And Along Came Boas: Continuity and Revolution in Americanist Anthropology

AND ALONG CAME BOAS

AMSTERDAM STUDIES IN THE THEORY AND HISTORY OF LINGUISTIC SCIENCE General Editor E. F. K O N R A D K O E R N E R (University of Ottawa)

Series III - STUDIES IN THE HISTORY OF THE LANGUAGE SCIENCES

Advisory Editorial Board Sylvain Auroux (Paris); Ranko Bugarski (Belgrade) Lia Formigari (Rome); John E . Joseph (Edinburgh) Hans-Josef Niederehe (Trier); Emilio Ridruejo (Valladolid) Rosane Rocher (Philadelphia); Vivian Salmon (London) Kees Versteegh (Nijmegen)

Volume 86

Regna Darnell And along came Boas Continuity and revolution in Americanist anthropology

AND ALONG CAME BOAS CONTINUITY AND REVOLUTION IN AMERICANIST ANTHROPOLOGY

REGNA DARNELL University of Western Ontario

JOHN BENJAMINS PUBLISHING COMPANY AMSTERDAM/PHILADELPHIA

The paper used in this publication meets the m i n i m u m requirements of American National Standard for Information Sciences — Permanence of Paper for Printed Library Materials, A N S I Z39.48-I984.

Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data Darnell, Regna. A n d along came Boas : continuity and revolution in Americanist anthropology / Regna Darnell. p. c m . - (Amsterdam studies in the theory and history of linguistic science. Series III, Studies in the history of the language sciences, ISSN 0304-0720; v. 86) Includes bibliographical references and indexes. I. Anthropology-United States--History--2oth century. 2. Boas, Franz, I858-I942. 3. Smithsonian Institution. Bureau of American Ethnology.--History. I. Title. II. Series. GNI7.3.U6D37 I998 98-28940 30I'o973--dc2I CIP ISBN 9 0 272 4574 6 (Eur.) / I 556I9 623 7 (US) (Hb; alk. paper) ISBN 9 0 272 4584 3 (Eur.) / I 556I9 8 9 9 X (US) (Pb; alk. paper) © 2 0 0 0 - John Benjamins B . V . N o part of this book m a y be reproduced in any form, by print, photoprint, microfilm, or any other means, without written permission from the publisher. John Benjamins Publishing Co. · P.O.Box 75577 · I070 A N Amsterdam · The Netherlands John Benjamins North America · P.O.Box 275I9 · Philadelphia P A I9II8-05I9 · U S A

Franz Boas (1858-1942) in 1901 American Philosophical Society. Reprinted with permission

Contents

Frontispiece Preface Introduction: Continuities Across Scientific Revolutions I. T h e Bureau of American Ethnology 1

v xi 1 9

The Development of Professional Anthropology in America

11

2

Government-Sponsored Science 2.1 Joseph Henry and the Smithsonian Institution 2.2 Spencer Baird and the Collection of Specimens 2.3 The Geological Surveys 2.4 The Curtailment of Government Science 2.5 From Geology to Ethnology

19 19 22 24 25 27

3

Constraints of Government Anthropology 3.1 Bureau Archaeology 3.2 Finances of the Bureau 3.3 Applied Anthropology 3.4 The Limitation to the American Indian

31 32 34 36 40

4

The Mapping of North America 4.1 The Myth Concordance 4.2 Linguistic Manuscripts 4.3 Bibliographies 4.4 'Introduction to the Study of Indian Languages' 4.5 The Definition of Linguistic Families 4.6 Brinton's Linguistic Classification 4.7 The Authorship of the Powell Classification

45 47 47 48 50 51 57 60

Contents

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5

Organizing Anthropological Research in America 5.1 Problems in Professional Standards 5.2 Bureau Fieldwork 5.3 Collaboration 5.4 The Missisonary Question 5.5 Powell's Evolutionary Synthesis 5.6 The End of an Era in the Bureau

Π . The Development of Institutional Alternatives 6

Early Attempts at University Anthropology

69 70 73 79 85 87 93 97 99

6.1

Graduate Education in America

100

6.2 6.3 6.4 6.5 6.6

False Starts in Academic Anthropology The University of Pennsylvania Clark University The University of Chicago The Temporary Insufficiency of Academic Anthropology

104 105 107 110 114

7

The 7.1 7.2 7.3

Tradition of Museum Research The Peabody M u s e u m The Bureau and the National Museum Changing Times in the Bureau

117 118 123 125

8

Uneasy Institutional Cooperation 8.1 The Field Columbian Museum 8.2 The American Museum of Natural History 8.3 The University of California, Berkeley

133 133 139 148

9

Boasian University Programs 9.1 Boas's Teaching at Columbia 9.2 The University of Pennsylvania 9.3 Boasian Anthropology at Chicago 9.4 The Geological Survey of Canada 9.5 The Autonomy of Academic Anthropology

157 157 161 166 167 168

Contents Π Ι . Continued Mapping of North America

ix

177

10 Boas and the Bureau of American Ethnology 10.1 From Synonymy to Handbook 10.2 Boas's 'Handbook of American Indian Languages' 10.3 The Myth Concordance 10.4 The Phonetics Committee

179 180 182 192 195

11 Mapping the Languages of California 11.1 'The Handbook of California Indians' 11.2 California Institutional Cooperation

199 202 204

12 Revising the Linguistic Classification 12.1 'Diffusional Cumulation' and 'Archaic Residue' 12.2 The Linguistic Stocks of California 12.3 The Sapir Classification 12.4 Radin and the Genetic Unity of All American Languages

211 217 223 229 241

IV. Boasian Hegemony Consolidated

243

13 Formalizations in the Face of Opposition 13.1 The Establishment of a National Journal 13.2 The American Anthropological Association 13.3 The National Association Becomes Boasian 13.4 The American Folklore Society 13.5 The American Council of Learned Societies 13.6 Confrontations with the Old Establishment 13.7 Boasians in the Bureau

245 246 249 251 254 260 261 265

14 Articulating the Boasian Paradigm 14.1 The Content of the Boasian Paradigm 14.2 Boasian Ethnology 14.3 The Distribution of Folklore Elements 14.4 Boasian Fieldwork 14.5 The Culture Area Concept 14.6 The Critique of Evolution 14.7 The Emphasis on Cultural Wholes

271 273 276 279 280 282 285 288

Contents

χ

14.8 Theoretical Syntheses

290

14.9 Envoi

296

List of Illustrations

299

Illustration Credits

299

List of Figures

300

References

301

Index of Biographical N a m e s

321

Index of Subjects and Terms

327

Preface

I have been thinking about the paradigm shift which produced Boasian anthropology for a long time, at least since 1966 w h e n I began m y M . A . research on the career of Daniel Garrison Brinton, Philadelphia anthropology, Americanist studies at the American Philosophical Society, and the transition between amateur and professional anthropology (Darnell 1967, 1968, 1971c, 1976b, 1988). M y subsequent dissertation work broadened the scope to professionalization more generally and, inevitably, to assessing the role of Franz Boas in 20th-century American anthropology (Darnell 1969, 1971c). Professionalization involved simultaneous change in the character of scholarly networks and the institutions within which anthropological work could be carried out; in practice, it was accompanied by a shift in theoretical framework from cultural evolution to historical particularism. T h e pivotal variable distinguishing amateur from professional proved to be academic training in anthropology. With this credential,fledglingprofessional anthropologists could expect to obtain employment in m u s e u m s and/or universities. T h e academization of Americanist anthropology, then, was the key factor in its professionalization. Without m u c h in the w a y of prior expectations, I discovered substantial continuities from the government-sponsored professional anthropology spearheaded by John Wesley Powell in the Bureau of American Ethnology ( B A E ) after 1879 to Boasian anthropology as I understood it. This seemed to contradict an oral history in which Boas took North American anthropology by storm, importing graduate education on the G e r m a n model and mounting an instantly devastating critique of cultural evolution. I became intrigued by what happened in the interstices of this putative 'scientific revolution' and resolved to attend to the continuities rather than the already well-known discontinuities or revolutions. I found that Boas initially worked within the existing anthropological establishment and adopted m a n y of its characteristic preoccupations, particu-

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larly a commitment to mapping the cultural and linguistic diversity of the continent. Moreover, it w a s closer to 1920 than 1900 before Boasian anthropology could be said to have exerted anything like hegemony over the discipline in North America. T h e telling of this story has precluded the telling of other stories. Powell's anthropology no more arose full-blown from a vacuum than did Boas's. Insofar as the B A E heralded a prior 'scientific revolution' in Americanist anthropology, it too had continuities to earlier work. Similarly, Boasian anthropology diversified into various competing paradigms after the Second World W a r , alongside institutional expansion in universities. Here too there are continuities and cross-fertilizations rather than virtual eclipse. These transitional periods could be approached with the same methods applied here. N o claim is m a d e that the shift from Bureau to Boasian anthropology is unique in its alignment of continuities and discontinuities, only that this 'scientific revolution' is the one explored in these pages. Although Americanist anthropology is generally distinguished from other national traditions, particularly British social anthropology, by its fourfield approach (encompassing prehistoric archaeology, physical anthropology, linguistics, and ethnology or cultural anthropology), I found that neither Boasian anthropology nor its B A E predecessors gave equal attention to these areas. In fact, there were persistent tensions between the scientific and humanistic poles of the discipline and between the forms of institutionalization most receptive to each (Darnell 1996). In this arena, Powell and Boas were of like mind, foregrounding the linguistic/symbolic/humanistic tradition and placing considerably less emphasis on the physical/archaeological/natural science tradition. This held true even though the institutions within which they pursued these humanistic priorities (the B A E and the American M u s e u m of Natural History being the prime examples) were ostensibly committed to more scientific forms of anthropological research. T h e emphasis shared by Powell and Boas will be foregrounded in this interpretation because it is the core of the continuity across paradigm transition which is the problematic of m y argument. Language held the place of honour in the Americanist paradigm which persisted from the B A E to Boasian anthropology on at least two grounds: 1) Language w a s understood to be the symbolic form par excellence, the characteristic which distinguished humans from all other species (and, not entirely incidentally, from the constraints both of biological evolution as

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modelled by Charles Darwin (1809-1882) and social evolution as appropriated by Herbert Spencer). 2) Language provided the most plausible method to classify the otherwise nearly overwhelming cultural diversity of aboriginal North America. Powell and Boas agreed that 'culture' was the appropriate unifying concept for the emerging professional discipline of anthropology and, further, that culture was a mental construct, a symbolic form. Although both were trained in natural science — Powell's first career was in geology and Boas's doctorate was in physics in the materialist tradition of Ernst M a c h (see Ellen et al. 1988 for influences on Malinowski (1884-1942) and Stocking 1996 for the German Volksgeist tradition). Each separated out a sphere for ethnology or anthropology that was unabashedly subjective, particularistic and idealist. Boas's early article "The Study of Geography" (1887), following Wilhelm Dilthey (1833-1911), distinguished Naturwissenschaft from Geisteswissenschaft, i.e., natural science from social or h u m a n science, as requiring fundamentally different methods. His o w n career had m o v e d from physics to geography to ethnology; he justified the latter as requiring historical methods, different from those of the natural sciences but equally valid as forms of knowledge. Powell (1878) m o v e d from geology to ethnology w h e n he argued that land in the arid regions of the American Southwest could not be divided by principles independent of water resources on particular parcels of land. His political enemies were enraged when Powell modelled land use as a relationship between social organization, technology and environment. His insight was not different in kind from that resulting from Boas' sojourn a m o n g the Eskimo of Baffin Island: environment could not determine culture because, in spite of the extremity of their environment, the Eskimo had produced a complex symbolic culture (Boas 1888, Cole 1983). Although I n o w formulate it somewhat differently, I a m still committed to the essential structure of m y initial interpretation. Most of m y work in the intervening three decades has dealt with the interwar period, the classic Boasian synthesis. I have focused on the work of Edward Sapir (Darnell 1986a, b, 1989, 1990a, c; Darnell & Irvine 1994, Darnell, Irvine & Handler, in press) as paramount exemplar of the role of language and symbol at the core of Americanist anthropology (Darnell 1990b, 1992, 1997, forthcoming). In this progression, I have taken for granted m y o w n reading of the emergence of Boasian anthropology and its dominance of the North American discipline

xiv

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until at least the end of the Second World W a r . F r o m the hindsight of a contemporary inheritor of the Boasian tradition, and to establish the continuity of m y o w n work, I wish to return in this volume to the roots, the origins, as it were, of the Americanist anthropology I practice. Since 1969, the place of history of anthropology within the discipline has changed substantially. The postmodernist turn to reflexivity in the humanities and social sciences has m a d e practising anthropologists more conscious of their o w n standpoint(s) and the groundedness of present practices in past histories. History itself has c o m e to be seen as contingent, relative to a standpoint, interpretation rather than direct representation of the past. This link has long been present in the historicist literature of anthropology (e.g., Hallowell 1965, Darnell 1977b, 1974a, H y m e s 1969, 1983). Only in the last decade, however, has its audience within anthropology entered passionately into the debate about h o w our shared past shapes our continuing present and emerging future. A contemporary turn to relativism across the sciences would seem to encourage cross-cultural research attuned to the epistemological premises of socially constructed symbolic cultures and to the ways in which their potential incommensurabilities m a y be transcended through fieldwork in the Boasian/ Americanist m o d e . In practice, however, the anthropological contribution to this potential discourse has been strangely muted as anthropologists themselves appear to reject the possibility of knowing anything that is not a fiction. Meanwhile, analytic philosophy has, at least in some circles, given w a y to a pragmatic history of science as all that can be k n o w n . Although this position would seem to set the stage for conversations across cultural boundaries, Richard Rorty (1979), for example, proudly and self-consciously proclaims his ethnocentrism, restricting the potential conversation to one internal to western philosophy. Everything I have learned, from anthropological theory as from aboriginal North American consultants, tells m e that this need not be so. At the completion of this manuscript, I feel that a myriad of acknowledgements are in order. M y personal take on anthropology is deeply rooted in Philadelphia. I took m y first anthropology course from Frederica de Laguna, one of Boas's last P h . D . students, and got hooked on the idea that scholarship could arise from personal experience, that is, fieldwork in the participantobservation m o d e . A s an undergraduate at Bryn M a w r , I studied history of anthropology with A . Irving ("Pete") Hallowell. A s a graduate student at the

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University of Pennsylvania, working simultaneously with Dell H y m e s and George Stocking, I developed, in sheer self-defense, m y o w n position about the inseparability of the practice of anthropology from the reflexive reading of its history. F r o m Dell H y m e s , as from Pete Hallowell, I learned not to separate history and practice and to honour the detail in the ethnography that anthropologists produce. I acquired at Penn a career-long commitment to acknowledging m y o w n situated position within an historically-constituted tradition. I have written primarily for an audience of anthropologists and exhorted m y colleagues to attend, at least some of us some of the time, to the history of our discipline. I quote a lot — the ethnographic and personal details matter, as does the style of expression. Moreover, our anthropological ancestors were articulate spokespersons for their o w n positions, quite capable of speaking for themselves. In correspondence as well as in published work, they debated, disagreed, tested ideas against one another. Although Powell imposed a certain degree of uniformity on the published work of the Bureau, internal correspondence reveals underlying eddies and currents. T h e former students of Franz Boas certainly did not agree with him on all issues. They are defined as 'Boasian' because their differences took place within a context of shared professional training, personal loyalties within a long-term social network, and overall commitment to Boas's version of anthropology (albeit they did not all always understand this the same way). Viewed from the inside, they were remarkably different; viewed from the outside, they were perceived to present a united front. W h e n in doubt, I present multiple sources shedding light on the same events and personalities. T h e organization of the narrative is not always chronological. Because the emphasis is on institutional frameworks and interactions of scholars around research problems, coherence requires finishing one story before beginning another. The work is divided into four sections which are roughly sequential. Nonetheless, continuities across these periods and emphases are frequent, confirming the postulated gradual and partial nature of the paradigm shift. T h efirstsection deals with anthropology at the Bureau of American Ethnology, the second with the development of alternative institutional frameworks in m u s e u m s and universities, the third with Boasian efforts to continue Bureau projects mapping the cultural and linguistic diversity of aboriginal North America, and the fourth with the syntheses that signalled the

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coming to maturity of Boasian anthropology around 1920. Along with m a n y others, I was enjoined to debate by T h o m a s Kuhn's assertion (1962) that the social sciences were 'pre-paradigmatic', because past theories persisted alongside their successors and no single paradigm dominated at a given point in time. I concluded that K u h n did not follow his o w n logic, that theoretical paradigms are only part of the story. A n adequate history of anthropology, as of any other science, will consist of attention to three major factors: the theories, the institutions within which they are propounded, and the networks of practitioners a m o n g w h o m ideas are set forth and peer judgment is applied. Moreover, the linear process of professionalization occurs once and does not follow the cyclic, supposedly non-cumulative pattern characteristic of scientific theories or paradigms. Joseph Rouse (1987) suggests that it is possible to read K u h n in more than one w a y . There is a conservative sense in which each paradigm exists in isolation from all others and practitioners work without relation to any external matrix of evaluation. In a more radical and interesting w a y , which K u h n m a y not have intended, practitioners exist within an active community testing and disputing paradigmatic claims. It is this give and take within and across paradigms that engages the attention of disciplinary historians seeking ties between theory, social organization and the agency of individual scientists. W e all define ourselves in relation to scientific paradigms which are far from static, holding in tension both continuity and revolution. George Stocking's engagement with m y work has long outlasted his brief formal affiliation with the University of Pennsylvania in 1967, however serendipitous that proved for m e personally. His work challenges anthropologically-grounded historians of anthropology to produce competent history as well as competent anthropology. O n the one hand, this involves standards of archival research; more interesting, however, is the question of interpretation, reading 'beyond the words' of traditional historical documents (Brown & Vibert 1996) to the contexts which generate their multiple and emergent meanings. Also at the University of Pennsylvania, D a n B e n A m o s and Charles Rosenberg welcomed m e to their seminars, on history of folklore and interpretive methods in American history, respectively. I acknowledge Penn's commitment to interdisciplinary research, which permitted m e access to courses and scholarship in folklore, American civilization, communication, and linguistics, as well as in m y h o m e discipline of anthropology. I didn't

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k n o w h o w rare that was until I went elsewhere. The original version profited from readings of part or whole by Igor Kopytoff, R a y m o n d DeMallie, the late John Witthoft, Joel Sherzer, and Margaret C . Blaker. Anthony F. C . Wallace was warmly supportive of this work and its place in anthropology. Bruce Nevin, Judith Irvine and R a y m o n d DeMallie provided collegial support and intellectual challenge at the dissertation stage and have continued to do so to the present day. Konrad Koerner has urged m e to m a k e the full argument of m y dissertation available, with the kind of refraining necessitated by the considerable time elapsed since original production, and to assume that linguists as well as anthropologists will be interested in the story of the coming of age of the Americanist tradition. Keith Basso, Harold Conklin, D o n Fowler, James M . Nyce and Stephen O . Murray have provided critical sounding boards for a long time. Alex Long sent m e back to think a few things over one more time. At the University of Western Ontario, m y collaboration with Lisa Valentine and Allan McDougall has empowered us all within a broadly defined and vibrantly contemporary Americanist tradition. The manuscript in its present form has profited from careful response from Keith Basso, R a y m o n d DeMallie, Konrad Koerner and Stephen O. Murray. I a m grateful for the editorial skills of A n k e de Looper of John Benjamins Publishing C o m p a n y . M y husband Gyorgy Ozoray and m y children — Tracy, Kevin, A d a m and Karin Vanek — have contributed and occasionally resisted in myriad ways that defy concise description. I a m thankful for their presences in m y life. Archivists are the mainstay of any disciplinary history. I would like to thank particularly Murphy D . Smith (then) and Edward C . Carter II (now) of the American Philosophical Society, the late Theodora Kroeber, Alan Dundes, Robert V a n Kemper, and Dale Valory of the University of California, Berkeley, Margaret C . Blaker and R a y m o n d DeMallie (then) of the National Anthropological Archives, and William C . Sturtevant of the Smithsonian Institution. Research has been supported at various times by the Phillips Fund of the American Philosophical Society, the National Science Foundation, the Canada Council, the Social Sciences and Humanities Research Council of Canada, the University of Alberta General Research Fund and the VicePresident's Research Fund of the University of Western Ontario. In Philadelphia, I have cited the Franz Boas and Frank Speck papers at

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the American Philosophical Society (APS), the Daniel Brinton papers at the Van Pelt Library of the University of Pennsylvania ( D G B ) , the archives of the University of Pennsylvania (UPA) and the University of Pennsylvania M u seum ( U M A ) , and the Academy of Natural Sciences of Philadelphia Archives (ANSP). Sources in Washington, D . C , include the National Anthropological Archives at the Smithsonian Institution (BAE) and Archives of the Smithsonian Institution itself (SIA). The papers of Frederick W a r d Putnam are in the Widener Library, Harvard University ( F W P ) . In Chicago, I have cited the Frederick Starr papers at the Newberry Library (SP), the Field M u s e u m of Natural History, Department of Anthropology Archives ( F C M ) , and the University of Chicago Archives at the Regenstein Library ( U C A ) . In Berkeley, I have consulted the University of California Anthropology Department Archives ( U C D A ) , and the Alfred L . Kroeber ( A L K ) and Robert H . Lowie papers ( R H L ) at the Bancroft Library, University of California, Berkeley. William Sturtevant provided m e with access the papers of F. W . Hodge from the Southwest M u s e u m ( S W M ) . I have systematically reviewed the following periodicals, journals and monograph series for the years between 1879 and 1925: American Anthropologist, Journal of American Folklore, International Journal of American Linguistics, BAE Bulletins/Annual Reports, Smithsonian Miscellaneous Collections, Smithsonian Contributions to North American Ethnology, University of California Publications in American Archaeology and Ethnology, Proceedings of the American Philosophical Society, Proceedings of the American Association for the Advancement of Science, Columbia University Contributions to Anthropology, Memoirs of the American Museum of Natural History, Memoirs of the Peabody Museum, and Annual Reports of the Geological Survey of Canada. I have examined university catalogues covering the same years for the following institutions: University of California at Berkeley, University of Chicago, Clark University, Columbia University, Harvard University, University of Pennsylvania, Yale University. Regna Darnell London, Ontario, Canada December 1997

Introduction

Continuities Across Scientific Revolutions

The central problematic in the history of American anthropology, as perceived by American anthropologists, has been the role of Franz Boas. Historical writings by American anthropologists reveal considerable ambivalence about establishing a place relative to the Boasian tradition and simultaneously asserting autonomy from it. Commentaries, depending on the author's point of view, have ranged between extremes of eulogy and depreciation. T o o often the urgency of presentist concerns has compromised standards of historical writing as understood by historians (Stocking 1968: 1-12). Dogged recapitulation of such efforts by anthropologists, however, attests to an on-going concern, however superficial, with problems of the history of the discipline. There is a certain oedipal flavour to all of this; moreover, its permutations appear to run in cycles. The existence of a disciplinary "paradigm" or series of "universally recognized scientific achievements that for a time provide model problems and solutions to a community of practitioners" (Kuhn 1962:x) is confirmed by the intensity with which North American anthropologists have responded to the organization of their discipline around a single founding figure — Franz Boas. The issues fall into two major categories: Early critiques focused on the overpowering entropy of past Boasian hegemony. B y the 1960s, American anthropology seemed to m a n y practitioners to lack consensus about problems for study and methods for their solution. This was particularly poignant for linguistic anthropologists, given the hoop-la over the so-called Chomskian revolution, often cited with varying degrees of hyperbole as the quintessential exemplar of a Kuhnian revolution in the social sciences. A s w e near the millennium, there is perhaps hope of more balanced perspective toward the accomplishments of C h o m s k y as well as those of Boas. In any case, m a n y anthropologists in the 1960s believed that the Boasian tradition had provided the last synthesis capable of encompassing the disci-

2

Introduction

pline as a whole. The profession was m u c h smaller when Boas trained his first generation of students and they had formed a compact, face-to-face social group. Disciplinary content centred around the critique of evolutionary theory and methodology for collection of basic ethnographic information about the American Indian. With growth in size and expansion of geographical and theoretical foci, the perceived unity of American anthropology disintegrated. For m a n y , the unity of the profession came to reside, if indeed it existed at all, in its c o m m o n historical roots within the Boasian tradition and its offshoots. In light of collegial fixation on pinning d o w n the actual influence of Boas, a number of his early students attempted to 'set the record straight' about their teacher's contribution to the substance of anthropology and the training of anthropologists. Robert Lowie (1937, 1946, 1956a, b, 1959, 1965), Alfred Kroeber (1939b, 1940, 1950, 1956, 1959, 1960; Kroeber & Valory 1967), and Margaret M e a d (1959, 1972, 1974) have been particularly concerned with historiographic problems in relation to their o w n careers (see also Beals 1982, Cole 1952, Golla 1984, T . Kroeber 1961, 1970; Steward 1973, T h o m p s o n 1968). These works appeared in the period w h e n post-war growth in academic programs and professional employment threatened an earlier imagined sense of unity and c o m m o n purpose. Melville Herskovits wrote a biography of Boas in 1953. Verne Ray's review of this volume in the American Anthropologist in 1955 produced further commentary the following year by Ray, Herskovits, Lowie, Kroeber and Murray W a x . T h e American Anthropological Association devoted two memoirs to the evaluation of Boas's work, one at his death, the other at the centenary of his birth (Linton 1943, Goldschmidt 1959). The choice of editors demonstrates the continuing relevance of Boas to the practice of Americanist anthropology. Ralph Linton did not identify himself as a Boasian and dramatically reoriented the Columbia Department when he succeeded Ruth Benedict as Chair after Boas's death in 1942. Walter Goldschmidt did not k n o w Boas but wrote his dissertation under Robert Lowie, one of Boas's first generation of students. Contributors to both of these works reasserted the unity of anthropology in America and the shared disciplinary culture of its practitioners w h o were the intellectual heirs of Franz Boas. Nor is the subject closed at the turn of the Boasian century. A symposium at Columbia University in 1992 celebrated the 50th anniversary of Boas's death. A session evaluating the m a n and his work was held at the A A A meetings in 1997. George W . Stocking's History of Anthropology 8 (1996)

Continuities Across Scientific Revolutions focuses on Boas's G e r m a n anthropological background (cf. Darnell 1997). Another set of persistent critiques has emphasized that Boasian anthropology is/was the wrong paradigm because Boas was uninterested in m a n y things that contemporary anthropologists wanted to study, particularly evolution. It was convenient to attack a Boasian strawperson as defining an overly limited set of problems. T h e challenge to anthropology was to establish the validity of research concerns beyond the Boasian paradigm as originally defined. Thus, historical scholarship has served to rationalize revisionist paradigms: " W h e n there is no single framework which unites all the workers in a field, but rather competing points of view or competing schools, historiography simply extends the arena of their competition" (Stocking 1968:8). T w o examples suffice: This paper will examine the dominant convictions of Franz Boas on a variety of subjects. W e will show that, whatever their individual merits, they formed, when linked together, a chain that constricted creative research in cultural anthropology. B y their combined standards, scarcely any research was judged satisfactory. The great talents of Boas himself were so restricted that he could not produce any positive, integrated work of significance, and his function became that of critic. (Ray 1956: 167) Franz Boas, also, helped to establish anthropology in American universities and did m u c h to stimulate field research. But so far as constructive and progressive achievements in the realm of science — its philosophy, outlook, and goals — are concerned, there is precious little with which the Boas school can be credited. O n the contrary, w e believe that Boas' influence was reactionary and unscientific at some points, such as for example, his attitude toward cultural evolutionism. This is not to say, of course, that no good work was done by individual members of the school of Boas. Good work was certainly done. But, I believe, the cult of Boas tended to constrict rather than to expand these achievements. (White 1966:54; see also White 1945, 1947, 1963) The most extensive historical work arising from such revisionist concerns is Marvin Harris's The Rise of Anthropological Theory (1968). Harris rues the coherence of Boasian anthropology on behalf of the wrong causes, but advances considerably in sophistication of historical argument. H e contrasts Boas's 'historical particularism' with his o w n 'historical materialism' but acknowledges that Boas's efforts to counteract the excesses of evolutionary ethnology were justified by the "shoddy standards" of his contemporaries (1968:250). H e thus makes a serious effort to characterize the evolutionary paradigm Boas rejected. H e does not, however, address extensively either

3

4

Introduction

institutional or social factors in the organization and persistence of Boasian anthropology. Indeed, those anthropologists challenging the homogeneity of the Boasian paradigm have dismissed the coalescence of a cohort of scientists with limited but attainable research commitments as a detriment to scientific progress. Most virulent a m o n g these was Leslie White, whose career-long efforts to revive evolutionary models in American anthropology waged an uphill battle against the Boasian mainstream. White concluded (1966:54): In cultural anthropology as in other sciences, w e find conceptual processes in operation in which premises and goals are determined, and results evaluated, by the concepts and logic of science. But w e also find social organizations — schools — of ethnological theory which closely integrate such non-scientific factors as personality, nationality, and race with scientific concepts such as evolution, diffusion, independent development, integration, determinism, choice and law. These schools are by their very nature deceptive. They m a k e it appear and would have everyone believe that their choice of premises and goals has been determined by scientific considerations and that the value of their results is measured by scientific yardsticks alone. F r o m the point of view of the history of science, however, attention to such a melange of theory, method and social organization is a necessary part of scientific progress. A n adequate disciplinary history must include: 1) the theoretical and substantive content of the science, 2) the social organization of the scientific community, and 3) the institutional structure within which it operates. Concern for such historical complexity is relatively recent a m o n g anthropologists and in large part responds to work of historians o n the materials of the discipline. In particular, the work of George W . Stocking, Jr., on Franz Boas and the concepts of race, evolution and culture (Stocking 1960, 1968) has broadened the perspective of Americanist anthropologists toward their o w n past. Isolation and analysis of successive changes in disciplinary worldview encourage historian and anthropologist alike "to see historical change as a complex process of emergence rather than a simple linear sequence — in short, to understand the science of a given period in its o w n terms" (Stocking 1968:8). Voget (1975) provides an exhaustive catalogue of work done within the Boasian paradigm, in which he w a s a latter-day participant. H o n i g m a n n (1976) is unique a m o n g the histories to date in emphasizing the ideational character of the Americanist tradition as practised by Boas and his students. S o m e of the revisionists have attempted to rehabilitate particular strands of

Continuities Across Scientific Revolutions

5

work. For instance, M a r k (1980) emphasizes continuities from the Harvard archaeological tradition that developed around Frederick W a r d Putnam, whose skills as an organizational leader were at least as significant as Boas's, particularly in the transitional years. Hinsley (1981) traces the anthropological work of the Smithsonian Institution, founded in 1846, and the Bureau of American Ethnology. Vincent (1990) traces a strand of Americanist theorizing about politics and political anthropology. Murray (1994) examines linguistic anthropology in the Bureau and a m o n g the Boasians in setting the context for his broad-ranging exploration of theories and theory groups in 'the study of language' in North America. This project focuses on the transition period between two paradigms in the history of American anthropology, assessing the relative effects of continuity and change. T h e first professional Americanist paradigm in the United States developed around John Wesley Powell in the Bureau of [American] Ethnology after 1879. Although evolutionary interpretations of American Indian history had existed previously, Powell first provided institutional support for research by a group of scientists; paid employment, social network and intellectual content coalesced for the first time within the Bureau. This was, of course, part of a wider professionalization of American science which facilitated the imposition of c o m m o n standards establishing a coherent framework. Continuity and change coexist in the emergence of every scientific paradigm. T h e professional scientists of the Bureau are not always easy to distinguish from their quasi-professional and amateur contemporaries. N o r did they single-mindedly seek to professionalize their nascent discipline. Nonetheless, in retrospect, professionalization was more than a by-product of the work that they, collectively and individually, did. Powell at least w a s reflexively committed to putting the discipline on a firm scientific footing with institutional and intellectual standards understood across a community of anthropologists. This was a one-way process over which he attempted to exert some degree of direction if not control. T h e theory which organized the work of the Bureau w a s that of evolution. A number of empirical difficulties in the application of evolutionary method emerged from the work of the Bureau. The sense of internal crisis w a s precipitated by Boas's identification of "empirical anomalies" which led to an extensive critique of the evolutionary position (Stocking 1968:303). Although the tone of the critique is destructive, there remains some possibility of

6

Introduction

ultimate reconstitution on alternative grounds. Krupat (1990) has considered a reading of Boas as theoretician from the standpoint of postmodernist relativism. Although the reading can be m a d e (for example, I believe that Boas and his students used "standpoint" as a technical term), Krupat concludes that Boas was caught in an unresolved and paralyzing tension between science and history. H e was never able to embrace fully one pole or the other. The unresolved incommensurability of anthropological method and theory, then, is a peculiarly modernist rather than postmodernist dilemma. In Kuhn's terms, the result of Boas's intellectual efforts constituted a 'scientific revolution'. In addition to his substantive revisions of the older paradigm, Boas w a s able to draw on n e w resources for scientific professionalization, particularly in the universities. His critique of evolution constituted a 'paradigm statement' and he attracted a group of distinguished students w h o practised, and transmitted to their o w n students, a 'normal science'fillingin the details of the paradigm statement. Whatever the continuities to earlier work, especially in the Bureau, Boas and his students perceived themselves as doing something n e w . They employed a rhetoric of revolution rather than one of continuity (Murray 1983, 1994). A n d because the paradigm was successful, it effectively expunged the work of its predecessors from the history of the discipline. This development was quite gradual, however, and the inevitability of the shift could be observed only in retrospect. B y about 1920, Boas's students held teaching positions in most major American universities. Disciplinary coherence rested on detailed andrigorousethnographic description of the American Indian. In spite of internal disagreements and personal enmities, these individuals considered themselves a group and cooperated to promote a version of anthropology which w a s shared, broadly, by all. Differences a m o n g them provide a cautionary tale about overstating the homogeneity of professional cultures (Darnell 1977a). Oral histories of American anthropology have generally assumed that the transition w e are discussing was fairly sudden, that professional anthropology in America sprang forth full-blown about 1900 w h e n Boas began teaching at Columbia. Consequently, the roots of Boas's anthropology in an older and firmly established tradition of American ethnology have been glossed over. Boas himself was not above rewriting disciplinary history on ideological grounds to emphasize his o w n positions (e.g., Boas 1904a). In fact, however, the resources available to Boas before about 1920 were extremely limited and

Continuities Across Scientific Revolutions

1

his early work necessarily proceeded in the context of preexisting personnel and institutional structures. T h e gradualness of the transition disappeared from professional m e m o r y during the interwar period w h e n Boas's students held key positions in the major institutions for anthropological research and the theoretical critique of evolution could be taken for granted. Before World W a r I, however, the direction of development of anthropology as a professional science w a s problematic and Boas himself was not uniformly optimistic. Over thefirsttwo decades of the century, American anthropology came to have the character that he envisioned for it. H e w a s a talented organizational leader, consolidating institutional arrangements and encouraging intellectual networks, as well as theoretical (or, in some views, anti-theoretical) leader (Murray 1983, 1994). In any case, it behooves us to reconstruct the context, largely invisible to contemporary practitioners, within which early Boasian anthropology emerged and c a m e to dominate American anthropology.

