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Paul Hockings, The Amateur Anthropologist in:

Anthropos, page 343 - 356

Anthropos, Volume 115 (2020), Issue 2, ISSN: 0257-9774, ISSN online: 0257-9774, https://doi.org/10.5771/0257-9774-2020-2-343

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ANTHROPOS 113.2018: 395 – 422 Abstract. – The once more-or-less exclusively pastoral Todas of the Nilgiri Mountains in South India still retain vibrant beliefs in gods and goddesses they say once lived among them but thereafter became mountains; they tell also of ancestors who were once living Todas but subsequently became divinities. Beyond such indigenous convictions, Todas have absorbed a plethora of Hindu beliefs and ritual practices. Christian ideology has been propagated among Todas, with foreign-led Christian missionaries succeeded in establishing a breakaway Toda Christian community. But notwithstanding the many divergent sources of Toda religious ideology, the predominant and most public display of Toda ritual activity (apart from among Christian Todas) still centres on their unique sacred dairying cult, despite the rapid decline in the importance of buffaloes in the community’s modern-day economic life. This, together with their exclusively Toda deities and culture heroes seems to suggest a unique ethnic religion, frequently categorized as “non-Hindu.” But demonstrably Indic (therefore, if only loosely, “Hindu”) principles permeate Toda ritual activity. Most notable are the concepts of hierarchy and purity and those of prescribed ritual avoidance coupled with required ritual cooperation. In sum, Toda religion – like the Toda community itself – is at once unique and, at the same time, thoroughly Indic. [South India, Nilgiri Mountains, Toda] Anthony Walker, an Oxford-trained social anthropologist, retired as Professor of Anthropology at the University of Brunei Darussalam in 2011 and now lives in Kandy, Sri Lanka. His peripatetic career has included teaching positions at the Science University of Malaysia in Penang, the National University of Singapore, The Ohio State University, and the University of the South Pacific in Suva, Fiji. – He began his, still-ongoing, field studies with the Todas in 1962 and has also conducted long-term field research (since 1966) on the Tibeto-Burman speaking Lahu peoples of the Yunnan-Indochina borderlands. – For his major publications on the Todas see References Cited. The Todas believe in their Goddess Thekershi (Tö·kisy1). They worship Goddess Thekershi for protection during their eternal (perhaps “mortal” was intended) existence and they also worship God Ayan (Ö·n) to protect them after death. The Todas do not observe idol worship. Todas worship light, fire, mountains, trees, rivers, sky, sun, and moon, which are believed to be the major creations of their Goddess Thekershi.2 1 Introduction In his recent book “Religion. An Anthropological Perspective” (2015: 9), Professor Homayun Sidky, my much esteemed former PhD student at The Ohio State University, claims: “no single definition has been able to capture the entire picture” of the religious phenomenon. “For this reason”, Sidky writes, “some argue that religion is best thought of as a multifaceted phenomenon with many interpenetrating dimensions as opposed to being viewed as a unitary occurrence.” This indeed is my interpretation of religion as understood and practised by the once more-or-less exclusively pastoral Toda community 1 The orthography of Toda in this essay follows that of Murray Emeneau (1957: 19; 1984: 5–49), except that I have added hyphenation where I feel this might assist non-specialists with pronunciation, hence my To·r-θas and Töw-fił̣y, where Emeneau has To·rθas and Töwfił̣y. (Note, however, that I do not add hyphenation to Toda words when quoting directly – as I do frequently – from Emeneau’s various works. Further assistance with the pronunciation of Toda words rendered in Emeneau’s transcription can be had from Tarun Chhabra’s “A Guide for the Transliteration of Toda” in his 2015 book “The Toda Landscape,” pp. xxxvii–xliii. 2 From the pen of Pöḷ-xe·n, son of Mut-iŝky – his name anglicized as Pellican (n. d.) – a member of Ka·s patriclan, first president of the Nilgiri Toda Uplift Society, high school graduate and literate both in Tamil and English. The Diverse Faces of Toda Religion Anthony R. Walker ANTHROPOS 115.2020: 343–355 The Amateur Anthropologist G. W. Willis and his Precursors Paul Hockings Abstract. – The thinkers who founded anthropology and pre‐ history in the nineteenth century were almost entirely untrained in the subject, and indeed had often distinguished themselves in other professions altogether. Their efforts, along with the de‐ velopment of local field clubs in Britain and elsewhere, led to the founding of many museums, regional journals, and to the development of public interest in culture history. G. W. Willis, FSA, a clocksmith and Mayor of Basingstoke, was one exam‐ ple of an amateur who did a great deal of field study during 1920–70 and created a new museum. [Hampshire, antiquarian‐ ism, local museums, origins of anthropology, G. W. Willis] Paul Hockings, Professor Emeritus of Anthropology, Univer‐ sity of Illinois; Adjunct Curator, Field Museum, Chicago; and Editor-in-Chief of Visual Anthropology. He studied Anthropo‐ logy at the Universities of Sydney, Toronto, Chicago, Stanford, and California (Berkeley). – His recent publications include: “Encyclopaedia of the Nilgiri Hills” (2 Vols. New Delhi 2012), and “So Long a Saga. Four Centuries of Badaga Social Histo‐ ry” (New Delhi 2013). E-mail: visualanthro@yahoo.com The R se of the Amateur Many of us tend nowadays to disparage so-called “armchair anthropologists” of the nineteenth cen‐ tury with what a colle gue has called “presentist disdain”; but in doing so we may all too easily overlook how the discipline of anthropology, in‐ cluding prehistory, was initially formalized by just such people. Not only that, but some at least were far from being denizens of the armchair (an earlier equivalent of the modern couch potato). E. B. Ty‐ lor visited Louisiana, Cuba, Mexico, and Central America when young, L. H. Morgan worked with and for the Iroquois, and Frazer voyaged widely in 1 the Mediterranean, to mention just three promi‐ nent examples. Both Tylor and McLennan trav‐ elled outside Europe because of poor health; Pitt- Rivers was seriously ill while in the Crimea. These men were leading thinkers of their time, al‐ though in a sense “amateur” anthropologists. By amateur I simply mean they were “men for whom anthropology was an occasional or avocational ac‐ tivity” (Stocking 1987: 262). But we would be wrong to think that such amateurism died out with the nineteenth century: especially if we recognize that anthropology sensu lato has always included archaeology, then amateur anthropology was alive and well into the middle of the twentieth century, and not just among a few missionaries working in non-Western lands. This article will briefly review the multiple contributions of early amateurs, who were indeed the founders of the discipline, and then look at the substantial achievements of one such person, G. W. Willis, FSA (1877–1970). By early in the twentieth century, the makers of anthropology were now lecturers, professors, or curators of anthropology or archaeology – some of them quite distinguished, but others hardly so – in colleges, universities, an muse ms scattered across the USA, France, Germany, Austria-Hun‐ gary, Scandinavia, and the British Empire. The turn of the century saw Haddon’s path-breaking Torres Straits Expedit on (1898–1899) and the parallel J sup North Pacific Expedition (1897– 1902), the founding of the American Anthropolog‐ ical Association (1902), and the launching of three key journals, American Anthropologist (1888), Anthropos 115.2020 Man (1901), and Anthropos (1906), as well as such foundational ethnographies as “The Todas” (Rivers 1906), “The Veddas” (Seligman and Selig‐ man 1911), and the works of W. Baldwin Spencer and Frank J. Gillen on Central Australia – where a Melbourne biology professor had teamed up with a knowledgeable Irish amateur. Professionalization was now afoot. During the nineteenth century, there had been hardly any aca‐ demic positions, and scarcely anywhere that one could go to study anthropology or prehistory. Paul Broca gave the very first lectures on anthropology, including ethnology, in Paris during that key year 1859. By 1876, Paris already had an École d’an‐ thropologie, thanks to Broca. A few years later, in 1883, Edward B. Tylor began lecturing at Oxford. Sir James G. Frazer (1854–1941) became the very first Professor of Social Anthropology