intellect. He begins from “that first error in Paradise,” wondering much at “man’s deceivability in his perfection,”— “at such gross deceit.” He enters in this connexion, with a kind of poetry of scholasticism which may interest the student of Paradise Lost, into what we may call the intellectual and moral by-play of the situation of the first man and woman in Paradise, with strange queries about it. Did Adam, for instance, already know of the fall of the Angels? Did he really believe in death, till Abel died? It is from Julius Scaliger that he takes his motto, to the effect that the true knowledge of things must be had from things themselves, not from books; and he seems as seriously concerned as Bacon to dissipate the crude impressions of a false “common sense,” of false science, and a fictitious authority. Inverting, oddly, Plato’s theory that all learning is but reminiscence, he reflects with a sigh how much of oblivion must needs be involved in the getting of any true knowledge. “Men that adore times past, consider not that those times were once present (that is, as our own are) and ourselves unto those to come, as they unto us at present.” That, surely, coming from one both by temperament and habit so great an antiquary, has the touch of something like an influence in the atmosphere of the time. That there was any actual connexion between Browne’s work and Bacon’s is but a surmise. Yet we almost seem to hear Bacon when Browne discourses on the “use of doubts, and the advantages which might be derived from drawing up a calendar of doubts, falsehoods, and popular errors;” and, as from Bacon, one gets the impression that men really have been very much the prisoners of their own crude or pedantic terms, notions, associations; that they have been very indolent in testing very simple matters — with a wonderful kind of “supinity,” as he calls it. In Browne’s chapter on the “Sources of Error,” again, we may trace much resemblance to Bacon’s striking doctrine of the Idola, the “shams” men fall down and worship. Taking source respectively, from the “common infirmity of human nature,” from the “erroneous disposition of the people,” from “confident adherence to authority,” the errors which Browne chooses to deal with may be registered as identical with Bacon’s Idola Tribus, Fori, Theatri; the idols of our common human nature; of the vulgar, when they get together; and of the learned, when they get together.
But of the fourth species of error noted by Bacon, the Idola Specus, the Idols of the Cave, that whole tribe of illusions, which are “bred amongst the weeds and tares of one’s own brain,” Browne tells us nothing by way of criticism; was himself, rather, a lively example of their operation. Throw those illusions, those “idols,” into concrete or personal form, suppose them introduced among the other forces of an active intellect, and you have Sir Thomas Browne himself. The sceptical inquirer who rises from his cathartic, his purging of error, a believer in the supernatural character of pagan oracles, and a cruel judge of supposed witches, must still need as much as ever that elementary conception of the right method and the just limitations of knowledge, by power of which he should not just strain out a single error here or there, but make a final precipitate of fallacy.
And yet if the temperament had been deducted from Browne’s work — that inherent and strongly marked way of deciding things, which has guided with so surprising effect the musings of the Letter to a Friend, and the Urn-Burial — we should probably have remembered him little. Pity! some may think, for himself at least, that he had not lived earlier, and still believed in the mandrake, for instance; its fondness for places of execution, and its human cries “on eradication, with hazard of life to them that pull it up.” “In philosophy,” he observes, meaning to contrast his free-thinking in that department with his orthodoxy in religion — in philosophy, “where truth seems double-faced, there is no man more paradoxical than myself:” which is true, we may think, in a further sense than he meant, and that it was the “paradoxical” that he actually preferred. Happy, at all events, he still remained — undisturbed and happy — in a hundred native prepossessions, some certainly valueless, some of them perhaps invaluable. And while one feels that no real logic of fallacies has been achieved by him, one feels still more how little the construction of that branch of logical inquiry really helps men’s minds; fallacy, like truth itself, being a matter so dependent on innate gift of apprehension, so extra-logical and personal; the original perception counting for almost everything, the mere inference for so little! Yes! “A man may be in as just possession of truth as of a city, and yet be forced to surrender,” even in controversies not necessarily maladroit.