I The Bureau of American Ethnology

Chapter 1

The Development of Professional Anthropology in America

Professional anthropology in the United States developed gradually in the years following the founding of the Bureau of [American] Ethnology in 1879. "American" was added only in 1897 (Trumbull 1903:vi). For the sake of consistency, however, references to the Bureau in this work employ the full title Bureau of American Ethnology or the B A E . For anthropology, the process of professionalization was continuous after 1879, ending around the end of the First World W a r w h e n Franz Boas and his students formed the core of the discipline. This n e w Americanist anthropology built on an established tradition of amateur anthropology rooted in the linguistic and ethnographic interests of T h o m a s Jefferson, Albert Gallatin and Lewis Henry Morgan (Andresen 1990, Bieder 1986, Edgerton 1943, Hallowell 1960, Mitra 1933, Murray 1994, Resek 1960, Wissler 1942, Wolfart 1967). Through this preliminary period, the American Philosophical Society, founded by Benjamin Franklin (1706-1790) in 1743, served as the central institution for the collection of data about the American Indian. T h e continuity of this Americanist tradition, however, was limited. The crucial intervening period, dominated by the Bureau, provides the transition to full professionalism. The concept of professionalization is itself something of an oversimplification. It summarizes and stands for a series of complex and interrelated changes across American science. These changes occurred neither simultaneously or suddenly. During m u c h of the 19th century, the few anthropologists were amateurs with loose affiliations to localized scientific societies; "the number of m e n w h o shared serious scientific aspirations exceeded the capacity of the society to provide opportunities for full-time pursuit of those activities" (Hinsley 1981:19). Horatio Hale (1817-1896), Lewis Henry M o r gan (1818-1881) and Daniel Garrison Brinton (1837-1898) serve as exemplars. Hale (Gruber 1967) engaged in ethnological research at the beginning

12

Chapter 1

and end of a distinguished business career. Morgan (Resek 1960, Stern 1931, Trautman 1987) was a successful Rochester, N e w York, businessman and lawyer, Brinton a prominent Philadelphia physician. Financial success allowed both m e n to devote considerable energy to anthropological scholarship, particularly later in life. Despite sporadic efforts, none of these m e n ever succeeded in earning a living from anthropology. Morgan unsuccessfully sought the position of Commissioner of Indian Affairs, and Brinton's professorship at the University of Pennsylvania was without salary (Darnell 1970). Prior to the establishment of academic anthropology, practitioners were self-taught and self-identified. Franz Boas (1858-1942) was trained as physicist and geographer. John Wesley Powell (1834-1902), founder of the B u reau, was a natural scientist turned geologist. The early B A E necessarily drew upon m e n with a diversity of professional backgrounds: Henry Wetherbe Henshaw (1850-1930), Walter James Hoffman (1846-1899), William Henry Holmes (1846-1933), Albert Samuel Gatschet (1832-1907), William J. M c G e e (1853-1912), and James Constantine Pilling (1846-1895) had formerly worked for the various territorial and geographical surveys under U . S . government auspices. Gatschet had some training in Indo-European philology in Europe. Jeremiah Curtin (1835-1906) was a statesman and world traveller. Jesse Walter Fewkes (1850-1930) received a Harvard P h . D . under Louis Agassiz (1807-1873; cf. Lurie 1974) and ran the Harvard Zoological M u s e u m before turning to the archaeology and folklore of the American Southwest. John Napoleon Brinton Hewitt (1859-1937) was a part-Tuscarora streetcar conductor and schoolteacher before becoming secretary to Erminnie Smith (1836-1886) of the Bureau. James O w e n Dorsey (1848-1895) was a missionary, Garrick Mallery (1831-1894) a statistician turned army officer, James M o o n e y (1861-1921) a newspaper reporter, Washington Matthews (1843-1905) an army physician, Stephen Powers (1840-1904) a California farmer andfinitgrower, W J M c G e e (whose preference for omitting periods after his initials is respected here) a blacksmith turned geologist. Henshaw turned from ornithology to ethnology "with the understanding that if the new field proved to be congenial I should make it m y life work" (Henshaw 1919:10); in fact, he ended his career as chief of the Biological Survey. Otis Tufton M a s o n (1838-1908) switched from culture history of the eastern Mediterranean to American Indian ethnology during the 1870s under the influence of Joseph Henry (1797-1878), Secretary of the Smithsonian. Cyrus Thomas (1825-1910) had been a lawyer, minister, college professor and

The Development of Professional Anthropology in America

13

entomologist before turning to ethnology. These m e n m a d e ethnology their career, at least for a time. For others, anthropology remained an avocation. T h e founders of the Anthropological Society of Washington included (Lamb 1906:565) such m e n as John C . Lang ("an antiquarian"), Miles Rock ("a civil engineer") and J. E . Snodgrass ("well-known in Washington"). The early membership sported physicians, army officers, lawyers, clergymen and denizens of assorted government bureaus, including the Pension Office, Department of Agriculture and the Geological Survey (Lamb 1906:578). The Bureau and the A S W attracted individuals with practical vocations, especially former army personnel turned to government service after the Civil W a r . These amateur ethnologists shared a concept of science closer to the natural sciences than to the social. M a n y were westerners and most were selfeducated. The early Bureau staff were professional scientists, but their individual disciplinary affiliation could and did fluctuate over their careers. The local scientific societies which provided institutional support for early 19th-century American anthropology varied considerably in size and scope. Not all were geared toward increasing the professionalization of science. Morgan and his friends organized a club called 'the Pundits' which heard papers on such diverse topics as "The Origin and Dispersion of the Celtic Races", "Trial by Jury", "Arabic Metaphysics", "The English University System", "Sanscrit G r a m m a r and Language", " R o m a n L a w " , and "English Cathedral Architecture" (Resek 1960:62). A similar organization, the Cosmos Club, was founded by Powell in 1878. In addition to anthropologists Mason, Mallery, Henry Crecy Yarrow (1840-1929), Holmes and Henshaw, the founders included geologists Grove Karl Gilbert (1843-1918) and Clarence King (1842-1901), sociologist Lester W a r d (1841-1913) w h o was employed as a paleobotanist for Powell's Geological Survey, Georgetown University anatomist Robert Fletcher (1823-1912), Smithsonian Secretary Spencer Baird (1823-1887), and Johns Hopkins University educators Daniel Coit Gilman (1831-1908) and Ira Remsen (1846-1927). Not all of these m e n , of course, were engaged in professional anthropology but it was part of the moral imagination of an emerging North American modernism (Crossette 1966). The A S W ostensibly restricted itself to ethnology, being established to "encourage the study of the Natural History of M a n , especially with reference to America" and stressing "the duty of all members to seek to increase and

14

Chapter 1

perfect the materials of anthropological study in the national collections at Washington" {Transactions of the Anthropological Society of Washington 1: 136, 141). The Society established its journal, the American Anthropologist, in 1888. Powell intended it to establish new standards for local scientific societies ( T A S W 1: 132, 136): The Transactions [...] exhibit evidence that Anthropology in its various branches is already receiving attention from the objective standpoint; subjective discussions find but little place herein [...] Anthropology needs trained devotees with philosophic methods and keen observation to study every tribe and nation of the globe almost de novo; and from materials thus collected a science m a y be established. In spite of Powell's optimism, the A S W program remained almost as diverse as that of the Pundits or the Cosmos Club. Topics included "Color Blindness as affected by Race", "The Old R o m a n Senate — a Study of Deliberative Assemblies", "The Use of Agricultural Fertilizers by the American Indians and the Early English Colonists" and "The Testimony of the R o m a n c e Languages Concerning the Forms of the Imperfect and Pluperfect Subjunctive in R o m a n Folk-Speech". Meetings drew audiences of up to 300 ( M c G e e to Putnam, 2 Feb. 1884: F W P ) . The A S W was one of a number of scientific societies in the national capital. Most of its members also belonged to several others. B y 1902, these included the Medical Society, the Chemical Society, the Entomological Society, the National Geographic Society, the Geological Society, the Columbia Historical Society, the Society of Foresters, the Botanical Society, the W a s h ington Society of the Archaeological Institute of America (Lamb 1906:564). Each of these was associated with the Washington A c a d e m y of Sciences which functioned on the local level as did the American Association for the Advancement of Science ( A A A S ) on the national level. L a m b (p. 564) noted that the size of the A S W membershipfluctuatedwith the successful founding of additional societies "the functions of some of which more or less directly related to anthropology". That is, the Society drew on general scientific rather than specific disciplinary interests. Professional affiliation was not a membership requirement. Washington anthropology was dispersed across institutions, including the Smithsonian Institution, the United States National M u s e u m , the Bureau of Indian Affairs, and the Carnegie Institute. Joseph Henry founded the Philosophical Society of Washington in 1871 to facilitate communication

The Development of Professional Anthropology in America

15

a m o n g Smithsonian scientists. Founders included Powell and m a n y of his cronies at the Geological Survey. T h e Smithsonian in those days had an "informal, family atmosphere" emphasizing "fluid structure," "personal freed o m " and "absence of bureaucracy" (Hinsley 1981:56, 75). Localism also characterized the scientific societies of Philadelphia, where the anthropological interests of each were encouraged by Brinton (Smith et al. 1900, Starr 1892a). Over one third of his extensive bibliography appeared in the publications of Philadelphia societies, especially the American Philosophical Society, the A c a d e m y of Natural Sciences, the Numismatic and Antiquarian Society, the M u s e u m of Archaeology (later the University of Pennsylvania M u s e u m ) and the Oriental Club of Philadelphia (Darnell 1970, 1974, 1988). Although the late 19th century was not a major period in the anthropological interests of the American Philosophical Society, Brinton spearheaded its shift in emphasis from archaeology to ethnology and linguistics in the 1880s and 1890s (Freeman 1967:39). Despite his international reputation as an ethnologist, Philadelphia audiences and publications provided Brinton's primary connection to these wider intellectual circles. N o n e theless, Brinton's efforts to professionalize Philadelphia anthropology, particularly his teaching at the University of Pennsylvania and the A c a d e m y of Natural Sciences, were abortive. His vision of the future of anthropological science exceeded his ability to realize it. Comparable localism prevailed in other late 19th century American cities with pretensions to scientific culture. Major societies with anthropological interests included: in Boston, the American Antiquarian Society, the Peabody M u s e u m , the Boston Society of Natural History, and the Essex Institute; in N e w Haven, the American Oriental Society and the Connecticut Historical Society; in N e w York, the American Ethnological Society, the American Geographical Society, the American M u s e u m of Natural History, and the L y c e u m of Natural History. The A A A S was the major organization of national scope. Frederick W a r d Putnam (1839-1915) of the Peabody M u s e u m became its permanent secretary in 1873, assuring anthropology of strong connections to this association — itself a harbinger of less localized and more professional science. This combination of local and national affiliation allowed Putnam to build an institutional framework for anthropology, especially archaeology. In this context, the innovation represented by the Bureau becomes clear. American science, particularly during the 1880s, was becoming more profes-

16

Chapter 1

sional (Bruce 1987, Kargon 1974, Israel 1972, Oleson & Voss 1979, Reingold 1964). The choice of noted physicist Joseph Henry as the first Secretary of the Smithsonian set a course toward specialization and pure science, although Henry himself was an old-style scientist w h o failed to patent major discoveries and turned from physics to full-time administrative work due to his conviction of the need for a n e w and more professional style of American science (Coulson 1950). Bureau staff considered themselves the vanguard of a n e w kind of anthropology. According to Powell's right-hand m a n ( M c G e e to T h o m a s , 29 March 1898: B A E ) : There w a s no scientific ethnology in America until about the time this Bureau was instituted [...]. Anthropology is undergoing organization so complete that traveller's tales and inexpert inferences must be replaced by expert observation and matter of fact discussion.

Powell's annual reports as director of the Bureau repeatedly stressed its innovative role. Although these reports had a clear propagandistic dimension, the implicit challenge was directed toward the older, amateur American anthropology as well as toward the Congressional and public opinions on which the Bureau's financial support depended. Papers accompanying the Annual Reports were chosen to represent the work of the Bureau and attest to its success in organizing American anthropology. Atfirst,these papers were short, with each volume drawing on the work of several staff members. Later, a single major work was showcased. The discourse of Powell's reports centres around the mandate to "organize anthropologic research in America" (1st A R for 1879-80, 1881, p. xxxiv). The Director's reports form the most explicit and accurate record of the aims and practices of the Bureau. Extensive detail and informal style are characteristic: The discreditable fact that until within a few years past no real advance has been m a d e in the ethnology of North America is by no means owing to the paucity of published material, but rather to its enormous quantity, confused by its unordered bulk and filled with contradictions and absurdities. (2nd A R for 1880-81, 1883, p. xxx) It is also important to note that m a n y errors m a d e by earlier writers, which have been repeated in ethnologic textbooks and have become c o m m o n l y accepted as facts, are not corrected. (11th A R for 1889-90, 1894, p. xlii) B y long training, by great zeal, and by deep scientific insight, these gentlemen are n o w able to accomplish results far beyond the elementary stage, and the

The Development

of Professional Anthropology

in America

17

significance of the data being rapidly gathered becomes more and more apparent. (12th A R for 1890-91, 1894, p. xxii) Powell argued that the Bureau had reorganized the scope of the w o r k of the individual scientists on the staff. For example, Dorsey's initial w o r k w a s received with minimal enthusiasm by the Smithsonian due to its non-professional style of discourse. Dorsey w a s advised (Roehrig to Henry, 18 M a r c h 1873: S I A ) : to admit nothing but the bare material without any kind of "comparisons" or would-be philological remarks. The work ought to be simple, clear, plain and written in sober style [...] Thus Mr. Dorsey will have to avoid in his work all sorts of digressions and everything else that savors of eccentricity and enthusiasm, especially those very crude and immature comparisons with Hebrew! Powell d e e m e d Dorsey to have mastered Siouan language and habits during his term a m o n g them as a missionary but his examination of the social system w a s not possible until he entered into "a special study of the science of anthropology" (3rd A R for 1881-82, 1884, p. xxxv). Primarily this involved acquaintance with the theories of M o r g a n ; Ancient Society in 1877 w a s ideally timed to frame the n e w ethnology of the Bureau. Powell focused on style of presentation as the major obstacle in earlier anthropological work; thus, Matthews's paper on the Navajo mountain chant presented familiar myths "in a m u c h m o r e pure and accurate m a n n e r than those published by Schoolcraft and other oft-quoted authors" (5th A R for 1883-84, 1887, p. xliv). Historians of American anthropology have concurred with Powell's view of the importance of his Bureau (Hinsley 1981; Fowler & Fowler 1969, 1971). Stegner's biography (1954:258) c o m m e n t s : " N o n e of the branches of the study of m a n w a s really established in the United States in 1879 [...] Powell's contemporaries [...] entertained n o broad views such as his". Hallowell (1960:37) notes that, prior to 1879 investigations were carried on by individuals whose pursuit of the subject was not primarily vocational. What is remarkable is the immense amount of material that was accumulated under these conditions, the quality of so much of it, the knowledge and definition of basic problems, and the impetus given to later investigations. Early scholars "operated single-handedly, whereas Powell set an early example of fruitful cooperative effort" (Kroeber 1960:5). T h e B A E institutional framework dominated American anthropology

18

Chapter 1

w h e n Franz Boas arrived from Germany in the later 1880s and his early Americanist work was done in this context. Through the early years of the 20th century, the Bureau sponsored m u c h of the fieldwork of Boas and his students and published their linguistic and ethnographic materials. Although Boas gradually redefined research standards in American anthropology, he also took over m a n y of the continuing projects of the Bureau and used its resources for his o w n purposes. This partial continuity shaped m u c h of the early development of 'Boasian anthropology'. The Bureau thus constitutes the baseline for both theoretical and institutional developments in American anthropology. The appearance of additional institutions for anthropological research establishes the context for the emergence of a reorganized and revitalized Americanist anthropology dominated by Boas and his students during thefirsttwo decades of the 20th century.

Chapter 2

Government-Sponsored Science

The development of the Bureau cannot be understood apart from changing concepts of science and the role of the federal government in its pursuit at the end of the 19th century. The peculiar relations of Powell's Bureau to the politically vulnerable Geological Surveys and to the relatively abstract and apolitical science of the Smithsonian Institution determined what anthropological research w a s possible. Powell walked a fine pragmatic line between professionalization and politics. Earlier in the 19th century, American science had represented itself to the public as utilitarian and consistent with egalitarian, democratic values. But after the Civil W a r , scientists began to value their work for its o w n sake, taking for granted the usefulness of scientific results. T h e tendency to justify scientific research by practical applications w a s most persistent, however, in government science. B y the turn of the century, the American government was probably the largest sponsor of science in the world, with the expectation that this science would contribute to public life (Daniels 1967:1703-1704): In keeping with the egalitarian democratic context, every single advance in government support had been m a d e on the basis of some presumed public purpose of a practical character that the research would serve. That a democratic government should become a "patron" of the privileged group of pure scientists was unthinkable [...]. Democratic politics demands that no expenditure of public funds be separated from political control, or, to state it another w a y , that no power be granted without responsibility, which always includes accountability.

2.1

Joseph Henry and the Smithsonian Institution The Smithsonian Institution was founded in 1846 from a white elephant bequest by the illegitimate son of an English nobleman for the "increase and diffusion of knowledge". T h e United States government almost refused the gift as outside the legitimate scope of government activity. Even after its acceptance, debate raged about whether a library, m u s e u m or national univer-

20

Chapter 2

sity would best fulfill the terms of James Smithson's will. The Congressional law creating the Smithsonian Institution w a s sufficiently vague to allow almost any project (Hinsley 1981; Oehser 1949, 1970; Winsor 1889). In practice, policy was set by the first secretary. Joseph Henry, a product of earlier 19th-century science, saw no contradiction between research, teaching and practical applications in the Jeffersonian tradition of benefit to all mankind. H e envisioned utilitarian science as research which could not be pursued or coordinated by smaller institutions and devoted himself to maintaining a clearing-house for publications, answering public inquiries, and providing an environment for scientists to concentrate on their o w n work. According to the Smithsonian plan of operations (Goode 1897:142): "if preference is to be given to any branches of research, they should be to the higher and apparently more abstract, to the discovery of n e w principles rather than of isolated facts". T h e Smithsonian was intended to be a n e w kind of institution in American science, with less direct responsibility for public education than the local scientific societies. Limited funds would be preserved for research rather than devoted to extensive field projects, collection of material specimens, or the establishment of a library. Rather, the bequest would aid individuals and organizations to systematize and publish the results of their research. Smithsonian questionnaires covered a wide range of scientific disciplines, stressing "the desirability of guiding and expanding such casual contributions" (Judd 1967:7). Henry envisioned "a national system of scientific correspondents... suited to a sparsely populated continent and an early stage of social organization" (Hinsley 1981:34). Contributors did not themselves have to be professional scientists. B y 1897, w h e n an official history of the Smithsonian was prepared (Gill 1896, G o o d e 1897), appreciations of its scientific contributions were written by scholars in physics, mathematics, geology and mineralogy, astronomy, chemistry, meteorology, paleontology, zoology, geography, botany and anthropology — very nearly the range of American science at the century's end. Henry's "austere personality" (Dupree 1957:88) kept the Smithsonian at arm's length from politics during its early years. Even politicians w h o detested him acknowledged his integrity. In an era of jostling for research funds, Henry concentrated on coordinating research within the limited appropriation guaranteed to the Smithsonian through its founding bequest. In line with this conservative policy, Henry opposed the formation of a National A c a d e m y

Government-Sponsored

Science

21

which would be limited to government service and to the establishment of a National Department of Science which might subordinate the goals of science to political issues. The Smithsonian was widely acknowledged to exemplify fruitful coordination of research under a single government agency (e.g., Dabney 1897). Ambitious theoretical projects were to be avoided in favour of immediately practical and descriptive investigations. Science was a 'moral enterprise' based on 'Baconian induction' in which facts and synthesis could be separated. Henry's broad view of the content of science included anthropology (Smithsonian A R for 1857:36): It is the sacred duty which this country owes to the civilized world to collect everything relative to the history, manners and customs, the physical peculiarities, and, in short, all that m a y tend to illustrate the character and history of the original inhabitants of North America. Nonetheless, some of the speculations which attracted popular interest in anthropology were on the 'fringes' of science (Hinsley 1981:36), for example, the conjectural history of the m o u n d builders by George Ephraim Squier (1821-1888) and Edwin Hamilton Davis (1811-1888). Henry acknowledged the considerable precedent for government anthropology, beginning with Thomas Jefferson's (1743-1826) instructions to the Lewis & Clark Expedition, intended to help untrained m e n acquire information useful to the progress of scientific knowledge. Other early attempts included Lewis Cass's (1782-1866) "Inquiries concerning the History, Traditions, Languages, Manners, Customs, Religion, etc. of the Indians, living within the United States" in 1823, John Pickering's (1777-1846) "Essay on a Uniform Orthography" in 1820, and Henry R o w e Schoolcraft's (1793-1864) circulars on American Indians published under government auspices during the 1850s. Albert Gallatin (1761-1849) circulated ethnographic and linguistic questionaires to Indian agents through the Secretary of W a r . The inaugural volume of the Smithsonian Contributions to Knowledge was Squier & Davis's Ancient Monuments of the Mississippi Valley in 1848. The Smithsonian subsidized John Gilmary Shea's Library of American Linguistics and published Morgan's Systems of Consanguinity and Affinity of the Human Family (Hallowell 1960). The Smithsonian provided the ideal institutional context for the n e w Bureau of American Ethnology. Indeed, Powell's collection of Indian vocabularies began in response to Henry's suggestions during his geological

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Chapter 2

expeditions in the Southwest. The institutional cooperation was fruitful, although lines between the Bureau and the Smithsonian were not clearly drawn. Frank Hamilton Cushing (1857-1899), for example, remained primarily within the Smithsonian for his anthropological work (Brandes 1965; Judd 1967:58). Powell's Bureau, like Henry's Smithsonian, could draw upon incidental results of other kinds of research. H e obtained information from exploring expeditions and diplomatic missions (Powell to Langley, 28 Jan. 1899: B A E ) . Collection of such incidental acquisition remained standard. In 1900, for example, Boas still had to defend (to Abbe, March 1900: A P S ) restricting the American M u s e u m ' s Jesup North Pacific Expedition to ethnology. 2.2 Spencer Baird and the Collection of Specimens Henry, although he discouraged the foundation of a m u s e u m under Smithsonian auspices, realized that the accumulation of scientific information necessarily involved the collection of specimens, especially in ethnology. These were not "considered as mere curiosities collected to excite the wonder of the illiterate", but provided "materials [...] to reconstruct by analogy and strict deduction, the history of the past in its relation to the present" (Smithsonian A R for 1868:33). Specimens were a greater concern to Spencer Baird (Dall 1915), w h o began collecting for the Smithsonian in 1848, becoming assistant secretary in 1850 and succeeding Henry as secretary in 1878. Baird's personal collections in natural history formed the basis for systematic m u s e u m administration which he later developed for the National M u s e u m (Goode 1897:167). H e was "an all-around naturalist — one of the last of a school which has n o w almost ceased to exist" (p. 175). Anthropology, to Baird, w a s no different from any other science in its need for systematic collections. T h e Bureau initially followed Powell's mentalist predilections in collecting information on social organization, religion and language, but extended its interests to material culture in response to Baird's priorities. The concept of science shared by the Smithsonian, the National M u seum and the Bureau grew out of 19th-century breakthroughs in the physical and natural sciences which seemed applicable to h u m a n variation by analogy. Not surprisingly, former natural scientists predominated in the early Bureau staff, with almost no literary scholars except Pilling, the bibliographer. Henry insisted that the Smithsonian appropriation not be used to support

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collections, but willingly accepted and accumulated specimens obtained by government surveying parties. These required storage if not display. From 1841 on, Congress set aside a small fund to store such collections in the Patents Office (True in Goode 1897:311-321). This incipient national m u seum, arranged by the National Institute, quickly outgrew these quarters with the "deluge of m u s e u m materials" resulting from its circulars and expeditions (Goode 1897: 310). Funds were appropriated and construction begun in 1879; the building was completed in 1881. In 1881 Congress authorized a fire-proof building to house the growing collections: In proportion as suitable arrangements can be made for their reception, all objects of art and of foreign and curious research, and all objects of natural history, plants, and geological and mineralogical specimens belonging to or hereafter to belong to the United States, which m a y in the city of Washington, in whatsoever custody the same m a y be, shall be delivered to such persons as m a y be authorized by the [Smithsonian] Board of Regents to receive them and shall be arranged in such order and so classed as best to facilitate the examination and study of them. (Goode 1897:315) In spite of its leisurely beginnings, the National M u s e u m grew quickly (Dupree 1957:85-86): The force of events and Baird's patient work turned the National M u s e u m into the most significant branch of the [Smithsonian] Institution, despite the doubts of the Secretary. A n d yet Henry's very laggardness w a s of great positive importance, for he insisted on the M u s e u m ' s beingfinanciallyable to take care of its collections, and prevented the dead weight of the National Institute jumble from sinking the new M u s e u m at the outset. Like the Smithsonian, the National M u s e u m was envisioned as a research organization. The National M u s e u m foregrounded anthropology. Otis T . M a s o n was curator of ethnology and of arts and industries, Thomas Wilson (1832-1902) of prehistoric archaeology, and Cyrus Adler (1843-1920) of oriental antiquities and religious ceremonials (True in Goode 1897:351). O f 138,000 specimens in the National M u s e u m in 1906, over 100,000 were North American (Hough 1906 M S : B A E ) , confirming government exploration and Bureau research as the major sources. The personal relationship between Powell and Baird, however, was not cordial (Judd 1967:15) and the institutions they directed often operated at cross-purposes. Indeed, the M u s e u m viewed the B A E as simply an adjunct of the Smithsonian to provide specimens: "cultural objects, the paraphernalia of customs, writings, and inscriptions are tangible

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things and m a y be exhibited" (Smithsonian A R for 1904: 74-75). Thus, the official history of the Smithsonian emphasized "not only the results shown in [the Bureau's] publications but the material acquired and hereafter to be used" (Goode to Powell, 11 N o v . 1895: B A E ) . Public interest in museums and specimens of material culture imposed order on the exoticisms of cultural diversity and educated the general populace about the moral and material superiority of their o w n culture. American m u s e u m s hit their heyday between the Civil W a r and World W a r I. Powell could not avoid collecting specimens, although he personally cared little about material products of the h u m a n mind. Hinsley (1981:89) notes: "While Powell concentrated on language, religion and folklore, M a s o n turned to the works of the hands for insight into the mind". The Smithsonian was the closest thing in 19th century government science to professional or pure science. Henry's broad definition of the content and potential usefulness of scientific research was unique in North America at the time. Powell, in contrast, immersed himself in politics and applied science. 2.3 The Geological Surveys Geology, like other American sciences, became increasingly professional during the late 19th century. The government-sponsored expeditions of the 1840s and 1850s were minimally scientific in acquiring and reporting information (Goertzmann 1967). They were (Dupree 1957:99) "almost always military in organization and c o m m a n d " and "depended upon civilians either at the Smithsonian or elsewhere for working up and publishing the results". Despite "continuity in personnel and purpose", they were "usually ad hoc" and short-lived. The situation had changed considerably by the time Powell began his exploratory work in geology on the Colorado River (Powell 1895). His Geological and Geographical Survey of the Rocky Mountain Region was the fourth and last of the major surveys and can be understood only in relation to the others (Dupree 1957:196-213; Stegner 1954). The King Survey concentrated on pure geology and mapped the Central Pacific Railroad route; the results were written up during the 1870s, with the administrative organization liquidated after completion of its fieldwork. The Wheeler Survey began with the A r m y Corps of Engineers and was intended to produce quick maps for military use; it grew quickly in area covered and in political clout. T h e

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Hayden Survey originated in the Land Office. Hayden w a s a politician and full-time administrator w h o pursued a "lavish publication policy" without presenting "a planned survey" (Dupree 1857:199). T h e Pacific Railway Survey focused particularly on Indian issues (Geortzmann 1959). Powell's Survey was innovative from the start: it emphasized "a survey of the Indians of the Colorado Plateau" as potentially useful to the W a r Department (Dupree 1957:199). Previous surveys had considered Indians a hindrance to the acquisition of geological information. Henry's support of these ethnological interests was probably instrumental in Powell's attainment of Congressional support. B y a clerical mistake, the n e w Survey was placed temporarily under the Smithsonian, where only its collections had been intended to go. B y 1874 w h e n the Survey returned to the jurisdiction of the Interior Department, Powell's interests had diverged even further from geology as then understood. H e w a s concerned with "the influence of the land on its inhabitants" whether Indian or white (Dupree 1857:202). Land use w a s an issue not only to anthropology but also for Western settlement and development. Scientific geology had to turn to these practical political issues. Powell argued (quoted in Dupree, p . 202): [There is] n o w left within [...] the United States no great unexplored region, and exploring expeditions are no longer needed for general purposes.... It is of the most immediate and pressing importance that a general survey should be m a d e for the purpose of determining the several areas which can... be redeemed by irrigation. B y the time of the 1878 Report on the Lands of the Arid Region of the United States, vested land interests in the West had attacked Powell and his fellow scientists as visionaries with no concept of the realities of opportunity in the n e w lands (Smith 1950, Stegner 1954). Political interest outweighed impartial science. 2.4 The Curtailment of Government Science T h e results of the multiple surveys, each with its o w n approach, became progressively more chaotic. President Ulysses S . Grant (1822-1885) failed to see w h y policy problems in the Surveys mattered to mapping the nation, but others realized that consolidation of the overlapping organizations entailed a choice, one which would channel the course of federal government science. Previous laissez-faire politics could no longer control the proliferation of

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bureaucracies. A government commitment to "turn science to account in the rapid development of an empire" became in practice "an interlocking series of quarrels." T h e Surveys led by Ferdinand Vandiveer Hayden (1829-1887) and Lt. George M . Wheeler (1842-1905) clashed in thefieldin 1874 and the scandal became public. "The American people became dimly conscious" that government science "did not organize itself automatically, that some kind of over-all policy was urgently needed". T h e "scandal, corruption, waste, and duplication" which characterized the "excesses of the Grant administration" seemed equally likely to exist in the Surveys (Dupree 1957:203). In 1874, the major issue was military versus civilian control of the Surveys. Powell favoured consolidation of the Surveys, even if his o w n were subordinated to Hayden's under the Interior Department. H e pointed out that Wheeler's results were too inaccurate for geological work and that his military escorts antagonized Indians. Powell was powerless relative to the larger surveys and his only hope for continued autonomy was his emphasis on ethnology. In the debates preceding the consolidation of the Surveys in 1878, Powell supported scientific classification of public lands and the ideal of science for a democratic society. In the Smithsonian tradition, he insisted that government science should restrict itself to research which "could not be undertaken by individuals" (quoted in Dupree 1957:207). T h e government should pursue rational social planning rather than cluttering the literature with publications in natural history. Powell targeted the political opportunism of the Hayden Survey. After the consolidation of the Surveys, Powell retired to the relative political anonymity of the Smithsonian and his newly created Bureau of American Ethnology. H e successfully supported Clarence King, recognizing him as the least politically-embroiled of the available candidates (Smith 1947), for Director of the n e w survey. Although Powell apparently intended his retirement from geology to be permanent, when King resigned in 1881, Powell was appointed to replace him. Several members of the Bureau staff worried that Powell would forsake ethnology just as it gathered m o m e n t u m (Dorsey to Powell, 21 March 1881; Pilling to Smith, 25 March 1881; Pilling to Warner, 24 March 1881; B A E ) . Powell, however, continued on a characteristic course which did not fit disciplinary boundaries — his geology and his ethnology were never fully separate. Hinsley (1981:125) recognizes a "monistic tendency" in Powell's science, leading him to "blur distinctions between the subject matter of

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diverse sciences". The method of science, by which Powell meant primarily natural science, was more important than disciplinary boundaries. Immediately Powell began a campaign to extend the scope of the G e o logical Survey. T o this end, he manipulated personnel, collections, wording of Congressional bills, and political networks in order to build up an organization for government science. But he was in a minority position in a progressively more conservative political climate. M a n y Congressmen felt that government science had grown too powerful. T h e Allison Commission of 1885 proposed administrative consolidation of a number of government scientific organizations. Powell suggested Smithsonian auspices for an even larger list of bureaus engaged in original research. The opposition, including the journal Science, argued that such an administrative role would be an unwarranted reversal of policy for the Smithsonian and that the bureaus should remain autonomous. Powell (1885:23-35) met the challenge head-on, arguing that private enterprise had shown little initiative in the study of America's unprecedented growth. In a laissez-faire atmosphere with wealth as the basis of political power, Powell insisted that scientific research must be controlled and defined by scientists themselves. The government's scientific institutions were interdependent, with a flexible "corps of scientists". T o a committee on administrative efficiency, Powell argued that research results could not be specified in advance and that utility could be assessed only in retrospect. The Allison Commission rejected a National Department of Science but, by refusing to abolish the existing organizations, "affirmed the usefulness of science to the nation and recognized the growth of the n e w bureaus as accepted parts of the government" (Dupree 1957:229). Powell w o n this round, but broad public hostility to government science could not be ignored. His budget was cut in 1890; salaries were itemized and personnel cut in 1892. The Geological Survey was not alone in these restrictions, but Powell's political visibility m a d e him a lightning rod for personal conflict and he found it expedient to retreat again to the Bureau. 2.5 From Geology to Ethnology Although Powell has been remembered more as geologist than as ethnologist (except of course within anthropology), his interests in the two sciences were consistent. Ethnology provided a welcome respite from politics during several periods in his career. Dupree's history of government science

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in America depicts Powell as a symbol of the n e w government science, mentioning ethnology only incidentally. "As Powell gained m o m e n t u m , his path increasingly conformed to that of the head of the ideal n e w scientific bureau" (Dupree 1957:211). Powell's biographers have stressed his Colorado explorations (Goetzman 1966, M e a d o w s 1952, Slotkin 1974, Stegner 1954, Terrell 1969) and his political career (Darrah 1951), rather than his role in the Bureau (cf. Hinsley 1981). Powell's interest in ethnology began during the early years of his geological research and his commitment to it increased gradually over a decade "among the Indians of the Rocky Mountain region". H e began by collecting and later enlarging "many short vocabularies of the various tribes w h o m I met". H e "soon learned to enlist Indians in m y party, and to seize every opportunity of conversing with them in their o w n language, in order that I might acquire as m u c h knowledge of their tongues as possible". The vocabularies ranged from several hundred to several thousand words. Powell "also m a d e notes on the grammatic characteristics of these languages to the extent of m y opportunity". Initially, he intended to "turn over the whole of what I had collected, through others and through m y o w n labors, to the Smithsonian Institution" ( C N A E l:v). The vocabularies from the early government exploring expeditions were being prepared by George Gibbs (1815-1873) at the time of his death. They had been submitted to James H a m m o n d Trumbull (1821-1897), an independent scholar from Hartford, Connecticut, to organize for publication. Powell requested that the Smithsonian materials be transferred to him for publication in order to avoid duplication of effort (Powell to Henry, 2 Oct. 1876: SIA). Henry (to Powell, 20 Oct. 1876: SIA) agreed, stressing "the general policy of the Smithsonian Institution of doing nothing with its income which can be equally well done by other means". Powell fully realized the value of the material thus received: This threw into m y hands several hundred manuscript vocabularies, with extensive grammatic notes collected from tribes scattered throughout the greater part of North America. Examination proved that I probably had in m y hand valuable linguistic material relating to every family, and perhaps every language but two within the limits of the United States. After a somewhat hasty review of the subject, a selection from this material was made, to be published as the first volume of Contributions to North American Ethnology. The volume was "rather hurriedly sent to the press" so that collaborators would have use of it. "Proper digestion of the subject" might have suggested

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"a somewhat different arrangement". Powell hoped "to improve on the methods of presenting the subject in subsequent volumes" ( C N A E 1: vii-viii). H e continued for some years to publish linguistic and ethnographic records of the American aborigines as memoirs of the Geological Survey. With the founding the Bureau in 1879, the vocabularies in his possession returned physically to the Smithsonian, although he retained personal control over them while Pilling (1881) catalogued them. The line between geology and ethnology was not firmly drawn in the 1870s. Powell had amassed a group of loyal followers, m a n y of w h o m changed careers on the founding of the Bureau. T h e First Annual Report quoted a long section from the final report of the Geological Survey in 1877 listing ethnographic and linguistic work in progress. Dorsey, M a s o n , Gatschet, Mallery and Yarrow were already collaborators. Their work simply continued under the n e w auspices. Gatschet in particular was set to work on the Smithsonian vocabularies, since Powell m a d e no claim to be a philologist. Powell's summary (to Baird, 2 April 1880: B A E ) of researches up to that time catalogues a curious hodge-podge of subjects — some subdisciplines of anthropology, others topics incidentally of interest to the original staff. In this sense, the Bureau systematized research already in progress. The choice of 1879 as the watershed year for the professionalization of American anthropology, however, is justified by the change from integration of the n e w government anthropology around the personality of Powell to incorporation within a formal government bureau mandated to ethnology, if not all anthropology. The n e w autonomy of the Bureau, particularly its immunity from political changes, however, could not be taken for granted. W h e n Powell resigned from the Geological Survey in 1891 to devote himself to "summarizing and correlating [the Bureau's] past researches and formulating plans for future investigation and publication" (16th A R for 1894-95, 1897, p. xix), Secretary Samuel Langley (1834-1906) preferred to contain Powell's influence within the Smithsonian. But Powell insisted on his right to control the detailed operations of the Bureau (to Langley, 11 June 1891: B A E ) : Y o u are aware that for nearly three years I have intended to resign from the Geological Survey and devote m y time exclusively to the work of the Bureau of Ethnology. With this end in view, at the last session of Congress I secured an increase to the appropriation made for the Bureau of Ethnology [...]. I have on hand a large body of manuscript [in which] m a n y years of labor are represented, and it will be lost to m e if I permit myself to be occupied with administrative work as I have for the last six years.

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Powell reviewed the history of the Bureau, stressed that it existed solely because of his o w n researches which had preceded it, and insisted that his foray back into geology had always been intended as temporary. H e considered Langley's administrative restrictions an aspersion on his integrity and that of the Bureau (loc. cit.): So far as I know, up to the present time the work has been carried on without criticism, the accounts have all been settled in the Treasury promptly, the publications of the Bureau have been well received by the scholars of America and of the world, and the service has inspired the confidence of Congress. I do not shrink from the most thorough exhibition of the methods of procedure, the most careful inquiry into the ability and industry of the employees or the most rigid scrutiny of m y accounts. Powell's challenge to Langley's authority was successful. During his lifetime he w a s able to run the Bureau, albeit within the general constraints of government science. It is perhaps ironic that Powell, w h o stands at the threshold of professional anthropology in North America, w a s himself an individualist. His scientific world was dominated by personal loyalties and shifting subject matters according to the vicissitudes of politics and funding. Yet the institutional structure created through his personal charisma and political skill set the stage for a n e w anthropology which would carry the study of language, myth and social structure, as well as that of material culture, into the following century, to the m u s e u m and university based researches of Boas and his students.

Chapter 3

Constraints of Government Anthropology

Although the Bureau of American Ethnology has been remembered largely for the n a m e and personal style of John Wesley Powell, his anthropology was subject to general constraints of late 19th-century United States government science. His directorship must be evaluated as m u c h in the context of his political career as of his theoretical stance in anthropology. At the most superficial level, publications provided valuable propaganda to influence Congress and the general public alike in support of the Bureau. A s a public institution, the Bureau was expected by Congress and the American public to maintain both appearance of unanimity and factual reporting and a style of discourse which would not offend the Bureau's non-professional readers. For example, linguistic texts had to meet standards of appropriateness imposed on the literature of the period. Thus, passages from Boas's Eskimo texts were translated into Greek or Latin, which Pilling at least considered an unreasonable w a y to avoid what Boas "fitly" called obscene materials in the native narratives (Pilling to Boas, 16 M a y 1887: B A E ) . The public relations problem persisted. Thirty years later, Boas's Tsimshian texts were investigated on a charge of sending obscenity through the mails (Hodge to Boas, 31 March 1917: B A E ) . Moreover, a number of Bureau publications were withdrawn from circulation because of supposedly objectionable content (Fewkes to Michelson, 14 M a y 1920: B A E ) . The Bureau was not, of course, the only institution to face such censorship; as late as 1909, Sapir's Wishram texts were published by the Boas-dominated American Ethnological Society with passages in Latin to avoid scandalizing readers. Occasional differences of opinion among Bureau staff were d o w n played. Powell wanted peace at all costs. For example, he requested (14 March 1895: B A E ) that Fewkes modify his harsh review of the work of Matilda C o x e Stevenson (1850-1915):

32

Chapter 3 A s an old m a n I do not desire to criticize your work or your paper but only to direct your researches in a wise direction [...]. There is not very m u c h in the paper which seems to be wrong but there is a theory at the bottom of it which will lead you astray and put you in antagonism with many good workers and able m e n in America.

