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The Archaeological Attitude
“The Gentler View,” Harper’s Weekly (November 25, 1911) : 25
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The archaeological attitude is one of almost perverse optimism. There is something fine in its determination to be interested — a determination shared by so few. On provocation that at times is touching in its slightness the archaeologist exhibits signs of zest and hope. He is the only person who is not cast down by the present state of affairs. He never complains of the deplorable condition of the political parties. It is, of course, within the bounds of possibility that he does not know there are political parties, but this, though prodigal in its elimination of reasons for grumbling, in some way only adds to his happiness. If people speak of things that do not interest him, he flies from them into eons B.C. and no one blames him or calls him to account. When he goes a step farther and combines geology with archaeology, then he is forever immune from depression and ennui. His armor is so complete that it is well-nigh impossible to bore an archaeologist. If people speak of things that do not interest him, he flies from them into eons B.C. and no one blames him or calls him to account. People merely condole with themselves for having sent him to places where he knows they cannot follow.
The archaeologist is satisfied with so little. Just scraps and morsels delight him, and out of them he builds far lovelier things than we who demand completeness and substance before we are happy. Rather soiled and undeniably battered bits of pottery create in his mind exquisite vases made for a quaint purpose, by an artist with able fingers, in an age when all was interesting. Then, too, archaeologists can dig, and any one who has been a child... knows that digging is one of the most engrossing and romantic employments. Then, too, archaeologists can dig, and any one who has been a child — some people never have been, they were only raw adults, but any one who has been a real child — knows that digging is one of the most engrossing and romantic employments. Its possibilities are intoxicating. So that, to be allowed to indulge one’s digging tendencies after one has grown up, and in the daylight, with no harsh criticisms — in fact, with respect shown and protection given — is quite unprecented in its good fortune. To retain to an indefinite age one’s belief in treasure is to be among the favored of men; and if the superstition that pirates were intimately concerned in the depositing of that treasure is scorned by archaeologists, it is only because they have substituted something more richly diverting and deal in nothing less than temples and emperors and Romans and other folk and places of a time when romance reigned.
The word “archaeologist” suggests such a list of advantages that it passes through one’s mind with a tail attached to it, as varied and long as that Marley’s ghost dragged clanking at his heel. Archaeologists can manipulate facts, which is what we all most long to do, sometimes attempt, and are frequently misunderstood or actually punished for doing. But they put the happiest interpretation possible on things just sufficiently fragmentary to give them leeway, and, letting themselves go completely, say, “Perhaps it was thus and thus”; and every one says : “Oh, perhaps it was. Anyway, no one has suggested a nicer idea, so let us say it was.” This is precisely what we would so like to do, we other people who are not archaeologists. But facts battle with us, and people will not accept our favorite interpretation. They say, “It does not stand to reason,” and even though reason is less attractive and less livable they invariably give it the preference.
If a second archaeologist digs in an inconsiderate way and uncovers a fact which proves the first archeologist to be wrong, the other at once admits his error and rises to the height of thanking the second archeologist for correcting him. This sublime and rare trait of admitting that one is in the wrong, quite simply, without any attempt at explanation or any embarrassment at having been proved fallible, is perhaps what gains for the archaeologist his privilege of issuing a frequent ultimatum and always receiving serious attention.
To any one who has been brought up in a country where man has not covered Nature with the patina of his activities, so that he and the land are blended into a mellow memento of worn-out ages, a curious thing happens on first leaving his new country. It is as though all one’s life one had been standing in a glare of light, a light so enveloping that one had not even a shadow of one’s own on which to rest strained eyes — just an unpleasant dazzle, with a sense of having come from nowhere in particular and of having it rather luridly outlined. Then one goes to an old country, and, with the most instant relief, a dimness is felt. Quite suddenly a current seems to flow between you and vague beginnings, passing through a people’s tumults, achievements, rigors, and braveries, until the vast disorder of the world takes on a beautiful chaotic order of its own.
Such a current is so infinitely healing to our strutting little egos. It humbles us with an infinite grace, so that we feel no resentment. Reverence and wonder are civilizing emotions, and to be constantly reminded of the past is to remember that we must let the past speak to the future, and not frustrate its message by tearing down its ruins. That were to be unfair to both.
To have the archaeological attitude is to have a chance at so many kinds of happiness. It prohibits the lauding of the good old times, but it substitutes for that the conviction that all times have great virtues and life takes on a new magic when words, customs, objects, and instincts are seen to be venerable.
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