The really stirring poetry of science is not in guesses, or facile divinations about it, but in its larger ascertained truths — the order of infinite space, the slow method and vast results of infinite time. For Browne, however, the sense of poetry which so overmasters his scientific procedure, depends chiefly on its vaguer possibilities; the empirical philosophy, even after Bacon, being still dominated by a temper, resultant from the general unsettlement of men’s minds at the Reformation, which may be summed up in the famous question of Montaigne — Que sçais-je? The cold-blooded method of observation and experiment was creeping but slowly over the domain of science; and such unreclaimed portions of it as the phenomena of magnetism had an immense fascination for men like Browne and Digby. Here, in those parts of natural philosophy “but yet in discovery,” “the America and untravelled parts of truth,” lay for them the true prospect of science, like the new world itself to a geographical discoverer such as Raleigh. And welcome as one of the minute hints of that country far ahead of them, the strange bird, or floating fragment of unfamiliar vegetation, which met those early navigators, there was a certain fantastic experiment, in which, as was alleged, Paracelsus had been lucky. For Browne and others it became the crucial type of the kind of agency in nature which, as they conceived, it was the proper function of science to reveal in larger operation. “The subject of my last letter,” says Dr. Henry Power, then a student, writing to Browne in 1648, the last year of Charles the First, “being so high and noble a piece of chemistry, invites me once more to request an experimental eviction of it from yourself; and I hope you will not chide my importunity in this petition, or be angry at my so frequent knockings at your door to obtain a grant of so great and admirable a mystery.” What the enthusiastic young student expected from Browne, so high and noble a piece of chemistry, was the “re-individualling of an incinerated plant” — a violet, turning to freshness, and smelling sweet again, out of its ashes, under some genially fitted conditions of the chemic art.
Palingenesis, resurrection, effected by orderly prescription — the “re-individualling” of an “incinerated organism” — is a subject which affords us a natural transition to the little book of the Hydriotaphia, or Treatise of Urn-Burial — about fifty or sixty pages — which, together with a very singular letter not printed till after Browne’s death, is perhaps, after all, the best justification of Browne’s literary reputation, as it were his own curiously figured urn, and treasure-place of immortal memory.
In its first presentation to the public this letter was connected with Browne’s Christian Morals; but its proper and sympathetic collocation would be rather with the Urn-Burial, of which it is a kind of prelude, or strikes the keynote. He is writing in a very complex situation — to a friend, upon occasion of the death of a common friend. The deceased apparently had been little known to Browne himself till his recent visits, while the intimate friend to whom he is writing had been absent at the time; and the leading motive of Browne’s letter is the deep impression he has received during those visits, of a sort of physical beauty in the coming
of death, with which he still surprises and moves his reader. There had been, in this case, a tardiness and reluctancy in the circumstances of dissolution, which had permitted him, in the character of a physician, as it were to assist at the spiritualising of the bodily frame by natural process; a wonderful new type of a kind of mortified grace being evolved by the way. The spiritual body had anticipated the formal moment of death; the alert soul, in that tardy decay, changing its vesture gradually, and as if piece by piece. The infinite future had invaded this life perceptibly to the senses, like the ocean felt far inland up a tidal river. Nowhere, perhaps, is the attitude of questioning awe on the threshold of another life displayed with the expressiveness of this unique morsel of literature; though there is something of the same kind, in another than the literary medium, in the delicate monumental sculpture of the early Tuscan School, as also in many of the designs of William Blake, often, though unconsciously, much in sympathy with those unsophisticated Italian workmen. With him, as with them, and with the writer of the Letter to a Friend upon the occasion of the death of his intimate Friend, — so strangely! the visible function of death is but to refine, to detach from aught that is vulgar. And this elfin letter, really an impromptu epistle to a friend, affords the best possible light on the general temper of the man who could be moved by the accidental discovery of those old urns at Walsingham — funeral relics of “Romans, or Britons Romanised which had learned Roman customs” — to the composition of that wonderful book the Hydriotaphia. He had drawn up a short account of the circumstance at the moment; but it was after ten years’ brooding that he put forth the finished treatise, dedicated to an eminent collector of ancient coins and other rarities, with congratulations that he “can daily command the view of so many imperial faces,” and (by way of frontispiece) with one of the urns, “drawn with a coal taken out of it and found among the burnt bones.” The discovery had resuscitated for him a whole world of latent observation, from life, from out-of-the-way reading, from the natural world, and fused into a composition, which with all its quaintness we may well pronounce classical, all the heterogeneous elements of that singular mind. The desire to “record these risen ashes and not to let them be buried twice among us,” had set free, in his manner of conceiving things, something not wholly analysable, something that may be properly called genius, which shapes his use of common words to stronger and deeper senses, in a way unusual in prose writing. Let the reader, for instance, trace his peculiarly sensitive use of the epithets thin and dark, both here and in the Letter to a Friend.