during 1907–1908, albeit at Liverpool, a port city that was hardly a scintillating intellectual center in those early days, as he was the first to admit. Sir Alfred C. Haddon (1855–1940) was a zoologist until the end of the nineteenth century, when he shifted himself into anthropology at Cambridge. Such men were indeed among the founding fa‐ thers of our discipline. Obviously though, the great majority of the early theorists – men, and on‐ ly men, whom we now rather disparagingly label armchair anthropologists1 – were in reality ama‐ teurs who had distinguished themselves in other professions altogether, before getting into anthro‐ pological and prehistoric pursuits. For them there had really been no alternative, as the profession of anthropologist was non-existent; and what they brought to early anthropology was a tremendous diversity of intellectual skills. Thus, [f]or much of the period before the 1880s, it is difficult to talk about “anthropology” as an established field of knowledge and of “anthropologists” as if people be‐ longed to an established “profession.” Anthropology in Britain was centred on the Anthropological Institute, more a [London] club than a scientific establishment ... a peculiar world where “experts” and enthusiastic ama‐ teurs rubbed shoulders briefly once a year ... The practi‐ tioners of anthropology were drawn mostly from the emergent educated middle class of Victorian society ... (Urry 1993: 3f.). Among pioneering Americans we find that Lewis H. Morgan (1818–1881) was an upstate New York 1 This common phrase appears to have originated with the Russian ethnologist Nikolai Miklouho-Maclay (1846–1888), who was a pioneer “participant observer” in Papua (cf. 1982: 322). lawyer. His British contemporary, Sir Henry J. Sumner Maine (1822–1888), was also a distin‐ guished jurist and the founder of comparative ju‐ risprudence. The Scotsman John F. McLennan (1827–1881) was a lawyer too. John Lubbock (lat‐ er Lord Avebury, 1834–1913) was a politician and banker, indeed the son of a banker who was also the Treasurer of the Royal Society; and that son, like his contemporary Edward B. Tylor, had never attended university, but fortunately he had been a childhood neighbor and protégé of Charles Dar‐ win. Sir Herbert Spencer (1820–1903) was a bio‐ logist and broadly (we might say) a multidisci‐ plinary social scientist too. So too was his name‐ sake, W. Baldwin Spencer (1860–1929), whose only earned degree, under Haddon, was a B.Sc. in Biology. Andrew Lang (1844–1912) started off like his fellow Scot, Frazer, as a classicist and po‐ et, but each was to gain great fame as a popular folklorist. A. H. Lane-Fox Pitt-Rivers (1827– 1900), the inventor of archaeological stratigraphy (and father-in-law of John Lubbock), was a lieu‐ tenant-general who became Britain’s first Inspec‐ tor of Ancient Monuments (from 1882; France had a parallel office since 1830). W. Robertson Smith (1846–1894), another Scot, was a defrocked the‐ ologian, trained in mathematics, theology, and Semitic languages, who edited the 9th edition of the “Encyclopædia Britannica” (Baynes and Smith 1875–1889), amongst much else. And there were numerous others one could name, some of them religious dissenters, and all without exception men. Turning to Germany and Switzerland in that pe‐ riod, countries that already had a long tradition of folklore collecting, one notes that Adolf Bastian (1826–1905) was at first a ship’s doctor who trav‐ elled all over the world; Friedrich Ratzel (1844– 1904) was a biologist and geographer; Johann J. Bachofen (1815–1887) was a philosopher of histo‐ ry; and Theodor Waitz (1821–1864) was another philosopher. Leo Frobenius (1873–1938) had no training whatever. Certainly, not one of these scholars was trained in anthropology nor could they have been. In France, where there was a rich prehistoric he‐ ritage waiting to be discovered, it was interested amateurs who, early on, created an evidence-based form of anthropological science there. First and foremost was the Director of Customs at Abbeville, Jacques Boucher (de Crèvecœur) de Perthes (1788– 1868), the first man to establish the existence of humans in the Pleistocene. From 1828 onwards he was locating the first Abbevillean stone tools, flint hand-axes. Those finds seem to have aroused great 344 Paul Hockings Anthropos 115.2020 interest in Western Europe, especially in Britain, but they also met with widespread doubt, because it ap‐ peared that humankind had existed “even before the Flood” of the biblical record, since the tools were associated stratigraphically with the bones of ex‐ tinct mammals. Among other early giants of prehis‐ toric research was Émile Cartailhac (1845–1921) – whose father was, like Boucher de Perthes, an In‐ spector of Customs and whose uncle was the natu‐ ralist Jean Louis Armand de Quatrefages de Bréau. Cartailhac studied law and natural science, but soon became a prehistorian at the Natural History Muse‐ um in Toulouse; in 1882, he became the first person ever to teach prehistoric archaeology. He excavated dolmens in nearby Aveyron, and discovered the Palaeolithic paintings at Niaux cave in 1906. Even more influential was the much older Édouard A. Lartet (1801–1871), who too was trained as a lawyer but, being of independent means, was able to take up prehistory instead, and from 1830 began to explore French caves. He was the man who discov‐ ered and named Pliopithecus (1837) and then Dry‐ opithecus (1856). He went on to establish the basic Palaeolithic chronological framework in 1861, and later explored the key French sites of le Moustier (hence the Mousterian era), la Madelaine (the Mag‐ dalenian) and Aurignac (the Aurignacian). In the same amateur tradition was the Abbé Henri Breuil (1877–1961), a Roman Catholic priest2 who had first explored Périgord in 1897, and ultimately be‐ came known worldwide for his studies of Palae‐ olithic art in Europe and of comparable material in Southern Africa. Some of the leading French theorists came out of medicine: Paul Broca (1824–1880), for exam‐ ple, was a surgeon. J. L. A. de Quatrefages de Bréau (1810–1892), Cartailhac’s uncle, was a zo‐ ologist to begin with, before getting the Chair of Human Anatomy (but called Anthropology!) at the Museum of Natural History in Paris in 1855. Numa D. Fustel de Coulanges (1830–1889), how‐ ever, was a classicist: his major work, “The An‐ cient City” (French edition 1864), had a great in‐ fluence on the most distinguished of all his stu‐ dents, Émile Durkheim (1858–1917). The latter has always been identified as a sociologist, yet he had a pervasive influence on social anthropology, especially on A. R. Radcliffe-Brown and his stu‐ dent A. P. Elkin (two men who early on had been a schoolmaster and a country pastor, respectively). 2 Breuil was ordained in 1900, but then got a dispensation from religious duties from his bishop, initially for four years, but extended for his full lifetime. In summary, “[t]he professionalization of an‐ thropology was not an isolated phenomenon. It was but one manifestation of the changed occupa‐ tional structure – indeed newly defined class sys‐ tem – of nineteenth-century Britain [and indeed of France and Germany too]. Critical to the reordered social hierarchy was the elevated valuation placed on formal, specialized knowledge, which assumed new importance in the determination of individu‐ als’ fortunes” (Kuklick 1991: 27; my comment). The historical context here was in general that “early-nineteenth-century thinking about civiliza‐ tion took place in the shadow of other broad forces of historical change: notably, the Industrial Revo‐ lution, the changing class structure, the revival of traditional Christianity, and the French Revolu‐ tion. Each of these forces made the achievement and maintenance of civilization more problematic; each had the effect of introducing discontinuities into a general universal process …” (Stocking 1987: 10). Once we move into the twentieth century, the leading theorists of the discipline were generally attached to universities or museums or both, as in‐ deed Radcliffe-Brown and Elkin were soon to be. Franz Boas (1858–1942), a German who eventual‐ ly took up a key professorship in New York, was among the first of many Jews (though he did not identify himself as one) who contributed immea‐ surably to the growth of this discipline during the early twentieth century; in part because they helped repudiate the earlier “armchair” specula‐ tion in favor of positivist observations, and in part through a paradigm shift to cultural relativism as the appropriate orientation for ethnological re‐ search – being themselves Simmelian “resident strangers” in a predominantly Christian