Freedom of scientific thought was defended in principle. But, at Powell's insistence, minority opinions were explicitly labelled. M c G e e , Powell's assistant, noted to T h o m a s (8 April 1898: B A E ) : Should you chance to run counter to those conclusions of other collaborators which are of such sort as to demand recognition in the scientific anthropology which this institution is engaged in developing, some changes m a y prove necessary. Powell responded to unresolved disagreement by publishing the history of efforts to convince the wayward collaborator. Even Stephen Powers's candid rebuke ( C N A E 1, p . xxvi) of Powell's lack offirst-handknowledge of the aborigines of California was duly recorded. Although divergent opinion was tolerated with reasonable equanimity, the Bureau went to great lengths to avoid scandal. For example, w h e n a laboratory photographer accused Frank Cushing (1857-1899) of forging a jeweled toad in the Southwest and a painted shell in the course of his archaeological expedition to Florida, the Bureau administration stonewalled the press (Fewkes to H e m e n w a y , 30 N o v . 1896: B A E ) . Fewkes used his position as a Smithsonian official to insist that the affairs of a private individual should not be subject to such publicity. With an air of considerable relief, Cushing expressed his gratitude to Powell (12 March 1897: B A E ) for avoiding an investigation which would have been disquieting to friends and injurious to the Bureau. Although the truth of this matter has never been settled unequivocally (Greene 1977, 1990; Hugte 1994; M a r k 1976, 1980), the Bureau attained its primary goal — avoiding publicity which might prejudice its image as a repository of pure scientific knowledge and selfless public service. 3.1

Bureau Archaeology Congress, by virtue of its financial control over the operations of the Bureau, held the ultimate power to define research priorities. Although Powell emphasized American Indian culture, Congress imposed archaeology on the Bureau's scope in 1881. Powell unabashedly acknowledged that he had

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initially "neglected" archaeology (12th A R for 1890-91, 1894, p. xi): it being the dominant purpose and preference of the Director to investigate the languages, arts, institutions, and mythologies of extant tribes rather than prehistoric antiquities; but certain archaeologists, by petition, asked Congress to enlarge the scope of the Bureau to include a study of the archaeology of the United States. The imposed addition of mound exploration (Haven 1856, Silverberg 1968) was "a surprise", given that Powell "had not been informed that such a movement was on foot" (12th A R for 1890-91, 1894, p. xii). But the n e w work was duly incorporated within the broad view of anthropology, an additional route to understanding the American Indian (4th A R for 1882-83, 1886, p. xxiv-xxv): The Bureau of Ethnology was first organized on the basis of the work developed by the Director while in charge of explorations and surveys in the valley of the Colorado River... [It] did not embrace any plan for archaeologic investigations in the eastern portion of the United States, and in particular did not contemplate researches relating to the mounds; but Congress having directed that such work should be added to the functions of the Bureau, a limited amount of work was accomplished in this during the past year. Although archaeology never became a major interest for Powell, he had studied it in the course of his geological work and was impressed by watching Shoshonean Indians fashioning stone tools not dissimilar to those of the European paleolithic (Judd 1967:5). Indeed, Powell thought that the wealth of archaeological data in North America would help Old World archaeologists fill the gaps in their evolutionary sequences (4th A R for 1882-83, 1886, p. lxii). In 1879, the consensus in American archaeology was that the mounds were "vestiges of a people more ancient and advanced in culture" than the known Indians (12th A R for 1890-91, 1894, p. xxxix). Powell, however, favoured explanation by continuity of prehistoric populations to the present time, "subject to known evolutionary laws, as against cataclysmic theories" (4th A R for 1882-83, 1886, p. lxiii). Archaeological material could thus be supplemented by "definite history", taken from documents and "reliable tradition" to reconstruct the history of the American Indian. The Bureau thus sought sites linking historic and prehistoric sites (Pilling to Long, 19 M a y 1884: B A E ) . Powell was interested in archaeology when it elucidated larger problems.

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For example, reviewing a paper on Pueblo archaeology, he stressed its general importance, although the title referred "only" to archaeology (8th A R for 1886-87, 1891, p. xxx). M o u n d research shed light on k n o w n Indians and "the culture-status of their ancestry" (12th A R for 1890-91, 1894, p. xliv). Linguistic families, if not particular tribes, could be correlated with the mounds (Powell to Thomas, 11 July 1887: B A E ) . Powell avoided specifying definite time periods or migration routes despite his belief that the total time depth represented by the sites was slight. Powell assumed that the goals of archaeology were those of ethnology and linguistics. Survey archaeology was typical in this period, in which archaeology usually meant collection of artistic specimens without context. But Powell wanted m o u n d exploration to embrace (7th A R for 1885-86,1891, p. xvi): "a careful examination and study of the archaeologic remains in the United States east of the Rocky Mountains". Cyrus Thomas prepared a catalogue of relevant archaeological remains; initially an aid to m a p making, it became a reference work in its right. David I. Bushnell (1875-1941) revised it through circulars as late as 1911 (33rd A R for 1911-12, 1919, p . 32). Holmes's Handbook of Aboriginal Antiquities appeared in 1919. Powell's attempted synthesis of American Indian archaeology with ethnology and linguistics was, however, short-lived. B y the late 1890s, interest in the antiquity of the Indians had subsided and m o u n d exploration was less crucial. The Bureau was already entrenched in other kinds of archaeological work, particularly in the Southwest. Powell's focus on the history of mankind in America was subordinated; in practice, emphasis shifted to m u s e u m specim e n collection (Powell 1887). The National M u s e u m preferred to secure the contents of mounds rather than to m a p their location (Pilling to Thomas, 6 Dec. 1881: B A E ) , an attitude which persisted into the 20th century. During his lifetime, Powell balanced the theoretical and material concerns of Bureau archaeology. But after his death in 1902, the Bureau moved closer to the National M u s e u m in its definition of research problems and specimen collection policy. 3.2 Finances of the Bureau Most of the constraints of government anthropology were outgrowths of financial control by Congress. Powell was a conspicuous figure in government politics and his Bureau could not afford additional notoriety. The early years of the Bureau, however, coincided with the height of Powell's political

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power. H e took full advantage of this position, receiving appropriations increasing from $20,000 in 1881 to $40,0000 in 1884. W h e n he resigned from the Survey, Powell obtained another increase; but this was withdrawn after only two years. Not until 1899 when scandals of government scientific administration had subsided did the Bureau's appropriations again reach the 1891 figure. This time, thefinancialstate of the Bureau was stable until the budget was cut in 1904; m a n y Congressmen felt that the Bureau should die with its founder. The budget figures reflect changes in Powell's political bargaining power far more than the research planned or executed by the Bureau. A s the First Annual Report noted, scope was to be limited only by the amount of Congressional appropriation. Such support was necessarily unpredictable. The Bureau could never make definite commitments beyond a single fiscal year, and cutbacks in research and publication were often needed. Powell decreased expenses wherever possible, especially by juggling the administrative facilities of the Bureau and the Geological Survey (Powell to Baird, 12 M a y 1887: B A E ) . B y 1894, when Powell began receiving a salary as Director, matters were so desperate that all salaries were scaled d o w n 15% and some staff were on indefinite leave without pay (Powell to Langley, 3 Dec. 1893: B A E ) . S o m e Bureau research could be pursued through collaboration with other government or private organizations. The Tenth Census was partially "supervised" by the Bureau, formally at the request of its Director (Powell to Baird, 17 Jan. 1882: B A E ) . Powell began this work while directing the Geological Survey and brought it into the Bureau after 1879. Cuts in Census funds in 1883, however, led to severe cutbacks in the overall research of the Bureau. W o r k on linguistic classification, picture language, and the history of Indian treaties had to be dropped, and the Smithsonian was forced to pay B A E salaries for the duration of thefiscalyear (Powell to MacCauley, 9 Jan. 1883:

BAE). B y strict economy, the Bureau managed to maintain most of its research. M o r e serious was the constant spectre that the Bureau itself would be discontinued ( M c G e e to Gates, 8 January 1895: B A E ) . This became most acute under Holmes, w h o succeeded Powell as Director. Appropriations were cut and he found it difficult to justify the over-all research plan of the Bureau, even on the basis of its past record. Budgets were initiated for specific research projects, replacing Powell's policy that scientists should determine

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their o w n research agenda. T h e Bureau never regained its prominence and political visibility in the 20th century, although work in progress continued to completion. 3.3 Applied Anthropology Although the most obvious constraints on Bureau activity were financial, research priorities were also influenced by Congressional and public expectations of practical results. Objections were posed to its lack of utility for Indian policy decisions. Swanton believed (n.d.: 47) that Congress had intended the Bureau to be temporary and recalled that " w e had to answer the question to every n e w session of the national legislature w h e n w e would be through". The Bureau thus had considerable stake in appearing essential to an 'Indian problem' which was then considered more foreign than domestic policy. Indeed, most of the early Bureau staff shared Powell's conviction of the importance of government-sponsored research in a democratic society. H e hired sociologist Lester W a r d w h o advocated "the scientific participation of government in the advancement of h u m a n welfare" (Curti 1943:575) as a clerk and paleobotanist for the Geological Survey so W a r d could continue his writings on political philosophy (Chugerman 1939). M a s o n (cf. H o u g h 1908), a prominent utilitarian scientist, summarized the c o m m o n belief in: the application of the instrumentalities and methods of natural science to the inductive study of m a n . T h e anthropologist, in this sense, is not a dilettante philosopher, w h o inquires into old things because they are old, or into curious things while they are curious, omitting all the great movements and needs of society, and overloading the baggage train of progress with trumpery picked up along the march. The practical spirit of our age demands that w e ask what truth, or good, or beauty comes from such investigations, and h o w w e can make them subservient to human weal. (1883:358) Such m e n were firmly convinced of the value of their science for the idealized social order they envisioned. They were uniquely qualified to promote the study of American Indians a m o n g the more literal-minded and pragmatic of the Congressmen. In 1879, Powell was realistic in proposing that the Bureau could guide the United States government in dealing with the American Indian, the greatest foreign policy problem facing the nation, precisely because the Indians were located within the nation-state. T h e urgency of pacifying the Indians and settling them on reservations helped Powell to gain political support for his Bureau. In his First Annual Report for 1879-80, 1881 (p. xvi)

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he quoted his o w n 1877 intention in the Geological Survey report to "endeavor as far as possible to produce results that would be of practical value in the administration of Indian affairs", with: especial attention [...] to vital statistics, to the discovery of linguistic affinities, and the progress m a d e by the Indians toward civilization, and the causes and remedies for the inevitable conflict that arises from the spread of civilization over a region previously inhabited by savages. Less formally, Powell noted (to Davis, 2 June 1880: B A E ) : If w e are to conduct our Indian affairs wisely and induct our barbaric tribes into the ways and institutions of civilization that the red m a n m a y become c o m pletely under our government and share in its benefits, the first step to be taken is to acquire a knowledge of the Indian tribal governments, religion, and sociology and industrial organizations. References to the reservation system recurred in the early annual reports and budget requests. For example: The immediate purpose in instituting these researches and in organizing the Bureau in 1879 was the discovery of the relations a m o n g the native American tribes to the end that amicable groups might be gathered on reservations. This demand for the practical researches conducted by the Bureau led directly and unavoidably to an innovation in ethnic classification. (14th A R for 1892-93, 1896, p. xxvii-xxix) M c G e e recognized the same relationship between policy-making and theoretical considerations in anthropology: the [linguistic] classification affords a means of measuring the susceptibility of the various tribes to civilization, to education, and to arrangement on reservations in harmonious groups. The classification is thus essentially practical. (22nd A R for 1900-1901, 1904, p. x) The practical aims of the Bureau were to provide basic information and rational policy guidelines about American Indians. A m a p , synonymy and linguistic classification were the goals of practical statesmen, but the scientific considerations involved required Powell to reverse the order of these priorities. Thus, public goals could be attained only after more extensive scientific research not envisioned by the politicians w h o awaited practical results. Similarly, Powell expanded the scope of the Geological Survey to include both private and public lands and to c o m m e n t on land use. T h e dramatic conflict of his policies with those of land speculators and Western entrepreneurs contributed to his political unpopularity by about 1890.

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Powell quickly c a m e to see language as the key to ethnic classification and existing ethnic classifications as hopelessly inadequate. L a n g u a g e had long been accepted as one important m e a n s to classify peoples. In the late 19th century, the only serious alternative w a s classification b y race. Powell's position w a s , therefore, explicitly directed against evolutionary biology. Because language w a s correlated with other features of social ('demotic') life, it could serve as an index for cultural development, and ultimately could facilitate the juxtaposition of linguistically related peoples o n reservations. T h e linguistic similarity of tribes w a s "a self-evident b o n d of sympathy and ultimate union" which could be encouraged b y reservation administration (14th A R for 1 8 9 2 - 9 3 , 1 8 9 6 , p . xxviii). Powell's reformer science involved intimate k n o w l edge of the A m e r i c a n Indians which could be tested b y the policies applied to their gradual but inevitable incorporation into civilized society. T h e interaction of theory and practice w a s constant: So the initial work of the Bureau was the development of a practical system of classifying primitive peoples, and the conditions were such as to permit an actual test of the classification and to complete the rejection of unnatural, illogical, or incongruous systems. Thus it was found absolutely necessary to abandon current systems of ethnic classification, and to devise and adopt a system based on purely human characteristics springing from intellectual activities. (14th A R for 1892-93, 1896, p. xxix) Great weight rested o n linguistic classification in this scheme: the linguistic characters have been found to be interrelated with other characters, including those expressed in arts, industries, institutions, and beliefs.... [T]he several categories of characters represented by language have been found, through study of traditions and direct survivals, to express the actual phylogenetic development of tribes and stocks. Accordingly each linguistic character is treated not merely as an external adventive feature, but as a product of evolution, a record of the past, and a precursor of the future. The classification of American Indians devised and applied by the Bureau is accordingly a condensed expression of the sum of present knowledge concerning the origin and development of the native American people. (McGee in Goode 1897, p. 377-378) In addition to the practical purposes of linguistic w o r k , moreover, Powell w a s convinced that A m e r i c a n Indian languages m a d e important potential contributions to general linguistics. Philology had remained too long "in the hands of the metaphysicians" (1st A R for 1 8 7 9 - 8 0 , 1 8 8 1 , p . 78): anthropology required an objective s c h e m e for classification which could b e applied to all the languages of the world. 'Linguistic Anthropology' (as M a s o n called it)

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should deal with the history and evolution of language itself and with the classification of peoples for comparative anthropological study (Mason 1881: 397). Such studies led back to questions of social organization, religion and evolution of the American Indians, making language the model for the study of the others. Ideally, language would prove to be related to the rest of culture so that linguistic classification could serve directly as an ethnic classification. Powell was more concerned to classify extant Indians than to reconstruct their past history, although he realized that ethnic and linguistic units were potentially variable through time and that classifications might prove more complex than the ideal case. Historically, he believed that most existing ethnic groups were formed by admixture, "with a general progress toward unity" which had "obscured primitive ethnic divisions, if such existed" (1st A R for 1879-80, 1881, p. 80). Powell even granted the theoretical possibility that classifications based on language, religion, mortuary customs, sociology and physical characteristics might remain separate and irreconcilable. In the absence of existing classifications for these ethnic phenomena, Powell accepted language as the closest thing to an adequate classificatory variable. The argument had a different focus w h e n Boas returned to it in his Introduction to the Handbook of American Indian Languages, published in 1911. Race, language and culture were analytically separate variables which might coincide because of particular historical circumstances but need not do so. It was the complex history of such groups which enjoined anthropologists to employ all possible lines of evidence, not only linguistic, toward reconstruction of culture history. N o single classificatory principle could be adequate or aesthetically satisfying. The Bureau received numerous inquiries, official and unofficial, about the American Indians. Each was diligently answered by some m e m b e r of the Bureau staff. Powell intervened (to Lewis Henry Morgan, 4 April 1880: B A E ) w h e n an Abenaki chief was charged customs duties for moving his baskets from Canada to the United States. O n another occasion, Powell (to Hayt, 12 Jan. 1880: B A E ) reminded the Bureau of Indian Affairs of the need to consider Indian patterns of thought in introducing Western style family names. T h e Bureau advised political procedures consistent with Indian political process (Powell to Teller, 12 Feb. 1880: B A E ) and provided technical information on such subjects as locations of reservations to facilitate settlement and administration (Powell to Morgan, 24 Jan. 1881: B A E ) . Occasionally, the Bureau even accepted responsibility for the "discreet conduct of the

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work on reservations" by non-Bureau staff w h o needed permission for their work (Holmes to Wissler, 27 April 1906: B A E ) . In any case, like the Bureau of Indian Affairs, the B A E was forced to deal with practical and recurrent problems about American Indians whether or not its o w n research w a s furthered by such digressions into politics and administration. Powell's was a program of urgent anthropological research. Although he was the first to use the term 'acculturation' (Hallowell 1965), the Bureau was not interested in studying adaptation to Western society. T h e aim in every case was to describe the aboriginal culture which was modified by contact with civilization, resulting in "the completion of a systematic and wellrounded record of the tribes before the ever accelerating march of change shall have robbed them of their aboriginal characteristics and culture" (18th A R for 1906-07, 1912: 9). The linguistic classification was a salvage operation, intended as "the chart of savage occupation of the continent" although civilization had "almost entirely swept away the living representatives of this primitive culture" (Mason 1891a:377). Powell was appalled that the National M u s e u m did not firmly separate native products influenced by acculturation and trade goods from those which were aboriginal ('pure'). Thus, ironically, although the original motivation had been to deal with modern American Indians, their contemporary plight was explicitly excluded by Powell from the proper scope of anthropology. Reservations were, in this sense, a solution to the dilemma of a people w h o preserved a stage of h u m a n civilization that was quickly passing away. T h e Indians were part of American history and their traditional customs had to be recorded in the most pristine form possible. Nonetheless, this was not applied anthropology as later understood and had little to do with the plight of particular groups of Indians (cf. Berkhofer 1978, Bieder 1986). 3.4 The Limitation to the American Indian Because the Bureau grew out of the geological and geographical surveys of the United States territories, like them, it was expected to provide basic information about the n e w country and problems of settling and developing it. The Bureau, responding to the great diversity of American Indians, collected m u c h such information. Government sponsorship meant that researches were restricted in practice to the territory of the United States, although this soon became an unwelcome constraint from the standpoint of anthropology as a theoretical and comparative science. A s early as 1881, Powell pointed out (1st

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41

A R for 1879-80,1881, p. xv): "The contributions already received from m a n y parts of the world relating to the lower stages of culture among other people have been of value in elucidating the problems presented in North America". Indeed, the researches of Mallery on picture writing and gestures and of Yarrow on burial customs were not restricted in scope to North America. Powell wanted to use the familiar questionnaire approach to acquire comparative materials (to Langley, 28 Jan. 1899: B A E ) and assumed that his evolutionary theory would integrate these materials independently of particular culture histories, e.g., those of North America. In practice, the North American restriction meant that the Bureau could not logically extend its researches in directions which would have been reasonable otherwise. B y 1895, Powell and M c G e e were campaigning to have the word "North" omitted from the Congressional bill. At about the same time, the word "American" was inserted into the n a m e of the Bureau itself, suggesting the widest possible scope for the institution (McGee to Langley, 8 Oct. 1895: B A E ) . Occasional forays into Middle and South American materials thus became feasible on the grounds that American Indians did not respect later political boundaries. The Bureau was never able to support m u c h Mexican work, for example, of Alphonse Louis Pinart (1852-1911) in archaeology (Powell to Pinart, 8 March 1890: B A E ) or Spanish language publications (Powell to Rathburn, 22 M a y 1899: B A E ) . But it extended the 1891 linguistic classification to include Central America. W o r k began about 1895 but appeared in print only in 1911 (Mason 1900; Thomas & Swanton 1911). Extensions of the Bureau's scope during the 19th century were modest. But at the end of Powell's lifetime, the role of the United States in world politics was changing rapidly. In response, the Bureau attempted to deal with the ethnology of peoples newly involved in U . S . foreign policy, just as it had previously dealt with Indian policy problems. In Hawaii and the Philippines, M c G e e (to Langley, 12 June 1901: B A E ) stressed that "educational systems and methods adapted to the conditions and requirements of the natives" required ethnological research. Congress approved researches in Hawaii early in the century, but in practice these were rarely carried out. B y 1922, lack of resources for such work led Fewkes to rationalize that local investigators had the archaeology well in hand and Hawaii was a poor place to study anyway because it was only on the fringes of Polynesia (41st A R for 1921-22, 1928:48). West Indian researches early in the century were also abortive.

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B y the end of the First World W a r , American politics reflected expanding consciousness of other peoples and cultures. Fewkes, as head of the Bureau, tried unsuccessfully to involve the institution in this broadening of public interest based on the need for "accurate knowledge of other races besides the American Indian. It needs no prophet to predict [...] demand [for] an extension of the Bureau work to other races" (40th A R for 1920-21, 1925:2). Or: The Great W a r has enlarged our view of the practical value of ethnological studies. A s our country has become a world power and has entered into political and commercial relationships with many other races whose ethnology is little known, it is desirable that the ethnological researches of the Bureau be enlarged in order that w e m a y better appreciate these foreign peoples. From necessity w e have limited our researches to the American Indian and natives of Hawaii. There is, however, an urgent call for more extended studies of all peoples whose amalgamation will constitute the future America. (41st A R for 1921-22, 1928:3) The Bureau faced great difficulty justifying even its American Indian researches at this time, putting it in a poor position to claim its qualifications to meet the challenge of an expanding national consciousness. The ethnologists w h o went into the n e w territories were not employed by the government, although Powell's concept of the role of government anthropology could have been extended easily in this direction. T h e rest of American anthropology m o v e d away from emphasis on American Indians (Murray in press) and the importance of the Bureau declined proportionately. This constraint, however, was imposed on the Bureau, not chosen by it. In fact, for each of the constraints placed on the Bureau by its status as a government institution, the personality of John Wesley Powell was a major factor in permitting productive research in spite of the limitations of support. Powell was effective in securing favourable publicity and adequate if not munificent funds. Goals of government policy did not seem to him inconsistent with theoretical anthropology. American Indians provided sufficient diversity to keep the staff occupied, although an occasional foray into comparative ethnology was required to provide context. Archaeological time depth required additional resources to acquire and present to the public a full picture of the American Indians. Government support of anthropological research through the Bureau was crucial to late 19th-century institutional development of the science, because m u s e u m s and universities could not yet support professional scientists. T h e rationale for government support, however, was not pure science but the

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foreign policy implications of Indian resistance to western expansion. Realistic politicians sought reliable information to guide Indian legislation; indeed, treaties were negotiated and signed through the W a r Department. Powell's work spanned the transition of the American Indian from an external to a domestic problem as illustrated by the brief placement of his Bureau under the Interior Department. T h e early Bureau w a s expected by its government sponsors to provide both accurate information about the Indians and philosophical justification, within evolutionary theory, for the expansion of American civilization at the expense of the aborigines. After 1900, Indian policy retreated from public consciousness, with less intense need for knowledge of Indian cultures. T h e Bureau was ineffective in claiming expertise on n e w problems of American colonialism beyond the continent. Indian administration with anthropological input, with the Indians as an important domestic responsibility, arose only in the 1930s. T h e Bureau remained outside the developing university framework of American anthropology and could not perpetuate itself w h e n the original rationale became insufficient to justify its continued existence.

John Wesley Powell (1834-1902) Smithsonian Institution. Reprinted with permission.

Chapter 4

'The Mapping of North America'

T h e phrase "the mapping of North America" summarizes the empirical program uniting the early researches of the Bureau of American Ethnology — that is, the amassing of basic ethnographic and linguistic information about the American Indian, conceived as a fairly straight-forward collection of factual data. Indeed, the Bureau was founded to remedy gaps in systematic knowledge of American aborigines, m u c h of which had emerged from Powell's western explorations. Results appeared in a series of compendia — handbooks and monographs — summarizing and supplementing research results of staff and collaborators. Powell had originally envisioned a series of "Manuals for use in American Research" (1st A R for 1879-80, 1881, p. xxxii). His o w n Introduction to the Study of Indian Languages would be followed by similar introductions to mortuary customs (Yarrow) and sign language (Mallery), as well as manuals of medical practice (Mooney), tribal government (Powell & Dorsey), and North American myths (Powell, Curtin, Hewitt) (1st A R for 1879-80, 1881, p. xxxiii): These additional manuals are nearly ready. Still others are projected, and it is hoped that the field of North American anthropology will be entirely covered by them. The series will then be systematically combined in a Manual of Anthropology for use in North America. T h e work quickly became more complex than Powell had expected. B y 1909, 'handbooks' (compilations of varying scope) had appeared on tribes, race history, language, social systems, religions, technology, aesthetic arts, sign language, pictographs, treaties and cessions, games and amusements, burial customs, economics, archaeology, geographical names, Hawaii. Bibliographies, grammars and portfolios of portraits were considered similar projects (30th A R for 1908-09, 1915:10-11). Although not all of these were carried out during Powell's lifetime, all are consistent with his view of the

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Bureau's mandate to acquire, compile and present to the public information on the Indian population of the United States. The 'mapping' projects varied considerably in scope. The research of Royce on Indian treaties and cessions and Yarrow on burial customs were individual specializations. Mallery's focus on picture and sign language was supplemented by questionnaires and examples from the rest of the Bureau staff. Other projects outgrew their original scope. Powell's standardization of alphabets and vocabularies led to a linguistic classification which aided Pilling in organizing his bibliographies, which in turn fed into the tribal synonymy. T h e overlap in these long-term projects meant that the same people worked on several of them, involving most of the Bureau staff at one time or another, and Powell directed the overall enterprise. The result was a cooperative effort never again duplicated in American anthropology. N o other anthropological institution at this time possessed comparable resources for cooperative research. Indeed, Boas noted (to W o o d w a r d , 12 Jan. 1905: A P S ) : "In reality the Bureau of American Anthropology has partially performed the work of an anthropological survey of the United States, and it should be developed so as to perform this office in a m u c h more systematic manner". In fact, of course, events evolved quite differently. It was Boas and his early students w h o maintained the Bureau tradition of compiling basic information about the American Indians during the 20th century (see Part III). In any case, the reputation of the Bureau in the late 19th century rested on the scope and implementation of these cooperative ' m a p ping' projects. Although in retrospect the linguistic classification of 1891 looms largest, it was only part of Powell's systematic research program. T h e mapping projects were essential to the Bureau's place in the emerging professional discipline of anthropology. Although individual scientists did not have absolute freedom to pursue their personal researches, they had access to collective resources unmatchable by private scholars. Hinsley (1981: 164, 174) argues that they were "incomplete scientists" because of these constraints, describing a career "pattern" of "intense early field work succeeded by an office career of collating and synthesizing with only sporadic returns to thefield."H e reads the scientific commitments of the early staff, e.g., M o o n e y and. Cushing, as exceptional individual characteristics rather than "institutional perspective" (Hinsley 1981: 224). The institutional vision of the Bureau, however, resided in Powell, assisted by M c G e e , and need not have been shared by every m e m b e r of the early staff in order to have

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profoundly redirected the course of professionalization in North American anthropology. 4.1 The Myth Concordance O n e of the Bureau's first projects, albeit abortive, was a classification of North American mythology; the First Annual Report included a summary by Powell. Although the Director moved on to other subjects, the concordance was pursued by Jeremiah Curtin between 1883 and 1892. Curtin, primarily a diplomat and literary translator, joined the Bureau to implement "a systematic study of our Indian languages" (Schafer 1940:311). Most of his time, h o w ever, was spent collecting myths which he believed would reveal the mental systems of various American Indian groups (Curtin to Powell, 18 N o v . 1883: B A E ) , the synthesis to be framed in evolutionary terms (Curtin, quoted in Schafer 1940:306): Mythology and philology taken together form a science bearing the same relation to the history of the h u m a n mind that geology does to the history of the earth [...] so in mythology, folklore, and languages of nations w e find stereotype impresses of the mental conditions of these nations at successive periods... [Each language] has a system of thought, an entire philosophy of things. Curtin did not publish most of his vocabulary and myth collections, although they have been utilized by later scholars (Curtin 1898). Curtin's most ambitious project was an indexed collection of world myths (to Powell, 15 Feb. 1882: B A E ) . His application for Bureau funds was backed by his Harvard classmate, John Fiske (1842-1901), a prominent American mythologist (Fiske to Powell, 21 April 1882: B A E ) . W h e n Curtin failed to carry out his massive task, the Bureau did not pursue his program, even within North America. The project would be picked up by Boas and his students a generation later. 4.2 Linguistic Manuscripts The more than 600 manuscripts that Powell brought from the Smithsonian in 1879, to which he continued to add, constituted the most valuable physical property of the Bureau (19th A R for 1897-98, 1901: xxxi). M c G e e (in Goode 1897:380) emphasized this value: The greater part of the material used in classifying the fifty-nine [linguistic] stocks and over eight hundred tribes above enumerated was collected by collaborators of the Bureau. N o other linguistic collection of comparable extent

48

Chapter 4 and variety is k n o w n to exist; and since the material w a s recorded in large part by trained linguists, and since all the languages and stocks represent a widely distributed people in the simpler stages of intellectual development, the Bureau collection is invaluable to students of the origin and growth of language.

The collection was intended for use by the staff. M u c h of the material could not be published because it was fragmentary or overly technical for government publications (15th A R for 1893-94, 1897, p. lxxxii): "While the amount of linguistic material published is not voluminous, the manuscripts constantly accessible for purposes of study are abundant — richer, it is believed, than for any other body of linguistic records of a primitive people". Powell apparently conflated 'the American Indian' with a generic 'primitive people'. Manuscripts were carefully sequestered for exclusive use of staff and collaborators. The Bureau w a s a research organization, not a resource for outside scholars (Hodge 1907:1179): " M a n y of the manuscripts in the archives [...] have been consulted in the preparation of the Handbook, but as they are not readily accessible to students outside of Washington they are not included in this list." N o other institution or individual had access to so m u c h American linguistic material. In practice, responsible anthropologists were permitted occasionally to consult these manuscripts to supplement their o w n researches. 4.3

Bibliographies Powell conceived the idea of extensive bibliographies of North American Indians early in the Bureau's history (to Hale, 12 April 1881: B A E ) . Originally, the bibliography w a s a record of titles available for office use (Powell to Trumbull, 15 June 1880: B A E ) . But, w h e n the vocabularies were examined and classified as well, Powell considered it of "general linguistic interest". The bibliographic part of Powell's effort to prepare a synopsis of the languages and dialects of North America and a m a p of geographical distributions was delegated to James Constantine Pilling, formerly an employee of the Geological Survey, whose bibliographic labours occupied his spare time as clerk and disbursing agent of the Bureau and Geological Survey. The rest of Powell's staff were decidedly less enthusiastic about this armchair research, though grateful for access to the results. Pilling w a s somewhat loath to arrange his materials according to the tentative linguistic classification of the Bureau but finally concluded that

'The Mapping of North America'

49

indexing by tribe (before completion of the Synonymy) was too indefinite (Pilling to Eames, 1 Dec. 1882: B A E ) . Publications thus refer to the Bureau's linguistic m a p in progress, although Pilling himself never worked on the linguistic classification. Thefirstversion of the bibliography appeared in 1885; the Proof-Sheets, covering all linguistic families in North America, were distributed to collaborators for revision, with these appearing in separate volumes for each major stock — the Eskimo, Siouan, Iroquoian, Muskhogean, Algonkian, Athabaskan, Chinookan, Salishan and Wakashan were completed between 1887 and 1894. Pilling himself realized that the task was impossible, though whatever was completed would be useful. H e commented to John Gilmary Shea (11 April 1881: B A E ) : "If I ever print m y Bibliography I should like to insert a note telling w h y the work was neverfinished".Pilling died in 1895, leaving 49 stocks without the planned revisions (Holmes to Dougherty, 5 Dec. 1903: B A E ) . Considerable progress was made, however, by cooperative effort. Pilling was surprised by the patience with which unrecognized collaborators gave of their time and energy (to Eames, 11 July 1882: B A E ) . Bureau staff wrote to acquaintances, government officials, missionaries and private scholars. Pilling consulted sources ranging from the Jesuit Relations to the Cherokee Advocate. Whatever their degree of completeness, the bibliographies were invaluable in a period when each scholar previously had to find his/her o w n w a y among scattered and unsystematic descriptive materials. ( C o m m e r cial reprinting of the Pilling bibliographies in 1968 attests to their continuing use.) Pilling was not the only person to recognize the utility of such a project. John Bartlett (1820-1905) wrote to Powell (25 A u g . , 1879: B A E ) that he wanted to prepare an extensive bibliography of American Indians excluding linguistic items; G . Stanley Hall (Powell to Hall, 8 Oct. 1884: B A E ) envisioned a bibliography of American myths and folklore; the Royal Society of London wanted help in preparing an international bibliography (Hodge to the Royal Society, 1 June 1894: B A E ) ; Samuel Barrett (to Hodge, 29 N o v . 1910: B A E ) thought the Bureau should sponsor a general North American bibliography, perhaps even with a worldwide extension. In each case, the Bureau was forced to respond that it lacked resources and personnel for such ambitious projects. Pilling's bibliographies were produced within a broad mandate to systematize knowledge of the American Indian. Even the limited project pursued by Pilling underscored the difficulties of comprehensiveness and

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justified the relegation of bibliographic work to an instrumental role in other systematizing projects, particularly the linguistic classification. 4.4

'Introduction to the Study of Indian Languages' Powell's Introduction to the Study of Indian Languages first appeared in 1877. O n the basis of his o w n fieldwork and study of American Indian vocabularies, Powell extended the vocabulary list of George Gibbs (18151873) in 1863 and proposed a n e w standardized alphabet. The second edition in 1880 placed more emphasis on morphology, attempting to elicit concepts corresponding to European parts of speech. Powell (1880:70) believed that languages were organized by their grammatical forms and that adequate description required both morphological and lexical evidence, although genetic classification should rely on lexicon. Further revisions of both vocabulary and alphabet were planned. During the 1890s, Dorsey prepared several hundred questions for a third edition. Boas initially justified his Handbook of American Indian Languages as a revision of the 1880 edition. Boas recognized the value of this work, requesting copies for his students in thefieldas late as 1898. The alphabet, originally devised by William Dwight Whitney (18271894) of Yale, caused considerable consternation in the Bureau. Powell intended to set a standard to be followed in all the work of the Bureau, although Whitney warned that suchrigiditywas untenable in the description of particular languages. Whitney objected to Gatschet's phonetic suggestions but demurred to Powell (25 July 1877: B A E ) : "you have no good reason for regarding and treating m e as an authority in these matters, [...] questions of alphabetizing are questions of expediency and compromise". T h e Bureau staff incorrectly attributed the problems to Whitney and never really adopted the system. For example, Gatschet complained to Powell that he could not record Indian languages by a "scientific alphabet" (3 A u g . 1879: B A E ) : Professor Whitney is an excellent Orientalist, but knowing nothing of the phonetics of American languages he could not be expected to draw up an alphabet setting at rest all requirements in this line. There is perhaps nobody in the world living n o w w h o could do it. Despite the desirability of standardized forms, Gatschet'sfieldworkhad convinced him that the study of particular languages would require changes in any abstract scheme and that room must be left for appropriate modifications. Symbols had to be acceptable to the Government Printing Office, which

'The Mapping

of North

America'

51

objected to preparing linguistic material in any form. Gatschet w a s not the only dissenter: Boas developed his o w n scheme for recording Northwest coast languages and w a s unenthusiastic about the Bureau alphabet and early 20th century attempts to revise it. Powell circulated his Introduction widely a m o n g investigators in contact with Indians. It w a s "a portable course in ethnology for the untutored but zealous traveller" (Hinsley 1981:161). Like M o r g a n ' s kinship questionnaire and in the Smithsonian tradition, it w a s meant to be used b y untrained observers. Indeed, Powell agreed with Gibbs (1863:7) that: " T h e work, moreover, is a mere matter of observation, to be accomplished with the requisite expenditure of time and labor to almost any degree of minute accuracy that m a y be desired". Dorsey looked for individuals working o n American languages and noted those w h o had not advanced too far to change their recording system (Dorsey to Pilling, 17 N o v . 1879: B A E ) . Materials received by the Bureau were often returned with a copy of the Bureau alphabet (Pilling to Croft, 13 Oct. 1882: B A E ) . Powell summarized his o w n views (to Grayson, 5 June 1885: B A E ) : While it may be easier for you to prepare your manuscript in the Muscogee alphabet, I think it would be of greater advantage in the long run, and afford you more satisfaction to use the alphabet as prepared by the Bureau. O f course, modifications such as would better convey special sounds of the Muscogee tongue can be used. In addition to Boas's students, the Bureau staff used the Introduction, with its standard vocabulary items. Survey fieldwork by H e n s h a w , Curtin, Dorsey, Hewitt, Gatschet and others w a s expected to produce just enough information to specify linguistic affiliation. T h e earlier Gibbs vocabularies suggested " m o r e remote affinities must be sought in a wider research, demanding a degree of acquaintance with their languages beyond the reach of transient visitors" (Gibbs M S : B A E ) . T h e Introduction w a s designed for broad-scale 'mapping' projects and w a s less well adapted to careful study of single languages. 4.5 The Definition of Linguistic Families With the framework for acquisition of linguistic data provided b y the alphabet and vocabulary list in the Introduction, Powell turned to linguistic classification. Detailed description of particular languages w a s of little interest to h i m . Increases in amount and quality of American linguistic data,

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largely through the efforts of Powell and his associates, however, permitted a more "comprehensive and satisfactory" classification (6th A R for 1884-85, 1888, p. xliv). Albert Gallatin's classifications of 1836 and 1848 had exhausted the results of 'direct comparison of vocabularies' and he wanted to elucidate the development of languages. In fact, however, Powell followed Gallatin's emphasis on observational comparison of fairly closely related languages. The innovation of the Bureau was primarily in the number of languages covered, especially in the West, where its fieldwork provided for thefirsttime sufficient information to support a systematization effort. In 1877, Powell added to Powers' Tribes of California an appendix of vocabularies (on the basis of manuscripts obtained from the Smithsonian) but did not indicate which items he thought were cognates. W h e n his interests turned to linguistic classification, however, vocabularies alone declined in usefulness. Publications were intended as "models for subsequent reports" and were expected to "form a sound foundation for subsequent research;" analysis as well as fact collection was necessary. T h e Bureau had been collecting linguistic data since its establishment (Gatschet 1879), and Powell (1891:xxxvi) felt an obligation to systematize this material. Moreover, the accumulating body of reliable information about American languages was already concentrated with the Bureau, between its manuscript collection and on-going staff researches. The 1891 linguistic classification was intended to be tentative. A s in other collaborative projects, Powell hoped for feedback and subsequent reformulation (Powell 1891:216): The author has delayed the present publication somewhat, expecting to supplement it with another paper on the characteristics of those languages which have been most fully recorded, but such supplementary paper has already grown too large for this place and is yet unfinished, while the necessity for the speedy publication of the present results seems to be imperative. The needs of the Bureau of Ethnology in directing the work of the linguists employed in it, and especially in securing the organizing the labor of a large body of collaborators throughout the country, call for this publication at the present time. Although revisions of the linguistic classification would take place largely outside the Bureau, Powell's other unfinished goals, at least in linguistics, were largely achieved by Boas's Handbook of American Indian Languages (see Chap. 10).