Upon what a grand note he can begin and end chapter or paragraph! “When the funeral pyre was out, and the last valediction over:” “And a large part of the earth is still in the urn unto us.” Dealing with a very vague range of feelings, it is his skill to associate them to very definite objects. Like the Soul, in Blake’s design, “exploring the recesses of the tomb,” he carries a light, the light of the poetic faith which he cannot put off him, into those dark places, “the abode of worms and pismires,” peering round with a boundless curiosity and no fear; noting the various casuistical considerations of men’s last form of self-love; all those whims of humanity as a “student of perpetuity,” the mortuary customs of all nations, which, from their very closeness to our human nature, arouse in most minds only a strong feeling of distaste. There is something congruous with the impassive piety of the man in his waiting on accident from without to take start for the work, which, of all his work, is most truly touched by the “divine spark.” Delightsome as its eloquence is actually found to be, that eloquence is attained out of a certain difficulty and halting crabbedness of expression; the wretched punctuation of the piece being not the only cause of its impressing the reader with the notion that he is but dealing with a collection of notes for a more finished composition, and of a different kind; perhaps a purely erudite treatise on its subject, with detachment of all personal colour now adhering to it. Out of an atmosphere of all-pervading oddity and quaintness — the quaintness of mind which reflects that this disclosing of the urns of the ancients hath “left unto our view some parts which they never beheld themselves” — arises a work really ample and grand, nay! classical, as I said, by virtue of the effectiveness with which it fixes a type in literature; as, indeed, at its best, romantic literature (and Browne is genuinely romantic) in every period attains classical quality, giving true measure of the very limited value of those well-worn critical distinctions. And though the Urn-Burial certainly has much of the character of a poem, yet one is never allowed to forget that it was designed, candidly, as a scientific treatise on one department of ancient “culture” (as much so as Guichard’s curious old French book on Divers Manners of Burial) and was the fruit of much labour, in the way especially of industrious selection from remote and difficult writers; there being then few or no handbooks, or anything like our modern shortcuts to varied knowledge. Quite unaffectedly, a curious learning saturates, with a kind of grey and aged colour most apt and congruous with the subject-matter, all the thoughts that arise in him. His great store of reading, so freely displayed, he uses almost as poetically as Milton; like him, profiting often by the mere sonorous effect of some heroic or ancient name, which he can adapt to that same sort of learned sweetness of cadence with which so many of his single sentences are made to fall upon the ear.