society. Boas, in particular, emphasized the need for eth‐ nologists to grasp “the native point of view.” This emphasis in American anthropology (which Cush‐ ing had pioneered at Zuñi and which Bronisław Malinowski was soon to put into practice too) could also be traced back to Rudolf Virchow – with whom Boas had worked in 1885. He was a Berlin pathologist who founded social medicine, and who had concluded after a massive physical examination of the incidence of blonde hair, blue eyes, and the head shape of 6,758,827 German schoolchildren (1871–1886) that, contrary to anti- Semitic doctrine, there were no such physical enti‐ ties as a “Jewish race” or an “Aryan race” (Zim‐ merman 1999: 409–410). It is a horrible irony that tens of thousands of those same children were nonetheless destined, in old age, to die in the Ger‐ man gas chambers. The Amateur Anthropologist 345 Anthropos 115.2020 Such formative figures as Boas and his student Kroeber3 in the USA, Rivers and Malinowski in Britain, Mauss and Griaule in France, all held sol‐ id academic positions, “lifelong, remunerated ca‐ reers” (Kuklick 1991: 27). It was otherwise with archaeological excavation, which by its costly na‐ ture often still needed to be supported by rich but amateurish patrons who came from various coun‐ tries of Europe or North America. Particularly no‐ table is the fact that scientific Egyptology was launched almost single-handedly by Sir W. M. Flinders Petrie (1853–1942), a grandson of the ex‐ plorer Matthew Flinders and an exact contempo‐ rary of Haddon, Boas, and Frazer: it was he who became the first Professor of Egyptology in Britain, despite having had no formal training ex‐ cept as a surveyor. His influential student Mar‐ garet A. Murray (1863–1963), a native of Calcut‐ ta, never finished a degree either; but together they pioneered a scientific approach to Egyptology that has proved foundational. Continuing into the early twentieth century, there were other exceptional people, “amateurs” of indisputable worth to our discipline, who either never found permanent academic positions during their lifetimes or simply had what seemed better jobs in other areas. The outstanding example of such a person in the USA was Benjamin Lee Whorf (1897–1941), a chemical engineer who was a security technician in the Hartford Fire Insu‐ rance Company throughout his rather short life. His name is forever associated with formulation of the Sapir-Whorf Hypothesis which, put at its sim‐ plest, argues that the structure of any given lan‐ guage will affect the way in which its speakers think, and that speakers of different languages live in distinct mental worlds. Whorf wrote several seminal works in linguistic theory, along with arti‐ cles about the Nahuatl and Hopi languages. And turning to France once more, one must re‐ call the massive ethnographic and folkloric contri‐ bution of Arnold van Gennep (1873–1957), espe‐ cially his ground-breaking book, “The Rites of Passage” (French edition 1909). He has been rec‐ ognized as the founder of ethnographic work in France itself, and also did much fieldwork in Al‐ geria, but at the same time, he was the last of the amateurs: he scarcely taught, and then only as a wartime job during 1912–1915 at Neuchâtel (which is not in France). 3 Alfred L. Kroeber (1876–1960) received Columbia Univer‐ sity’s first PhD in Anthropology in 1901, and then founded the department at Berkeley. For the next sixty years, he was the doyen of professional anthropologists in California. Italian and German anthropology in the first half of the twentieth century suffered disastrously from the rise of Fascism and “scientific racism,” and one finds that many of the leading theorists in Austria and Italy, even if not sympathetic to those trends, were not trained in anthropology at all. Wilhelm Schmidt (1868–1954), Martin Gusinde (1886–1969), Wilhelm Koppers (1886–1961), Paul Schebesta (1887–1967), and Bernardo Bernardi (1916–2007) were all Catholic mission‐ aries in far-flung lands, and Raffaele Pettazzoni (1883–1959) was a theologian too. Vinigi L. Grot‐ tanelli (1912–1993) was a political scientist. Their diffusionist theorizing is fast becoming a footnote in intellectual history. An Army of Curious Enthusiasts How deep-rooted was the middle-class ama‐ teurism that was, in part, fueling an embryonic an‐ thropology (in a period when colonial exploration was obviously another potent fuel)? From the be‐ ginning of the Industrial Revolution, idiosyncratic, localized inventiveness was at a premium in Eng‐ land particularly. More broadly, amateur investiga‐ tion was a characteristic preoccupation among many Victorians, and it was clear “[t]he public were interested in prehistory, whether their interest sprang from natural science and geology or from the romantic excavations in the Near East” (Daniel 1976: 112). Prehistory, as we have seen, had its origins early in the nineteenth century among am‐ ateur enthusiasts who were scarcely more method‐ ical than grave robbers. One could say that the study began when John Frere, a Cambridge gradu‐ ate, found a Middle Palaeolithic hand axe at Hoxne, in 1797. Such antiquarians were fossick‐ ing around throughout France, the British Isles, and Italy, even in such faraway spots as the Nilgiri Hills of India and scattered sites of the eastern United States (the young Frank Cushing was a prominent aficionado there). The long-established tradition of “pot-hunting” as a recreational pursuit for the rural elite, along with the more respectable activity of ecclesiology, yielded up ancient trea‐ sures, however, more rapidly than it produced seri‐ ous students of Europe’s distant past. “It is no ex‐ aggeration to say that field archaeology was a na‐ tional pastime in early Victorian times” (Daniel 1976: 114). Although excavation of a sort was be‐ ing systematized in Wiltshire by R. Colt Hoare very early in the nineteenth century (30–32), sci‐ entific excavation only began with Lieut.-Gen. Pitt-Rivers and the meticulous work he did on his 2 346 Paul Hockings Anthropos 115.2020 estate at Cranborne Chase, Dorset, during 1881– 1898 (172f.), along with the contemporary work of Flinders Petrie in Egypt (174–177). Yet sometimes scholarly amateurs did emerge, nonetheless. In Britain, the more serious ones were often attracted into local learned societies.4 Even in India and Australia such societies of curi‐ ous amateurs were appearing in Calcutta, Bombay, Madras, Melbourne, and Sydney by the middle of the nineteenth century, and publishing research pa‐ pers in regional journals like the Madras Journal of Literature and Science (1833–1894). The Asiat‐ ic Society of Bengal had already been founded in 1784, and published its own journal (1827–1955). The over-arching national British association was the Society of Antiquaries,5 based in London, which had been established there in 1717, got a royal charter from George II in 1751, and started publishing the journal Archæologia in 1770; other‐ wise nearly all of the provincial British and Irish societies were nineteenth-century developments. While prehistory and more recent local history held widespread interest, the observation of folk‐ ways was another major pursuit; for in the nine‐ teenth century innumerable folkloric practices (“local customs”) could still be observed, even photographed, throughout the British Isles (e.g., Whitlock 1978). George Stocking Jr. has located the source of British interest in that country’s folk‐ lore well before the Society of Antiquaries, though, in … an antiquarian tradition that can be traced to the six‐ teenth century, where it was in fact linked to the tradition out of which ethnology emerged – one of the concerns of the early antiquaries having been to establish a ge‐ nealogical connection between some putative national ancestor and the family of Noah. ... [M]any antiquaries used contemporary oral traditions to supplement the archeological remains of Anglo-Saxon churches, Ro‐ mano-British forts, Celtic burial grounds, and “Druidic” megaliths (Stocking 1987: 53f.; cf. Kendrick 1950). As Western Europe became more urbanized, cu‐ riosity about the countryside increased. “Urban elites experienced, many for the first time, country 4 Many dozens of such societies are listed by Tedder (1911), both in the British Isles and worldwide. The great majority originated during the nineteenth century. 