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At least some of the Bureau staff, however, regarded the classification as a final product. The Bureau's unsigned biographical sketch of Gatschet refers to Powell's determination to "reexamine" all the linguistic stocks "to establish this standing on a true and undeniable basis, so that the tribes w h o speak them m a y be assigned their definite and irrevocable position in the array of American nations". Publication of the classification was postponed repeatedly pending further fieldwork on the ubiquitous "undetermined problems" (9th A R for 1887-88, 1892, p. xxxv). Although Powell insisted his classification w a s tentative, later scholars have failed to acknowledge the extreme limitations of the evidence on which it was based. For example, Hoijer (1904-1976) in 1946 used 55 stocks, refusing to recognize later connections for which more evidence had been presented than for most of Powell's units. A s further consolidations were proposed, the Powell classification was enshrined as representing conservative consensus, regardless of the evidence for particular cases. Before turning to the classification itself and the collaborative work behind it, let us examine Powell's o w n goals for it. Kroeber (1876-1960; 1905b:579) stressed the practical utility of the enterprise: "What Powell did was to seize clearly the conception of the necessity of some classification, and of the inevitability of this being on a linguistic basis, and then to carry through his purpose rigorously, systematically, and completely". Other projects, particularly the S y n o n y m y , to which Powell devoted great energy depended on the completion of at least a provisional linguistic classification. T h e S y n o n y m y was intended to collate variant names, locations and sources for all North American tribes. "[D]elay has been occasioned chiefly by the fundamental necessity of defining linguistic stocks or families into which all tribes must be primarily divided" (7th A R for 188-86, 1891, p. xxxv). Problems of ethnological classification (ultimately of reservation policy and Congressional budgetary approval) were more salient than c o m plexities of historical linguistics. Powell stressed "the accumulation of data, rather than any problems of comparative linguistics" (Sturtevant 1959:196). Significantly, Powell's classification was thefirstserious attempt to fill the blank spaces on the m a p of North America and thefirstto use solely linguistic criteria. Vexing problems were presented by the number of totally isolated languages in America. Powell placed each in a separate linguistic family. In fact, it has even been suggested (Swadesh 1967:281) that: "these m e n did not ordinarily set d o w n the points of contact they noted between one

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and another languages." Certainly this was not the major goal. Powell was not interested in distant genetic relationships (to Faris, 12 April 1888: B A E ) : T o establish connection between languages it is necessary to compare extensive vocabularies, to study the phonetic systems and to analyze roots of words. T o limit comparison to a large number of languages having no possible affinities can lead to no beneficial results, and tends only to confuse and mislead. Powell's classification was based on explicit theoretical assumptions which were listed in the text (1891:216): 1) 2) 3) 4) 5) 6)

the classification was deliberately conservative; m a n y cases of doubtful assignment were present; all languages contained borrowed material; there were probably more languages in "primitive" times; all languages had diverse histories; primitive languages changed slowly.

These postulates already influenced h o w Powell would use his linguistic classification. His goal was to elucidate "the history and laws of development" of languages and of linguistic development in general (14th A R for 1892-93, 1896, p. xl). Powell ostensibly believed that American languages formed "a class entirely distinct from any others in the world" (Powell to Morris, 28 April 1896: B A E ) . In practice, he was more interested in differences within North America which might reflect different stages in evolution. T h e notion of a single type of American language ('incorporating' or 'polysynthetic') was well established in an earlier Americanist linguistics, particularly in the work of Gallatin, Peter Stephen Duponceau (1760-1844), Pickering and Brinton. T h e logic of Morgan's postulated single type of kinship system is parallel. Powell believed that the original character of a language was preserved in its vocabulary; thus genetic classification should rely primarily on lexical evidence (1891: 87,88): Grammatical similarities are not supposed to furnish evidence of cognation, but to be phenomena in part relating to state of nature and in part adventitious [...] Grammatic structure is but a phase or accident of growth and not a primordial element of languages. The roots of a language are its most permanent characteristics, and while the words which are formed from them m a y change so as to obscure their elements or in some cases even to lose them, it seems that they are never lost from view but can be recovered in large part. The grammatic structure or plan of a language is forever changing, and in this respect the languages m a y become entirely transformed.

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G r a m m a r was supposed to provide evidence of the evolutionary stage reached by a group, but its susceptibility to change meant that languages might show mixed evolutionary features (Powell 1891:139): The languages are very unequally developed in their several parts. L o w gender systems appear with high tense systems, highly evolved case systems with slightly developed m o d e systems, and there is scarcely any one of these languages [...] which does not exhibit archaic devices in its grammar. Powell believed he k n e w the evolutionary sequence by which h u m a n language developed to its ultimate efficiency in English. The amount of variation in American Indian languages m a d e such a simple unilinear scale impossible to apply, since grammatical type did not correlate with level of social and political organization. The notion of a 'mixed' language due to instability of grammatical form was an evasion which preserved the evolutionary sequence, at least in theory. Thus, Powell found grammar interesting from the point of view of the mental development of American Indians but declined to consider it in linguistic classification. Powell's classification began with set assumptions about the history of language and the number of linguistic families in North America. H e realized that a conservative classification implied that some families would later be fused, but believed that new and unrelated languages would still be discovered. This would maintain approximately the same number of families "at least under the present methods of linguistic analysis" (1891:102). Each stock was composite as a result of the blending of peoples. Because Powell did not discuss innovative processes within language, divergence of related languages through borrowing from their neighbours became salient. Powell envisioned more languages when people lived independently in small groups which had been progressively incorporated within larger political units (17th A R for 1895-96, 1898, p. lii). Linguistic classification thus reflected the social evolution of the American tribes. Languages began in a kind of pristine isolation and became more similar through absorption from contiguous tribes (Powell 1891: 141). Indeed, differentiation of dialects into languages was directly comparable to organic specialization and biological differentiation, since a language spoken over a wider area was deemed clearly superior. Progress toward mutual intelligibility could only reflect degeneration in the level of social organization (Powell to Taylor, 23 Feb. 1881: B A E ) . Indeed, culture growth through blending was predicted by Powell's evolutionary framework (17th A R for 1895-96, 1898, p. xxxv):

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Chapter 4 But the conspicuous fact of the aboriginal American tongues is their diversity, a diversity so wide as to imply essentially independent development [...]. T h e present tendency is toward diffusion through imitation, and this tendency is so far preponderant that the vast collections of records of aboriginal languages are little m o r e than records of linguistic blending; so that the well-ascertained course of linguistic development is toward interchange and thence to ultimate union. In primitive society, language grows in two ways: on the one hand there is a steady enrichment and differentiation due to the coining of expressions for n e w ideas; on the other hand there is a spasmodic enrichment and modification, both in terms and in grammatic structure, produced by the shock of contact, [....] At the same time both the lexic and the structural forms [...] are simplified through the natural tendency toward economy in expression [...]. It is accordingly a necessary inference that a large number of distinct, albeit simple if not inchoate, tongues originally existed in North America and that the subsequent history has been chiefly one of linguistic integration.

Powell's theory of political development was formulated in his studies of social organization in the tradition of Morgan; it was only incidentally applied to language. Hewitt applied a similar mechanism to his studies of Iroquois cosmology (18th A R for 1896-97, 1899, p. xliv). Originally independent myths had blended more often than they had differentiated, "so that myth, like the speech in which it is crystallized, is a composite of m a n y elements". Whatever its sources, Powell's view of the difficulties of preparing a linguistic classification to accurately reflect culture history w a s startlingly similar to that Franz Boas formulated a generation later in response to the efforts of his former students to define more distant relationships of linguistic families. Like Powell, Boas was interested in linguistics primarily as a tool for ethnology. Again like Powell, he preferred a conservative classification. H e even stressed the areal diffusion of grammatical traits, arguing that resulting similarities between two languages could not be distinguished from those which were genetic. But he did not distinguish the causes of grammatical and lexical phenomena. Powell, in sum, justified his theory of culture history within a context of American uniqueness in the evolutionary history of mankind as a whole, whereas Boas w a s concerned with the culture histories of particular peoples. Linguistic classification had ethnographic implications for both Powell and Boas, although Powell envisioned a useful classification of Indian tribes and Boas an aid to description of particular culture histories. Powell's point of view guided the researches of the Bureau in producing its linguistic classifica-

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tion, but Boas's view had no comparable influence on changes in the Bureau classification formulated by his students during the early 20th century. Rather, Boas remained conservative in his attitude toward classificatory problems while his students, especially Edward Sapir, turned to the definition of broader relationships a m o n g the stocks of the Powell classification (e.g., Sapir 1921 a, b; Darnell 1971 a,b; Darnell & H y m e s 1986). 4.6 Brinton's Linguistic Classification That Powell had choices in procedure and theory is illustrated by the appearance of another linguistic classification in 1891 with a different approach to the same problem. W h e r e Powell relied on lexical evidence for genetic relationship, Daniel Brinton preferred grammatical criteria (1885:x): Whenever the material permitted it, I have ranked the grammatic structure of a language superior to its lexical elements in deciding upon relationship. In this I follow the precepts and example of students in the Aryan and Semitic stocks, although the methods have been rejected by some w h o have written on American tongues. A s for myself, I a m abidingly convinced that the morphology of any language whatever is its most permanent and characteristic feature. At the end of The American Race, in which he presented his o w n linguistic classification, Brinton stressed that grammar was often unknown; thus, by default, he relied on basic vocabulary items for the little studied languages of South America (1891:344): The linguistic classification of American tribes is at present imperfect in m a n y regions on account of the incomplete information about their tongues. A proper comparison of languages or dialects includes not merely the vocabulary, but the grammatical forms and the phonetic variations which the vocal elements undergo in passing from one form of speech to another. In some respects, the morphology is more indicative of relationship than the lexicon of tongues; and it is in these grammatical aspects that w e are peculiarly poorly off when w e approach American dialects. Yet it is also likely that the tendency of late years has been to underestimate the significance of merely lexical analogies. T h e vocabulary, after all, must be our main stand-by in such an undertaking. This disclaimer of his o w n principle, however, appears only in the appendix to a text summarizing conclusions derived primarily from grammatical evidence. Thus, Brinton's divergence from Powell rests primarily on reasons for specific decisions. Brinton's classification was in principle m u c h less conservative than Powell's. H e discussed only 13 major units for North America, though several

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of these were primarily cultural and geographical (Pueblos, Northwest coast, California). H e also referred to 59 stocks (i.e., the Bureau classification) which he divided into five geographic groups "for convenience" (Brinton 1891:57). T h e degree of genetic relationship reflected in the 13 units is thus different from Powell's. Areal and genetic features are not clearly distinguished. Brinton proposed to accept some genetic relationships which Powell rejected, although these were by no means sufficient to reduce the total number of stocks to 13. H e combined Gallatin's Pawnee and Caddoe, joined Catawba to Yuchi, Natchez, Chetimacha, and Adaize and was the first to relate Chontal, Seri and Hokan (for which Kroeber presented detailed evidence in the early 20th century). Brinton briefly considered that K i o w a and Shoshonean were related, but concluded that evidence was insufficient; this relationship was proposed again by Harrington years later. S o m e comparisons were less fortunate, for example, Atakapa and Uto-Aztecan or Hopi and Navajo. Brinton accepted superficial similarities more easily w h e n the classification m a d e geographic sense; he, like Powell, saw linguistic classification as a means to organize the ethnographic diversity of North America. The major instance in which Powell and Brinton m a d e different decisions, however, was in evaluation of the evidence for Uto-Aztecan. Brinton was intrigued by this family, which included the range of development within the American continent, from the root-digging Utes to the Nahuatl empires. H e was willing to accept this connection partially because he believed that the American Indian comprised a single cultural and political (evolutionary) type. "The learned and indefatigable" Johann Carl Eduard Buschmann (1805-1880), whose evidence Brinton cited (1890:23), had failed to connect Sonoran to Nahuatl on the one hand and to Shoshonean on the other because he was obsessed with demonstrating the northern origin of the Aztecs (Lamb 1964: 114). Brinton thus used Buschmann's o w n data, particularly grammatical, to deduce conclusions implicit in it. Powell, committed to relying on lexical evidence, rejected this relationship. In fact, he cited Nahuatl as part of Buschmann's family, apparently never examining the original German. Powell's source was probably Brinton, w h o coined the term Uto-Aztecan but presented very slight evidence for the connection. Skepticism, therefore, was not unjustified (Lamb 1964:120): A short comparative word list was given in support of the relationship of the languages. It w a s m u c h too short to offer convincing evidence, and since

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Powell's work was on the whole more careful than Brinton's, those w h o consulted only Powell and Brinton could hardly be blamed if they rejected the Uto-Aztecan stock. The Brinton classification is intriguing historically because of its relationship to the linguistic work of the Bureau. H o d g e (1931:100) recalled that the Powell classification w a s rushed into print because of competition with Brinton's The American Race. Kroeber (1960:4-5) explicitly contrasted the two classifications: There was some conscious competition between Powell's classification and D . G . Brinton, whose American Race appeared in 1891. It was [...] a work of quite a different sort from Powell's monograph, although it did group m a n y languages [...]. H e gave only tiny samples of evidence, insufficient to be sure; but then Powell wisely published none. A s early as 1885, Brinton had requested the current Bureau classification of tribes, whether "by linguistic stocks or otherwise" (to Pilling, 12 June 1885: B A E ) . Pilling's apologetic reply (13 June 1885: B A E ) m a d e it clear that the Bureau's ongoing research would not be available to Brinton; despite having m a d e contributions to Pilling's bibliographies, he w a s considered a competitor rather than a collaborator: I regret to have to say that the linguistic classification is still unfinished — indeed in so unsatisfactory a condition that it would scarcely be intelligible to those not engaged in its compilation. It is a slow affair, as you m a y well imagine, and I fear it will be some time yet before it is available for use. In 1890, just before presenting his o w n classification (written as a course of lectures before the A c a d e m y of Natural Sciences of Philadelphia between 1884 and 1890), Brinton wrote a series of letters to Henshaw about details of classification. H e requested a classification of Pacific coast stocks, noting that he was preparing a list of linguistic families for use in his lectures (1 A u g . 1890: B A E ) . Four days later, he asked about Cherokee and Iroquois, Apache and Navaho, and Kiowa: "These are m y inquiries about which m y authorities do not quite satisfy m e . " Ten days later, he wanted to k n o w about Beothukan, San Antonio, Coahuiltecan, Caronkaway, United States Shoshonean and the Texas coast stocks. In his published classification, Brinton acknowledged Henshaw's aid with the Northwest coast classification (reflecting the work of Boas for the Bureau) and for "various other suggestions" (Brinton 1891:xii). H e then indicated that he had not used the Bureau classification, with the implication

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that he was not permitted to do so. Correspondence in the Bureau archives indicates that this is not entirely accurate. Brinton had written Henshaw (7 N o v . 1890: B A E ) indicating his interest: " H o w is the m a p of North American languages getting on? Is the classification of the Bureau yet completed, and could I have a sight of the proofs, or, if not that far along, of the M S copy?" Brinton's next letter (15 N o v . 1890: B A E ) indicates that the decision was his

own: I a m m u c h obliged to you for the courteous offer [...] about the m a p , etc. At first, I was inclined to c o m e on and look it over; but on second thoughts, I think I had better not. T h e information I wish to gain could be m a d e public soon in m y lectures, and perhaps in printed reports from them, and this, I can readily see, might not be agreeable to the Bureau. It would, for this reason, be better for m e not to see the m a p ; as even if I confined m y publication to matters already in m y possession, some members of the Bureau might think I had learned them by the facilities you offer, and I had refrained from giving credit. There are, in fact, only a few points in the ethnology of the United States area about which I a m m u c h in doubt.

H e then asked about Comecrudo, Choctaw, Eskimo and Aleut. The Brinton classification indicates that Powell and his staff were far from the only ones interested in the classification of American languages at this time. The Bureau had an advantage in its access to manuscript materials and in the presence of a number of linguists whose cooperative efforts at fieldwork and library research could be applied to the linguistic classification. Dating of particular items in the Powell and Brinton classifications becomes crucial in establishing priorities, since both were published in the same year. Predecessors of the Powell classification within the Bureau suggest that it was completed in substantiallyfinishedform before Brinton's. 4.7 The Authorship of the Powell Classification The 1891 Bureau linguistic classification appeared under Powell's n a m e but was described by him as a cooperative effort. "The task [...] is of great magnitude, and in its accomplishment an army of scholars must be employed" (Powell 1891:216). Powell's personal contribution was to recognize the need for classification and to ensure its place among the other researches of the Bureau. The project had been important to the Director for a number of years and had taken its final shape gradually. T h e 1877 Geological Survey Report (quoted in the 1st A R for 1879-80, 1881, p . xiv) noted that "a tentative

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classification of the linguistic families of the United States has been prepared" with the aid of several collaborators. In 1880, the Tenth Census referred to Powell's linguistic classification which "had been in tentative outline for several years" (quoted in Stegner 1954:268). Vocabularies in the C N A E added factual knowledge about West coast languages. Indeed, Powell personally prepared the vocabulary lists for the Powers volume on California, using Smithsonian manuscripts. In 1877, Gatschet, already employed by Powell, had classified the Pacific coast languages on the basis of the Powers vocabularies (Powell 1891:99). A n unsigned biographical sketch in the B u reau archives indicates that Powell intended Gatschet to pursue this goal: early in 1877 the rich collections of Indian manuscripts in the Smithsonian Institution, prevalently of a linguistic import, were placed at M r . Gatschet's disposal. The first task n o w incumbent upon him was to arrange them according to the linguistic families to which they belonged. The other linguist of the early Bureau staff was J. O w e n Dorsey. In 1885, Henshaw and M o o n e y published a manuscript titled "Linguistic Families of the Indian Tribes North of Mexico, with a Provisional List of the Principal Tribal N a m e s and Synonyms". The Synonymy, a key part of Powell's plan for summarizing existing knowledge of North American Indians, was prepared by James M o o n e y (Bass 1954, Moses 1984), a newspaper reporter w h o had collected such information from the age of twelve. T h e linguistic classification was attributed to Henshaw. O f course, this is an oversimplification, since Powell's interest in the subject began long before Henshaw worked on it. Although Henshaw systematized m u c h of the prior work of the Bureau staff, Dorsey and Gatschet did most of the relevant fieldwork. Gatschet considered himself a co-author (to Powell, 21 April 1884: B A E ) . Powell (1891:142) noted his debt to these two linguists "for the preparation of m a n y comparative lists necessary to my work" [emphasis added]. Goddard's review of American linguistics (1914:559) cited them as the major contributors to the classification; he valued the actual work on the languages over decisions about relationship. T o Powell as well, assessment of the evidence was not especially crucial (Sturtevant 1959:198): For this sort of relationship, publication of the evidence was hardly necessary [...]. Powell was quite careful to give credit for the collection of vocabularies and for work on etymology and mapping, but he tended to pass over the actual comparisons without giving specific credit [...] the difficult matter was to obtain

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Chapter 4 the vocabularies; once these were in hand, simple juxtaposition was all that was required and this could have been done by almost anyone, and certainly was done in different instances by almost all the early staff [...].

Henshaw was responsible for the administrative work of compiling the classification. H e took charge of the S y n o n y m y in 1885 "in accordance with the plans submitted" (7th A R for 1885-86, 1891, p. xxxv). Because the S y n o n y m y presupposed a linguistic classification, Henshaw also prepared this. His autobiography, written years later, noted extensive linguistic work during the 1880s which "I had planned and been put in charge of, and which, with the assistance of several members of the Bureau, was completed and published in 1885" (1919:56). At the time, he noted (1889:197): "For the past fifteen years Major Powell and his assistants of the Bureau of Ethnology, with the aid of m a n y collaborators in various parts of the country, have been accumulating vocabularies by means of which to classify Indian languages". Letters of inquiry on American languages were referred to Henshaw as a matter of course. H e also decided where additional fieldwork was needed. For example, he sent a reluctant Dorsey to Oregon to collect survey vocabularies. Brinton corresponded with Henshaw, not Powell, in line with the delegation of authority in the Bureau. The Powell classification was important in American linguistics because it established a baseline from which future classifications had to proceed. T h e authorship of the classification was thus an important issue for later linguists and anthropologists using the results to determine. Early 20th-century scholars recognized that Powell had hot produced the classification singlehandedly. Sapir's review of the work of the Bureau (1917b) referred to 'the Powell classification,' the quotations indicating his understanding of its multiple authorship. Kroeber, whose interest was in systematizing anthropological terminology in the early 20th century, stressed the role of Henshaw, whose biological training m a y have been the source of the principles of synonymy and priority of nomenclature used in the Bureau classification. Not long after the classification appeared, Kroeber commented (1905b:580): It is well k n o w n that Powell did not carry out the work of this undertaking. Another hand, that of a scholar-administrator, was necessary for the fulfillment and realization of the plan [...]. That he was not by training or profession an anthropologist will m a k e his distinction all the greater. But it was Powell's mind that first conceived the idea of a classification [...] and it was Powell's will and character that held to the idea [...].

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Kroeber wrote to Hodge (9 N o v . 1905: A L K ) urging recognition of Henshaw's role in the classification: I a m not so situated here as to find out definitely anything as to the real authorship of Powell's work. I had always understood that the m a n w h o was responsible for the work was Henshaw and he himself has since stated this to m e quite explicitly. If I a m correct, the work was done by a number of m e n , including Henshaw himself, under Henshaw's direction according to the general plans of Powell which he had not been able to carry out, with an understanding that the acknowledged responsibility for the work was to be entirely Powell's [...]. I understand, for instance, that while the general idea of a classification was Powell's, it was Henshaw w h o was really responsible for the principles of nomenclature [...]. Hodge's reply apparently did not satisfy Kroeber, since he referred later (1913:390) to Powell's classification "which, as is well known, was largely the result of the labors of H . W . Henshaw." Kroeber returned to the issue at the end of his life (1960:2-3), recounting conversations with Henshaw on the subject of authorship, probably around 1910 (Hymes 1961b: 15-16). Conflicting statements of authorship, however, are not contradictory as long as authorship is acknowledged to have meant different things to different people. There is no question that Powell conceived the project, nor that Henshaw implemented it. Nor is it in question that particular decisions resulted from fieldwork and library research by the Bureau staff. Sources of evidence for particular decisions of acceptance or rejection varied greatly. Henshaw m a d e only a few changes in the 1885 classification before it appeared in print in 1891 (Hymes M S a ) . The changes, and the apparent reasons for them, illustrate the cooperative nature of the Bureau's linguistic work. For example, the connection of Catawba and Siouan was proposed by Gatschet in 1881. Powell (1891: 188) was convinced by Dorsey's reexamination of the evidence between 1885 and 1891. Kwakiutl and Nootka were combined into Wakashan on the basis of Boas's fieldwork on the Northwest coast, sponsored at different times by the Bureau and the B A A S . Natchez and Taensa were merged into Natchesan, presumably in response to Brinton's exposure of the Taensa language as an elaborate forgery (Brinton 1890). Powell's source for Aleut as an unintelligible dialect of Eskimo was perhaps George Dall, whose work on Eskimo was published by him in the C N A E . The 1891 classification, however, gives no source for joining the two. The two cases in which Powell separated previous families both resulted from the 1888 fieldwork of Henshaw in California. Henshaw confirmed

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Curtin's opinion that Esselenian and Salinan, Costanoan and Moquelumnan (Miwokan) were distinct (Powell 1891: 139, 148). The latter decision was in opposition to Gatschet, whose notation on the Bureau manuscript dealing with these languages states that Mallery, Hoffman, M o o n e y , Hewitt and Dorsey agreed (Dorsey, in a marginal note on the same document, disclaimed this opinion). In any case, Powell was interested in lexical correspondences and followed Henshaw's more conservative opinion. But the 1891 classification carefully chronicled the history of previous classifications and noted that Gatschet had favoured connections in both instances whereas Powell had followed Henshaw. Four n e w stocks were added to the 1885 classification. The distinctiveness of Beothukan emerged from Gatschet's work in the 1880s (Powell 1891:133-134): M r . Gatschet has been able to examine a m u c h larger and more satisfactory body of material, and although neither in amount nor quality is the material sufficient to permit final and satisfactory deductions, yet so far as it goes it shows that the language is quite distinct from any of the Algonquian dialects, and in fact from any other American tongue. Chimarikan was separated from Porno on the basis of Curtin's vocabularies collected by the Bureau. Karankawan was separated from Attakapan on the basis of insufficient evidence and the Bureau's failure to locate surviving speakers (1891:158). Gatschet's 1884 vocabulary had proved inconclusive. Tunica was defined as an independent family on the basis of Gatschet's vocabularies in 1886. Its earlier connection to Caddoan w a s rejected. Gatschet had suggested that Tunica, Shetimacha and Atakapan might be related before this fieldwork (Gatschet to Powell, 28 Feb. 1885: B A E ) . Powell rejected the conclusion but noted it as an area of possible later study. Powell did none of the fieldwork on which these decisions were based. The relative importance of Henshaw and Powell in reevaluating the vocabularies, particularly those of Gatschet, cannot be assessed readily. Probably, both m e n reviewed the evidence, sharing the conservative policy of Powell. Indeed, the 1891 classification includes several cases where evidence in favour of relationship is noted but deemed insufficient. Often, the rejected connections themselves had been proposed by Bureau staff: Moquelumnan and Costanoan, Esselenian and Salinan, Chimariko and Kalapuya (Porno), Shetimacha and Attakapa, Karankawa and Attakapa. Adaize and Caddoan, Shasta and A c h o m a w i were noted as possibly

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related. Both were united in the Bureau's 1903 revision of its classification. The only other revision accepted within the Bureau, the uniting of Natchez and Muskhogean, was dismissed by Gatschet in the 1880s, although Brinton had suggested it in 1863. T w o connections proposed by Boas — Haida and Tlingit, Salish and Wakashan — were both considered tentative. Powell also rejected Piman and Nahuatl, which Brinton had accepted and noted Tanoan and Shoshonean as possibly related. Both were accepted by later workers in America languages as conservative identifications. Gatschet had attributed Kiowa and Shoshonean similarities to "long associations of these peoples" (6th A R for 1884-85, 1888, p. xxv), while Powell had avoided forming "a decided opinion" (1891:198). Powell also suggested that Natchez and Chitimacha, Timuquana and Carib might eventually prove related. This series of rejected connections m a y be taken as a second Powell classification which posed problems for future fieldwork. Powell himself felt the stocks to be tentative and subject to revision. The connection of linguistic stocks which took place in the early 20th century drew on such previously proposed relationships, although without crediting Powell for his intended flexibility. S o m e Bureau linguistic work was not directed to classificatory problems. The only family on which detailed internal classification was possible was Siouan, Dorsey's specialty (e.g., Dorsey 1885). In 1879, the Bureau recognized eight dialects, including Tutelo as suggested by Horatio Hale and Catawba on the basis of Dorsey's analysis of the manuscripts (1st A R for 1879-80, 1881, p. xix). Biloxi was added to the Siouan family by Gatschet in 1887. Gatschet's specialization in comparative Algonquian "for the purpose of formulating a definite and satisfactory classification" (19th A R for 189798, 1900, p. xxv) was begun after the appearance of the 1891 Powell classification. Indeed, Gatschet (to Powell, 10 July 1894: B A E ) was surprised by the closeness of the relationship among the 40 or 50 dialects after working so long with languages where the very fact of relationship was in question. The least k n o w n languages at the time of the Powell classification were those of the west coast. Gatschet worked extensively on the Northwest coast, concluding that Coos was independent and that Shasta would prove to be related to A c h o m a w i . Powell (1891:210) rejected Gatschet's separation of Siuslaw and Yakonan on the basis of Dorsey's brief fieldwork in Oregon. Dorsey's work was done at Henshaw's insistence and relied heavily on

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Powell's Introduction of 1877 with its ready-made vocabularies. Nonetheless, he expanded the standard format to include more extensive verbal paradigms (DeMallie, p.c.)· Although Dorsey was a Siouan specialist, Powell used his results on a variety of other language families without questioning his conclusions. Hewitt worked on Northwest Coast languages, on the basis of manuscript collections. H e defended the c o m m o n history of Shahaptian, Molale-Cayuse, and later Klamath-Modoc (15th A R for 1893-94, 1897:3-4). Powell had rejected this connection in 1891 because lexical similarities were limited. M o r e extensive evidence for the connection was presented years later by Melville Jacobs (1902-1971), and Hewitt's work went virtually unrecognized. His particular evidence, however, was insufficient to establish relationship, and was often based on secondary sources w h o had not themselves studied the languages in question; multilingualism was confused with mutual intelligibility (Rigsby 1965:92; 1966:369). Powell did, however, accept Hewitt's evidence for the relationship of Cherokee and Iroquoian for which lexical evidence was available. H e accepted Hewitt's separation of Serian and Y u m a n , although Gatschet (1900: 558) had agreed with Brinton that they were probably related. Although Powell had intended to extend and correct the classification on the basis of further work by the Bureau and its collaborators, the 1891 results formalized previous knowledge of American Indian languages so systematically that the classification itself became the starting point for all future work. Acceptance of further relationships depended on willingness to consider genetic relationship as a problem more than on evidence for particular cases. For some, the Powell classification was sufficient for ethnographic purposes. For others, particularly Sapir, Kroeber and Dixon, the interesting problems were those of more distant relationships*. T h e Bureau had little part in the linguistic fieldwork, mostly in California and on the Northwest coast, which revised the 1891 classification over thefirsttwo decades of the 20th century. Hewitt (41st A R for 1919-20, 1928:8), like Powell and Henshaw, was not interested in remote genetic relationships and refused to accept the efforts of later workers to demonstrate further connections: In view of works recently published on the genetic relationship of certain linguistic stocks of California and other North American linguistic stocks, and as a result of a conference of the staff of the Bureau [...] on late linguistic work in California, M r . Hewitt carefully examined the methods and the evidence for

'The Mapping of North America'

67

relationships relating to the Y u m a n , the Serian, the Tequistlatecan, the Waicuran, the Shoshonean, the Lutuamian and the Waiilatpuan, claimed in recent publications by Doctor Radin and Doctor Kroeber. In no instance did he find that these authors had proved their case. With such an attitude, the Bureau was almost by definition excluded from the emerging synthesis of the early 20th-century work on consolidation of linguistic stocks of North America (cf. Goddard 1996).

Daniel Garrison Brinton (1837-1899) American Philosophical Society. Reprinted with permission.

Chapter 5

"Organizing Anthropological Research in America"

Powell's depiction of the Bureau mandate as "organizing anthropologic research in America" in the 1st A R for 1879-80 (1881:xiv) reflects the increasing professionalization of American anthropology under its auspices. The Bureau was one of thefirstinstitutions to provide full-time employment for a substantial number of anthropologists. Its scientific staff pursued their scientific researches, albeit within Powell's general guidelines. In practice, however, individual research was often delayed or modified to accommodate projects representing the effort of most of the staff over a prolonged period. Powell was particularly committed to the linguistic classification, tribal synonymy and tribal m a p , but most of the projects contributing to the "mapping of North America" drew on group resources. Powell (4th A R for 1882-83, 1886, p. xxvii) expressed the general intent to produce: an account of the particular character of the work of each person engaged therein, though [...] all of these are at times diverted from the special works mentioned to combine their exertions for purposes regarded as of immediate general importance. S o m e of the lines of study require both prolonged compilation and exhaustive discussion and delays occur by ascertained necessity for renewed research on points of difficulty. T h e results of the cooperative work were considered the product of the Bureau as a whole or even of Powell personally. Staff occasionally c o m plained about lack of credit for their o w n work (e.g., M c G e e to M o o n e y , 29 July 1893: B A E ) . Scientists outside the Bureau more often objected to the cooperative research projects. Kroeber's objection that Henshaw's contribution to the linguistic classification had been unfairly subordinated to Powell's was not unique. M c G e e ' s discussion of Bureau collaboration in the official history of the Smithsonian Institution went to some effort to justify the policy of group as well as individual research (in G o o d e 1897:371):

70

Chapter 5 This work w a s performed largely by Director Powell, w h o not only originated, but constantly coordinated the various lines of research, though collaborators were always encouraged to seek relations and educe principles, and to publish under their o w n names such results of their work as were not inconsistent with those of other investigators, for it was recognized that research is best promoted by encouraging the investigator. Such have been the methods of the Bureau; they are in no w a y peculiar.

In spite of the effort to maintain a balance, however, most staff members contributed considerable time and energy to cooperative enterprises. Even those most engrossed in their o w n specialties were drawn into such work. The most frequent objections came from Dorsey (to Pilling, 16 Dec. 1879: B A E ) , w h o refused to collect sign languages, because it took too m u c h time from his o w n researches. Dorsey, w h o felt that his job was insecure and preferred to concentrate on Siouan languages as m u c h as possible (DeMallie, p.c.), c o m mented laconically on one inquiry: "I k n o w nothing about the survey of the line between the United States and Canada" (1886: B A E ) . Dorsey, however, contributed significantly to the Synonymy and Bureau manuscript catalogue and did Oregon and Caddoan fieldwork for the linguistic classification. M u c h of the uniqueness of the Bureau contribution to late 19th-century American anthropology lies in Powell's coordination of the researches of his large staff. T h e overall purpose of 'mapping North America' drew on both individual and collective efforts, with institutional goals eclipsing idiosyncratic ones. 5.1 Problems in Professional Standards Early Bureau staff incorporated a great diversity of training, or lack of it. Formal anthropological education did not yet exist in 1879. Thus, m a n y early staff had difficulty meeting the increasinglyrigorousstandards of the professional competence which grew, ironically, in large part out of the work of the Bureau itself. The development of anthropology in other institutions and the accumulation within the Bureau of information about American Indians m a d e n e w standards feasible. The kind of research the Bureau could do during its early years was influenced strongly by the semi-professional background of m a n y staff and collaborators. Thus, individuals w h o had m a d e important contributions to the 'mapping of North America' later found themselves more peripheral to the work of the Bureau and to American anthropology generally. Perhaps least professional among the staff was Mrs. Erminnie Smith, w h o had no formal training and said of Powell that "association with you has

Organizing Anthropological Research in America"

71

changed entirely m y old orthodox way of thinking" (Smith to Powell, 3 N o v . 1881: B A E ) . Mrs. Smith had such difficulties with the government system of vouchers andfinancialrecords that she wasfinallyput on a fixed salary to expedite bookkeeping (Pilling to Smith, 15 Sept. 1880: B A E ) . Her lack of confidence about her o w n work on the mythology and languages of the Iroquois m a y have motivated her accusations that other Bureau employees encroached on her territory. W h e n Mrs. Smith died in 1886, the Bureau inherited her assistant, a partTuscarora Indian named J. N . B . Hewitt. Hewitt denigrated Mrs. Smith's work and insisted that he deserved a promotion (Hewitt to Pleasant, 24 Dec. 1886; Hewitt to Powell, 11 June 1886: B A E ) . Hewitt considered his o w n work to rest on a different basis than that of the other staff members. " H e excused his failure to turn in material on the grounds that he had been appointed in a peculiar manner as a sort of inside assistant and was not expected to furnish material like the rest of the staff' (Swanton to H y m e s , 14 March 1957). Hewitt's lack of productivity was proverbial, although Powell defended his contribution to the Bureau (to Langley, 1900-1901 budget: B A E ) : "his work has been conducted with great assiduity, and [...] he has acquired a noteworthy grasp of ethnic relations, his capabilities promising to place him in the leading rank among ethnologists as the results of his researches are published". The sense that his contribution might be related to his status as a Native American did not seem to be an issue (cf. Liberty 1978). In 1909, the requirements for Bureau staff positions had changed so m u c h that the Secretary of the Smithsonian decided Hewitt should be paid for manuscripts rather than by salary (as native 'informants' were often paid). Hewitt was warned by M c G e e (25 July 1909: B A E ) that he should stress his contributions to the cooperative projects of the Bureau rather than his unfinished linguistic researches. M c G e e lacked his former influence in the Bureau by 1909 but consoled Hewitt that Major Powell would never have permitted the value of his work to be questioned. Hewitt's self-justifications were that he never took his annual leaves, was wholly loyal to the Bureau and needed more fieldwork to complete his studies for publication (Hewitt to Holmes, 17 April 1909: B A E ) . A s the discipline's professionalism increased, Hewitt's position became increasingly anomalous (Walcott to Curtis, 16 Jan. 1911: B A E ) : M r . Hewitt has accumulated a large fund of information, but the trouble has been in getting it out of him. H e has had every opportunity to present the results

72

Chapter 5 of his studies for publication, but he seems so constituted that although he apparently devotes much time to his work, he lacks the systematic application necessary to the production of results. [Yet he expects] compensation at a higher rate than other members of the Bureau whose work is prolific of results.