Pope Gregory, that great religious poet, requested by certain eminent persons to send them some of those relics he sought for so devoutly in all the lurking-places of old Rome, took up, it is said, a portion of common earth, and delivered it to the messengers; and, on their expressing surprise at such a gift, pressed the earth together in his hand, whereupon the sacred blood of the Martyrs was beheld flowing out between his fingers. The veneration of relics became a part of Christian (as some may think it a part of natural) religion. All over Rome we may count how much devotion in fine art is owing to it; and, through all ugliness or superstition, its intention still speaks clearly to serious minds. The poor dead bones, ghastly and forbidding: — we know what Shakespeare would have felt about them.— “Beat not the bones of the buried: when he breathed, he was a man!” And it is with something of a similar feeling that Browne is full, on the common and general ground of humanity; an awe-stricken sympathy with those, whose bones “lie at the mercies of the living,” strong enough to unite all his various chords of feeling into a single strain of impressive and genuine poetry. His real interest is in what may be called the curiosities of our common humanity. As another might be moved at the sight of Alexander’s bones, or Saint Edmund’s, or Saint Cecilia’s, so he is full of a fine poetical excitement at such lowly relics as the earth hides almost everywhere beneath our feet. But it is hardly fair to take our leave amid these grievous images of so happy a writer as Sir Thomas Browne; so great a lover of the open air, under which much of his life was passed. His work, late one night, draws to a natural close:— “To keep our eyes open longer,” he bethinks himself suddenly, “were but to act our Antipodes. The huntsmen are up in America!”
What a fund of open-air cheerfulness, there! in turning to sleep. Still, even when we are dealing with a writer in whom mere style counts for so much as with Browne, it is impossible to ignore his matter; and it is with religion he is really occupied from first to last, hardly less than Richard Hooker. And his religion, too, after all, was a religion of cheerfulness: he has no great consciousness of evil in things, and is no fighter. His religion, if one may say so, was all profit to him; among other ways, in securing an absolute staidness and placidity of temper, for the intellectual work which was the proper business of his life. His contributions to “evidence,” in the Religio Medici, for instance, hardly tell, because he writes out of view of a really philosophical criticism. What does tell in him, in this direction, is the witness he brings to men’s instinct of survival — the “intimations of immortality,” as Wordsworth terms them, which were natural with him in surprising force. As was said of Jean Paul, his special subject was the immortality of the
soul; with an assurance as personal, as fresh and original, as it was, on the one hand, in those old half-civilised people who had deposited the urns; on the other hand, in the cynical French poet of the nineteenth century, who did not think, but knew, that his soul was imperishable. He lived in an age in which that philosophy made a great stride which ends with Hume; and his lesson, if we may be pardoned for taking away a “lesson” from so ethical a writer, is the force of men’s temperaments in the management of opinion, their own or that of others; — that it is not merely different degrees of bare intellectual power which cause men to approach in different degrees to this or that intellectual programme. Could he have foreseen the mature result of that mechanical analysis which Bacon had applied to nature, and Hobbes to the mind of man, there is no reason to think that he would have surrendered his own chosen hypothesis concerning them. He represents, in an age, the intellectual powers of which tend strongly to agnosticism, that class of minds to which the supernatural view of things is still credible. The non-mechanical theory of nature has had its grave adherents since: to the non-mechanical theory of man — that he is in contact with a moral order on a different plane from the mechanical order — thousands, of the most various types and degrees of intellectual power, always adhere; a fact worth the consideration of all ingenuous thinkers, if (as is certainly the case with colour, music, number, for instance) there may be whole regions of fact, the recognition of which belongs to one and not to another, which people may possess in various degrees; for the knowledge of which, therefore, one person is dependent upon another; and in relation to which the appropriate means of cognition must lie among the elements of what we call individual temperament, so that what looks like a pre-judgment may be really a legitimate apprehension. “Men are what they are,” and are not wholly at the mercy of formal conclusions from their formally limited premises. Browne passes his whole life in observation and inquiry: he is a genuine investigator, with every opportunity: the mind of the age all around him seems passively yielding to an almost foregone intellectual result, to a philosophy of disillusion. But he thinks all that a prejudice; and not from any want of intellectual power certainly, but from some inward consideration, some afterthought, from the antecedent gravitation of his own general character — or, will you say? from that unprecipitated infusion of fallacy in him — he fails to draw, unlike almost all the rest of the world, the conclusion ready to hand.