5 There had previously been a College of Antiquaries in Lon‐ don from about 1572 till 1614, when it was suppressed by the King. The Society of Antiquaries of Scotland dates from 1780. The Royal Society of Antiquaries of Ireland (1890) started off as the Kilkenny Archaeological Society in 1849 (Tedder 1911: 318). customs and stories as rural upheavals and rapid industrialization brought thousands [of workers] into cities” (Gottschalk 2013: 227). By the midnineteenth century, “[a]ll over Europe intellectuals and artists sought authenticity and the roots of na‐ tional identity in rural life and culture, appropriat‐ ed, adapted and sometimes invented” (Tombs 2015: 496). It was Thomas Arnold (1795–1842), the famed headmaster of Rugby School, who in‐ troduced the term national identity. “As agricul‐ ture lost its economic centrality, the ‘countryside’ (a nineteenth-century term) inspired a new devo‐ tion as the true essence of England. A range of or‐ ganizations emerged to protect it and its cul‐ ture ...” (Tombs 2015: 495), “to fill the cultural gap between the inhabitants of Brixham Cave and those of Belgrave Square,” as George Stocking quaintly put it (1987: 187). Moreover, “Archaeol‐ ogy seemed to prove once and for all, and in an entirely unexpected way, the widely held doctrine of progress” (Daniel 1976: 116). These broad am‐ ateur interests flourished well into the twentieth century even though, as the Hampshire-born ar‐ chaeologist Stuart Piggott has observed, “The ori‐ gins of the archaeological societies, on a county or a regional basis, and as a part of Victorian social life, seem hardly to have been considered either by historians of that period, or by archaeologists themselves” (1976: 171). The Hampshire Field Club and Archaeological Society is a good example of these, though it was founded later than many (1885). Among others, “county societies of Northamptonshire and Lin‐ colnshire were founded in 1844, the Norfolk Soci‐ ety in 1846 and the Cambrian Society in 1847, the Sussex, Bedfordshire, and Buckinghamshire Ar‐ chaeological Societies in the same year, followed by Lancashire and Cheshire in 1848, Somerset in 1849, Wiltshire in 1853, Surrey in 1854, and Le‐ icestershire in 1855, to mention only some...” (Piggott 1976: 175). Many of these organizations still exist: for well over a century they have pub‐ lished Proceedings, held meetings and excursions, and in most cases were divided into subject sec‐ tions too. The Hampshire organization, for exam‐ ple, still has Archaeology, Historic Buildings, Landscape, and Local History sections; others set up sections dealing with Geology, Palaeontology, or Botany. All were centrally concerned with their local environment,6 and with its modification by culture, in times long past, to become a man-made landscape: “It already has the patina of age. These 6 But they scarcely used the word environment, even though it had acquired its modern sense by 1825–30. The Amateur Anthropologist 347 Anthropos 115.2020 are boundaries legitimized by time, thoroughfares along which people, goods and information flow, buildings with histories about which stories can be told and myths developed, underpinned by be‐ liefs” (Cunliffe 2000: 112). In general, one finds, [t]here was a breath of romanticism in this novel nine‐ teenth-century approach to the countryside, and indeed romanticism had much to contribute to the study of man, by insisting on a more holistic understanding of man ... Romanticism prized human beings in their differences from one another; and for it each society, whatever its geographical and temporal location, was deserving of at‐ tention. It also set a value on the ordinary folk at least as much as on the rulers and other members of the econom‐ ic, military and political élite; for the historical reality of a people – its language, artistic culture, traditions and in‐ stitutions – is essentially moulded by the ordinary folk, whose character it bears. ... So the mentality of romanti‐ cism was in harmony with the principles of liberty, equality and fraternity (Morazé 1976: 269f.). The membership in those regional organizations was made up of landowners, churchmen, physi‐ cians, lawyers, teachers, minor aristocracy, and of‐ ten some merchants and retired colonial officers too, along with a few ladies (as a staid alternative to the thrills of other outdoor diversions, like foxhunting and croquet). There was throughout Victo‐ rian Britain and Ireland a broad middle-class inter‐ est in local cultural history, the sketching of ruins, and the collection of “bygones”; and as the centu‐ ry drew to a close this interest only grew with the appearance of highly popular books by two Scots‐ men, a classicist and a folklorist: Sir James Frazer (his “Golden Bough” [1890/1900]) and Andrew Lang (Urry 1993: 6). In not a few instances, a town or city museum resulted from collections made by such amateur enthusiasts, and this not just in Britain but throughout the Empire, in South Africa, India, and Australia (see, for example, Hockings 2012). Even so, “[t]he rather diffuse and unfocused character of postevolutionary anthro‐ pology may reflect also the limits of its institution‐ alization in this period” (Stocking 1987: 262). The amateur societies focused most attention on what we would call material culture – stone tools, pot‐ tery, churches, earthen rings, etc. – leaving the in‐ terpretation and theorizing to more academic thinkers; yet in Britain anthropology did not be‐ come a university subject until very late in the century (Stocking 1987: 265–268). America was to follow a rather different trajec‐ tory, occasioned perhaps by the quite early profes‐ sionalization of anthropology in the USA, well be‐ fore Boas arrived. It was the magnanimous be‐ quest of an illegitimate Englishman from France, James Smithson, that created in 1846 the vast na‐ tional research institution we find in Washington today. By 1877, the American Museum of Natural History had been opened in New York too. It was from that period that Henry R. Schoolcraft (1793– 1864) and John Wesley Powell (1834–1902) pro‐ moted an ambitious government-supported pro‐ gramme of ethnological research based in Wash‐ ington and focusing on the American Indian. No doubt, there were gifted amateur scientists in the United States in those early days too – of whom Thomas Jefferson and Thomas Edison were the outstanding examples; but in general “such people would become a rare anachronism in the twentieth century. The growing importance of the doctorate, especially after the founding of the Johns Hopkins University [in Baltimore] in 1876, coupled with the influx of scholars educated in European uni‐ versities, effectively extinguished the amateur tra‐ dition in science in the United States” (Morazé 1976: 884). On the European mainland, the development of local museums was, if anything, somewhat in ad‐ vance of the British Isles and the USA, as was the teaching of anthropology as a university subject. Aside from the provincial museums, many Ger‐ man and Austrian cities also developed large mu‐ seums with ethnological and prehistoric collec‐ tions: Berlin and Vienna, for sure, but also Dres‐ den, Bremen, Hamburg, Frankfurt, Leipzig, Mu‐ nich, Zagreb, Basel, and Budapest. In France, Paris was of course the city of great museums, of all sorts. But as early as 1801, J. A. C. Chaptal, a politician and chemist (1756–1832), was setting up provincial museums too in the fifteen largest cities of the French Republic, primarily to display paintings derived from Parisian sources – and these mainly items that had earlier been seized from the aristocracy or church authorities (Pradel 1961: 1029). Early in the nineteenth century, … in the provinces, the renewal of archaeological stud‐ ies with the useful help of learned societies, led to the setting-up of the first clear-cut collections: at Rouen in 1831, then Bourges, Toulouse, Angers. Each large town wanted to safeguard the traces of its past. In a more conservative way, this wish was concretised in the folklore museums special to the Scandinavian coun‐ tries (Denmark from 1807, Bergen in Norway in 1828, Helsingfors in Finland in 1849) where they flourished, evoking the customs, the tools, the livelihood, and lead‐ ing in 1891 to the new formulation of an open-air muse‐ um (Skansen, Stockholm) with entire buildings, mills, 348 Paul Hockings Anthropos 115.2020 farms, churches. By such means, the association in the museum of the landscape with the work of art and the artefact, even with natural specimens and man’s cre‐ ations, began to grow (Cardiff Museum, intended to pro‐ mote Wales, the Musée Arlaten, devoted to Provence, 1896).... (Pradel 1961: 1030f.; transl. P.H.). The acquisitions of such local museums were of necessity quite miscellaneous, and museology as an academic study was unheard of.7 The museums in Britain held finds or donations of medieval ar‐ mour, stone tools, fossils, Romano-British objects, ancient documents, farm equipment, household furnishings, old photos, stuffed animals, coins, church