The other m e m b e r of the early staff with difficulties over limited productivity was Albert S. Gatschet, whose work was usually described by the Director's Reports as "digesting" and "cataloguing" his field materials. Gatschet's fieldwork was extensive but Powell refused to publish it in the unsystematic form which Gatschet preferred (Powell to Gatschet, 14 Feb. 1895: B A E ) . At the founding the Bureau, Powell had been delighted by any information on little-known languages, but by 1895 he was interested only in reasonably complete materials on single languages. M c G e e refused to impose the n e w standards on Gatschet, insisting (to Boas, 1 March 1900: B A E ) that he had been "a sort of special collaborator" for Powell in his plan for a comprehensive monograph on American linguistics, stressing that Gatschet's work required critical editorial revision which could rarely be obtained. M c G e e felt Gatschet's significant contribution was the number of languages on which he had worked. Mooney' s obituary in the American Anthropologist (1907:565) listed: Achomawi, Adai, Alibamu, Apache, Arapaho, Attacapa, Bannock, Bidai, Biloxi, Caddo, Catawba, Cherokee, Cheyenne, Chickasaw, Chimariko, Choctaw, Chumash, Clackamas, Clatsop, Coahuilteco, Comanche, Comecrudo, Coronam, Delaware, Guatuso, Haname, Havasupai, Hitchiti, Isleta, Kalapuya, Kansa, Karankawa, Kickapoo, Kiowa, Kiowa-Apache, Klamath, Koastati, Kutenai, Lipan, Maidu, Maya, Miami, Micmac, Modoc, M o h a w k , Molala, Muskogi, Muskwaki, Mutsun, Narraganset, Natchez, Nez Perce, Ojibwa, Ottawa, Passamaquoddy, Penobscot, Peoria, Potawatomi, Queres, Sauk, Seminole, Seneca, Shasta, Shawnee, Shetimacha, Shoshoni, Tlascaltec, Tonkawa, Tunica, Umpqua, Warmspring, Wichita, Yavapai, Yuchi, Zuni. Although Gatschet produced few published descriptions, his manuscripts provided information on most of the languages k n o w n to the Bureau during his active lifetime. B y the end of his career, however, canons of relevance in American linguistic research had changed radically. Although his work was a major contribution to the collection of basic information about little k n o w n languages for the Bureau linguistic classification, the mere collection of vocabularies and other superficial information increasingly was superseded after 1891. Gatschet was dismissed, not entirely fairly, by Boas as having never m a d e this transition.

"Organizing Anthropological Research in America"

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5.2 Bureau Fieldwork A large part of the Bureau's contribution to the development of American anthropology lay in its facilitation of fieldwork. During the early 19th century, anthropology depended on information from travellers, missionaries and civil servants, m e n w h o were not themselves primarily concerned with the anthropological questions for which their responses were mined. Anthropological questions were posed by m e n from other professional backgrounds w h o considered themselves primarily scholars rather than observers. In this division of labour, comparison and theory did not presuppose fieldwork. Insistence onfieldworkin America is often attributed to Boas, but in fact it was already present in the early Bureau. T h e original staff were m e n of action, trained in the Civil W a r and the exploration of the American West rather than in university programs of anthropology. These self-taught anthropologists emphasizedfirst-handobservation of American Indians and practical reasons for studying them. Indeed, the Americanist tradition of empirical study of Indians goes back to the questionnaires of T h o m a s Jefferson, and before him to the missionaries on whose work the questionnaires were based. Such avocational work persisted until the founding of the Bureau through the work of statesmen and public figures Lewis Cass, Albert Gallatin, Lewis Henry Morgan, Henry R o w e Schoolcraft and others (Hallowell 1960, Bieder 1986). Powell thus had ample precedent for his emphasis onfieldworkwith relevance to government policy. This orientation was so strong that the Bureau avoided association with work based on existing literature. 'Scholastic' publications were not considered scientific. M c G e e (to Baker, 18 Feb. 1896: B A E ) insisted that the American Anthropologist should not be "founded on ancient books, however respectable". Applicants for staff positions, even if they had not done original fieldwork, were expected to be familiar with the researches of the Bureau. Not all staff members didfieldwork,for example, Pilling and Royce, but the armchair scholars were equally committed to the n e w style of original research. M c G e e (to Halleck, 15 July 1901: B A E ) believed that "anthropology has risen to the rank of a science within the last quarter century [...] mainly through American work which is not yet incorporated in text-books or other trade publications in minute part". That is, the Bureau was engaged in ongoing research in afieldwhich was changing rapidly, leaving behind m u c h of the work which preceded it. Powell, as Director of the Bureau, was in a position to impose his o w n

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standards for fieldwork on his staff and to strongly suggest them to potential collaborators. Within constraints of available funds and time, Powell encouraged as m u c h fieldwork as possible. Results obtained by travelling anthropologists were unlikely to be scientifically useful: "the only results of value at the present time [...] c o m e from years of well directed labor" (Powell to Parkman, 11 April 1882: B A E ) . Brief studies could be carried out with profit only where the subjects spoke English (Powell to Hall, 7 June 1884: B A E ) . Attempting to dampen the enthusiasm of another, less well k n o w n inquirer, Powell stressed (to O w e n , 21 April 1888: B A E ) that learning to speak an Indian language fluently required at least two years; analysis in terms of nonEnglish parts of speech required a knowledge of dialects which five or ten years might not even complete. The Bureau was not always able, however, to meet its o w n ideal standards for fieldwork. T h e policy was to use any existing means to acquire further information and to preserve partial records until they could be c o m pleted. Indian delegations in Washington and students in Indian boarding schools were particularly useful sources of information. Powell frequently interceded to obtain permission for such individuals to remain longer in Washington as informants (Powell to Schurz, 23 Jan. 1880: B A E ) . In most instances, however, brief informant sessions were intended to supplement investigations in progress. The aims of investigation were sufficiently complex to require close acquaintance with the peoples being studied. Powell ( T A S W 1: 128-129) believed that: The objective or scientific method of studying a mythology is to collect and collate its phenomena simply as it is stated and understood by the people to w h o m it belongs. In tracing back the threads of its historical development the student should expect to find it more simple and child-like in every stage of his progress. This is a clear statement of w h y Powell sought the native point of view rather than imposing European categories. In an evolutionary theory of mental development, the categories of a people at a lower stage of development were bound to differ. Instead of positing the nature of the Indian mind in advance, Bureau researches stressed that the "only satisfactory and reliable sources of information [...] are the Indians themselves"(Pilling to Barron, 24 Oct. 1887). The result was a great deal of rather sophisticated fieldwork by present standards. M c G e e (in Goode 1897:376) stressed that research necessarily

"Organizing Anthropological Research in America"

75

began with arbitrary and convenient criteria but aimed to replace them by "natural arrangements" w h e n increasing knowledge permitted. There might not be a "uniform system a m o n g the various practitioners" so that a simple description could introduce unexpected complications (11th A R for 1889-90, 1894, p. xxviii). Ethnographic materials ideally were recorded in the native language to avoid distortion imposed by the investigators. Powell praised Mallery's work (10th A R for 1888-89, 1893, p. xxx) for recording the "unbiased conceptions" of the Indians in their o w n method of (pictographic) writing. H e also valued the George Bushotter (1864-1892) texts as the first major collection of North American material contributed by a native (8th A R for 1886-87, 1891: xxix). Dorsey's revisions of the translation carefully maintained original forms of expression. M o o n e y (to Powell, 4 A u g . 1889: B A E ) used standardized forms to elicit texts but attempted to follow out mythic ideas with his informants. A s early as 1879, Gatschet ( T A S W 1: 10) noted that Indian colour terms m a d e as m a n y distinctions as European, although they were not the same ones and differed in degree of abstraction. Gatschet believed (1890:vii) that linguistic data reflected "the ideas that were moving the Indian's mind, not only recently but long before the historic period." The goal was to understand the native organization of material in order to comprehend the development of the h u m a n mind through the same stages everywhere. Ironically, the doctrine of psychic unity of mankind, although it posited essential equality of savage and civilized mind, produced less work on native categories than Powell's brand of evolutionism which did not take such equality for granted. Comparably, Daniel Brinton used texts collected by others to posit categories of mythological interpretation for American Indians, Egyptians and Chinese. Similarities were attributed to the structure of the h u m a n mind. In the 20th century, Boas and his students eliminated the evolutionary assumption of inferiority, while continuing to study native concepts. Psychic unity remained the base which m a d e an understanding of another culture possible. The Bureau took its fieldwork extremely seriously. W h e n Frank Cushing needed a scalp for his initiation at Zuni, it was provided by Spencer Baird from m u s e u m collections (Brandes 1965:68). In this case, the Zuni were doubly impressed — Cushing was so powerful that such an important object would be given to him by another. Pilling (to Chamberlain, 4 Feb. 1890: B A E ) found himself requesting Washington hotels to save wild turkey feathers from

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their kitchens so that ethnologists would be prepared to meet Indian standards of hospitality and ceremonial etiquette (Hugte 1994, Sherwood 1979). Official correspondence records the field experiences of early Bureau staff in great detail, thereby clarifying the change in ethnological style which began under Powell in the Bureau and continued with Boas and his students in the 20th century. At one extreme of ethnocentrism in the field, Mrs. Matilda Stevenson had a low opinion of the Indian mind, commenting to Powell (7 July 1890: B A E ) : "The more I study these Indians the more I a m impressed that there are but few w h o carry in their minds any clear and intelligent history of their cosmogony and mythology". Powell was unable tofireher because of her political connections. Mrs. Stevenson was delighted at anti-liquor legislation among the Pueblo, failing to note the contradiction in her remark that "[i]f they can only have their citizenship and at the same time be prevented from getting hold of liquor they will have clear sailing" (Stevenson to Hodge, 27 Oct. 1913: B A E ) . Not surprisingly, she was unpopular among the Indians she wanted to elevate to (her) civilization (Parezo 1993). O n e letter from the field indicated that her work could not continue since the spies she sent out had been caught. She complained of having to employ ruses to obtain information and that the Indians would have to learn that they couldn't treat government representatives so shabbily (Stevenson to Holmes, 3 April 1906: B A E ) . The work of Frank Hamilton Cushing in the Southwest is not entirely different in character, although he was felt by his contemporaries to be unique in his understanding of the Indian mentality (Fontana 1963, Hinsley 1983, Sherwood 1979). Even those w h o disliked Cushing agreed that he was a genius. His colleagues were astonished that Cushing came to consider himself a "full-blown Indian" (Judd 1967:59). Legend has it that Cushing appeared at an anthropological meeting in full Zuni regalia and was ordered by Powell to go h o m e and get dressed (Judd 1967:63). Powell (quoted in Mitra 1933:154155) believed that Cushing, more than any other m a n of his generation, had penetrated the minds of his subjects: "Cushing can think as myth-makers think, he can speak as prophets speak, he can expound as priests expound, and his tales have the verisimilitude of ancient lore". Cushing arrived in the Southwest expecting to find Morgan's postulated early stages of h u m a n history reflected in the lore of the Zuni. His leaves and assignments were periodically extended at his o w n request. Nonetheless, Cushing was not content with the Zuni w a y of life. Initially he had to be

Organizing Anthropological Research in America"

11

forced into Zuni dress, refused to have his ears pierced, and eventually had to get married to avoid taking a Zuni bride (Brandes 1965: 36, 89, 95). Cushing's letters solicit sympathy for the hardships of his life at Zuni pueblo and reveal him as a self-styled martyr to the cause of ethnology. Cushing's o w n view (Greene 1990) of the progress of his understanding of the 'inner life' of the Pueblo was doubtless exaggerated. After a single year, Cushing thought he spoke the language sufficiently well to "take an important part in councils" and reported that he was m a d e "chief councillor of the nation" (Powell's comment in the 2nd A R for 1880-81, 1883, p. xxv). Cushing (to Baird, 4 Dec. 1881 : Β Α Ε ) considered it a major triumph when he "broke d o w n " the last objection to his initiation. H e considered himself (to Mindeleff, 23 Dec. 1882: B A E ) virtuous when he kept his temper in council and did not threaten Indians w h o attempted to have him thrown out of Zuni territory. Cushing was determined to stay in spite of all indications that he was not wanted, merely complaining that ethnographic specimens could only be obtained by force (4th A R for 1882-83,1886, p. xl). This style of fieldwork was apparently acceptable to his colleagues in the Bureau and the Smithsonian. Cushing had the additional problem that, although he considered his o w n work brilliant, he could never persuade himself that it was completed and should be published (to Powell, 11 June 1881: B A E ) . Despite Congressional emphasis on publications, even Cushing's failure to submit monthly reports to the Director was tolerated; he received only a mild reprimand (Pilling to Cushing, 30 Jan. 1883: B A E ) . A n extreme contrast to this prima donna approach was found in the work of James O w e n Dorsey. Dorsey was "actuated by an earnest desire to ac­ quaint himself fully with primitive modes of thought" and progressed from linguistics to the "crude philosophy" of the Siouan peoples (Powell in 11th A R for 1889-90, 1894, p. xliii). O . T . M a s o n (1893:616) was convinced that Dorsey knew the Siouan languages as well as his o w n . Even Franz Boas, w h o generally disparaged the linguistic work of the Bureau staff, acknowledged that Dorsey recorded "authentic literature" although he dealt with only a small part of native life (Boas 1906:643). Dorsey's recognition of the difficulties of recording data adequately is impressive. H e suggested that an abstract grammar of O m a h a should call attention to the fact that m a n y O m a h a and Ponca spoke their language 'incorrectly' (Dorsey to Croffut, 7 N o v . 1889: B A E ) . Acculturation had produced differential skills in the use of Indian languages which m a d e the

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grammar of the aboriginal language something of an idealization. Dorsey also noted phonological variation in the same speaker at different points in the life cycle (DeMallie 1969a:6). Dorsey described (to M c G e e , 17 Jan. 1894: B A E ) the production of n e w dialects by recent contact of different Dakotan groups, realizing that the languages were still changing. His Biloxi dictionary provided copious notes explicating single words so that related parts of the vocabulary could be studied together (Dorsey to Powell, 15 Feb. 1893: B A E ) . Dorsey (to Powell, 17 Jan. 1890: B A E ) also understood that the parts of speech were different from those of Indo-European and tried to preserve the grammatical categories. Whenever a conference with an informant was interrupted, Dorsey had the sensitivity to switch from ceremonial topics to verification of words for his dictionary (Dorsey to Pilling, 13 Jan. 1880: B A E ) . Dorsey's fieldwork is often contrasted to that of A . S. Gatschet, the only university graduate on the early Bureau staff. Swanton (n.d.: 23) remarks that Gatschet spread himself over various languages and lacked Dorsey's sensitivity to the mentality of his subjects. Gatschet thus restricted himself to pure linguistics, while Dorsey turned to problems of mental organization and development. Gatschet, however, was delegated by Powell to study every language on which further information was needed for the classification. Boas (to W o o d w a r d , 13 Jan. 1905: A P S ) noted that Powell continually interfered with Gatschet's work. Bureau fieldwork caused problems with less disinterested government employees in contact with the Indians. Several staff members antagonized Bureau of Indian Affairs officials, schoolteachers and missionaries — publicity which did little to improve the Bureau's image in government science. Dorsey (to Powell, 1 Sept. 1879: B A E ) was forced to insist that writing letters for Indians did not imply encouraging discontent. Accusations against Cushing ranged from licentiousness to shooting Navajo horses and came from nearly every other white m a n in the Zuni area (Howard to Powell, 26 Dec. 1882: B A E ) . S o m e comments were clearly malicious, but Cushing's unpopularity is indisputable, as is the repeated need for Powell to defend his actions and integrity (Powell to Hale, 11 April 1882: B A E ) . The Bureau's most persistent difficulties with unwanted publicity for its fieldwork came from James M o o n e y , whose years as a newspaper reporter had taught him to be at the centre of whatever was happening. M o o n e y attained reasonably good rapport with his informants but constantly antago-

"Organizing Anthropological Research in America

79

nized Indian agents and other bureaucrats. His insistence that Indian ceremonies depended on the hallucinagenic properties of the peyote cactus was objectionable in a period where the performance of any Indian ceremony was actively discouraged (18th A R for 1896-97, 1899, p. xlv; cf. Cole & Chaikin 1990). M o o n e y was instrumental in obtaining a chemical analysis of mescal (McGee to M o o n e y , 19 March 1895: B A E ) because this was an essential part of the ceremonial to the Indians. H e also objected (to Powell, 21 June 1893: B A E ) to the unenforced ruling prohibiting all Indian ceremonies after about 1887. Powell agreed and even argued (to the Commissioner of Indian Affairs, 28 June 1893: B A E ) that ceremonies should be performed so that Bureau staff members could record them. Powell also defended Mooney's work on the forbidden Ghost Dance (to Langley, 26 M a y 1897: B A E ) , although parts of it raised political havoc. W h e n M o o n e y was accused of paying for a sun dance which include self-mutilation and thus of inciting cruelty among the Cheyenne, Holmes (to Rathburn, 24 A u g . 1903: B A E ) became so upset by the publicity that he recalled M o o n e y from thefieldwithout hearing his version of the story (Moses 1984). O n an earlier occasion, M o o n e y attempted to represent a faction of reservation Indians and was officially reprimanded ( M c G e e to Shelley, 19 M a y 1894: B A E ) . M c G e e , however, accepted Mooney's explanation that it was "no more than chance that your presence in Indian country concurs with expressions of dissatisfaction on the part of some of the Indians" ( M c G e e to M o o n e y , 21 Dec. 1896: B A E ) . Bureau administrative style was m u c h more relaxed and less bureaucratic during Powell's lifetime. In sum, the Bureau's goal of recording aboriginal culture and defending the Indians in their disagreements with government officials was in conflict with the laissez-faire political philosophy of the period. Fieldwork was one thing, but, in spite of its original practical purposes, the Bureau had to stay out of Indian politics, which was difficult for conscientious and informed staff members. Such conflicts arose less frequently after the turn of the century, in part because Indians were a less salient problem for the federal government by this point and were studied primarily by non-government anthropologists w h o had less commitment to enforcing Indian policy. 5.3 Collaboration Powell did not distinguish firmly between those members of his staff w h o were paid for their research and various kinds of collaborators w h o

Chapter 5

80 Figure 1. Major staff and collaborators of the bureau

NAME

DATES

SPECIALTY

PREVIOUS PROFESSION

John Wesley Powell

pre-1879 d.1902

Director

Geologist

James O w e n Dorsey

pre-1879 d.1895

Siouan lang. & soc. str.

Missionary

Otis Tufts Mason

pre-1879 d.1908

National Museum

Eastern Mediterranean

Garrick Mallery

1877 to d.1894

Sign & gesture langugae

U.S. Army

Albert Samuel Gatschet

pre-1879 to 1905

Linguistics

College educated

H . C . Yarrow

pre-1879 1887

Mortuary customs

—--

James Constantine Pilling

1879 to d.1895

Linguistic bibliography

Geologist

Erminie Smith

1879 to d.1886

Iroquois mythology

None

C . C . Royce

1879-80, 1883-84

Indian treaty history

---

James Stevenson

1879 to d.1888

Southwestern archaeology

U.S. Army

Henry Wetherbe Henshaw

1880-93

Classification

Biologist

Frank Hamilton Cushing

1892 to d.1900

Zuni ethnology

None

Washington Matthews

ca. 1879 d.1905

Navajo, Hidatsa

U.S. Army physician

Victor & Cosmos Mindeleff

1881-92

Southwestern archaeology

---

W . J . Hoffman

1881-97

Archaeology, Picture writing

Geologist

Cyrus Thomas

1882 to d.1910

Archaeology, Central America

Entomologist

Jeremiah Curtin

1883-92

Mythology, linguistics

Diplomat

81

"Organizing Anthropological Research in America " Matilda Coxe Stevenson

ca. 1883 d.1915

Pueblo ethnology

None

John Napoleon Brinton Hewitt

1886-1937

Iroquois

Secretary to Mrs. Smith

James Mooney

1885 to d.1921

Cherokee, Kiowa

Newspaper reporter

Frederick W e b b Hodge

1891-1901, 1910-1918 (Chief)

Administr.

Librarian

Jesse Walter Fewkes

1894-1928 (1918 on, Chief)

Southwestern archaeology

Zoologist

Alice Cunningham Fletcher

1899 to ca.1910

Omaha

None

Franz Boas

1902-1919

Honorary Philologist

Physicist

Frank Russell

1900-1903

Pima ethnology

Anthropologist (Ph.D.)

John Reed Swanton

1900-1944

Southeastern ethnology

Anthropologist (Ph.D.)

William Jones

1901-1902

Fox language

Anthropologist (Ph.D.)

Henry Hull St. Clair

1901-1905

Northwest coast languages

Anthropologist

Thomas T . Waterman

1922

Temporary

Anthropologist (Ph.D.)

Leo Frachtenberg

1910-1917

Northwest coast languages

Anthropologist (Ph.D.)

Paul Radin

1910-1911

Winnebago

Anthropologist (Ph.D.)

Herman Haeberlin

1915, 1917

Psychology, Southwest

Anthropologist (Ph.D.)

Frances Densmore

1907-1957

Music

Truman Michelson

1910 to d.1938

Algonquian linguistics

Indo-European linguistics

John Peabody Harrington

1914 to d.1953

Linguistics

Linguist

None

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contributed information and analyses. The full-time staff was never large, but almost everyone working in American anthropology during the late 19thcentury had some connection. Staff and collaborators alike were drawn from a diversity of backgrounds and their degrees of professionalism were not sharply distinct. Indeed, thefinancialrelation of the early Bureau staff and collaborators to the institution cannot always be established. Paid staff, associates from other Washington institutions, and outside collaborators whose manuscripts were purchased were all part of the cooperative research program. Figure 1 includes, for the early years, individuals w h o were not paid a salary but whose researches were integral to the functioning of the Bureau, e.g., O . T . M a s o n of the National M u s e u m . Although the policy of encouraging collaborators was modified in the 20th century, during Powell's lifetime, information was welcome from any source (5th A R for 1883-84, 1887, p. xviii): Collaboration is constantly invited from competent explorers and writers w h o are not and do not desire to be officially connected with the Bureau [...]. T h e liberality of Congress, it is hoped, will soon allow of the publication of bulletins specifically designed to make known without delay, the discoveries and deductions of the scholars throughout the world w h o m a y thus cooperate with the Bureau. B y this means an effective impulse will be given to their researches. The Bureau published primarily the researches of its o w n staff, but because its monographs had a large circulation, they set increasingly high standards for ethnographic reporting. T h e Bureau policy of avoiding "purely technical publications" meant that amateur anthropologists were also influenced by the accessibility of its work. The effort was to gradually accumulate and m a k e available enough information to formulate general anthropological theories. In practice, of course, m u c h of this work was highly technical, particularly in linguistics. W h e n the detailed observations were of widespread importance they were published in part or in full; when they were of a technical character, or for other reasons of interest to few people only (as in linguistics), only typical collections were published, the mass being held for comparative study. A s research progressed, the relations themselves were compared and grouped, for the purpose of educing laws of relations or principles. (McGee in Goode 1897:371) Preliminary research reports were often published so that other interested persons could contribute further information. For example, Mallery's pictographs were presented descriptively, with theoretical interpretation awaiting

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further facts, in part to be supplied by collaborators. T h e knowledge sought by the Bureau under Powell was more extensive than the staff could gather with the internal resources available to it. Use of unofficial collaborators was thus necessary to the research plan. Although the Bureau answered all inquiries and kept manuscript files of anything submitted to it, publications aspired to a more professional level. Powell's reports as Director frequently employ 'destructive criticism' designed to raise the quality of American anthropology, as well as that of government publications in anthropology. T h e Bureau maintained contact with as m a n y scholars as possible, sending out copies of Powell's Introduction and corresponding with collaborators in all walks of life. Staff opinion was pooled regularly over the allocation of scarce funds. For example, Mallery, M a s o n , and M o o n e y cabled Powell from a meeting of the A A A S that he should hire Alice Fletcher (25 Aug. 1882: B A E ) . Occasionally, work of collaborators could be accepted for publication virtually on the basis of previous work, e.g., George Bird Grinnell (1849-1938) on Cheyenne (Holmes to Grinnell, 19 Sept. 1903: B A E ) . In other cases, the difficulty was to refuse publication without offending collaborators w h o were at best semi-professional. Excuses included location of research, lack of funds, overlap of scientific results, work in progress. Powell (to Scollen, 11 April 1892: B A E ) stressed that the Bureau rarely employed outside collaborators, and M c G e e suggested that "work of this kind is naturally unsatisfactory unless performed con amore" (to Chief Pokago, 16 M a y 1901: B A E ) . Specialized researches were usually avoided, for example, Cherokee texts written in syllabary (Powell to Duncan, 20 March 1886: B A E ) . In some cases, alternative publication outlets were suggested. In others, scientific value was clearly limited. The Bureau was even k n o w n to request return of its unfilled questionnaires (Pilling to Everette, 8 N o v . 1883; 25 January 1884: B A E ) : while the vocabularies indicate m u c h diligence in collection and great care in recording, they d o not possess sufficient accuracy and linguistic merit to warrant their publication and can only be used to supplement the work of others in this field. Enthusiastic amateurism was insufficient to meet Bureau standards. S o m e scholars became insulted at the 'exclusiveness' of the Bureau; others responded by attempting to meet its stringent standards.

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In addition to collaboration with individual scholars, the Bureau attempted to maximize the institutional resources. Albert Bickmore of the American M u s e u m of Natural History cooperated with Powell in the division of labour in the description of American Indians and in collections for exhibitions (Bickmore to Powell, 15 March 1880: B A E ) . T h e linguistic researches of John P. Harrington (1884-1861) in the Southwest were sponsored by the Archaeological Institute of America before his employment by the Bureau in 1915; his work for the B A E was coordinated to that of the University of California Department of Anthropology. Alice Fletcher (18381923) held a fellowship at Harvard alongside her connection with the Bureau. M c G e e (to Russell, 22 February 1901: B A E ) was concerned that the Bureau cooperate with the academic departments of anthropology which were sprouting up at the turn of the century. The work of Frank Cushing was sponsored at different times by the Smithsonian Institution, the B A E , the H e m e n w a y Expedition, Harvard University and the University of Pennsylvania. Putnam of Harvard (to H e m e n w a y , 10 M a y 1897: B A E ) considered Cushing a useful link to increasing cooperation with the Bureau. Powell was also responsible for the choice of Adolph Bandelier (1840-1914) to lead an expedition to Mexico under the Archaeological Institute of Boston (Hodge 1932). Powell gave Bandelier kinship and linguistic vocabulary questionnaires and insisted that he should "know what w e are doing here, the w a y in which our work is organized, thefieldof research w e are pursuing" (Powell to Bandelier, 11 June 1880: B A E ) . (Bandelier remains best k n o w n for his novel The Delight Makers of 1890.) In each of these cases, the Bureau extended its influence beyond its o w n direct researches and helped to consolidate the developing structure of the discipline. The Bureau did not dissociate itself from its roots in a less professional American anthropology and thus maintained the possibility of influencing the style of work of its collaborators. At the same time, however, the rest of American anthropology was becoming more exclusive in its professionalism, and the Bureau, with its semi-professional base, was increasingly left behind. University and m u s e u m anthropologists around the turn of the century rejected ties to earlier work and asserted their o w n professionalism — in apparent conflict to the public service ethic of the Bureau as a government institution. Indeed, because the Bureau was among thefirstprofessional institutions to sponsor anthropological research, it had to c o m e to terms with the anthro-

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pological 'establishment' of the late 19th century. M e n such as Morgan, Brinton, and Hale were not professional anthropologists in all the senses suggested in Chap. 1, but they were treated by Powell and his staff with a deference reflecting their reputations among non-Bureau anthropologists. Powell realized that anthropology was moving in the direction of professional careers and institutions, but still dealt courteously with his older associates. There was even talk within the Bureau of memoirs of Morgan, Brinton and Hale, although none was actually completed. For their part, such established anthropologists welcomed the Bureau as an important institutional innovation in American anthropology. Brinton requested help in his linguistic classification. Morgan's work on kinship was sponsored partially by the Smithsonian. Hale sought Bureau support to revise the results of his o w n research from the Wilkes Expedition in the 1840s (Hale to Powell, 14 M a y 1881; 2 June 1881: B A E ) . T o some extent, the courtesy was perfunctory, but Powell acknowledged that his o w n anthropology grew out of such a context. Thus, while Powell himself m o v e d in a new institutional context, he did not sever ties to contemporaries w h o continued to work within the earlier tradition even well after 1879. 5.4

The Missionary Question M u c h of the existing work on American Indian languages at the time of the founding of the Bureau had been done by missionaries. Although the Handbook of American Indians (Hodge 1907:874) stressed the heroism and devotion of missionaries, the Bureau rarely collaborated with missionaries, although m a n y of the manuscripts in its library had been collected by them. The only former missionary on the early Bureau staff was James O w e n Dorsey. Because of his special knowledge of missionary organizations and publications, Dorsey was designated to correspond with Indian territory missionaries about sign language and bibliography. Missionary cooperation with government agencies was so minimal that the Commissioner of Indian Affairs could not provide addresses and Dorsey had to inquire of the secretaries of the various religious bodies (Dorsey to Pilling, 9 July 1879: B A E ) . Dorsey attempted to maintain a dual role as missionary and scientist. W h e n invited to act as interpreter for an Indian at the American Missionary Association meetings, he offered to m a k e up the time by working nights so that he could accept (Dorsey to Powell, 11 Sept. 1879; Dorsey to Pilling, 20 Oct.

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1879: B A E ) . Dorsey stressed the need of missionaries for accurate scientific information such as the Bureau could provide. Most of the Bureau's experience in dealing with missionaries came in Siouan linguistics where science and religion seemed to conflict. Dorsey's primary affiliation was to the Bureau and he apparently (DeMallie, p. c , ca. 1969) did not find his position an uncomfortable one. H e continued to preach near Washington to the end of his lifetime. Other missionary collaborators relegated anthropological work to their spare time. The Smithsonian published a grammar and dictionary in 1852 by the Reverend Stephen Return Riggs (1812-1883) w h o lived in Sioux country from 1837 until leaving the missionfieldto his children on his retirement after 'the Dakota conflict'. In his preface, Riggs acclaimed (quoted in C N A E 7, p. vii [1890]) "the contributions to science made by the great missionary enterprise of the present age". This value "was not premeditated, but has been a result altogether incidental to our work". Initially, Riggs had accepted Powell's advice, noting to Pilling (20 April 1881: B A E ) : "I do not profess to be skilled in Ethnology as a science". Riggs did not object to subordinating himself to Dorsey because he was a former missionary despite his scientific employment. Conflicts, however, were not long in arising. Riggs became particularly bitter towards Dorsey, complaining that his recording of sounds was too detailed (Dorsey to Powell, 13 A u g . 1879: B A E ) . Powell m a d e various suggestions for revision and format of presentation which Riggs interpreted as insults. For instance, Powell asked Riggs (18 Sept. 1880: B A E ) to record creation narratives in Dakota, suggesting Gatschet's grammar of Klamath as a model of the Bureau's methods of linguistic description (Powell to Riggs, 4 Oct. 1880: B A E ) . Powell complained (to Riggs, 16 April 1881: B A E ) that he had not provided a general ethnographic sketch, as had Dorsey and Gatschet. In each case, Riggs was held to the standards of the Bureau. Riggs resented this, believing his o w n extensive experience with the Sioux to be more important than the Bureau's standardization of anthropological methods. After Riggs's death in 1883, the Bureau hoped for continued revision of the Siouan materials by other missionaries. Because progress was slow, Powell assigned Dorsey to help. Pilling explained this to A . L . Riggs, the son of the original missionary, also a missionary (26 M a y 1883: B A E ) . Riggs the younger found this a "most astonishing proposition, since his father had been collecting idioms for years and Dorsey lacked such intimate knowledge of [the] Dakota" language (A. L . Riggs to Powell, 14 June 1883: B A E ) .

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Other missionaries refused to put aside their religious work to complete the dictionary and Dorsey eventually sorted out the contributions of Riggs and other missionaries to the Dakota from his o w n contributions in an elaborate set of footnotes ( C N A E 7. p. xii [1890]). The younger Riggs was insulted that Dorsey w a s listed as editor (to Pilling, 8 Feb. 1893: B A E ) , while Dorsey insisted that he had m a d e only such changes as brought the work into conformity with "the general plan of publications of this Bureau" ( C N A E 9, p. xi [1893]) and hoped Riggs never realized the extent to which his father had approved Dorsey's modifications (Dorsey to Powell, 18 March 1893: B A E ) . The cumulative weight of all the difficulties of collaboration with the missionaries to the Sioux assured the Bureau that missionaries had little or no part in its primary enterprise, the organization of anthropology in America. Cyrus Byington's dictionary of Choctaw, for example, remained unpublished until it was edited by Swanton, w h o was professionally trained in anthropology (Margaret C . Blaker, p. a ) . Missionary labours provided useful data, to be sure, but only Dorsey was in any serious sense a participant in Powell's plan to 'Organize anthropological research' on the American Indian. Most missionaries had no stake in professional science and studied anthropology for religious reasons if at all. Missionary work was only used if it met scientific standards of Bureau professionalism. There is an element of rationalization to this position, however, in that missionaries threatened the newly professional anthropologists because they were able to spend more time in thefield,establishing longterm rapport, and thus to obtain more intensive results. 5.5 Powell's Evolutionary Synthesis Although at the time of its founding the Bureau was already involved in a number of research projects, Powell believed that m u c h remained to be done (3rd A R for 1881-82, 1884, p. xxxii): The science of anthropology is inchoate. A multiplicity of facts have been collected which have not yet been assigned to their proper places in the system, so that the sequence of events in the course of human culture is but partly m a d e out. Yet anthropologists are everywhere attempting to discover and explain the origin and growth of arts and customs, and all other phenomena that relate to the activities of mankind. M a s o n suggested (1893:627) that comparative study was the key to unravel "the tangle of American archaeology and ethnology". T h e unity of Bureau researches, for participants, was evolutionary.

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M u c h of this evolutionary synthesis came from earlier American anthropology, particularly the work of Morgan. The evolutionary theory of Powell and Morgan, however, was not Darwinian. Rather, the effort was to define mankind outside the biological realm (Hallowell 1960:55). T h e science of m a n was "primarily and in every essential respect superorganic" (15th A R for 1893-94, 1897, p. xviii). Both the goal and the principle of explanation were expressed in terms of mind, but a h u m a n mind shaped by, and accessible through, sociocultural rather than biological factors (Ibid.): The observations on Indian habits and artifacts [...] afford a satisfactory index to and measure of the aboriginal mind. [This principle was] established early in the history of the Bureau through observations on activital coincidences which have since been formulated in the comprehensive law of the responsivity of mind; so generalized, the principle m a y be regarded as the keynote of ethnic science, the Rosetta stone whereby the characters of all races m a y be interpreted. The recognition of the principle serves also to explain and establish the sequence of stages in h u m a n development inferred from observations of m a n y peoples. The evolution of interest, for Powell, Morgan and Brinton, stressed "the long-favored doctrine of progress, the power of m a n to reconstruct society and a generally optimistic faith in the future" (Curti 1943:555). Powell (1885:347) accepted Morgan's insistence on the growth of institutions through "a conscious effort at reform" at each stage, that is, through mental factors. In summary, Powell adopted from Morgan his faith in science, belief in reform and progress, solicitude for the Indian, and commitment to natural science (Hofstadter 1944, Stanton 1960, Banister 1979). At the time of the Bureau's founding, Morgan was the primary exponent of social evolutionism in America and Powell consciously built on his work. Systematic classification of the western tribes among w h o m Morgan had collected kin terms was attempted based on linguistic family. Powell's 1877 and 1880 vocabulary lists adapted Morgan's questionnaire methods to language. Powell was intrigued by Morgan's identification of the same kinship system in southern India and aboriginal North America, presumably reflecting similar evolutionary stages. The Bureau did not adopt Morgan's kinship questionnaires officially, although Dorsey, at least,filledthem out for the Smithsonian in the early 1870s. Powell planned a third edition of his lexical questionnaire, which was to have added questions on mythology and social organization. H e proposed to study additional areas of culture with the same methods.

