‘For my religion, though there be several circumstances that might persuade the world I have none at all, as the general scandal of my profession, the natural course of my studies, the indifferency [impartiality] of my behaviour and discourse in matters of religion, neither violently defending one, nor with that common ardour and contention opposing another; yet in despite hereof I dare, without usurpation, assume the honourable style of a Christian: not that I merely owe this title to the font, my education, or clime wherein I was born, as being bred up either to confirm those principles my parents instilled into my unwary understanding, or by a general consent proceed in the religion of my country: but having, in my riper years, and confirmed judgement, seen and examined all, I find myself obliged by the principles of grace, and the law of mine own reason, to embrace no other name but this; neither doth herein my zeal so far make me forget the general charity I owe unto humanity, as rather to hate than pity Turks, infidels, and (what is worse) Jews, rather contenting myself to enjoy that happy stile, than maligning those who refuse so glorious a title.’
There is always a danger in using the words of others. Whatever is gained by the beauty of the quotation may be lost in the jar of the styles, and the quote itself may be marred. A particularly good style, like a particularly bad style, may be marred by any kind of contrast; good spells and bad spells may both be broken by countercharms. On the other hand a good style may show up whatever it is compared with, and the critic may thus discredit himself by letting the light of the critiqued through. For a critic in my position, that is, of course, almost the best of all possible outcomes: if the reader were to set aside the stumbling suggestions of the present writer to make their own reasonable judgements on the original, his work is done. There is, however, a sufficient reason for inserting this sample of Browne’s stately prose and slow sentences. In it are the essentials of his argument, and it betrays them with such simplicity as might otherwise be lost in the subsequent meanderings of his thoughts. There is something else in it too, if only accidentally: a hint of the kind of caution we must take when striding across the centuries to meet him.
The argument I need not repeat, except to explain it further. As a rational man, he is also a Christian man, and he wants to show that the two are not at odds: that it is not a heresy to be a doctor, nor does reason dilute theology. Here he puts the argument in the form of a defence: he asserts that despite the appearances, he is what he is. He is justifying himself and explaining himself, like a soldier of the mind standing trial for his actions and attitudes. Thus far the argument is straightforward, and exactly what we might expect it to be.
But let us dwell for a moment on this fable of the soldier on trial, for it shall illustrate the peculiarity of Browne’s case. Not to make the soldier too much like the cavalier and bearded antiquarian, let this soldier be clean shaven and tidy; but he has been on campaign for a long time, and there is a heaviness about his brow and dark rings beneath his eyes. His clothes are worn but clean: there are no loose threads, no smears, no stains. I suppose his philosophy is to be as essentially a soldier as he can, to fit his role perfectly. It is a soldier’s duty to uphold order. Is it any less his duty to kill creases than to kill Cossacks, if both are breaking the peace?
Now, with due consideration of the risks, he has availed himself of the postal system, to send a nice note to his mother, and the burden thereof is thus: that he has unfailingly brushed his teeth twice a day, and no eye can testify that it has ever lighted on a stain on his clothes, though, to his dismay, he has not had the chance to wash them for a week: but he wipes each spot of mud so soon as it comes to his ever-vigilant attention. That, further, he has ever regarded the disorderly recreations of his undisciplined companions with scorn and distaste, so that his mother need not worry about him in the slightest; and so on, and so forth.
The collector of the post was a short and portly man with all the signs of a deep British respectability. He delivered the letter as far as the next station, where it was picked up by a tall and quiet collector, who took it to the third station, where it was taken by an absent-minded student filling in for the regular postman; and he, taking a wrong turn, was waylaid by Huns.
The great Attila, the Scourge of God, was notorious throughout the civilised world for his savagery, but he was notorious among his omophagous subjects for his cleanliness, which extended so far as regularly wearing clean clothes and remaining sober amidst the debauchery of his court. Apart from these eccentricities, and a curious delight in reading intercepted postcards, he was every inch a barbarian. When this particular postcard fell into his hands, it caused him a perplexity bordering on amusement. As it happened, his beard was still dripping with the juice of a tough lump of raw flesh, which he had not sat on long enough to soften; his tunic of mouse-skins was, on this occasion, still stained with the filth of a recent massacre, and he was just setting himself to recline on his crude equivalent of a throne, when the missive was brough to him. For a while he puzzled over the dreadfully incriminating comments made by the young dragoon. He did not quite understand the reference to the brushing of teeth, but in its context it sounded suspiciously civil; the comment about wiping stains from his clothes was of course dangerously pretentious, and best buried in oblivion; and as to his obvious antisocial tendencies, it was simply beyond belief for the disingenuous despot: even he, who feared no man’s opinion, sometimes tried to hide it when he felt disinclined to carouse with his soldiery. After a while, he broke out into a snorting chuckle of uncomprehension, looked askance, and filed the postcard away in his saddlebag with the leftover meat. He had decided that this soldier must be a curiosity, whose modest entertainment value resided in his quaint and unparalleled individuality, made, and mangled, by the unfortunate stain of a civilised nature.
Something of the same kind has happened with the physician, if we allow that he really was rather unique, and certainly not tidy to the point of lifelessness, while we are in some respects dissimilar to the Huns. The twentieth-century critics were willing to believe that he was unique and entertaining, if not quite ingenious; but they were blind to the differences between their values and his, and considered what are actually signal successes to be self-incriminations. This cast of enlightened critics found that the central argument kept slipping their minds: it was apparently hard for them to remember that the physician was not out to prove his reasonability in spite of his religion, but rather to prove is religion in spite of his reasonability. They were not bad critics: they proved admirably able to be dazzled by his insights; they had no trouble when it came to paraphrase and précis; but then in a burst of sudden silliness they would cry, “and here he forgets himself, and sinks into superstition”. By superstition, they mean traditional Christianity: and if we allow that sense – though it is hardly reasonable – Browne’s primary purpose is to prove that he is very superstitious.
If this doctor lived in our own day, he would perhaps be more concerned to prove that he is not superstitious – that traditional Christianity is not superstitious. Living when he did, he had to labour against disapproving critics who said that he was not a Christian; but in our own day his project would be to explode these approving critics, who only regret that he is a Christian. Thus we are led to the second reason I have reproduced his opening words in full: it shows in what sense Thomas Browne was a man of his time.
theparsnipoftime 