bric-a-brac, and so on. And these museums were important places for the public, for, as the Turkish novelist Orhan Pamuk (winner of the No‐ bel Prize in Literature, 2008) – himself a museum curator – said recently, museums and novels have much in common, as they share a desire to show what is special about ordinary things and thus help people to see matters in a new light. The urban middle class who were the main visitors to muse‐ ums did not simply “gaze” at objects there, but were indirectly invited to make links between those objects and associated ideas, as, for exam‐ ple, when looking at a peasant’s smock. Even to‐ day a museum is a theatre of memory where the visitor enters a democratized space to make of it what he or she will, while gazing on the relics of the past. All provincial European museums ful‐ filled a quite different function than that of the great metropolitan museums of the time: for while the German and Austro-Hungarian museums just mentioned, along with the American Museum of Natural History (1877), the Australian Museum (1827), the South African Museum (1825), the Field Museum (1893), or the Musée du Trocadéro (1878), were all focused on an understanding of the Other, the local European museums, in con‐ trast, were preserving a record of our own ances‐ tors, including the most ancient ones. In the for‐ mer category, the metropolitan museums were usually devoted to natural history as well, thereby implying not so subtly that people presented there as Other were more akin to nature than to civiliza‐ tion, which was lurking just outside the museum’s doors. Not that the British county societies were al‐ ways closely linked to the development of a muse‐ 7 The word does not seem to have come into use in English or French until around 1880–1885. Museography, on the other hand, has a hoary antiquity: that word was first used by Kas‐ par F. Neickel, a wealthy amateur antiquarian of Hamburg, in a book he called “Museographia …” (1727). um. Although museums were good for a rainy day, excursions were a more popular activity with members; and these excursions were not just to view such major sites as Stonehenge but to ex‐ plore local villages, old churches, Iron Age earth‐ en rings, or ruined castles too. Ancient churches were especially attractive in Victorian times, as a visit combined Christian faith and intellectual re‐ spectability in a way that even the most conserva‐ tive could never gainsay. Piggott outlines at some length the rise and decline of the “science” of ec‐ clesiology (1976). Meanwhile “a great strengthening of the secular world view had been quietly going on under the stimulus of continuing scientific advance” (Harris 1968: 109). The idea of progress had been very much in the air since the mid-eighteenth century. Now evolution was becoming the over-arching ex‐ planatory principle: The conditions necessary for the appearance of a scien‐ tific anthropology came together a little before the mid‐ dle of the nineteenth century; a governing principle arose for the interpretation of socio-cultural data, the concept of evolution. Between 1830 and 1840, this emerged everywhere, animating research and reflection in the most diverse areas, biology, sociology, philosophy. It was to give anthropology its first stimulus, and down to the end of the century gave it its unity (Mercier 1966: 29; transl. P.H.). Yet there was friction in the air too, for “to assert that there had been a general movement from sav‐ agery to civilization was to avow that the Biblical account of the origin of institutions was wrong and that history could be understood without call‐ ing upon God as an active historical agent. It was this issue and not evolutionism per se which domi‐ nated the [nineteenth] century” (Harris 1968: 55); and it was followed in the next century by a marked decline in Christian faith across Europe. The 1860s and 1870s proved to be a key period in the growth of local British societies, many of which had originated in the 1840s. For one thing, the network of British and Irish railways was more or less complete by this time, and it allowed for easy travel to innumerable historical sites or inter‐ esting landscapes, as well as to talks and confer‐ ences (Hudson 1981: 43f.). With the economical new macadamization, country roads and coach services had much improved too. Thus, it was pos‐ sible to hold an International Congress of Prehis‐ toric Archaeology in 1868 that started off in Nor‐ wich and finished up in London (the first such congress had been held at Neuchâtel, in 1866). The Amateur Anthropologist 349 Anthropos 115.2020 It was in that period too, that the major works by Darwin, Tylor, Lubbock, Lyell, Bentham and Hooker, Huxley, McLennan, Lewis Morgan, and Herbert Spencer were coming off the presses, to be reviewed and discussed in any number of places. They offered readers a modern, seemingly scientific interpretation of their environment and cultural history while also setting these in a world evolutionary context. At the same time, dilettante books about the British and Irish countryside were legion too: for example, Sir William Wilde, a dis‐ tinguished surgeon and the father of Oscar Wilde,8 reveals himself to have been also something of an antiquarian, naturalist, folklorist, and archaeolo‐ gist in his “Lough Corrib, Its Shores and Islands” (1867); and then there is his wife’s “Ancient Leg‐ ends, Mystic Charms, and Superstitions of Ire‐ land” (J. F. Wilde 1887), to which he contributed. Conveniently, in Britain the Ordnance Survey was now producing large-scale maps of the entire country that made a point of locating all visible historic and prehistoric sites. Of especial perti‐ nence for cultural excursions was the fact that, from the 1840s onwards, the Ordnance Survey concentrated on its County Series in Britain (it was already completed for Ireland), and a start was made on mapping the whole island, county by county, at six inches to the mile (1:10,560). With such detail at hand, getting lost in the countryside now became impossible! Stuart Piggott has suggested rather mis‐ chievously that the very boredom of rural life was another significant stimulus for the county soci‐ eties. He conjured up the sheer intolerable boredom of the winter in country house or rectory, parsonage or gentleman’s place ... and the tour or the excursion allowed one to escape, alone or in congenial company, from rooms grown all too famil‐ iar and relatives far too well known. It also not only al‐ lowed men to escape, but intelligent women, in a society where they were normally expected to find all the amusement they needed in being a pious mother ... or a dutiful daughter of the house (Piggott 1976: 188). Prehistorians and scholarly writers occasionally arose from amongst people with the sort of dilet‐ tante interests that had first attracted them into these local field clubs, as we saw with the Wildes. A common concern was what we would probably call folklore, ethnology, or culture history, along with the natural sciences. A writer on British so‐ cial history has said of such aficionados: 8 Sir William Wilde (1815–1876) had two other legitimate children plus three illegitimate ones: dilettantism embodied! ... the professional historian plays a very small part in the realm of English local history and topography, and this must always be so from the nature of the subject. There will be plenty of room for the amateur for cen‐ turies to come. He [sic] brings to the subject a zest and freshness, and a deep affection, which the overworked professional can rarely achieve. But he must also take his hobby seriously and go on enlarging his horizon and improving his technique to the end of his days (Hoskins 1959: 3, quoted in Hudson 1981: 134). The Museum Curator The above words describe in a nutshell a man whose name surfaces nowhere in the histories of British archaeology or anthropology, so far as I know: he was George W. Willis (1877–1970), a man only known and remembered in the Basingstoke area, in the northern half of Hampshire (Fig. 1). Yet, his life history illustrates how the interests of the Victorian amateurs already mentioned were, early in the twen‐ tieth century, becoming distilled into professional knowledge and the development of local museums that are still a precious part of national heritage in the twenty-first century; even as societies like the Hampshire Field Club continued their work of edu‐ cating schoolchildren and amateur enthusiasts “by bringing together people of common interests, at winter lectures or in summer excursions” (Piggott 1976: 189). Fig. 1: George W. Willis, FSA, in his Basingstoke shop, 1968 (Photo © the author). Mr. Willis (as he was universally known beyond