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Morgan's theories were to be "submitted to the test of field observation during several successive seasons" (McGee in Goode 1897:390) to provide an objective record of the evolutionary development of the American Indian. "The purpose of the work of the Bureau is to collect, record, and discuss facts in a strictly scientific manner; this work is done by specialists trained in observation and discrimination" (Powell to Langley, 13 A u g . 1889: B A E ) . The results of such investigations could then be applied to the past history of western society and to the whole of comparative ethnology (2nd A R for 188081, 1883, p. xix): From the ascertained laws governing that advance from the uniformity of their operation and from the necessary limitations of the development of intelligence, it m a y be inferred that our o w n remote ancestors passed through a similar experience and possessed corresponding institutions. B y this study, therefore, some portion of the lost history of our o w n race m a y be recovered, the Aryan family having preserved but to a limited extent, and that unconsciously, the data of its history prior to the closing period of barbarism. Morgan's Ancient Society (1877) was required reading for the entire Bureau staff. Powell read it "long into the night and planned to take it into the field with him" (Resek 1960:141). Cushing requested that a copy be sent to him in the field and Pilling sent him one belonging to Powell with the comment that "the difficulties experienced by you are sufficient, I think to justify it" (30 N o v . 1880: B A E ) . Swanton (n.d.: 34, 46) referred to Morgan as "the prevailing genius of Bureau thought in sociological lines" and noted that Powell's "anthropological philosophy" was "part of the necessary equipment of every Bureau m e m b e r . " For the most part, the sociological studies of the Bureau followed guidelines set by Morgan. Dorsey's Omaha Sociology used Powell's terms, revised from Morgan, and Dorsey's work in turn inspired Powell's paper on Wyandot government (3rd A R for 1881-82, 1883, p. xxxvi, ix). The only dissenter on the early Bureau staff was M o o n e y , w h o refused to find matrilineal clans among the Kiowa, although the accepted evolutionary sequence required their presence (Swanton, n.d.: B A E ) . For Powell, all the activities of the American Indian were united within a single symbolic system of which language was the index. Since all the aspects of culture were correlated, none could be studied in isolation (13th A R for 1891-92, 1896, p. xxiv). The correlation of such social facts was characteristic of h u m a n development represented by the American Indian, and thus a

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systematic study of Indian customs was required (16th A R for 1894-95, 1897, p. xvii). Powell insisted that "the activities of language are essentially demotic [social], their course of development is unlike that of living organisms and m a y be characterized as involuntary rather than evolutionary". This single symbolic system encompassed all that could still be recovered of the previous history of the American Indian (2nd A R for 1880-81,1883, p. xxix). Primitive m a n , as opposed to his civilized counterpart, could not separate the parts of his social existence (13th A R for 1891-92, 1896, p. xxiii). T h e goal of anthropology was to understand this unity ( M c G e e in G o o d e 1897:383): F e w civilized m e n have learned to grasp primitive thought, and no primitive m a n grasps civilized thought save at the end of a civilizing process. Indeed, it would appear that it is this diversity of m o d e of thought rather than differences in arts, industries, institutions, and beliefs, more indeed than all other things combined, that separates primitive m a n from civilized. A major goal of Powell's Bureau was to place the American Indian within the evolutionary development of mankind as a whole (11th A R for 1889-90, 1894, p. xli). Powell considered Yarrow's work on mortuary practices ("quaint customs and abhorrentrites")to offer evidence of "traits of character and lines of thought that yet exist and profoundly influence civilization" (1st A R for 1879-80, 1881, p. xxvii). Mallery stressed parallels between Old and N e w World mythology which were "too numerous and obvious to be merely accidental" ( T A S W 1: 13-14) and had to be attributed to a "widespreading and systematic evolution". Matthews (Link 1960), in his descriptive work on the Navajo, noted parallels with Hindu, Egyptian and Greek civilizations, stressing "the instructive evidence of similarity in the stage of mythic philosophy coming from a before unexplored area and only modified by the readily understood differences in environment" (5th A R for 1883-84, 1887, p. xlv). Powers (1877:5) drew salutary lessons from barbaric American Indian customs and noted that individual frontiersmen had exceeded Indians in their acts of savagery (cf. Halpern and McGreery 1997). Royce's researches in history of land cessions and treaties used the evolutionary synthesis to rationalize the progress of American civilization "notwithstanding the petty conflicts yet occurring where the relations of the Indian tribes to our civilization have not yet been readjusted by the adoption on their part of the first conditions of a higher life" (1st A R for 1879-80, 1881, p. xxviii). Most of the Bureau's work on sign language was carried out by former army officer Garrick Mallery whose standardized "outlines and forms" were

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circulated to other Bureau staff members and to others "not necessarily scientific, n o w in contact with savage and barbaric tribes" all over the world (Mallery to Lowell, 17 March 1880: B A E ) . Powell was so interested in the implications of this work that it was continued after Mallery's death in 1894 (19th A R for 1897-98, 1900, p. xxvi). Indeed, gesture and picture language showed the American Indian higher in "the evolutionary order of h u m a n culture" than previously realized (4th A R for 1882-83, 1887, p. lxi). Detailed work was thus called for. Cushing also found the usual evolutionary stages to be in need of detailed description, since zootheism, physitheism, hekastotheism and fetichism (all Powell's terms) were all present in some form in Zuni (2nd A R for 1880-81, 1883, p. xxviii). A n evolutionary history of the h u m a n mind thus had to separate different kinds of survivals in present Indian culture. T h e evolutionary synthesis was retained but rendered more explicit by empirical researches based on fieldwork. This was the selfimposed task of the Bureau. Powell was also concerned with the scope of anthropology and the place of the science of m a n among other scientific disciplines. Powell, because of his prominence in government science, became an interpreter of science for late 19th-century laymen: "The Major accepted the challenge to survey the universe and drew his baseline" (Stegner 1954:375). Although Major Powell considered his primary task to "establish some order where there had been chaos before" in American Indian studies (Swanton n.d.:4), ethnographic data alone were insufficient and only a means to the end of establishing a holistic science of m a n . M a s o n (1883:505) noted: "The great mass of our ethnologic literature is ethnographic. Little has been attempted [...] toward developing a rational scheme of humanity on indisputable marks". O n e of Powell's particular interests was in defining the scope and subdisciplines of anthropology (1881a,b,c,d,e; 1899; 1900). H e was a m o n g the first to use an inclusive definition of the science (Brinton 1892b:268): "in late years Anthropology has been used as a term to designate the whole science of m a n — m a n as animal, m a n as a thinking being, and m a n as an actor in the economic arts, institutions, languages, literature, fine arts, religions, and opinions". Powell considered the term 'Ethnology' in the Bureau's title unfortunate. Indeed, his first Annual Report already used the term 'Anthropology' in its broadest sense. M c G e e (to Chamberlain, 3 Jan. 1894: B A E ) even referred to "the ill-named bureau in which I a m placed". Powell divided anthropology into somatology (physical anthropology),

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psychology, esthetology, technology, sociology, philology (linguistics) and sophiology (philosophy). His classification of the science was "designed for the guidance of operations in the Bureau" (23rd A R for 1901-02, 1904, p. xvi). Research described in the annual reports was organized according to these categories and staff members were expected to specialize in one or more of them (15 A R for 1893-94, 1897, p. lxix). Powell had considerable opportunity to broadcast his views. T h e 15th Annual Report (for 1893-94, 1897, p. lxxxvii) stated that his classification was "imparted to the members of the Bureau in a series of informal lectures, establishing a firmer and more definite basis for their researches". Lectures on each of the seven subdivisions of anthropology were presented to the Anthropological Society of Washington and subsequently published in its journal, the American Anthropologist. M c G e e (to Russell, 10 N o v . 1897: B A E ) prepared a similar series of articles which he intended to develop Powell's ideas. During Powell's lifetime, his evolutionary framework persisted, at least within the Bureau. The annual reports specifically placed individual research in evolutionary perspective and pointed out the importance of detailed studies to a theory of the development of the h u m a n mind. Powell's interest in particular problems within an evolutionary context was, indeed, shared by the members of his staff, although they employed his synthesis in rather different ways. But outside the Bureau itself, Powell's neologisms met with limited success. T h e Bureau could not dictate to other American anthropologists, particularly since some consensus in terminology already existed (Dieserud 1908). T h e system of anthropological classification proposed by Daniel Brinton in 1892 and presented to the A S W was explicitly designed to systematize existing usage rather than to establish n e w terms (Brinton 1892b:255-256). Brinton recognized somatology, ethnology, ethnography and archaeology as major divisions. Ethnology included sociology, technology, religion, linguistics and folklore. The confrontation of these two classificatory systems in a meeting of the A S W gave Powell the h o m e ground advantage. Brinton's paper w a s published by the American Anthropologist, but Powell's rejoinder, prepared for discussion before the A S W , was printed immediately following. In reprinting the two sets of comments, Frederica de Laguna (1960:98) expressed surprise that Powell's position in anthropology, and greater opportunity to publicize

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his terms, did not compel their acceptance. But the existence of a previous consensus, coupled with a relative lack of interest in terminological disputes after 1900, meant that Powell's terms were only used where reinforced by the administrative organization of the Bureau (Anon. 1930). Although Powell was fond of coining terms, almost none have survived. Even in geological survey work, most of his names were replaced by later explorers. Powell believed that classification in science was to some extent a priori and referred to his classificatory efforts as 'philosophy'. S o m e of his statements on the subject appear to contradict his emphasis on data in ethnology. For example, he was particularly intrigued by the universal significance of the number five (Powell 1901:601): forever w e must observe that pentalogic kinds are found in pentalogic series. It is sometimes affirmed and more often taken for granted, that a scientific classification is a creation of the scientific mind [...]. It is sometimes affirmed that there m a y be m a n y valid classifications, and yet practically all scientific m e n repudiate that doctrine and are forever striving for a valid and final classification, realizing there can be but one. B y the beginning of the 20th century, American anthropology was moving toward classifications which grew out of particular data, and Powell's 'philosophical' taxonomy was relegated to the history of the discipline. 5.6 The End of an Era in the Bureau Powell's death in 1902 marked the end of the classic period in the history of the Bureau of American Ethnology. In retrospect, the early Bureau was inseparable from Powell's vision of it. His official obituary, written by M c G e e , eulogized the importance of the m a n to the institution (24th A R for 1902-03, 1907, p. xxxv): The Bureau of American Ethnology is peculiarly his, the lines of research initiated by him being in the main those that must be followed as long as the Bureau lasts — in fact as long as the h u m a n race remains a subject of study. Although the investigations m a d e and directed by Powell related almost exclusively to the h u m a n race, the results are so broad as to apply to all mankind. It was a fortunate circumstance that his energies were directed to a field little encumbered by the forms, methods, and determinations of earlier students, since it enabled him to conduct his investigations on new lines, and thus to raise the science to a higher plane. Powell had a charismatic effect on the individuals around h i m and managed to integrate the diverse labours of the Bureau by the sheer force of

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his personality. Pilling (to Powell, 7 Oct. 1879: B A E ) found life "a comparative blank" when Powell was away. M c G e e (in Langley 1902: 789) considered him "a unique character in his generation" and "an intellectual giant among his fellows". At the end of his lifetime, however, Powell became rather disoriented, due to illness and also to changes in the science of anthropology that he had helped to put on solid professional ground. Swanton (n.d.: 31) remembers him primarily as losing the thread of conversations. Boas expressed his sympathy to M c G e e (23 A u g . 1895: A P S ) for Powell "who has of late lost so m a n y of his old friends". Mallery and Dorsey died in 1894, Pilling in 1895 and Cushing in 1900. Henshaw left the Bureau and Gatschet was no longer productive. A s Powell became less able to cope with his administrative burden, ordinary tasks devolved on M c G e e , w h o was appointed as Ethnologist-in-Charge shortly after Henshaw's resignation as Ethnologist in 1893. M c G e e fully expected to succeed Powell as Chief of the Bureau, but Smithsonian Secretary Langley appointed W . H . Holmes of the National M u s e u m instead. Langley (to Gilman, 24 Nov. 1902: SIA) saw himself as conducting a "purge" of the Bureau: "its scientific work shall be limited to the observation and recording of phenomena [and] its sanction shall not be given to theoretical or speculative work". The integration of diverse anthropological topics which Powell's evolutionary theory had encouraged receded into the amateur past of the Bureau for the archaeologists (Holmes and Jesse Fewkes) w h o directed its researches in the early 20th century. The precarious independence of the Bureau from the National M u s e u m was also threatened. Without Powell's political prominence, the unity of the Bureau could not be preserved. The centre of gravity of the linguistic-symbolic-mentalist strain of Powell's anthropology increasingly, in perhaps inevitably, moved to Boasian locations as the Bureau was subsumed under the archaeological and m u s e u m constraints of its new administration. The Bureau was also, however, affected by external changes in the profession of anthropology. In 1879, the B A E set the standard for ethnological and linguistic studies in America, even for those not formally associated with it. B y 1902, m a n y of the major anthropological institutions of the 20th century had been established. M u s e u m s and universities were able to provide employment and research funds for professionals w h o were increasingly likely to have had formal training in anthropology. For the new generation of anthropologists, the Bureau was one of a number of institutional alternatives,

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one which offered more constraints on individual research than a m u s e u m or university position. T h e Bureau did not change in response to these n e w alternatives and thus found itself in the 20th century, ironically, outside the mainstream of a professional American anthropology which it had helped to create. Hinsley (1981:151) argues that the "survey impulse finally expired" after the 1891 linguistic classification, resulting in a loss of direction for the Bureau. T h e survey mapping projects which united the Bureau, however, continued into the Boasian era of the early 20th century, suggesting that changing political contexts of funding for the linguistic and ethnological work of the Bureau m a y have been more significant in its marginalization after 1902.

James Owen Dorsey (1848-1895) Smithsonian Institution. Reprinted with permission.

II T h e Development of Institutional Alternatives

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Early Attempts at University Anthropology

The localism of mid-19th century American anthropology, centred primarily in Washington, Cambridge, Mass., and Philadelphia, m a d e the development of a self-conscious and nationally unified profession difficult. Powell, Putnam, and Brinton all began within such localized institutional contexts. B y the end of the century, however, these same individuals began to extend the scope and cohesiveness of the nascent discipline. Geographical expansion brought Chicago, N e w York, and Berkeley, California, to anthropological prominence, increasingly after 1900. Putnam, like Powell, was a key entrepreneur in the professionalization of anthropology. His appointment to a professorship at Harvard University in 1887 confirmed the dominance over Americanist archaeology which was already incumbent on his Peabody M u s e u m curatorship. Further organizational forays at the World Columbian Exposition in Chicago in 1894 — providing the baseline for anthropology at the Field Columbian M u s e u m and the University of Chicago — at Berkeley, where Putnam provided established backing for A . L . Kroeber's innovations in anthropological teaching and research — and in N e w York, where Putnam served as a patron behind the scenes for Franz Boas in his early efforts to establish an institutional base in America. Increase in the number of centres for anthropological research was facilitated by increasingly frequent collaboration a m o n g anthropologists. M u s e u m s and university departments exchanged personnel. Qualifications for employment became more standardized. A national profession of anthropology emerged — and grew rapidly over thefirsttwo decades of the n e w century. The n e w emphasis on professionalization meant that m e n were seeking institutions not only to support their personal research but also to modify the character of anthropology itself. The university was best suited to this function because its programs propagated anthropologists. Nonetheless, institu-

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tional support from museums provided a necessary balance, especially in sponsoring and fundingfieldresearch, during the early years of the academic departments. Indeed, several early attempts at teaching were abortive. A u tonomous academic programs arose to resolve conflicts between university anthropologists w h o emphasized the autonomy of their profession and m u seum administrators w h o were dominated by practical and public interests. A s long as m u s e u m goals were set by patrons and administrators, anthropology as a science was subordinated. Moreover, m a n y university-trained anthropologists found m u s e u m duties — the administration and collection of specimens — excessively constraining. The resulting crystallization of the profession in an academic milieu has persisted to the present day. T h e gradual development of this academic framework occupied m u c h of the energy of Franz Boas and his first generation of students during the crucial years between 1900 and 1920. B y the latter date, although their work had arisen from m u s e u m anthropology, Boas's students and their students constituted the majority of American anthropologists; of these, the vast majority were committed to pursuing their research in an academic context. Boas stands out for the self-conscious tenacity with which he constructed an institutional structure for his version of anthropological science. 6.1 Graduate Education in America Major changes in American graduate education were necessary at the end of the 19th century in order for the university to become a plausible institutional framework for anthropology. American universities (for instance, Harvard, Yale, William and Mary, the University of Pennsylvania, the University of Virginia) had been offering college degrees since the 18th century. Graduate training, however, did not become a requirement for most scientific professions until the end of the 19th century. The growing professionalism of American science generally motivated rapid development of facilities for advanced study. The European, particularly German, model for graduate education was readily available at precisely the right m o m e n t (Furner 1975, Burke 1983, Conrad 1885). These changes in concepts of education and professional training set the context within which anthropologists sought university sponsorship for their research and designed university curricula specifically to train anthropologists. The German model was crucial on a number of fronts: First, Franz Boas

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was trained in Germany and m a n y of his early students, for example, Alfred Krober and Robert Lowie, were German in background. Second, the scope and organization of Lowie (1937) confirms that m u c h of the intellectual foundation of Americanist anthropology was adapted directly from the Germ a n anthropological heritage: Johann Bachofen (1815-1887), Adolph Bastian (1826-1905), Friedrich Ratzel (1844-1904), Wilhelm W u n d t (18321920). The German anthropological tradition of volksgeist studies (Stocking 1996) brought the ideas of Johann Gottfried Herder (1744-1803), Wilhelm von Humboldt (1767-1835), and Hermann Steinthal (1823-1899) into the Americanist tradition. Third, late 19th-century German scholarship was organized around academic professional training at the graduate level. This was the model upon which Boas and his first generation of students would differentiate professional anthropologists from their amateur contemporaries. American national pride required keeping up with the n e w standards for scholarship in Germany, even if initial training had to be obtained at European universities. M a n y American university professors of the late 19th century were among the 'German-returned'; their growing presence in American institutions of higher learning further enhanced the prestige of German graduate education. Science required professional credentials not available in America until the influx of the n e w model. These changes in American education were foreshadowed by the resignation of B r o w n University president Francis Wayland (1796-1865) in 1850 on the grounds that the college failed to meet the educational needs of its students for more advanced studies that emphasized original research (Ryan 1939:4). Graduate studies were initiated at Yale and perhaps a few other places before 1870 and the first American P h . D . was awarded in 1861. During this period, even state universities, influenced by the provisions of the Morrill Land Grant Act of 1962, "convinced their legislatures of the importance of research" (Curti 1943:585). State universities, however, were mandated to provide education for practical purposes, for example, agriculture and ' m e chanical arts') rather than scholarship for its o w n sake. In fact, Daniel Coit Gilman, founder of the Johns Hopkins graduate university, had served previously as president of the University of California where his educational goals on the German model proved frustratingly unattainable (Gilman 1906:3). The history of American graduate educationrightfullybegins with Johns Hopkins, intended as an entirely n e w kind of institution from its opening in 1876. Its first library accessions were purchased to inform the would-be

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trustees of the still non-existent university on the state of education in America and Europe, and by implication the necessity for adopting the G e r m a n model (Ryan 1939:18). Gilman's pedagogical philosophy reflected changes in American intellectual life as well as the particular history of Johns Hopkins. H e believed (Ryan 1939:28): all "sciences" were worthy of promotion, and that there w a s therefore no essential difference between the "old" and the "new" education; that religion had nothing to fear from science, and that science need not be afraid of religion [...]; that in the promotion of science "remote utility" was quite as worthy to be thought of as of immediate advantage; that no university could encourage with equal freedom all branches of learning, and that therefore a selection must be m a d e in accordance with the requirements and deficiencies of a given people at a given period. The almost immediate success of Johns Hopkins demonstrated general dissatisfaction with American education at the time of its founding. Gilman felt that Johns Hopkins maintained higher scholarly standards than its predecessors and that previously "the idea of the university had not been generally understood" (quoted by Ryan 1939:18-19). Gilman's autobiography summarized the accomplishments of the early years (1906:2-3): science receives an amount of support unknown before. This is a natural consequence of the wonderful discoveries which have been m a d e in respect to the phenomena and laws of nature and the improvements m a d e in scientific instruments and researches [...]. With this increased attention to science, the old-fashioned curriculum disappeared, of necessity, and m a n y combinations of studies were permitted in the most conservative institutions. Absolute freedom of choice is n o w allowed in m a n y places. History and political science have c o m e to the front, and it is no longer enough to learn from a textbook wearisome lists of names and dates; reference must be m a d e to original sources of information [...] in order to understand the progress of h u m a n society. S o m e knowledge of French and G e r m a n is required of everyone. English literature receives an amount of attention never given to it in early days. Medicine is no longer taught by lectures only [...]. The admission to the advantages of higher learning is also one of the most noteworthy advances of the period. Gilman, although his reputation was more as administrator than scholar, created an atmosphere for scholarship to flourish. Germanic philology was perhaps the most characteristic discipline within the n e w G e r m a n model of science education. (In 1907, Gilman had the perspicacity to hire H e r m a n n Collitz (1855-1935). Collitz had returned from Göttingen to teach Germanic philology at Bryn M a w r College. At Johns

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Hopkins, where he remained until his retirement in 1927, Collitz was able to pursue research as well as undergraduate teaching. H e was admirably situated institutionally and intellectually to serve as the first president of the Linguistic Society of America in 1925 (simultaneously holding the presidency of the Modern Language Association). His preeminence in historical-comparative linguistics is still attested by the Collitz Professorship at the annual L S A S u m m e r Institute. The Johns Hopkins example stimulated other universities to adopt similar experimental programs. Granville Stanley Hall (1844-1924) had served for several years at Johns Hopkins before being appointed as the first president of Clark University in Worcester, Mass. in 1887. In the same year, at the age of thirty-five, he founded the Journal of American Psychiatry. Hall combined researches in psychology and pedagogy, based on his studies of experimental psychology with Wilhelm W u n d t in Leipzig in 1879-80, with university administration on the Johns Hopkins model. The University of Chicago was founded in 1892 with a comparable emphasis on graduate training and scholarship. President William Rainey Harper included anthropology within the initial scope of the University, partly in response to its prominence in the World Columbian Exposition with which its founding was coupled. Established universities, previously restricted to undergraduate education, were forced to respond to the challenges set by the n e w graduate institutions. In 1863, Harvard initiated a lecture series in philosophy and modern literature which provided the germ of the graduate school four years later (Ryan 1939:8). President Charles William Eliot (1834-1926) designed an elective system which enabled him to employ specialists on his faculty. B y the 1890s, Harvard had one of the leading graduate schools in the country (Berman 1961:80). Eliot, whose presidency lasted from 1869 to 1909, hired scholars of established reputation and young, professionally trained m e n w h o would m a k e their reputations at Harvard (Berman 1961:120). This was, of course, the only w a y such institutions could obtain noted scholars for underpaid positions. Harvard was unique in its early extension of the seminar system to its undergraduates. Eliot aspired to create a university out of the existing college system (Butler 1935:144) rather than to seek a n e w kind of education at the graduate level. Eliot m a d e an abortive attempt to persuade William Dwight Whitney, the most distinguished American linguist of the 19th century, to abandon Yale for

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Harvard. This effort confirms the importance of linguistics in the prestigious German-modelled scholarship. At Columbia, in N e w York City, deliberations on educational reform began in 1852, but graduate education awaited the founding of the School of Political Science by John William Burgess (1844-1931) in 1876 (Ryan 1939:11). F r o m 1887 on, debates raged about the wisdom of giving up the undergraduate program entirely. Nicholas Murray Butler (1862-1947), w h o became president of Columbia in 1901, expressed his view as follows: The time has fully come when the work of Columbia College can no longer be confined to the old channels even though these channels be broadened and deepened [...]. Situated as it is in the metropolis with its libraries, m u s e u m s , art galleries, and busy intellectual life, that Columbia College [...] should develop into a University is as necessary as it is natural [...]. Those conceptions of a university which identify it with a group of technical or professional schools, or with a college in which all or most of the courses of study are elective, are equally to be avoided. A true university exists today, as it has always existed, by virtue of the methods of instruction it employs and the privileges which it offers. (Butler 1935:138) Intense debates centred around h o w to proceed with reorganization of American higher education, while allaying the fears of those traditionalists w h o opposed the fundamental changes associated with professionalization and specialization on the German model. 6.2

False Starts in Academic Anthropology Innovations in graduate education were most successful, at least at first, in the established academic disciplines of classics, literature, history and natural sciences. Anthropology, however, had no prior claim to a place in the emerging university curriculum. Anthropologists in the late 19th century entered the discipline from diverse backgrounds. Most of the relatively small, self-conscious profession, particularly the self-made scientists of the Bureau, felt no need for university standing (Freeman 1965). A few anthropologists, however, actively sought university affiliation during the late 19th century, realizing its unique potentials for training and research support. Daniel Brinton received thefirstprofessorship in 1886 and was thoroughly committed to the institutional possibilities of academic anthropology. F . W . Putnam held a professorship at Harvard from 1887 on and worked to advance anthropology in academic as well as m u s e u m contexts. Franz Boas began teaching at Clark University in 1889. Although this pro-

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gram w a s ultimately abortive, with the one he developed at Columbia a few years later a fresh start, Boas's concern with an academic basis for the discipline remained constant. All three m e n saw the development of professional standards in anthropology as inseparable from the w i n d o w of opportunity provided by changes in American university education. Indeed, the problem was more to justify the place of anthropology to university officials and to attract students than to persuade already practising anthropologists that university training was desirable. The earliest attempts to maintain autonomous university programs in anthropology were abortive. Although the programs at Pennsylvania, Clark and Chicago did not produce extensive professional training, they did set precedents for academic anthropology which were called upon later, especially in conjunction with m u s e u m research programs. The aims of those w h o initiated the above programs were far beyond their ability to implement them, at least in the short term. 6.3

The University of Pennsylvania The appointment of Daniel Garrison Brinton as Professor Archaeology and Linguistics at the University of Pennsylvania in 1886 was technically the first professorship of anthropology in America, although he received no salary and attracted no students (Darnell 1988). Indeed, Brinton's appointment resulted not from the need for anthropological teaching, but from Provost William Pepper's concern to establish "a great ethnological m u s e u m " (1890 circular: U M A ) at the University. Although a major graduate program was established at Pennsylvania during the 1880s under Pepper's direction (Cheyney 1940), Brinton remained peripheral. His role must be surmised from lists of committees, boards and faculties. His courses in American archaeology, linguistic classification and American Indian languages were listed without hours and their descriptions modified only w h e n the organization of the graduate school changed. The cooperation Brinton had hoped for between m u s e u m and university did not materialize. After 1894, as Brinton's relations with the M u s e u m deteriorated steadily, the Catalogue commented: "The instruction will be in large measure based upon the unusually rich collections of the University M u s e u m , and will be arranged with reference to the preparation and aims of applicants". It is perhaps not surprising that students did not gravitate to such an amorphous program. Statistics in the University Catalogue document that, at least between 1894 and 1899, Brinton had no students. A single non-degree

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candidate enrolled in 1894-95 but cannot be identified from the published list of names and residences. Brinton's influence on younger m e n in the profession, particularly Stewart Culin (1888-1929) and Hilborne Cresson, was channelled through Philadelphia scientific societies rather than through the university. W h e n Brinton died in 1899, no serious attempt was m a d e to replace him, highlighting the impression that a teaching position in anthropology was of little importance to anyone except Brinton himself. A graduate group in ethnology and archaeology was formed rather promptly in 1900 under the chairmanship of archaeologist Hermann Hilprecht (1859-1925). It included Babylonian, R o m a n , Greek and American archaeology, separating thefirstthree from their respective language departments, with the language professors doubling as m u s e u m curators. Stewart Culin was responsible for American topics, with the exception of linguistics. But Culin's primary commitment was to increasing professionalism in m u seum work; thus, the academic program remained an inactive adjunct of the m u s e u m . W h e n Culin departed in 1903 for the n e w division of ethnology at the Brooklyn Institute of Arts and Sciences, American ethnology disappeared from the nominal curriculum. Brinton's professorship cannot be dismissed, however, as a simple false start. Despite the limited effect of his program, he expressed a sophisticated understanding of what professional training for anthropologists would entail and a strong commitment to promoting this. In intent at least, it is quite similar to what Boas advocated at Columbia a few years later. Brinton presented "Anthropology as a Science and as a Branch of University Education in the United States" (1892a) ostensibly as a practical prospectus for a teaching program at Pennsylvania. Although rejected by the University without serious consideration, Brinton's proposal clarifies his understanding of the growing professionalism and changing institutional structure of anthropology. Brinton began with a defense of the need for anthropological training, citing in some detail European and American precedents for such instruction. The proper scope and content of a holistic science of anthropology included work in classroom, laboratory, library andfield.Terminological specification of the appropriate subdisciplines of anthropology was paramount. T h e proposal was programmatic. Only the cover letter (Brinton to Pepper, 2 June 1 8 9 2 : U P A ) dealt with the specific circumstances at Pennsylvania. Brinton noted that existing faculty members were willing to teach the subdisciplines of physical anthropology, archaeology and ethnology. The M u s e u m

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and the Wistar Institute of Anatomy and Biology, along with its medical training, provided additional resources for the study of physical anthropology. This inclusive vision contrasted sharply with the limited archaeological perspective of the graduate group which was actually set up after Brinton's death. H e was not, however, sufficiently influential to organize these individuals into a program nor was the University prepared to sponsor it. Brinton understood that the M u s e u m was also unlikely to concern itself with training of anthropologists. His presidential address to the A A A S (1895:5) noted: W e erect stately m u s e u m s , w e send out costly expeditions; but where are the universities, the institutions of higher learning, w h o train young m e n h o w to observe, h o w to collect and explore in this branch?

These are the bitter words of a m a n w h o has watched the growth of a m u s e u m without corresponding growth in educational facilities or professional consciousness. Brinton was so discouraged that he withdrew from active participation in the Pennsylvania M u s e u m in 1894, emphasizing that he disagreed fundamentally with the prevailing conception of a m u s e u m (Brinton to Stevenson, 8 July 1894: U M A ) . His o w n preference w a s for a research institution dedicated to science rather than to popular education. At the time of his appointment to the University faculty, Brinton was already advancing in age and in poor health. Even had the institutional possibilities been more promising, he probably could not have realized them. Brinton's teaching career took place not at the University but at the A c a d e m y of Natural Sciences of Philadelphia. T h e audience was a popular one rather than one of students seeking professional training. For most of his career, Brinton's primary scientific affiliation remained the American Philosophical Society. W h e n his commitment to academic training failed to produce a viable program at the University, however, Brinton redirected his attention to the future of academic anthropology throughout North America. His 1892 prospectus transcended the localism of Brinton's o w n career and foreshadowed later developments, in Philadelphia and elsewhere. 6.4 Clark University The second independent program in anthropology was established at Clark University in Worcester, Massachusetts, where President G . Stanley Hall followed the Johns Hopkins example, where he taught from 1882-87. Clark opened in 1889 with five departments: mathematics, physics, chemis-

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try, biology and psychology. One of the docentships for aspiring scholars was awarded to Franz Boas, under the umbrella of the psychology department (Hall to Boas, 8 Aug. 1889: A P S ) . Hall's view of psychology incorporated various anthropological topics (1889 announcement): "the psychology of language; myth; custom and belief anthropologically considered; hypnotism, and the psychological side of the history of philosophy, especially the Greek, German and English systems". H e saw the work of Boas as consistent with this broad definition of psychology. Oral history in anthropology has it that Hall met Boas on a train returning from a meeting of the A A A S and, at the end of the trip, offered him a position at his n e w university (Herskovits 1953:13). Boas, unemployed at the time, accepted with alacrity. At Clark, Boas redefined the scope of anthropology to correspond to his o w n interests. H e taught courses in North American ethnology, diffusion of culture elements, shamanism, linguisticfieldmethods, American mythology and physical anthropology. H e involved his students in practical studies, particularly an anthropometric survey of Worcester school children. The same students worked with Boas on the physical anthropology of American aborigines, financed by the B A A S and the World Columbian Exposition. Boas followed Hall's advice not to burden himself with formal lectures (Hall to Boas, 30 Aug. 1889: A P S ) . Clark attained the distinction of granting thefirstAmerican P h . D . in anthropology to Alexander Francis Chamberlain (1865-1914) in 1892. C h a m berlain was a Canadian, w h o had obtained an M . A . in modern languages from the University of Toronto and begun to study Kootenay through Daniel Wilson (1778-1858) and the B A A S (which also sponsored Boas's early fieldwork on the Northwest coast). W h e n Clark began to have administrative problems in its third year of operation, Boas was among the disenchanted. Josiah Clark, the founder, was more interested in undergraduate than in graduate education and balked at m a n y of Hall's plans. Continuedfinancialsupport was in jeopardy. Indeed, Clark's will stipulated addition of undergraduate courses to the curriculum. Hall (1923:28) was hard-pressed to continue supporting Boas's work in anthropology: Clark, "knowing that very few universities had departments of anthropology, was never very friendly to this work", although Hall found it significant in itself and "as an essential supplement for the psychological department".

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Boas complained about reduced laboratory facilities and spent less of his time in the department (Boas to Hall, 4 June 1891: A P S ) . H e joined half the faculty in resigning in 1892 but was almost alone among them in not being offered a position at the n e w University of Chicago where President William Rainey Harper (Dzuback 1991) had already hired Frederick Starr as assistant professor of anthropology. Boas went instead to the World Columbian Exposition as Putnam's assistant. Education at Clark continued after the hegira but never again attained the atmosphere of intense excitement which characterized its early history. The University turned in on itself and concentrated on teaching (Hall 1923:303). Anthropology continued under Chamberlain, w h o taught Greek and R o m a n folklore, American Indian education, anthropology and ethnology of sex, psychology of primitive language, the aesthetic ideal among primitive peoples, crime a m o n g the lower races, and the origin and development of the family — all as handmaidens to Hall's psychological interests. The psychology department encompassed education, economics, sociology, anthropology and history. Chamberlain's lectures centred around social psychology and education. His students were psychologists and educators w h o drew on anthropological materials (Mason 1906:497). Chamberlain's program m a d e little contribution to the development of professional autonomy in anthropology. W h e n Chamberlain died in 1914, the University m a d e no serious effort to replace him (Anon. 1914). Hall did write to Frank Speck (1881-1950) about the position; Boas recommended Hermann Haeberlin (1888-1918) because of his psychological interests. In any case, the importance of Clark University in the history of American anthropology was virtually limited to the few years during which Boas trained students for the empirical research which was his primary concern. The program lapsed because of wider problems in the University, not because it was unable to attract students. Subordination of anthropology to psychology was productive as long as it provided Boas with laboratory equipment and research facilities. Indeed, experimental psychology was the best possible umbrella to obtain equipment for physical anthropology in an academic context. Other physical anthropologists were forced to rely on m u s e u m resources. Boas's anthropometry and psychological description of various populations fit easily in experimental psychology (Darnell 1982). Fieldwork on social life could be justified in m u s e u m contexts by producing ethnological specimens for exhibit.

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The Clark experiment demonstrated the value of academic affiliation, which Boas was soon to seek again in N e w York. His views of the scope of anthropology and the need for rigorous training and empirical research were already clear at Clark, although (like Brinton at Pennsylvania) he could not implement m u c h of his vision. At Columbia, Boas had recourse to the organizational resources of the University, the American M u s e u m and Natural History, and the revitalized American Ethnological Society in aid of his program for training and research. 6.5 The University of Chicago The third independent academic department was founded in 1892 at the University of Chicago which opened with Frederick Starr (1858-1933) as assistant professor of anthropology (Goodspeed 1916:247; Miller 1975, Stocking 1979). Starr had formerly taught natural history and arranged collections for the American M u s e u m and knew President Harper from Yale in the 1880s. Although he remained at Chicago until his retirement as Associate Professor Emeritus in 1923, Starr's dreams of graduate education at the University of Chicago were not, for the most part, fulfilled. Starr was a popular professor and his teaching a frequent source of newspaper commentary, often to the embarrassment of the University. For example, he m a d e headlines for his statement in 1902 that Pithecanthropus erectus had used baby talk ( U C A ) . The next year a major scandal erupted over his private conversation in the presence of students (Finley to Harper, 6 M a y 1899: U C A ) . In 1920, Starr publicly debated the merits of civilization with Clarence Darrow (1857-1938), defending the negative with reasonable success. Starr enjoyed this notoriety, keeping scrapbooks which ran into volumes of newspaper commentaries. Starr was one of thefirstAmerican anthropologists to work in Africa and the Orient. H e remained more tourist thanfieldworker,however, and instruction suffered from his repeated excursions (Cole 1932:207). Starr became something of an anachronism in American anthropology because of his persistent evolutionism. T h e Boasian critique of evolution was essentially complete by 1900, at least in terms of Boas's o w n formulation of it, and Boasians wrote the history of anthropology. Starr was unconvinced (to Logan, 7 A u g . 1928: F M A ) : "In m y teaching, evolution is fundamental. It runs through every course I offer. It is what gives life and value to m y work". His writings drew examples at random from comparative ethnology in a period w h e n his contemporaries were turning to detailed culture histories.

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Kroeber concluded (to Harrington, 16 N o v . 1905: A L K ) : "There has been an active department at Chicago, but it has been completely out of touch with practical work and I understand it is at present in a state of reorganization". In the year of Starr's retirement, Boas noted his disappointment at Chicago's lack of progress in anthropology (to Little, 12 M a y 1923: A P S ) : "I think there is no harm in saying that his conduct of the department has been a great disappointment to us". Chicago began with the possibility of cooperation with the permanent m u s e u m planned to result from the World Columbian Exposition in 1892. Starr, however, was not eager to subordinate himself to Putnam. Indeed, his enthusiasm for a m u s e u m evaporated when he learned that Putnam, with Harper's approval, would head it (Harper to Starr, 2 March 1892: U C A ) . Stanresponded (21 March 1892: U C A ) : I a m somewhat sorry that Prof. Putnam will be at the head of the City M u s e u m . It will cripple our work in Archaeology [...]. [This is] the least important one of the three branches into which m y work will naturally fall. Utterly unacquainted with Ethnology and Physical Anthropology, he is not to be feared outside of Prehistoric Archaeology. At the same time thatfieldis one in which I had hoped to gain a good deal of public sympathy for the University through Illinois and Wisconsin. Starr also objected to calling "the Harvard archaeologist an anthropologist. There is a difference" (to Harper, 29 June 1892). Rather than seeking cooperation with the Field Columbian M u s e u m to build up his o w n department, Starr encouraged the foundation of an independent m u s e u m at the University in which his o w n role would be more salient (Starr to Harper, 21 March 1892: U C A ) . Starr argued that "a great m u s e u m " should be devoted to display and that educational use of a m u s e u m required different circumstances. T h e Walker M u s e u m was duly established on the University of Chicago campus in 1894, incorporating such diverse topics as comparative religion, archaeology, geology, mineralogy, paleontology and anthropology. Lacking funds to sponsor research, it did not attract students. Failure to draw on the more extensive resources of the Field M u s e u m was, therefore, a crippling disadvantage (Starr 1892b, 1897). Murray (1988) elaborates on (largely unsuccessful) efforts by George A m o s Dorsey (1868-1931) and William Isaac T h o m a s (1863-1947) to by-pass Starr. The major affiliation of the anthropology department was not with the M u s e u m but with sociology. The joint department, originally titled Social Science and Anthropology, included social philosophy, social institutions,

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political economy, sanitary science and ethnic psychology in addition to Starr's version of anthropology. The initial catalogue in 1892 was explicit that the joint department was "provisional", with "an independent department of anthropology and ethnology [...] anticipated". In the meantime, "the present alliance and cooperation [...] recognizes the dependence of social philosophy and social art upon anthropological science". Subsequent descriptions stressed the interrelatedness of the social sciences. In 1909-1910, "the study of general process of h u m a n association" was distinguished from "the principles of conduct indicated by ascertained knowledge of social relations considered as a whole". The "method and results" of sociology, anthropology and even psychology were mutually reinforcing. Sociology, however, was given "distinct" responsibility for "thefinalinterpretation of all the different analyses of h u m a n experience" (Catalogue 1909-1910). Broad choice of alliedfieldswas consistent with the underlying philosophy. In 1911, these included philosophy, psychology, political economics, political science, history, household administration and comparative religion. Chicago's sociology department acquired considerable national reputation. Albion Small (1854-1926) established the Journal of American Sociology, the first sociological journal of national scope in the United States, in 1896 and edited it until his retirement in 1924. The department considered the city of Chicago to be "one of the most complete social laboratories in the world" (1893 Catalogue). The founding of the Social Science Center for Practical Training in Philanthropic and Social W o r k in 1903 further overshadowed anthropology in the joint department. Moreover, Starr does not appear to have sought active cooperation with his sociological colleagues. Indeed, at the time of his appointment, he was worried to establish the independence of his work from sociology. Both Harper and Small assured him that the arrangement would be solely administrative. Small told Starr (26 March 1892: U C A ) that he k n e w nothing about anthropology and that Harper alone was responsible for the joint social science program. Starr also worried about m u s e u m specimens and laboratory equipment, issues which did not arise for the sociologists. The major problem of the early years, however, was to attract students. Starr composed a circular in 1897 pleading for funds as well as students. Plans to hire archaeologist Warren K . Moorehead (1866-1939) in 1892 were abortive because Harper was not interested in fieldwork (Moorehead to Starr, 12 July 1892: U C A ) . Nonetheless, the department granted two P h . D . ' s in 1897.

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Chicago was then one of few places offering a degree in anthropology. After 1897, Chicago anthropology emphasized undergraduate teaching. T h e next P h . D . was awarded to Leslie White (1900-1975) in 1927 under a department which had recently broken dramatically with the Starr tradition. Within the Sociology doctoral program, however, Albert Nicolay Gilbertson " S o m e Ethical Phases of Eskimo Culture" and Miriam van Waters "The Adolescent Girl a m o n g Primitive Peoples", both in 1913, certainly indicated anthropological content. The major link between sociology and anthropology was William I. T h o m a s , whose interest in comparative psychology led him into anthropological topics which included primitive races, animism, the social function of art and play, the mind of the oriental, art and the artist class, and sex in social organization. T h o m a s shared Starr's conviction that studies of primitive m a n would complete the evolutionary history of h u m a n society. But, peripheral to the administration of the sociology department in spite of his intellectual leadership within it, Thomas (to Harper, 20 June 1898: U C A ) did little to integrate anthropology within it. Starr tried to expand the department, personally teaching all subdisciplines, largely to undergraduates. In 1896, the department received an application from George Dorsey, recent Harvard P h . D . and n e w curator at the Field M u s e u m (Dorsey to Harper, 6 April 1896: U C A ) . Once assured that Dorsey did not intend to undercut his o w n position in the department, Stanacquiesced. Dorsey was duly listed in the Catalogue until 1915, but his courses in physical anthropology were rarely offered. Although he took the initiative in seeking an academic position, Dorsey, according to John Swanton's recollection (n.d.: 42), did not enjoy teaching. Moreover, he did not get along with Starr, although Dorsey and T h o m a s combined forces in attempting to hire Franz Boas. Boas lectured in the summer school in 1908, but Starr was not involved in the negotiations. T h o m a s sought to revitalize the department around graduate training of anthropologists (to Boas, 26 March 1907: A P S ) : Y o u k n o w very well that the subject is in a deplorable condition and some of us are hoping to have the department put on a really scientific basis, and to get some thoroughly trained m e n in the work [...]. W e are in fact not so very far from the point of action.

Small, w h o emphasized professional training in sociology, agreed to separate the departments if Boas would head anthropology (Dorsey to Boas, 26 March

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1907: A P S ) . Boas declined but confirmed Chicago's potential as a major centre for American anthropology (to Thomas, 29 March 1907: A P S ) : Since the break-down of the M u s e u m in this city [New York], Chicago has by far the best opportunity of developing an anthropological department [...]. It has always seemed curious to m e that the University has not improved that opportunity at an earlier time. In spite of this temporary optimism, changes were put on hold until Starr's retirement in 1923, w h e n former Boas student Fay-Cooper Cole m o v e d from the Field M u s e u m to the University and began remodelling to bring the department in line with intervening developments in American anthropology, largely through the efforts of Boas. 6.6

The Temporary Insufficiency of Academic Anthropology Academic departments for adequate anthropological training were not successful in the 1880s, though they were highly desired by some anthropologists. Despite the occasional anthropologist on the faculty of a major university, the discipline remained peripheral to the overall graduate curriculum. At Clark, anthropology was subordinated to psychology. At Pennsylvania, the M u s e u m focused on archaeological research rather than teaching. A t Chicago, Starr avoided affiliation with institutions that could have helped in the training of professional anthropologists, i.e., the Field M u s e u m and the sociology department. Brinton, Boas, and Starr, however, each envisioned the development of professional anthropology within an academic context. Brinton and Starr were bound by their evolutionary theories to a 19th-century anthropology with minimal chance of attracting students. Boas, in contrast, worked to create a research program in which the university would play a key role. Before 1889, his o w n work had been sponsored by m u s e u m s or the Bureau. The emergence of the university as an institutional alternative enabled him to seek professional training for his students as well as professional standards for research. However, the inevitable difficulties of maintaining an independent program in anthropology within an academic context led Boas to draw on a combination of institutional resources in N e w York — at Columbia University and at the American M u s e u m . A collaborative model already existed at the Peabody M u s e u m in Cambridge, where Putnam's graduate program supplemented his archaeological researches. Putnam also m a d e good use of

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his ties to m u s e u m s , and incidentally to academic programs, at Chicago, N e w York and Berkeley. Indeed, Boas owed his positions at the World Columbian Exposition in Chicago and at Columbia to Putnam's patronage. Although Boas preferred an academic appointment without m u s e u m obligations, this was not feasible until well into the 20th century. In the interim, most anthropological research was carried on by m u s e u m s which drew on academic departments for curatorial and research personnel. The Bureau, in part because it lacked such university affiliations, fell progressively further behind.

Frank Hamilton Cushing (1857-1899) Smithsonian Institution. Reprinted with permission.

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The Tradition of M u s e u m Research

Anthropological museums were established before university departments, for example, the Peabody M u s e u m in 1866 and the United States National M u s e u m in 1881. T h e Bureau, established in 1879, also provided institutional support for anthropological research which previously depended on personal income or private patronage. Such research organizations provided a pivotal impetus toward professionalization, through research on a more extensive scale and paid employment permitting full-time research (Ames 1986, Bell 1967, Cole 1985, Karp et al. 1992). Increasingly, obtaining employment in anthropological research required the credentials of academic training.

Figure 2. The founding of universities and museums UNIVERSITY

FOUNDING

Berkeley Clark Chicago Columbia Harvard Johns Hopkins Pennsylvania Yale

1873 1889 1892 1754 1636 1876 1740 1701

GRADUATE EDUCATION 1873 1889 1892 1876 1872 1876 ca.1881 1871

ANTHROPOLOGY 1901 1889 1892 1899 1887 none (1969) 1886 ca.1900

MUSEUM

FOUNDING

ANTHROPOLOGY

American Museum of Natural History Berkeley Museum Field Columbian Museum Peabody Museum United States National Museum University of Pennsylvania Museum

1869 1901 1894 1866 1881 1889

1889 1901 1894 1866 1881 1889

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Professionalization, therefore, required training of n e w anthropologists w h o met the changing standards. Particularly in museums, expansion of research m a d e recruitment of qualified personnel an urgent problem. T h e m u s e u m or research organizations lacked facilities to train their o w n staff. From the point of view of a m u s e u m anthropologist, therefore, the university provided a necessary complement to his work, raising the standards of already established research programs. Such a collaborative attitude was particularly characteristic at Harvard. M u s e u m s uninterested in research found themselves increasingly outside the mainstream of American anthropology; the U . S . National M u s e u m is a case in point. The Bureau had similar problems after Powell's death in 1902 in maintaining the calibre of its research, given the inability to reproduce itself internally. 7.1 The Peabody Museum The only successful and continuous academic program in anthropology established before 1890 was the Peabody M u s e u m of American Archaeology and Ethnology founded by George Peabody (1795-1869) and organized by Frederick W a r d Putnam at Harvard in 1866. Unlike the abortive efforts at Clark, Pennsylvania and Chicago, Putnam's teaching drew constantly on the resources of the Peabody M u s e u m . Archaeology students joined ongoing research expeditions; professors were m u s e u m anthropologists; the University was not required to support the students. Moreover, the M u s e u m provided Putnam with a political power base in the University which was unique for an anthropologist at this early period. Not surprisingly, then, Putnam's department produced more Ph.D.'s than any other until Boas's program at Columbia began to produce students. M a r k (1980:52) argues that, in addition to being more numerous and earlier, Putnam's students received "more rigorous training", particularly in the natural sciences; Boas's students, whose fieldwork in cultural anthropology often proceeded under m u s e u m auspices, wrote short dissertations, took fewer courses and completed their degrees more rapidly (cf. Figure 3). The Peabody M u s e u m was established by a bequest to Harvard University. Despite lack of enthusiasm from the Trustees, the president accepted the m o n e y and anatomy professor Jeffries W y m a n (1814-1874) became the first curator. Harvard, with a long tradition of natural science, was not eager to extend its researches to anthropology. T h e idea of an anthropological m u seum probably originated with Peabody's nephew, Othniel C . Marsh (1831-

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1899), later a noted paleontologist; in 1865, Marsh was digging an Indian m o u n d in Ohio (Dixon 1930:202). The Peabody was unique among American museums of the period in being devoted exclusively to ethnology and archaeology as well as in its close association with Harvard. The Peabody M u s e u m "thefirstdefinitely anthropological m u s e u m in the United States", differing from "other great m u s e u m s in the country, which have come to include anthropological exhibits of imposing extent" because "it was from thefirsta university m u s e u m " (Dixon 1930:208). George Dorsey, like Dixon a participant in the early history of Harvard anthropology, commented (1896:77): The study of anthropology is in one sense almost as old as m a n himself, but its history as a separate study, worthy of a place in the University curriculum, is very modern. Indeed it is not as old as Natural Science in general, and it is only within the last quarter of a century that a searching and exhaustive scientific study of m a n has been recognized [...]. While m a n y of the European universities devote considerable time to this subject, [it] has gained very little headway in the universities of America. T o be sure, a great deal of valuable exploration and investigation has been done in America, but it has been chiefly through the Government institutions at Washington and the museums of a few universities. The Peabody M u s e u m , Dorsey emphasized, was first in focusing on ethnology and archaeology and "among thefirstto recognize the need of anthropological teaching. The importance of the Peabody for anthropology was due primarily to its second curator Putnam, w h o succeeded W y m a n in 1874. Putnam was an effective institutional leader, organizing anthropological research in various cities and pursuing a broad program of anthropology (Dixon 1930:208): Putnam "wisely widened" the scope of the original mandate, "as the deed of trust permitted, so as to include collections from the entire world". The Peabody bequest specified a professorship in the University for the curator. Putnam did not actuallyfillthis position, however, until 1887. T h e property of the M u s e u m was transferred to Harvard in 1877; courses were first offered in 1881-1882. The Division of Archaeology and Ethnology, empowered to grant degrees, was established in 1890, though even this did not m e a n that a teaching program was instituted. The Catalogue for 1890 commented only that the Peabody Professor was available to receive students. "Tardy as the confirmation was, it preceded the actual need to instruction; for apart from the auditors to his public lectures, only a few graduate students came to Professor Putnam until 1890" (Dixon 1930:211). For thefirstfour

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years, Putnam offered only a three-year research course geared to the interests of applicants and based in the M u s e u m (Mason 1906:458). Courses in general anthropology began in 1894-1895. Putnam's academic program grew out of his o w n research, which had been centred in the Peabody M u s e u m for some years prior to the initiation of academic courses. H e had already sponsored work by semi-professional archaeologists such as Ernest Volk (1845-1919), Charles Abbott (18431919), and Clarence Moore. W h e n the Peabody budget could be stretched no further, Putnam even paid salaries out of his o w n pocket (Putnam to Volk, 5 March 1896: F W P ) . Volk, indeed, considered Putnam a sort of godfather for his enterprises (Winser to Putnam, 5 Oct. 1899: F W P ) . The epithet "godfather" recurs in Putnam's correspondence with Sarah Stevenson of the University M u s e u m in Philadelphia and with Zelia Nuttall (Putnam to Nuttall, 26 March 1903; Stevenson to Putnam 4 March n.d.: F W P ) . In sum, Putnam used the skills of self-trained anthropologists w h o knew h o w to do archaeological research in a m u s e u m context. Charles Willoughby (1857-1943), for example, was "a m a n without college training but with a natural artistic ability and an enthusiasm for order very m u c h needed in the m u s e u m at that time". Under his leadership, the labelling of collections set a national standard (Swanton n.d.: 10). With this framework in place, Putnam turned to university teaching as an additional institutional resource. The Peabody M u s e u m paid unusual attention to professionalism in research, due to Putnam's "thoroughness in exploration" (Dorsey 1896:81). In Dorsey's view, Putnam refused to emphasize only "the most perfect, strange or specially interesting objects", insisting that objects were not the primary goal of the archaeologist (1896:81-82): "These visible results, however, are but a portion of those obtained in relation to the past history of m a n in America". Explorations also depended onfieldnotes, drawings, photographs and site plans as sources for "a comparative study of one set of objects with another". Department and M u s e u m were never, however, completely merged. Instructors in anthropology were usually, but not necessarily, appointed curators in their specialfields(Dixon 1930:205). Putnam was convinced that both m u s e u m and university were necessary to archaeological research, though he personally preferred a m u s e u m base. University study was a valuable supplement (Putnam to President Benjamin Ide Wheeler of Berkeley, 7 April 1903: F W P ) : "The demand for instruction [...] is already great, as is fully acknowl-

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edged here at Harvard and at several other universities. This demand must be met by all universities. It cannot be met without the aid of great museums". H e cited Berkeley, Cambridge, N e w York and Chicago as examples of effective institutional collaboration. In each case, Putnam himself was instrumental in setting up this collaboration (Dexter 1956, 1966b). The Peabody M u s e u m was committed to close collaboration with professional academic training (Tozzer 1916: M S S W M ) : A n anthropological m u s e u m is a necessary adjunct to adequate instruction in anthropology with the exception of the fields of social anthropology, religion and languages [...]. The closer the coordination between the teaching and the m u s e u m the more successful will be the results. Harvard's academic program emphasized archaeology which Putnam thought required m u s e u m support for expeditions and care of collections for study. The first American P h . D . in archaeology was awarded to George Dorsey in 1894 for cranial analysis. Students interested primarily in ethnology or linguistics had to find dissertation supervisors elsewhere. John Swanton (1873-1958) recalled: "Shortly after I reported to Prof. Putnam, he said to m e that he gathered from what I told him that I did not care so m u c h for archaeology" (n.d.:18). Although Swanton did not recall expressing "a very strong antipathy," Putnam sent him to N e w York to study under Boas, w h o at the time was seeking students to hold fellowships in American Indian linguistics (Boas to Putnam, 7 April 1900: F W P ) . Accordingly, Swanton wrote a dissertation on Boas's Chinookan texts, while Roland Dixon (1875-1934) worked on Maidu. After Dixon joined the Harvard faculty, linguistics and ethnology courses were offered, although they remained peripheral to the program. Dixon (to Kroeber, 30 Nov. 1909: U C D A ) had no students in these topics for three or four years. His lack of promotion was probably also due to the archaeological emphasis of the department (Dixon to Putnam, 28 March 1906: F W P ) . Putnam never developed enthusiasm for linguistics. W h e n Alfred Tozzer (1877-1954) wrote a linguistic dissertation under Dixon, Putnam reminded him that language was merely a tool and that philology could be postponed more easily than urgent archaeological fieldwork (Putnam to Tozzer, 8 March 1903: F W P ) . The notion of recording endangered languages does not seem to have crossed his mind. O f eleven dissertations accepted at Harvard during Putnam's lifetime, only those of Swanton, Dixon, and Tozzer were in ethnology or linguistics.

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The department offered advanced research in somatology with Frank Russell (1868-1903), linguistics with Roland Dixon, hieroglyphics with Alfred Tozzer, South America with William Curtis Farabee (1865-1925) and, during World W a r I, Africa with Ernest Hooton (1887-1954). In the early years, allied subjects were primarily in natural science, consonant with Putnam's o w n training under Agassiz. Swanton, however, was told to take languages andfinearts also (n.d.:4). With staff additions, Putnam spent less time teaching. Swanton (n.d.:9) recalled him as an uninspired teacher. In a course team-taught by Putnam and Dorsey, "Putnam's work was confined to two weeks devoted mainly to the story of h o w he found afibermoccasin in the Great Cave of Kentucky and one or two other similar enterprises". Moreover, "his fieldwork was limited in character, his primary contribution to American archaeology being in advertising the subject and building up the Peabody M u s e u m " . Putnam's involvement in anthropological programs outside Boston detracted from his teaching. H e worked consecutively for the World Columbian Exposition in Chicago in 1892, the American M u s e u m in N e w York and the department of anthropology in Berkeley; already after 1873, he served as permanent secretary of the A A A S (Putnam 1895, 1899). Although Putnam boasted (to the president of Harvard, 14 Dec. 1892: F W P ) that most significant anthropological research in the country was under his direction, colleagues were more skeptical. Powell commented (to Taylor, 28 Feb. 1898: B A E ) : "I think that he has a slip-shod method of writing and should distrust his judgment [...] though he has a wide scientific acquaintance and pushes his way among scientific men". Dixon (to Kroeber, 6 Jan. 1908: U C D A ) noted: "Soon you will have the Professor with you, I suppose, and I shall, as usual, have to take all his men, and oversee their bone washing, and numbering of specimens, for that is all the 'instruction' they get from him. It is really scandalous". Putnam was forced to defend his commitment to the Peabody in spite of his frequent absences (Putnam to Bowditch, 4 March 1892: F W P ) . Objections were even raised to a Peabody research fund commemorating Putnam's 70th birthday: the M u s e u m , "as w e all know, has not Prof. Putnam's undivided interest" (Heye to Boas, 26 M a y 1906; see also Hearst to Boas, June 1908: APS). To Putnam's credit, however, the close relation of m u s e u m and university remained productive throughout the crucial period of professionalization

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of American anthropology. A s long as students needed m u s e u m support for their research and most students specialized in archaeology, the association was mutually beneficial. Putnam tried to encourage similar institutional collaborations in other museums with which he was involved, although Harvard remained his major success. Academic anthropology, however, gained considerable additional resources of fieldwork sponsorship and use of collections through institutional cooperation for which Harvard provided the model. Putnam's organizational efforts extended m u s e u m collaboration with universities to Chicago, N e w York and Berkeley. 7.2 The Bureau and The National Museum The Bureau of American Ethnology was established with a research mandate. During Powell's lifetime, it maintained a broad conception of the kind and amount of information about American Indians that the Federal government should acquire. The United States National M u s e u m in contrast, was founded in 1881 as a repository for collections acquired by the government in the course of expedition and research by its other institutions. Broadscale research within the M u s e u m itself was not initially envisioned. General policy was to combine collections with "systematic explorations" (Fewkes in Goode 1897:745), concentrating on a few well arranged public exhibits. M u s e u m administration was becoming more scientific in its arrangements and contexts for material objects, but this was not always synonymous with professional anthropology. Goode (1851-1896) believed the primary function of a m u s e u m was to serve the public, as a local cultural resource (1895:198-209). In practice, this meant that research was often slighted. The difficulties of pursuing research in an institution devoted to the collection of specimens are best clarified by the tribulations of Boas, w h o financed m u c h of his late 19th century fieldwork on the Northwest coast by collecting ethnographic specimens for various museums. The National M u seum had little sympathy for Boas's linguistic and ethnographic work. They were interested in bringing their collections under control and could not afford to support research not geared directly toward that goal (Goode to Boas, 5 Feb. 1895: A P S ) : "The collectors have generally selected curious specimens, rather than illustrating the life of the people. For this reason, hardly any of the groups can be called complete". Boas sought ethnographic context.

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The Bureau responded somewhat more positively to Boas's preoccupations. Powell concurred with Boas that "[n]obody can be called an ethnologist w h o collects only in order to collect" (Boas to Powell, 22 June 1887: B A E ) . W h e n Boas proposed a long-range study of comparative Salish, Powell agreed that American anthropology had progressed sufficiently to require "special lines of work" and "long and faithful study" of single tribes (Powell to Boas, 1 June 1887: B A E ) . The Bureau provided a small grant to support Boas's Salish dialect geography but M c G e e was unable to secure a permanent position for him. Powell, nonetheless, sided with Boas in his disputes with the National M u s e u m , also favouring "a small number of specimens, properly described" (Pilling to Palmer, 2 Dec. 1882: B A E ) . Both m e n believed that m u s e u m specimens had to be illustrated in ethnographic context to be meaningful and were more interested in social life than in material culture. Indeed, Boas's public debut in American science was a debate in Science with Otis T . M a s o n of the National M u s e u m over methods of m u s e u m arrangement. Stocking (1976) reads this confrontation as a microcosm for changes in American anthropology at the end of the 19th century, stressing that Boas's views on the arrangement and interpretation of material culture were consistent with his later emphasis on cultural wholes. M a s o n applied a direct biological analogy of acquired characteristics, assuming that similar objects could be arranged together in an evolutionary series, regardless of their provenience. After publication of the debate, Boas wrote to M a s o n (26 June 1887: A P S ) that their difference seemed to him to lie in the amount of emphasis placed on history. Although the two m e n seem to have remained personally cordial, the difference was crucial. History, in this context, meant to Boas that particular evidence was required in each case to reconstruct the meaning of an element from its form. H e considered comparison of similar tool types abstracted from their cultural context as fallacious, preferring to begin with direct history wherever possible. The objects in a natural history m u s e u m could be arranged typologically, but the appropriate unit for c o m parative ethnology remained the culture as a whole (Boas to Hodge, 2 March 1900: B A E ) : "the culture of each people forms a unit, all the features of which are interdependent". The major objection to Boas's geographic arrangement of m u s e u m specimens was that it could cover only selected areas of the world and that the aspects of life illustrated for a particular people were not comparable (Livingston Farrand to Holmes, 18 February 1905: B A E ) . Holmes, in a compromise attempt

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to avoid committing the National M u s e u m to a single kind of arrangement (1902:489-496), recommended "a simple natural grouping of the very diversified ethnic phenomena" in "geo-ethnic units" m u c h as Boas had suggested, but also wanted to retain some exhibits arranged by "culture history", that is, by evolutionary typology. S o m e of the m u s e u m ' s exhibits prepared by Boas actually represented the life of particular peoples (Hinsley & H o l m 1976). The importance of the debate, however, lies in illustrating Boas's insistence that m u s e u m research could be useful to ethnology. H e would raise virtually the same issues about scope of research and public presentation of results in his collaborative efforts with the American M u s e u m in N e w York after 1896. 7.3 Changing Times in the Bureau The balance in the Bureau between ethnological research and collection of specimens had been maintained largely through the personality and political acumen of Powell himself. His death in 1902 "profoundly affected the interests of the Bureau, and closed an epoch in the history of the science of m a n " (25th A R for 1903-04, 1907, p. ix). Even before Powell's death, there had been ominous intimations of discontent from Congress and from anthropologists unaffiliated with the Bureau. Outsiders challenged the virtual m o nopoly of the Bureau over its o w n accumulated but unpublished researches, while Congress considered the Bureau irrelevant. After Powell's death, the broad research plans of the Bureau were impossible to maintain. Holmes, the new director, was already head of the National M u s e u m . The functions of the Bureau were m u c h more narrowly conceived under his administration. Further retrenchment was imposed through the Smithsonian. Indeed, when Holmes became Chief in 1902, he was forced to bargain with Secretary Langley for the very existence of the

BAE. Langley insisted on immediate practical results. Holmes agreed to concentrate on completing the Handbook of American Indians (Holmes to Langley, N o v . 1902: B A E ) , which he saw as (to Holmes, 8 N o v . 1902: B A E ) "a succinct summary of the Bureau's work in the past, and a promise of its future usefulness from a utilitarian as well as from a scientific standpoint". Langley (to Holmes, 11 Dec. 1902: B A E ) dismissed the previous work of the Bureau as Powell's "personal creation". Moreover, "to aid the science of ethnology for its o w n sake and as a furtherance of its purely scientific aims, m a y have

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formed part of the plan, but it was not the primary object". Powell's vision of the Bureau as a pure research organization, serving the public by the quality of its science, was entirely absent from Langley's view. The Bureau was instructed to emphasize its unfinished projects rather than to pursue Powell's efforts to extend the scope of government science. Holmes (to Langley, 25 Nov. 1903: B A E ) also emphasized the accumulation of unpublished materials laboriously collected over m a n y years. "The unfinished researches were in continuation of systematic investigations already in hand and were essential to a reasonable rounding out of the work among the tribes" (30th A R for 1908-09, 1915:9-10). This change in research policy was noted throughout the anthropological profession. Boas (to Woodward, 13 Jan. 1905: A P S ) believed that reorganization would be impossible while the Bureau restricted itself to "definite limited problems". The "publication of Handbooks summing up existing knowledge has become the policy, rather than the accumulation and investigation of new information" (Boas to Welch, 27 April 1909: A P S ) . Tighter policies in the Bureau coincided with cutbacks of ethnological research at the American M u s e u m and the Field M u s e u m , resulting from a tightening of the general economic climate, making prospects for support of anthropological fieldwork in 1909 less than at the turn of the century. This, in turn, accelerated the movement of anthropology toward universities. Powell's death sparked a major controversy over the scientific independence and recent administration of the Bureau. Langley appointed a committee to investigate finances which virtually paralyzed research activity (Holmes to Boas, 11 July 1903: B A E ) . Holmes found the property list of the Bureau "a great puzzle" (to Rathburn, 10 A u g . 1903: B A E ) and devoted himself to mastering the records of manuscripts recording payment for partial completion, return of material, and further work. H e singled out Boas's manuscript lists as not meeting his expectations (Holmes to Adler, 17 A u g . 1903: B A E ) . T o Smithsonian Secretary Charles Walcott (1850-1927), Holmes claimed that he only wanted to complete the inventory and begin anew (5 Oct. 1903: B A E ) . The changes in Bureau administration were unexpected. Powell had proposed that M c G e e , Ethnologist-in-Charge since 1898, should succeed him as Director ( M c G e e to Langley, 27 Sept. 1902: B A E ) . Langley, however, considered M c G e e a second-rate scientist and an unreliable administrator. Consequently, he appointed Holmes of the National M u s e u m instead. Lan-

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gley found thefinancialmachinations whereby M c G e e had supported Boas's fieldwork and manuscript preparation particularly suspect. M c G e e (to Boas, 18 Sept. 1903: A P S ) was convinced that Langley wanted to "transform the Bureau from a special and purely scientific office to one of more general and practical character". The n e w policy was antithetical to Powell's very philosophy of science. After several attempts to return the Bureau to its prior course, M c G e e resigned in 1902 to organize the anthropology section of the Louisiana Purchase Exposition. Although his position at the Bureau had been awkward since Holmes's appointment, he stayed in hope that his presence would "restrict freedom of action in reducing the scientific work of the Bureau" (Anita M c G e e to Boas, 15 March 1903: A P S ; cf.also M c G e e 1915). M c G e e ' s major ally during the upheaval at the Bureau was Franz Boas, w h o counted on the Bureau to sponsor his American Indian linguistic research. H e had, furthermore, worked closely with M c G e e in the organization of field research and in the 1898 establishment of the Washington-based American Anthropologist as a national journal. Boas preferred M c G e e ' s continued commitment to Powell's broad research philosophy to continuation of the Bureau in subordination to the National M u s e u m . Boas implicitly acknowledged that M c G e e was a second-rate scientist yet supported him as the best person to carry through Powell's overall research design. M c G e e ' s commitment to Powell's evolutionism, although Boas had attacked it in other contexts, paled in his eyes before the spectre of losing his institutional base for linguistic and ethnological work. Boas published his protest over the arbitrary decision of the Smithsonian secretary in Science (1902a:838): The appointment of another m a n , no matter h o w good he m a y be, to the position, brings about discontinuity in the work of the Bureau, which I consider dangerous not alone to the best interests of anthropology, but to those of science in general [...]. It introduces again a feeling of general instability in the scientific service of the government [...]. Personal inclination of the appointing officer has once more outweighted the principles of continuity and stability which are indispensible for the welfare of scientific institutions. Boas repeatedly stressed that his defence of M c G e e was not personal, but a concern for the future development of anthropology in America and the role that the Bureau would play therein. It was essential to combat trends which had begun during Powell's lifetime (Boas to Henderson, 31 A u g . 1903: A P S ) :

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" M y anxiety in regard to the Bureau is not so m u c h due to an interest in the personnel quarrel [...] as in the fact that the Bureau, which has been allowed to remain stationary altogether too long, m a y be still further crippled". W h e n Langley cut the Chief's salary and placed a moratorium on publication of Indian texts, Boas concluded that the Smithsonian secretary was uninterested in the research which had m a d e the Bureau so prominent in American anthropology until then (Boas to von den Steinen, 4 November 1903: B A E ) . In Science Boas identified the Bureau as the only American research institution free of m u s e u m control, arguing that the interests of a m u s e u m in material culture and display of specimens m a d e symmetrical development of all aspects of anthropology virtually impossible. Powell's emphasis on the social and linguistic side of American Indian life had provided a judicious balance; both kinds of study were necessary at a professional and institutional level. Only the Bureau maintained such a broad program of ethnological and linguistic research. American anthropology had developed rapidly precisely because the Bureau had been "unhampered in its plans by m u s e u m interest". This m a d e possible "the linguistic m a p of North America, its valuable bibliographies, grammars, collections of texts and myths". Progress "in the study of the immaterial side of the culture of the American tribes" was the paramount achievement of Powell's Bureau. "The systematic preservation of languages, of myths, of religious beliefs, has been the prime work of the Bureau, and of the Bureau alone", contributing to the "harmonious development of all sides of anthropological research" (Boas 1903:475). Boas was passionate in defense of otherwise unavailable institutional support for linguistic and ethnological research. Boas's o w n work suffered most dramatically by the reorganization of the Bureau. His position as Honorary Philologist had enabled him to direct field research and publish the results. H e was not, however, the only protestor over Smithsonian internal politics. Swanton (to Boas, 16 A u g . 1903: A P S ) railed against "a virtual dictatorship" with an intolerable "atmosphere of suspicion, meanness and political pulling and hauling about". Boas's relations with the Bureau continued to deteriorate. His letter to Langley (3 Dec. 1903: B A E ) about the narrowness of the National M u s e u m ' s research policy was initialled by Cyrus Adler and sent to Rathburn of the Smithsonian with a note that "Ourfriendtakes himself very seriously". Boas felt that Charles Walcott, w h o succeeded Samuel Langley as Secretary of the Smithsonian after the latter's death in 1906, had accused him of

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dishonesty and demanded a formal apology. Walcott responded (17 Dec. 1910: A P S ) : The impression I wished to give I will frankly state was that while I regarded you as one of the ablest, if not the ablest American ethnologist, I did not regard your financial ability as of a character to warrant placing you in charge of work involving financial management of government appropriations. Boas was most incensed, however, by Walcott's invidious aspersions reported to him by George Dorsey. W h e n Walcott refused to respond to his letters, Boas printed the entire discussion and distributed it widely within the profession (Jan. 1910: A P S ) . This direct confrontation was received with embarrassment even by Boas's close associates. Dorsey, regretting his earlier efforts to restore peace, wanted the matter quietly closed and assured Boas that no direct changes had been made (Oct. 1909: A P S ) . Boas continued to maintain that the "Walcott clique" had been slandering him for years and demanded an absolute expression of confidence in his integrity (Boas to Spencer, 25 Oct. 1909: A P S ) . Kroeber regretted the vehemence of Boas's action in an "unpleasant and regrettable situation", concluding that tact was "not Boas's way, and unfortunately both he and anthropology will have to bear the consequences" (Kroeber to Putnam, 4 Feb. 1904: F W P ) . The changes in publication policy were probably not, however, greatly affected by Boas's actions. Even during Powell's lifetime, linguistic publications were hard to justify. Swanton (to Kroeber 9 April 1912: U C D A ) noted: "The Bureau is in a peculiar position in that it has to consider some things besides strictly technical articles". Langley objected to Boas's Haida texts (to Holmes, 22 Oct. 1903: B A E ) because they represented: the literature of one of say a score of Indian tribes which have equal claims for attention. Moreover, it seems not to present the linguistics in a form which could be useful both to the special student of Indian languages and to the general student of language and of anthropology. Holmes (to Valencia, 23 July 1903: B A E ) accepted this edict: The government is not liberal in publishing this class of material — it is looking for something rather more practical; and the number of languages is so great that it is hopeless to expect that even a considerable part of them can receive deserved attention. Swanton (to Boas, 21 March 1907: A P S ) , w h o was hired for his knowledge of Siouan languages, found remnant ethnology difficult to justify to the adminis-

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tration and was begrudged time to work up such material he had previously collected. Publication of linguistic materials continued to be the crux of the conflict. A s late as 1920, the Bureau linguists were requested to prepare statements of w h y American Indian languages should be studied ( B A E M S ) . J. P. Harrington, Truman Michelson (1879-1938), and John Swanton (1873-1958) stressed the practical need for linguistics as a means to other Bureau goals, particularly material culture, ethnic group classification, reconstruction of past culture history, and facilitating ethnographic fieldwork. Comparative philology was prudently not mentioned. Linguistic material continued to be considered too technical for publication. W h e n Harrington (to Fewkes, 18 Jan. 1919: B A E ) submitted details of his Uto-Aztecan/Aztec-Tanoan classification, he was told it was unfortunate that he did not send illustrations; the material was omitted from the Annual Report. (De facto, however, such a publication policy was already in effect during Powell's lifetime. After completion of the 1891 linguistic classification, the utility of linguistics became virtually impossible to justify.) T h e official policy was (41st A R for 1919-20, 1928:2): [Bureau publications] should be of such a nature that they m a y be studied with profit by all intelligent persons and not so crowded with technicalities as to repel all readers except a few specialists [...]. The policy of the Bureau is to publish a limited amount of technical papers, the popular demand also being given due weight. Periodically during thefirsttwo decades of the century, the Bureau attempted to redirect its program. W h e n Holmes resigned as Chief in 1909, for example, prominent American anthropologists from outside the Bureau were asked for comments. Frederick W e b b Hodge (1864-1956), the n e w Chief, had no formal affiliation with the National M u s e u m but shared his predecessor's sympathies for the archaeological side of the Bureau's m a n date. Never a strong administrator, he failed to force a return to the broader research policies of Powell. H o d g e consulted several outsider assessors about the research reorganization. Dixon suggested that change should be funneled through the Smithsonian (to Walcott, 16 April 1909: B A E ) . Dorsey wanted the directorship offered to Boas because he had the best conception in the country of what was required in anthropological research (to Walcott, 25 July 1909: B A E ) . Hostility toward Boas within the Bureau, however, m a d e this suggestion

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virtually irrelevant. Between the Smithsonian, the National M u s e u m and the Bureau itself, however, H o d g e had little freedom to manoeuvre. Kroeber had earlier stressed the need for wider cooperation rather than petty personal jealousies (to Putnam, 4 Feb. 1904: F W P ) . At this juncture, he emphasized the need to collaborate in revising the linguistic stocks of the Powell classification, with a view to conservative consensus. Previous work of the Bureau had m a d e it "an assemblage of individual ethnologists" rather than a total organization, utilizing its full potential for cooperative research (Kroeber to Walcott, 11 M a y 1909: A L K ) : The normal feeling toward the Bureau of American Ethnology by anthropologists not holding government positions is one of distrust and conviction that cooperation with it is impossible... [The Bureau] should be the undoubted premier ethnological institution of America [Kroeber includes linguistics in ethnology, in opposition to archaelogy]. It should occupy a position entirely different from that of any m u s e u m or university, and do a work far transcending any of theirs in breadth, importance, and general appeal. Kroeber favoured Bureau cooperation with the work being done by Boas and his students, particularly on linguistic description and classification. His hopes for academic collaboration with Bureau research, however, were to remain unfulfilled. Various of Boas's students did fieldwork for the Bureau, but m a n y others had no connection with it at all. The Bureau failed to take advantage of its opportunities to serve as a clearing-house for the anthropological work of other institutions, especially universities. B y 1909, anthropology programs were established in m u s e u m s and universities throughout the country. Such researches, however, were coordinated only in cases of individual agreements or contacts. Kroeber and Boas, at least, had hoped the Bureau might step into the impasse, using its long-established policy of collaboration to bring Americanist anthropologists closer together. T o the end of his life, Kroeber regretted the failure of the Bureau to seek "systematic coordination of knowledge, cooperative Sammelwerke of which it is both trigger and rallying point." The Bureau had once been "the great hope of American anthropology" (Kroeber to Carmichael, 4 Jan. 1956: SIA). Unfortunately, its failure to change had forced other institutions to step forward. The Bureau fell progressively further behind the progress of American anthropology elsewhere. M u s e u m s and university departments pursued their individual courses, while the Bureau continued tofightfor its very existence.

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Symptomatically, administrative reports between 1919 and 1924 were published together in 1928, just after Fewkes became the Bureau's fourth Director and began to reorganize its affairs on a limited but efficient scale. H e attempted to justify the Bureau on the basis of retrospective glories, but found his work reduced by additional budget cuts in a period of increasing costs. Limited appropriations were stretched to cover as m a n y tribes as possible, although "the science of ethnology is so comprehensive and its problems so numerous and intricate that to do this scientifically is extremely difficult" (41st A R for 1920-21, 1928:25). Fewkes argued that the field of aboriginal ethnology was by no means approaching exhaustion (41st A R for 1923-24, 1928:103): The impression exists in some quarters that the work of the Bureau of American Ethnology must be completed in a certain definite time [...]. Every new year of work in the Bureau enlarges the horizon of research and presents new problems regarding the American Indians for solution. Since the foundation of the Bureau by the late Major J . W . Powell the aims and tendencies of the science of ethnology have greatly enlarged, and the published studies of the staff have put the science of anthropology upon such a firm foundation that not only the past appropriations but also the prospective expenditures by Congress are more than justified. The earlier work covered a limited scope [...]. It n o w remains for the comparative ethnologist to connect the various problems of m a n and his culture. Fewkes was unsuccessful in persuading Congress of the importance of this work. Certainly, the Bureau's potential leadership role a m o n g the institutions devoted to anthropological research in America remained unfulfilled. The next two decades would produce a series of attempts to carry on such research through cooperation between m u s e u m s and universities.