his immediate family; cf. Wren 1997) was the only son of a local man of the same name, George William Willis, who in 1881 had founded a clock‐ making and jewelry firm in the center of Bas‐ ingstoke, just down the street from where his friend Thomas Burberry, the inventor of gabar‐ 3 350 Paul Hockings Anthropos 115.2020 dine, was running a clothes shop that was the birthplace of a modern clothing empire. Willis’s small enterprise, not the only one of its kind in town, came to be known as G. W. Willis & Son. In 1902, the founder died and so his young son, who had already apprenticed with him, took over. He was to remain at the clockmaker’s bench for over seventy years: it was a mentally challenging kind of work that he seemed to enjoy, and he said so. At first, he had his mother and three younger sis‐ ters to support, so the family business was essen‐ tial. Not only did he sell and repair clocks and watches but he prescribed eyeglasses, sold and re‐ paired jewelry, and even had a dentist in atten‐ dance in the shop once a week.9 Outside the shop, Mr. Willis had standing obligations to wind and service large clocks in various country homes or churches nearby. It is not much of an exaggeration to say that he knew everybody in the area, espe‐ cially as the weekly market was held right outside his shop.10 For several centuries, the watch had been the most complex instrument ever to have been manu‐ factured. It should be realized, too, that in the small towns and farming communities of nine‐ teenth-century Britain, a timepiece (or fob-watch), if a man possessed one, was usually the first ma‐ chine that he had actually owned. Many did not even acquire one until late in life, when it was pre‐ sented to them as a mark of their senior stature. It was certainly a possession that was valued and cared for. The rhythms of country work were dic‐ tated by the seasons and the habits of farm ani‐ mals, however, not by any kind of fixed timetable. Only in the shops, breweries, and small factories of towns like Basingstoke and Andover did the bosses begin to expect punctuality and liveliness on the job – which a watch always made easier if one lived beyond the hearing of the church’s or town hall’s chimes. It is not surprising, therefore, that when Basingstoke had a population of barely 10,000 it already had several clockmakers and watch repairers. Mr. Willis had entered into a very stable craft, with a steady local clientele and little development in the nature of the work itself in the days before digital watches. 9 The 1911 Census describes him as “watchmaker, traveller dealer.” 10 The Basingstoke market has been held there weekly since 1086 or even before (on every Wednesday since 1214). The county itself is even more ancient: Hampshire has existed as an administrative unit since before 755 (“Hamtunscir”), and hence is older than any current European state, includ‐ ing England. G. W. Willis had only attended local schools, finishing up at the grammar school, Queen Mary’s (1556–1972), where he had been admitted on a scholarship and had proved to be a remarkably in‐ telligent pupil. This was the same school that in the eighteenth century had educated Gilbert White, the pioneer naturalist from Selborne; and there is much about the approach of the two men to the local environment that is quite similar. White, however, wrote a classic book on the sub‐ ject (1789, but still in print in 2018 from Oxford University Press), whereas Willis never did. That grammar school was the extent of his formal train‐ ing; but after leaving it he read the classics of nineteenth-century science: Lyell, Darwin, Tylor, and much more. As the twentieth century pro‐ gressed, he tried to keep up-to-date through read‐ ing the journals Antiquity, Archæologia, and Pro‐ ceedings of the Hampshire Field Club. He was an autodidact in the tradition of Tylor, Frobenius, and Flinders Petrie. What started off as a hobby, col‐ lecting local marine fossils and flint implements, became a passion that stayed with him throughout his long life. In the company of two like-minded friends, John R. Ellaway and Herbert Rainbow, he spent spare time over the weekends walking across much of northern Hampshire, field by field, using his watchmaker’s eyes to pick up thousands of flint tools and sometimes Romano-British relics, as well as chalk fossils, over the decades. He once told me that his interest in these fossils had been sparked by a local baker, Mr. Gilkes, who had made a respectable collection himself. Mr. Willis published articles occasionally in the Proceedings of the Hampshire Field Club, and more often in the local newspaper, the Hants & Berks Gazette (estab. 1878; nowadays The Gazette).11 As time passed, between the two World Wars, his social position in this small market town ad‐ vanced in several ways. One of his sisters had married a local businessman in 1909; another went off to South Africa. Mr. Willis himself soon be‐ came involved in town politics. In 1923, he was elected an Alderman, and was immediately chosen as Lord Mayor of Basingstoke (1923–24). In 1935, he became a Justice of the Peace, and long served as a Magistrate after that. But although his colleagues had made good-natured jokes about how the Lady Mayoress was of necessity his sis‐ ter, he never married. At the same time as he was 11 A few of his articles can be found in Willis (1972). Includ‐ ed is one article on local prehistory and one on the Roman period. The Amateur Anthropologist 351 Anthropos 115.2020 involved in any number of time-consuming com‐ mittees he continued, along with Ellaway and Rainbow, to build up a collection of disparate ma‐ terials for a local history that began in the Upper Cretaceous Age. In 1931, amidst the economic di‐ saster of the Great Depression, he was able to open the Basingstoke Museum in rooms above the library of the Mechanics’ Institute. It was very much a Victorian institution, with superbly-made airtight display cases holding everything from chalk fossils to the Basingstoke æolipyle, ancient charters from kings and queens, to a large collec‐ tion of Palaeolithic and Neolithic stone tools, “by‐ gones,” and of course rare watches. He remained in charge of all this until his death in 1970. During the period 1946–1969, I knew him very well, and indeed my first job as a teenager was as temporary warden of the Basingstoke Museum. Little did anyone suspect it would lead me into a lifetime of anthropology – something that Mr. Willis would clearly have liked to do too, if only his family’s circumstances had been different. The one event that put his contribution to local history, and especially prehistory, into the lime‐ light was his election in 1945 as a Fellow of the Society of Antiquaries (FSA). Now he attended their meetings in London, and his major contribu‐ tions were beginning to be appreciated beyond Hampshire. He was long an active member of the Hampshire Field Club, and kept in contact with prehistorians of national stature too; particularly O. G. S. Crawford (1886–1957), who grew up in Hampshire and was a good friend, very supportive of the museum from its start. Crawford, the pio‐ neer of aerial archaeology and at the same time ar‐ chaeological officer at the Ordnance Survey from 1920 to 1946, wrote in the Hants & Berks Gazette: The Basingstoke Museum is a good museum. I cannot think of a better one, and I have seen many. There is about it an atmosphere of helpfulness, that puts one in the right frame of mind. Who could be unmoved by the portrait of our oldest resident chipping away at his flint in front of a palaeolithic fire? There are not, as so often, too many exhibits; the labels are concise and written in really good English; they “put their message across” ef‐ fectively (quoted in Wren 1997: 53) The huge collection of Palaeolithic and Neolithic implements, built up over more than three decades, was no doubt the crowning contribution of this museum to British archaeology. During the year 1928 alone, as Willis reported in the Proceed‐ ings of the Hampshire Field Club, he and his two colleagues, without excavation, had found 369 scrapers, along with stone axes, arrowheads, and four other categories of Palaeolithic and Neolithic implement, altogether some 800 acquisitions; and this was not an exceptional year. When Crawford was preparing the Ordnance Survey “Map of Ne‐ olithic Wessex” (1932), he had written to Willis and to all other museum curators in the region, asking for the exact locations of all their Neolithic finds, the idea being to enter everything on this map by means of symbols. Once Mr. Willis had sent in his data for the map, it was reported back to him that not only did the Basingstoke area have the largest concentration of prehistoric stone finds in any part of Britain but that the territory around the town was now showing up on the map as solid black! The northern part of Hampshire is for the most part quite rural, or at least was so until late in the twentieth century, with a dense scattering of vil‐ lages and only two or three small towns amidst rich, rolling farmland. It had been cut from time immemorial by a Roman roadway that ran from northeast to southwest, from Silchester towards Salisbury (Sorbiodunum), and by another Roman road that linked Silchester (Calleva Atrebatum) in the north with Winchester (Venta Belgarum) to the south. These cross-cutting highways, along with the good agricultural land hereabouts, account for the many “Roman” villas in the area, mostly put up by Romanized native nobility. Even more an‐ cient was the Harrow Way, a Neolithic trackway, possibly associated with the ancient tin trade that crossed all of southern England from west to east, from Cornwall to Kent, passing right through An‐ dover and Basingstoke. These had long been the only two local market towns of any size in the area. To the north of them rose the Hampshire Downs, rounded bodies of chalk reaching 974 feet (297 m) at Inkpen Beacon, England’s highest chalk hill (with a gibbet on its summit!). Any number of distinguished gentry had estates in the neighborhood, including the various Dukes of Wellington, Lord George Carnarvon12, and Lord 12 George Edward Stanhope Molyneux Herbert, 5th Earl of Carnarvon (1866–1923), is buried on Inkpen Beacon. He was famous as the financier behind Howard Carter’s dis‐ covery of the tomb of King Tutankhamun. Since Lord Carnarvon only lived for 22 weeks after the tomb’s en‐ trance was found (on November 4, 1922), this gave rise to wild popular theories about the “Curse of the Mummy.” (His huge home at Highclere Castle is nowadays recog‐ nized worldwide as “Downton Abbey,” thanks to British television.) 352 Paul Hockings Anthropos 115.2020 William Portal13. It had also been the home of Jane Austen; and indeed the model for her major novel “Pride and Prejudice” (1796–1797, but pub‐ lished in 1813) was probably Basingstoke soci‐ ety.14 Mr. Willis obviously relished his relationship with this land, its flora, its people, and its ancient culture,15 and did everything he could to spread awareness of what the locality meant in scientific terms and as a public heritage too. In 1951, the County authorities had appointed a professional curator for the museum, but long after that Mr. Willis continued as its Honorary Director. In 1964, he sold the family watch business, but continued to work there daily for the rest of his life because he could not face the boredom that comes with not having anything to do. Although people like Tylor and Frazer had al‐ ready held British university positions for some time, it was only in the first decade of the twen‐ tieth century that courses in anthropology or pre‐ history were formally instituted, and then only at Oxford, Cambridge, and London (Urry 1993: 108f.). There were still no universities, much less departments of archaeology or anthropology, any‐ where near Basingstoke in Mr. Willis’s younger days. The town lay between Reading and Southampton, but it was not till 1926 and 1952, respectively, that “red-brick” universities were es‐ tablished in those two cities. For most of Mr. Willis’s adult life the only institution in this area that did actually concern itself seriously with the environment, prehistory, folklore, and cultural his‐ tory of northern Hampshire was the Basingstoke Museum16; and in this the residents were very for‐ tunate that so much work in collecting, preserva‐ tion, and interpreting was indeed completed over such a long period. When he died, on February 14, 1970, Mr. Willis was ninety-two years old. Already in 1956, the museum which he had tended for so long had been renamed the Willis Museum. In 1983 it was 13 Lord Portal is standing directly behind Winston Churchill in the famous photograph of Stalin, Churchill, and Roo‐ sevelt at Yalta. 14 The young Jane Austen along with her older sister Cassan‐ dra used to dance regularly at the monthly gatherings held in the Assembly Rooms, even as they were checking out the available men. (Like Mr. Willis, Jane Austen never married.) These rooms were right over the Basingstoke Town Hall, exactly where the Willis Museum is now housed (Tomalin 1999: 96f., 104). 15 A very brief ethnographic sketch of the region is given in Hockings (2002). 16 The nearby Andover Museum was not founded until 1981, although there had been a small Borough Museum in that town since late in the 19th century until the 1960s. moved into the Old Town Hall, right opposite his old shop. It has since been able to expand there, and plays a big part today in general education of the town’s population of around 110,000 – that figure had been just under 10,000 a century ago, when Mr. Willis had started to indulge his hobby of weekend fossicking; but the town, 52 miles by rail from London, had become a dormitory suburb for London workers, hence its extraordinary recent expansion. Mr. Willis was definitely a successful populariz‐ er of the local cultural history, by far the most knowledgeable, as well as being a much-respected public servant. Not only did he write many articles for the local paper, but he was ever an active member of the Workers’ Educational Associa‐ tion,17 giving innumerable talks for them and for many other organizations too. In a quite informal way, he was also an inspir‐ ing teacher, and indeed served as a governor of both Queen Mary’s School for Boys and the Girls’ High School. His first curious protégé at the new museum, from 1931 onwards, was Geoffrey Civil, a young schoolmaster. After him, there came a second protégé named John Arlott, later to be‐ come the BBC’s most distinguished cricket com‐ mentator, but who at the time was still a schoolboy at Queen Mary’s. Then there was the author of this article, a later pupil at the same school. I met with Mr. Willis once or twice a week from 1946 till 1951, when I left the town for Sydney University and the department that Radcliffe-Brown had founded there. Mr. Willis not only discussed my occasional field finds, and of course his too, but took me around to a number of prehistoric and Ro‐ mano-British sites in the area,18 and also taught me much about the organization of the museum. When he did not accompany me (he was already in his seventies), he gave detailed instructions on how to get to a wide range of sites on bicycle or horseback.19 Although he never expected a 17 This Association was and is widespread throughout Britain; established in London in 1903. Such associations have also been prominent in the social life of Sweden and the United States. 18 On one occasion we went to Cranborne Chase, to inspect Pitt-Rivers’ archaeological collection. Another time we drove to Selborne, to visit the home of Gilbert White and examine the surroundings that the great naturalist had writ‐ ten about. Mr. Willis proved to have a sharp knowledge of White’s book. We went to the churchyard to visit White’s grave, marked by a small stone that simply gave a date and the initials G W – oddly enough, they were Mr. Willis’s too. 19 I first learnt to ride on a Mongolian wild horse, Equus ca‐ ballus przewalskii, and was quite possibly the only British The Amateur Anthropologist 353 Anthropos 115.2020 teenager to get stuck into heavy books like Tylor’s or Spencer’s, he definitely was feeding me the essence of their writings over a long period20; so that by the time I went to university I knew exact‐ ly what I wanted to study. Mr. Willis had an extensive personal library, and evidently read a great deal in the evenings. One could view him as a prehistorian rather than an archaeologist, inasmuch as he never engaged in excavation but built up a large collection from sur‐ face finds alone. Some would have called him an antiquarian, although it was not a label that I ever heard him use. That term had been in common use though until the early twentieth century, when with academic professionalization such people be‐ came known as ethnologists, archaeologists, or an‐ thropologists, or otherwise local historians and folklorists. But the boundaries remained quite flu‐ id. For, as Roger Smith has noted, “[t]he process by which the sciences became professional – mo‐ nopolized by full-time career scholars in a disci‐ pline, based in a specialist institution, especially academic departments – was complex and varied. The separation between professional and amateur was particularly unclear in archaeology” (1997: 389f.). Mr. Willis was a cultural evolutionist, a po‐ litical independent, and a freethinker, who spent Sundays in the field (he never once mentioned re‐ ligion to me); until, at the age of ninety, he had to give up his small car after being convicted of reck‐ less driving on the A30. He had smashed into two other cars. This article has mainly been concerned with the pervasive contribution of British “amateurism,” but in France, Germany, Scandinavia, America, India, and elsewhere there had been parallel devel‐ opments. The “Société nationale des Antiquaires de France” was established in 1814, two years af‐ ter the American Antiquarian Society was found‐ ed. India, as we have seen, already had the Asiatic boy ever to emulate the Mongolians in this attainment. Smokey, with his short legs, stocky body, and thick grey‐ ish-brown coat, very much resembled the horses in the Ni‐ aux and Lascaux cave art. He had come to Britain in 1939 with a touring Russian circus, but when the war broke out all the animals were sold off while the personnel returned to the Soviet Union. 20 In 1950, the Cambridge archaeologist Miles C. Burkitt turned up at our school one day to give me (and no one else) an informal and totally unexpected oral examination on Prehistory, not for any diploma but just to find out what I knew. Apparently, Mr. Willis had been instrumental in ar‐ ranging this. Shortly afterwards, “Prehistory” was added to the list of subjects that high school students might take for the new General Certificate of Education (GCE, launched in 1951). Society of Bengal from 1784. The comparable German society only came along in 1852. The French anthropologist Jean Poirier has written, “... Folklore studies, long left to amateurs, to local scholars, to learned societies of ‘antiquaries’ – which have done immense work – are from now on an integral part of the ethnological discipline, which seems capable of lending them a stricter scientific rigor on the one hand, and broadening their perspectives on the other” (Poirier 1968: 137 transl. P.H.). References Cited Austen, Jane Pride and Prejudice. A Novel. London: T. Egerton. [2nd Ed.] Baynes, Thomas Spencer, and William Robertson Smith (eds.) The Encyclopaedia Britannica. A Dictionary of Arts, Sciences, and General Literature. Edinburgh: A. and C. 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Neickel, Kaspar Friedrich Museographia oder Anleitung zum rechten Begriff und nützlicher Anlegung der Museorum, oder Raritäten- Kammern. Darinnen gehandelt wird I. von denen Mu‐ seis, Schatz-, Kunst- und Raritäten-Kammern insge‐ mein, welche heutiges Tages grösten theils annoch in vielen Europaeischen Orten gefunden werden …; nebst einem Register. Leipzig: Michael Hubert. Ordnance Survey Map of Neolithic Wessex. Showing the Distribution of Long Barrows, Circles, Habitation Sites, Flint Mines. (Ed. by O. G. S. Crawford.) Southampton: Ordnance Survey Office. [Scale: Four Miles to One Inch] Piggott, Stuart The Origins of the English County Archaeological So‐ cieties. In: S. Piggott, Ruins in a Landscape. Essays in Antiquarianism; pp. 171–195. Edinburgh: Edinburgh University Press. Poirier, Jean Histoire de la pensée ethnologique. In: J. Poirier (dir.), Ethnologie générale; pp. 3–179. Paris: Gallimard. Pradel, Pierre Les musées. In: C. M. D. Samaran (dir.), L’histoire et ses méthodes; pp. 1024–1060. Paris: Gallimard. Rivers, William H. R. The Todas. London: Macmillan. Seligman, Charles G., and Brenda Z. Seligman The Veddas. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Smith, Roger The Norton History of the Human Sciences. New York: W. W. Norton. Stocking, George W., Jr. Victorian Anthropology. New York: The Free Press. 1950 1991 1966 1982 1976 1727 1932 1976 1968 1961 1906 1911 1997 1987 Tedder, Henry Richard Societies, Learned. In: H. Chisholm (ed.), The Ency‐ clopædia Britannica. A Dictionary of Arts, Sciences, Literature, and General Information. Vol. 25: Shuválov–Subliminal Self; pp. 309–319. New York: Encyclopædia Britannica. [11th Ed.] Tomalin, Claire Jane Austen. A Life. New York: Vintage Books. Tombs, Robert The English and Their History. New York: Alfred A Knopf. Urry, James Before Social Anthropology. Essays on the History of British Anthropology. Chur: Harwood Academic Pub‐ lishers. Van Gennep, Arnold Les rites de passage. Étude systématique des rites de la porte et du seuil, de l’hospitalité, de l’adoption, de la grossesse et de l’accouchement, de la naissance, de l’enfance, de la puberté, de l’initiation, de l’ordination, du couronnement, des fiançailles et du mariage, des fu‐ nérailles, des saisons, etc. Paris: Émile Nourry. White, Gilbert The Natural History and Antiquities of Selborne, in the County of Southampton. With Engravings, and an Ap‐ pendix. London: Printed by T. Bensley, for B. White. Whitlock, Ralph A Calendar of Country Customs. London: B. T. Bats‐ ford. Wilde, J. Francesca Ancient Legends, Mystic Charms, and Superstitions of Ireland. Boston: Ticknor. Wilde, William R. W. Lough Corrib, Its Shores and Islands. With Notices of Loch Mask. Dublin: McGlashan & Gill. Willis, George W. Historical Miscellany of Basingstoke. Essays by G. W. Willis and others. (Collected and Edited by B. Macken‐ zie.) Basingstoke: Crosby Press. Wren, Derek Dear Mr Willis. The Life of G. W. Willis, FSA, JP, Freeman of Basingstoke and Founder of the Willis Mu‐ seum. Basingstoke: Fisher Miller Publishing. Zimmerman, Andrew Anti-Semitism as Skill. Rudolf Virchow’s Schulstatistik and the Racial Composition of Germany. Central Euro‐ pean History 32/4: 409–429. 1911 1999 2015 1993 1909 1789 1978 1887 1867 1972 1997 1999 The Amateur Anthropologist 355 Anthropos 115.2020 In Reaktion auf François Julliens Essay Es gibt keine kulturelle Identität diskutiert dieser Band aus Perspektiven verschiedener Disziplinen Fragen und Probleme der kulturellen Identität in Zeiten neu aufkommender Konfliktlinien der Spätmoderne zwischen offenen und geschlossenen Gesellschaften, Hyperkultur und Kulturessentialismus sowie Kosmopolitismus und Kommunitarismus. Zum einen liegt ein Schwerpunkt auf den theoretischen Deutungen des Konzepts aus Sicht der Politikwissenschaft, Soziologie und Gibt es eine kulturelle Identität? Herausgegeben von Prof. Dr. Yves Bizeul und Dr. Dennis Bastian Rudolf 2020, 286 S., brosch., 59,– € ISBN 978-3-8487-5618-6 (Rechts-)Philosophie, die es von seinem statischen und essentialistischen Gehalt befreien, um praxeologische, dynamische, transformative und kollektive wie individuelle Aspekte miteinzufassen. Zum anderen werden empirische Konstruktionen und Debatten in den Fokus gerückt – von Identitätserzählungen, -repräsentationen und -inszenierungen, über den Einsatz als politischer Kampfbegriff in Diskursen bis hin zur Frage der prinzipiellen Vereinbarkeit kultureller Identitäten mit Demokratie. Gibt es eine kulturelle Identität? Yves Bizeul | Dennis Bastian Rudolf [Hrsg.] Nomos Kulturelle Identität Theoretische Deutungen und empirische Konstruktionen Bestellen Sie im Buchhandel oder versandkostenfrei online unter nomos-shop.de Bestell-Hotline (+49)7221.2104-37 | E-Mail bestellung@nomos.de | Fax (+49)7221.2104-43 Alle Preise inkl. Mehrwertsteuer eLibrary Nomos www.nomos-elibrary.de

Abstract

The thinkers who founded anthropology and prehistory in the nineteenth century were almost entirely untrained in the subject, and indeed had often distinguished themselves in other professions altogether. Their efforts, along with the development of local field clubs in Britain and elsewhere, led to the founding of many museums, regional journals, and to the development of public interest in culture history. G. W. Willis, FSA, a clocksmith and Mayor of Basingstoke, was one example of an amateur who did a great deal of field study during 1920-70 and created a new museum.

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Abstract

Anthropos is the international journal of anthropology and linguistics, founded in 1906 by Wilhelm Schmidt, missonary and member of the Society of the Divine Word (SVD). Its main purpose is the study of human societies in their cultural dimension. In honor of Wilhelm Schmidt‘s legacy, the cultivation of anthropology, ethnology, linguistics, and religious studies remain an essential component oft he Anthropos Institute – the organizational carrier of the journal.

Zusammenfassung

Anthropos - internationale Zeitschrift für Völkerkunde wird vom Anthropos Institut St. Augustin seit 1906 zweimal jährlich herausgegeben. Ursprünglich als Sprachrohr für katholische Missionarsarbeit geplant, gilt sie heute als wichtige Fachzeitschrift der allgemeinen Ethnologie. Sie behandelt sowohl kulturelle als auch sprachliche Themen in mehreren Sprachen, mit Schwerpunkt auf den Völkern des gesamtamerikanischen und afrikanischen Kontinents.