Chapter 8

Uneasy Institutional Cooperation

The first two decades of the 20th century produced steadily increasing alternative sources of institutional support for anthropological research. Although the Bureau was limited by the size of its staff and by research policy restrictions following Powell's death, museums and universities offered expanding opportunities. M u s e u m s preceded strong academic programs, and m a n y anthropologists found them a congenial framework. Gradually, h o w ever, the seemingly inherent conflicts of m u s e u m science came to the forefront. Research proved incompatible with popular education, ethnology was not always recognized as crucial to the interpretation of specimens, and professional scientists disagreed with wealthy patrons on research priorities. Once the legitimacy of academic anthropology had been established, h o w ever, individual anthropologists had a certain degree of choice. Y o u n g university-trained anthropologists preferred the greater personal and professional freedom of the academy. Around the turn of the century, institutional cooperation had seemed to provide the best of both worlds. B y 1920, however, m a n y anthropologists, especially those associated with Boas, held a primarily academic commitment. Putnam had attempted to establish cooperative programs on the Harvard model between the Field Columbian M u s e u m and the University of Chicago, the American M u s e u m and Columbia University, and the M u s e u m and D e partment of Anthropology, at Berkeley. In each case, after a brief collaborative venture, the two institutions drew apart. 8.1 The Field Columbian Museum The Field Columbian M u s e u m , founded in 1894, grew out of the World Columbian Exposition in Chicago. The first public notice of the intention to form a permanent m u s e u m in Chicago was a communication from Frederick W a r d Putnam to the Chicago Tribune in M a y of 1890 (Skiff et al. 1894:10). Putnam envisioned "a great anthropological m u s e u m " in Chicago, the "op-

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portunity of the century in museum-making" (Holmes 1893:434). M u s e u m s and expositions were a major part of American (and European) culture at the end of the 19th century. T h e public appeal of such enterprises guaranteed ready funds. T h e permanent results were usually acquired by a m u s e u m and maintained under scientific supervision. This provided employment, research support and public good will for anthropology. Expositions brought science and culture to the public — albeit mixed with the fanfare of a carnival. They varied greatly in the seriousness of their scientific efforts: Putnam's research plan for the World Columbian Exposition was the most ambitious. Although Exposition and M u s e u m both contained considerable nonanthropological material, Putnam sponsored an extensive fieldwork program designed to contribute to the establishment of a permanent m u s e u m . H e intended to assemble "a vast number of anthropological objects representing the American peoples"; Putnam maintained the widest possible scope as a goal of his exhibits (Skiff et al. 1894: 35): The great function of an anthropologic m u s e u m or m u s e u m department, h o w ever subdivided, is to place illustrations of man's works, and to a certain extent of m a n himself, in such relations that all possible lines of progress m a y be discovered and utilized — that m a n m a y learn every secret of development, every law of progress, so thoroughly that the knowledge can be utilized intelligently in the making of future history. (Skiff et al. 1894:72) Most of the actual fieldwork, however, was done by volunteers or was indirectly sponsored by other institutions. Putnam's assistant in coordinating the work was Franz Boas, w h o was unemployed following his resignation from Clark in 1892. Ethnological m u s e u m collection was supervised by M o o n e y of the Bureau, whose outline stressed "one complete tribal collection" for the Kiowa of the southeastern Plains ( B A E M S ) . The scope of anthropology implied in the exhibits was broad. T h e government contribution included material activities of North American tribes as classified linguistically by Powell, recent quarry archaeology by Holmes, and a synoptical early history of mankind from the stone to iron ages by T h o m a s Wilson of the National M u s e u m (Mason 1893:606). Putnam insisted that civilized industries as included in the Exposition's Department of Industries be separated artificially from the anthropological exhibits. Indians were maintained on the Exposition grounds, though M o o n e y (to Holmes, 3 July 1904: B A E ) had difficulty managing the publicity caused by

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their presence. O n e incident which particularly prejudiced the scientific goals of the Exposition was the complaint of a minor political appointee, that the Indians were being exploited and that portraying their aboriginal condition was a conspiracy to keep them from acquiring civilization (Dexter 1966a:327). Another source of major conflict was the relative place of anthropology within the Exposition as a whole. Exposition president Hiram Higginbotham was unsympathetic to Putnam and his plans, and Putnam's loyalty to DirectorGeneral Davis m a d e matters worse. Putnam considered most of the Exposition no more than "a gigantic cattle show and horticultural exhibition" (quoted by Dexter 1966a:319) and counted on anthropology and a small number of the fine arts exhibits to maintain the quality of the whole. The Field Columbian M u s e u m , devoted primarily to natural history but including a department of anthropology, opened in 1894 with F. J. Skiff, assistant director of the Exposition and Chief of the Department of Mines, as its head (Collier 1969; Collier & Tschopik 1954; Dorsey 1900, 1906; McVicker 1990). Skiff was not primarily a scientist. His previous position had been manager of the Denver Tribune ( A R - F C M for 1921-22:10). T h e M u s e u m was intended primarily to benefit public culture in Chicago. Its major benefactor was philanthropist Marshall Field (1839-1906), whose m o tives were not scientific ( A R - F C M for 1905-1906:7): M r . Field visited the M u s e u m m u c h oftener than would have been supposed by those acquainted only with his business habits [...]. It cannot be said that M r . Field was proud of the M u s e u m , but he was grateful that this institution had growth up in Chicago. H e was conscious that his public spirit was doing good for society, and he was aware of the fact that his aid had contributed to give Chicago a standing as a culture seeking and teaching community. A history of the M u s e u m ' s founding — itsfirstpublication — (Skiff et al. 1894:7) stated its aim as "in the widest sense, an educational institution". Regular lectures were instituted immediately. Research expeditions, h o w ever, were kept to a small scale, being intended only tofillout the existing collections, amassed as a result of the World Columbian Exposition. T h e M u s e u m administration was apparently comfortable with this limited research policy ( A R - F C M for 1897-98:263): [There is] a spirit which seems to pervade the institution, always leading to a higher standard of strictly scientific treatment and an increasing regard for popular demand [...]. Without in the least abating an interest in original work

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Putnam quickly became convinced that the n e w M u s e u m did not appreciate his efforts (Putnam to Davis, 7 A u g . 1895: F W P ) and declined further intimate relations with it. Boas (to Putnam, 21 M a y 1894: F W P ) thought Putnam had been unpopular even before Skiff became director. Certainly, Putam was treated cooly. For example (Ayer to Putnam, 29 Dec. 1893: F W P ) : "Of course, after w e get organized, w e will be more than glad to take official action in recognition of all the great assistance you have been to us". In any case, Putnam declined to intervene in M u s e u m politics again, even if it meant that Boas would lose his position (Putnam to Boas, 7 March 1894: A P S ) . The diverse goals for scientific research held by Boas and Putnam disappeared in the ensuing political quarrels. The level of accusations involved is reflected in Skiff's formal denial that a meeting of Exposition department chiefs had ended, at Putnam's instigation, with their throwing food at one another (Peabody to Putnam, 14 Jan. 1896: F W P ) . Boas noted to Charles Pickering Bowditch (1842-1921) that, in spite of the great expense, the end of the Fair was scientifically unsatisfactory, with M u s e u m authorities even indifferent to the necessity for a scientific report (9 Dec. 1893: A P S ) . Putnam instructed Boas to use his results however he could to "save some credit for the work done by our department" since the M u s e u m itself was no longer a source of support for science (8 April 1895: A P S ) . There was even some question of Putnam's access to his o w n specimens for the preparation of a report (Putnam to Holmes, 25 June 1894: F W P ) . Both Putnam and Boas had assumed that Boas would remain as permanent head of the Anthropology section. Putnam's role was comparable to that he held at Berkeley in 1901; although by virtue of his established reputation, he was nominally in charge, his assistant, A . L . Kroeber, actually supervised the work. Putnam assumed Kroeber would eventually succeed him. In the Berkeley case, though, there was no local opposition to the heir apparent. In Chicago, however, Putnam felt that his dignity required silence, stressing (to Boas, 14 M a y 1894: A P S ) that Skiff wanted no one w h o had been associated with him. M u s e u m anthropology could be pursued more effectively elsewhere. Indeed, Putnam had already accepted a part-time appointment at the American M u s e u m (where he was able to offer Boas a position at the end of 1895).

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Boas, denied access to his o w n specimens, resigned from his position at the Field M u s e u m , leaving a m e m o r a n d u m of more than twenty things still remaining to be done. The list included an item reading "I beg to remind you of the urgency of immediate action for the killing of vermin" (Boas to Skiff, 8 M a y 1894: F C M ) . Materials in the M u s e u m awaited installation for years because of lack of cases. They were finally displayed only when storage space became equally scarce (Dorsey to Boas, 10 Feb. 1913: F C M ) . Boas, although he expected the entire staff to support his revolt on behalf of scientific standards, found himself isolated (Kroeber in Linton 1943:13). Boas's successor was William Henry Holmes of the Bureau. Although Skiff had told Boas he would not appoint an ethnologist, Boas was aware that the Director wanted to hire someone from Washington. Even when President William Rainey Harper (1856-1906) of the University of Chicago insisted that Holmes was practically appointed, Skiff refused to clarify Boas's position. Boas attributed the political manoeuvring to Skiffs friends in Washington, especially Charles Doolittle Walcott of the Geological Survey, later Secretary of the Smithsonian (Boas to Putnam, 27 March 1894: F W P ) . Putnam remained on the sidelines except to note (to Whitman, 14 March 1894: F W P ) that Skiff could not comprehend Boas's scientific skills and that Holmes was a reasonable choice only if Boas were not available. Indeed, Boas alone could properly arrange his o w n collections. Boas was supported nominally by M c G e e , w h o was opposed to the Walcott faction in Washington. Simultaneously, however, M c G e e attempted to defend the integrity of Holmes and the Bureau (McGee to Salisbury, 25 Nov. 1893: B A E ) : The matter of the M u s e u m and Professor Holmes has been talked over repeatedly since m y return, and I find him indisposed to take any action which would look like an effort to make a position there for himself...[I]t would be a very serious loss to the Bureau for him to go to Chicago, though I should be very sorry to see an important position in the M u s e u m filled by an individual of less ability and genius in anthropological work. M c G e e realized that Holmes was being considered for some position at the Field M u s e u m but insisted to Boas (19 Feb. 1894: B A E ) that "none of the Washington ethnologists have taken or will take any stand inimical to you". H e talked to Holmes confidentially and reported to Boas that Holmes hesitated primarily because of Boas and that he (Boas) would be offered a chance to stay in "an important capacity" under Holmes (McGee to Boas, 21 March

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1894: B A E ) . Boas (to Putnam, 27 March 1894: F W P ) considered it "a curious notion" that he might accept such a subordinate position, reporting that M c G e e thought he was entitled to "as full an explanation as possible of the conditions in Washington bearing on the case". Holmes's difficulties at the Field M u s e u m repeated those that had plagued Boas. H e even worried that Skiff could prevent him from returning to Washington (McGee to Holmes, 18 N o v . 1896: B A E ) . M c G e e assured him (24 Dec. 1896: B A E ) that this was not the case and urged Holmes to oppose Skiff more openly, although public scandal was, of course, to be avoided. Skiff should be forced to resign gracefully, leaving Holmes and George Dorsey with more research freedom. Dorsey succeeded Holmes as Curator of Anthropology at the Field M u s e u m in 1897 and continued the battle of science against administrative red tape and popular education, protesting the need for "scientifically trained m e n w h o have the m u s e u m instinct andfieldexperience" and noting that his last three employment offers had been turned d o w n and that his "tentative scheme for the logical expansion of the Department of Anthropology" was already in shambles (Dorsey to Skiff, 3 N o v . 1905: F M A ) . The deaths of Marshall Field and University of Chicago president William Rainey Harper reassured Dorsey, however, that science might again set research standards (Dorsey to Breasted, 26 Jan. 1906: F M A ) . Cooperation with the University of Chicago remained minimal, despite initial optimism. A former colleague from Clark, wrote that Harper favoured cooperation and "seemed to grasp the bearings of the Anthropological upon the Ethnological" (Henry Donaldson to Boas, 7 Sept. 1893: A P S ) . A year later, Boas had concluded that Harper was interested in the M u s e u m only if subordinated to the University (Boas to Putnam, 18 Feb. 1894: F W P ) . Putnam himself concluded that Harper wanted control and that neither institution had yet "reached that quiet, conservative, scientific method which is conductive to scientific work" (to Thompson, 19 M a y 1894: F W P ) . This judgment arose in the context of Putnam's decision to sever his connection with the Field M u s e u m . Starr's lack of enthusiasm for the M u s e u m further prejudiced cooperative efforts with his anthropology program at the University of Chicago.. Dorsey held Boasian views on m u s e u m arrangement, describing his o w n fieldwork ( A R - F C M for 1896-97:186): The expedition should "secure ethnological and physical anthropological material for the building of [exhibit] groups" to "adequately portray the stages of culture and the physical charac-

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teristics of these tribes". H e defended Boas's plan of work at the American M u s e u m , where problems of maintaining scientific research paralleled Dorsey's o w n (Dorsey 1907). His personal relationship to Boas guided Dorsey's policies. H e had c o m e to N e w York to work with Boas while writing up his linguistic materials on Pawnee and found him "all and even more than I had expected" (to William Jones, 25 Feb. 1907: F M A ) . The two m e n remained on cordial personal terms throughout Dorsey's disputes with the M u s e u m administration. Boas acknowledged that Dorsey had produced a far more liberal research policy than the American M u s e u m at the same time. Nonetheless, Dorsey firmly maintained independence of the Field M u s e u m from Boas's work at the Bureau or Columbia. While Boas (to Dorsey, 19 June 1902: F M A ) argued that he merely wanted to avoid duplication of effort, Dorsey declined to specify research completion dates to facilitate work planned under Boas's direction (Boas to Holmes, 13 Sept. 1902: F M A ) . Boas, for his part, thought little of Dorsey's scientific abilities, stressing to British anthropologist Charles G . Seligman (1873-1940) a "hastiness" which w a s "destructive from a scientific point of view" and regretting Dorsey's inability to choose effective collaborators (21 D e c . 1907: A P S ) . Boas's associate Berthold Laufer (1874-1934), hired by the M u s e u m in 1905, described Dorsey's "terrifying superficialness" (to Boas, 13 April 1908: A P S ) . Dixon noted (to Kroeber, 21 D e c . 1914: U C D A ) that Dorsey spent most of his time "writing b u m novels and carrying on profitable financial speculation at the cost of his work and reputation". Dorsey, in turn, confided to Kroeber in 1906 (Kroeber 1956: 156) that for all his efforts he remained outside the circle of Boas's confidants. This series of verdicts suggests a perceived exclusivity of the emerging "Boasian" anthropology. Although Dorsey sided with the Boasians politically, he never felt personally close to the core group around Boas. Yet, in addition to his work with Boas, he collaborated with Kroeber on an Arapaho traditions volume and maintained a cordial friendship with Boas's student William Jones (1871-1909), a Fox Indian (DeMallie & Parks M S ) . Under his direction, however, the Field M u s e u m moved toward a Boasian conception of m u s e u m anthropology. 8.2 The American Museum of Natural History M u s e u m s were part of the claim to culture of every major American city in the late 19th century. These institutions depended on the interest of publicminded citizens w h o were not themselves trained in science. T h e American

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M u s e u m of Natural History was perhaps more extreme than the Field M u seum in this emphasis. Its founder, Albert S. Bickmore (1839-1914), was "more exuberant than scientific" (Hellman 1968:9). Bickmore's dream was a natural history m u s e u m in his native N e w York to rival that of Professor Louis Agassiz in Cambridge, Mass. Patriotic N e w Yorkers w h o responded to his vision were scientists only in that some had their o w n "cabinets" in restricted areas of natural science; the "spectrum of natural history" was not appreciated (Gratacap 1898; Hellman 1968:17; Weil 1995). The American M u s e u m opened in 1869 and soon included anthropological materials. A Division of Archaeology and Ethnology was established in 1889, and Frederick Starr (1858-1933) did some work on the collections. Anthropology became central to the institution's conception of natural history, however, only after Putnam became curator of the section in 1894. Putnam intended to spend one week each month in N e w York, keeping in touch through weekly reports from his assistant, Franz Boas. H e renamed the Division from "Archaeology and Ethnology" — the label of his Department at the Peabody) to "Anthropology", in accordance with his envisioned more inclusive scope (Putnam to Morris K . Jesup, 8 Nov. 1894: F W P ) . Boas's joint appointment at the American M u s e u m and Columbia was key to Putnam's broad plan for anthropology in N e w York (Putnam to Boas, 19 June 1895: A P S ) : [...] if w e can keep you in N e w York w e shall have a very strong team there [...]. I a m getting considerable hold on the people in N e w York, and I think if w e can all pull together there w e can build up a great anthropological institution which will be worthy of our efforts. H e asked Boas (9 A u g . 1895: A P S ) to "have faith enough in m e to believe that I will probably succeed in what I have undertaken". The motives of Putnam and Boas coincided in this instance. Putnam wanted to build up professional anthropology in as m a n y geographical locations as possible. Boas was indisputably one of the promising young m e n . The two had worked together at the World Columbian Exposition and Putnam wanted to create a permanent position for his protégé. Whether or not Putnam already recognized in Boas organizational talents comparable to his o w n , he helped Boas to lay the groundwork for his later institutional connections. Boas's enthusiasm for the N e w York position was due largely to its multiple institutional possibilities. Until the difficulties with the M u s e u m administration which culminated in his resignation in 1905, Boas shared

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Putnam's belief that m u s e u m affiliation was crucial to the professionalization of anthropology. Indeed, Boas's summary of his long-range plans to Zelia Nuttal (1858-1933) stressed the necessity for integral connections between the M u s e u m and the University (16 M a y 1901: A P S ) : Since I took hold of the work in N e w York, I have tried to develop the same in such a w a y that it will ultimately result in the establishment of a well-organized school of anthropology, including all the different branches of the subject [...]. I a m trying to develop the collections of this M u s e u m in such a w a y that they will ultimately form the basis of university instruction in all lines of anthropological research. This aim of course must be combined with the general educational aims of the M u s e u m , but I find that both are very easily harmonized. I a m endeavoring to develop each department to such a point that within a very short time it will demand the care of a speciahst, and this will be the opportune m o m e n t for introducing instruction in each particular line in Columbia University. The optimism of Putnam and Boas initially seemed justified. W h e n a n e w president was chosen by the M u s e u m in 1899, Boas considered Putnam a likely candidate (to Putnam, 14 M a y 1899: A P S ) ; Putnam, although willing, was not offered the position. W h e n Morris K . Jesup became the new president (a position he would hold until his death in 1908), Boas promptly wrote him praising Putnam's scientific and administrative work (20 M a y 1899: A P S ) , noting that the growth of the Anthropology Division during the past four years was largely due to Putnam's liberal policy of independent research by his associates. Soon afterward, however, both Boas and Putnam found themselves at loggerheads with the M u s e u m administration. Putnam was even more persona non grata than Boas (Barrett to Kroeber, 16 March 1908: A P S ) . As a result, Putnam's 25 year comprehensive plan for the American M u s e u m was still-born (Putnam to Jesup, 11 April 1898: A P S ) . Boas, to w h o m implementation of this ambitious research program fell in practice, was already having second thoughts about his o w n career. H e demanded his right to run the Ethnological Section accountable to no one except Putnam (Boas to Putnam, 18 Dec. 1895: F W P ) . W h e n the administration balked, Boas argued (to Putnam, 18 Dec. 1895: A P S ) that any young m a n could work under direct supervision, but: "If an institutions wants m e , it does not want m e merely to carry out orders, but also to lay plans for work". Boas found his title of Assistant Curator too menial and reminded Putnam (9 Dec. 1895: A P S ) that his acceptance of the position had depended on being able to do his o w n research:

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The work of Boas's department, however, met with increasing administrative interference. Boas noted (to Putnam, 6 M a y 1895: A P S ) "a sudden friction in the machinery, the cause of which I fail to understand". Putnam resigned to become Chair of the Berkeley Department of Anthropology in 1901. Though believing that m u s e u m research was the ideal framework for anthropology, he quickly became discouraged in particular cases. For instance, he left both the Field M u s e u m and the American M u s e u m under strained circumstances and withdrew gradually from the work at Berkeley as a result of ill health and abortive plans. Putnam had more personal mobility across institutions than any other American anthropologist. Boas, a few years later, would be even more influential, but was able to leave m u c h of the actual organizational work to his former students. Boas continued to complain to President Jesup (31 March 1901: A P S ) that his "purely scientific aspirations" had been subordinated repeatedly to administrative work and that he and his staff required higher salaries to bring their positions more in line with those of other M u s e u m officials. Boas was unable to " c o m m a n d any M u s e u m funds for purely theoretical work", requiring him to seek external funding for his linguistic and anthropometric work (Boas to Bell, 18 June 1903: APS). While I concede of course the absolute right of the President to determine the general policy of the M u s e u m , I a m not inclined to accept the director's criticism of details, with which he is necessarily unfamiliar. Boas considered the administration of Herman C . B u m p u s "a military organization, in which the first purpose is subordination" (to Osburn, 8 M a y 1905: A P S ) and complied less than gracefully. F. J. Skiff, of the Field M u s e u m , reminded Boas that Jesup could not very well circumvent B u m p u s after having appointed him as Director (9 Feb. 1906: APS). Boas's objections to the new M u s e u m Director acquire greater weight in light of other staff resignations during his tenure. B u m p u s retired in 1910 to become business manager of Tufts College (Hellman 1968:109) and was succeeded by Henry Fairfield Osburn. Although Jesup, as well as B u m p u s , had been involved in the disputes, Boas's strategy was to appeal to Jesup as a supporter of science and let him blame B u m p u s for policies which were in

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fact both consistent and apparently pursued with Jesup's knowledge and consent. Kroeber (in Linton 1943:17) thought there had been a "conscious plan to oust Boas" because of his idea of science as well as because of personality conflicts. Jesup, like B u m p u s , was not a scientist and emphasized the public mandate of the M u s e u m (Bumpus, quoted by Hellman 1968:61): It was a fortunate thing that...the newly elected president, although in sympathy with science, had received no scientific training. H e began his duties untrammeled by tradition. H e was the advocate of no established school or method; his desire was merely that the M u s e u m should be financially sound [...] and that the institution should actively minister to the people of the city. Boas found the orientation toward popular education intolerable. Jesup failed to understand w h y specimen labels could not be comprehensible to him and still meet scientific needs. H e complained (to Boas, 26 April 1905: A P S ) that no efforts were m a d e to please him. Indeed, Jesup had promoted Louis Gratacap (1851-1917) to full curator of mineralogy a week after he wrote (Gratacap to Jesup, quoted in Hellman 1968:43): A chance remark of yours in reference to the indifference of the public to the shells affords m e the opportunity to say that this is largely due to the fact that they have only Latin names which no one comprehends. I have often thought if the [...] c o m m o n name was given them, together with the Latin name, people would inspect them more attentively. Jesup's objections to obscure labels were largely justified for a public m u seum of the time. Indeed, use of both technical and popular nomenclature was advocated by Kroeber (1905a) as well as by m u s e u m m e n themselves. T o some extent, insistence on technical terminology by both anthropologists and m u s e u m m e n was a symbol of their professionalism and served to separate them from amateurs. Jesup, w h o had no particular commitment to the professionalization of science, failed to understand this point of view. Jesup's conceptions of m u s e u m arrangement, in Boas's view, were actively inimical to the aims of the m u s e u m . H e attempted to explain (to Jesup, 29 April 1905: A P S ) that a single definite scheme, exactly the same for each exhibit, failed to capture the diverse historical conditions of each people. A large m u s e u m could afford to use detailed exhibits, but this m a d e synthesis impossible. Bumpus' s exhibit of Peruvian stone, w o o d and clay objects, for example, created a false picture of that culture. Jesup responded that he did not understand what Boas intended to do; anything that would interest children would naturally also interest adults (Jesup to Boas, 2 M a y 1905: A P S ) .

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Boas reiterated the need for "systematic collection to extend the scope of the Department with a view to bringing out in a comprehensive w a y the principles of anthropology" (Boas to Jesup, 17 M a y 1905: A P S ) and complained that B u m p u s failed to understand the need for scientific expeditions and the insufficiency of the materials already gathered to support scientific m u s e u m research. Most of the personal reference was omitted w h e n Boas m o v e d the dispute on the proper function of the anthropological m u s e u m to the pages of Science in 1907. His discussion took for granted that systematic exhibits would not appeal to the majority of visitors and stressed the dangers of popularization. A large m u s e u m could not be thoroughly systematic (e.g., according to an evolutionary arrangement) and should aim above all else to provide adequate facilities for scholars (Boas 1907:921): [Popular education] tends to stimulate the idea that the necessity for training for thorough work is an antiquated prejudice, and that good c o m m o n sense with a little smattering of knowledge fits a m a n for any place in life, in business as well as in science and in public affairs. W h a t I understand by popularization of science is an endeavor to counteract these very influences, and to bring about the sublimity of truth and the earnest efforts that are needed to acquire it. School m u s e u m s , intended for such purposes, should be separate institutions. Boas cited Goode's m a x i m from his work at the Smithsonian Institution that "a m u s e u m is a well-arranged collection of labels illustrated by specimens" (1907:923). Boas expressed his personal manifesto on m u s e u m function and arrangement: ...any attempt to present ethnologic data by a systematic classification of specimens will not only be artificial, but will be entirely misleading. The psychological as well as the historical relations of cultures which are the only objects of anthropological inquiry, can not be expressed by any arrangement based on so small a portion of the manifestation of ethnic life as is presented by specimens. (Boas 1907:928) Specimens alone were merely "incidental expressions of complex mental processes that are themselves the subject of anthropological inquiry". T h e large m u s e u m , in Boas's view, was merely "a means of bringing together and of preserving intact large series of material which for all time to c o m e must form the basis of scientific inductions" (p. 929). Boas regretted that most American m u s e u m s had been forced to exclude important parts of anthropology from "thefieldof m u s e u m activity" because

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of the need to amass collections (1907:930). The argument recapitulates the one he m a d e to the National M u s e u m in 1887. Rapid policy changes in particular m u s e u m s called for major changes in m u s e u m philosophy. Only Putnam among American m u s e u m administrators understood "the limitations of the activity of the m u s e u m if restricted entirely by the desire for the acquisition of specimens" and set problems with "scientific importance" as the sole criterion of research priorities (1907:931). Boas ended on a characteristic argument that both m u s e u m and university anthropology must meet scientific research ideals. The issues were crucial to the American science of the time, and Boas was not alone in raising them. Dorsey, whose political critics at the Field M u s e u m Boas had cited as an improvement over its o w n previous history and over those in place at the American M u s e u m , stressed the importance of Boas's geographical arrangements at the American M u s e u m (1907:584-585). H e agreed that research was the proper function of a great m u s e u m and that the condition of collections at the American M u s e u m was scandalous (Dorsey to Jones, 25 Feb. 1907: F M A ) : "The m u s e u m situation here remains unchanged", that is, "they are destroying the whole Department of Anthropology just as fast as they can [...]. I quite agree with Boas that the present condition is nothing less than criminal". Such ideas were far from universal. In Science in 1897, for example, F . A . Bather of the British M u s e u m of Natural History argued that a m u s e u m should shun ideas and that a scientific m a n as curator would be led astray. Moreover, museums should avoid "rowdy students", presumably including scientists (1897:679). M u c h of Boas's research had actually been personally sponsored by Morris Jesup. The Jesup North Pacific Expedition, beginning in 1897, one of the first systematic research expeditions in the history of anthropology, included fieldwork on both sides of Bering Strait. The results were primarily linguistic and ethnographic, though Jesup rued the fact that specimens returned to the M u s e u m were definitely secondary in the eyes of Expedition personnel. Jesup complained of expense and was not consoled by Boas's assurances of praise in scientific circles. Boas hoped to keep Jesup interested by stressing possible elucidation of the Asiatic origin of the Bering Straits peoples (Boas to M c G e e , 12 April 1897: B A E ) , although his personal aims lay in ethnographic description and extension of fieldwork beyond the American continent. Perhaps because Boas had already attained his o w n goals from

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the Expedition, the synthesizing volume was never completed, although most of the descriptive material was published. B y 1905, fieldwork had been suspended while the "principles" behind the Expedition were reexamined (Bumpus to Boas, 6 M a y 1905: A P S ) . Jesup agreed to continue publishing the results, even though Boas had resigned from the M u s e u m . Boas, nonetheless, retained control of the publications, as well as of Columbia University's East Asiatic Committee. H e stressed to Jesup (3 Jan. 1904: A P S ) that B u m p u s had virtually forced him to stop trying to present the results in a scientific manner. W h e n Osburn became president of the M u s e u m in 1909, Boas was advised not to expand the publication schedule, although he was free to seek alternative outlets to publish materials collected for the American M u s e u m (Osburn to Boas, 11 March 1909: A P S ) . The difficulty of Boas's position was recognized throughout North American anthropology. Harlan Ingersoll Smith (1872-1940), a Jesup Expedition collaborator, called it "debased slavery" and sought another position because Boas, the only scientist at the American M u s e u m , was not free to direct research (Smith to Putnam, 20 Jan. 1909: F W P ) . Karl V o n den Steinen (1859-1929) urged Boas (6 June 1905: A P S ) not to "drift away" from "practical activity" because of his resignation. T o these m e n , scientific activity was more valuable than m u s e u m work per se. Henry Donaldson initially assumed (to Boas, 9 July 1905: A P S ) that Boas would leave N e w York without the combined institutional resources offered by the M u s e u m and Columbia. Boas, however, was already seeking n e w means of supporting his research plans, particularly with Columbia University. H e had given up on the American M u s e u m as a research institution because of its commitment to "educational work" (Boas to Holmes, 15 June 1905: B A E ) : I think it is very doubtful whether w e can hope to have any more real scientific work done by this institution. The Director seems to be interested only in gathering material of the most elementary kind [...] I did not care to waste m y time in fighting for things which seemed to be beyond his grasp and preferred to resign. Indeed, Boas's 1907 article in Science on the function of the m u s e u m had been afinalplea for revitalization of the existing institutional framework at the American M u s e u m . Boas explained to Kroeber (6 Jan. 1908: A P S ) his final effort to reconcile his o w n research goals with the aims of the M u s e u m because it would be hard to find other sources of support for his work:

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Y o u yourself must know that anthropology in N e w York is in a pitiable condition, and that for the time being all our former hopes and aspirations have gone to pieces [...] [N]either the M u s e u m nor the University will develop within a reasonable time. The University, of course, does not contemplate any research work, and has no means for that kind of work. At the present time there are still a number of students w h o will come here to get their training, because there has been a certain demand for our students of late years; but unless more opportunity for fieldwork is given in N e w York, I think this will also cease after some time [...] [W]e have always to reckon on a complete change of interests, such as that w e have experienced here, unless the work is on a permanent financial foundation which cannot be diverted in other channels. This attitude contrasted sharply with Boas's optimism only a few years earlier w h e n he had sought multiple institutional collaboration. His later work was centred, by default, in the university alone. Subsequent developments at the American M u s e u m bore out Boas's fears that research could not be pursued seriously there. O n the very day of his resignation, he was replaced by his former student Clark Wissler (18701947), w h o wrote to him (10 June 1905: A P S ) that he did not want to seem a party to the action but had been forced to assume the Department headship or quit entirely. H e had severe doubts about what could be done at the M u s e u m but was resolved to try. Boas (22 June 1905: A P S ) predicted that Wissler would regret his choice and that the anti-scientific direction of M u s e u m policy would prove irreversible. Kroeber, presumably sharing this view, had already turned d o w n the position because of B u m p u s , sharing Boas's disinclination to battle constantly for the preservation of scientific standards. Boas even attempted to force Wissler into a choice between university and m u s e u m but Livingston Farrand (1867-1939) of the Columbia anthropology department intervened (to Boas, 10 A u g . 1905: A P S ) . Wissler continued to teach undergraduate courses in spite of his tense relations with Boas. Despite unwelcome constraints, Wissler continued to maintain a 'Boasian' point of view at the American M u s e u m . For example, his informal history of the institution (Hellman 1968:163-64): [...] rambled along for four hundred typewritten pages, inclined toward the antiAkeley, anti-mounted-zoo, philosophy. It observed, a trifle sourly, that bigg a m e animals, favored in exhibits, ' m a y be threatened by improved zoo techniques;' that curators in the 1920's were expected to be 'Outdoor' m e n ; that preparation m e n outranked the heads of scientific departments; that publication and research had often been curtailed in the past; [...] and that data and collections had piled up unstudied, while the M u s e u m went on to more and more 'Publicity Explorations.'

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Reconciliation of the two institutions came only gradually. Attempting to hire Edward Sapir (1884-1939) in 1909, Boas was surprised at h o w smoothly negotiations over a joint appointment proceeded (Boas to Putnam, 13 A u g . 1909: A P S ) . But Sapir declined and the opportunity was lost. B y 1913, Boas was forced to retreat to a temporary measure and arranged a joint course taught by Robert Lowie (1883-1957) and Pliny Goddard (1869-1928) of the American M u s e u m staff instead of holding out for a n e w appointment (Osburn to Warburgh, 3 Dec. 1913: A P S ) . Columbia was never again, however, as close to the American M u s e u m as during the early burst of Boas's optimism. Thus, he turned increasingly to the University to support his programs, train the students w h o would implement them, and provide ties to academic departments in other cities, mostly staffed by his o w n former students. The academic department at Columbia grew during the years of its association with the American M u s e u m . B y 1905, when Boas resigned, it could stand alone. Indeed, rejection of this institutional resource was necessary in Boas's view to ensure the autonomy of anthropology as a profession. Continued m u s e u m collaboration would have had the effect of subordinating research to the whims of wealthy patrons and administrators. 8.3 The University of California, Berkeley The foundation of an anthropological m u s e u m at Berkeley in 1901 resulted from the intersection of three sets of plans — those of Putnam, University of California president Benjamin Ide Wheeler (1854-1927), and philanthropist widow Mrs. Phoebe Apperson Hearst (1842-1919). Until 1901, Mrs. Hearst had been involved with the plans of Provost William Pepper (1843-1898) of the University of Pennsylvania and local philanthropist Mrs. Sara Stevenson for the ethnological m u s e u m founded in Philadelphia in 1889. After Pepper's death in 1898, however, she transferred her attention to Putnam's n e w m u s e u m at Berkeley. Mrs. Hearst had begun to acquire archaeological collections for the University in 1899 with her expeditions to Egypt. Wheeler was unable to house the specimens and persuaded Mrs. Hearst to accept Putnam's advice and turn the incipient collections into a permanent research m u s e u m affiliated with the University. Mrs. Hearst realized that "in order to m a k e the collections of greater value, systematic and scientific researches and explorations were essential" (Kroeber 1905a:3-4). M o r e accurately, Putnam had persuaded Mrs. Hearst to direct her philan-

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thropy in support of science. Her interest in archaeology, although seminal for the development of the Berkeley department, was superficial and, indeed, scarcely mentioned in her privately printed biography (Bonfils 1928). Putnam also managed to placate University officials by stressing the potential educational role of the m u s e u m in a state university (Kroeber 1905a:3-4). The department began with an Advisory Committee headed by Putnam and including Wheeler, Mrs. Hearst, Zelia Nuttall (1858-1933), and Alice Cunningham Fletcher (Mark 1988). The latter two were successful female anthropologists w h o had pursued independent research under Putnam's direction at Harvard. Mrs. Hearst, something of a feminist, was impressed by their success and welcomed them as research associates at the n e w m u s e u m . The role of such female philanthropists before there were more formal institutions to finance anthropological research has not been adequately noted in the history of American anthropology. Lurie (1966), for example, deals only with w o m e n w h o actually did fieldwork (Gacs et al. 1989). Putnam suggested the appointment of Kroeber as instructor and Goddard as assistant in the department and the addition of geologist C . Hart Merriam (1885-1942) and Boas to the Advisory Committee. Boas was offered, and refused, a position in the n e w m u s e u m , advising caution in the absence of "young m e n " with sufficient experience to direct such an enterprise (Boas to Nuttall, 16 M a y 1910: A P S ) . The n e w Department, however, declined to postpone California research while Boas trained a staff to carry out his broad program of research. His fifteen year prospectus for the department (to Boas, 16 Jan. 1902: U C D A ) was greeted with a statement of intention to pursue a narrower course. Thereafter, Boas was peripheral to developments at Berkeley. Effective direction of the n e w program was entrusted to Alfred Louis Kroeber (1876-1960), Boas'sfirstP h . D . from Columbia. Putnam served as nominal chief, since President Wheeler and Mrs. Hearst considered Kroeber too inexperienced for such a responsible position (Fletcher to Putnam, 21 A u g . 1902: F W P ) . Putnam (to Hearst, 17 Sept. 1903: F W P ) , however, willingly entrusted executive decisions to Kroeber. Kroeber himself felt qualified by virtue of his training with Boas (Kroeber to Dorsey, 28 June 1901: A L K ) : "I a m aware that it is not m a n y years since I entered thefieldof anthropology. But I have had more direct training in the subject than probably anyone in the country with the exception of a few m e n from Harvard". Kroeber resented Boas's contention that he needed more experience before he could direct such

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a program (Boas to Nuttall, 16 M a y 1902: A P S ) . Indeed, m u c h of his effort before World W a r I went into establishing independence from Boas. The new department stressed "special researches in thefieldand laboratory" (circular, 10 Sept. 1901: U C D A ) . Other goals included preserving research materials in a permanent m u s e u m and diffusing knowledge through public lectures and publications. Only after all these did the founders envision "the final establishment of courses of instruction and researches in the University". In fact, the early work of the department leaned toward the Old World archaeological interests of Mrs. Hearst. "Except for the program of ethnological fieldwork in California on which Kroeber himself was working, all the Department's field projects were archaeological" (Rowe 1962:398). Mrs. Nuttall worked in Mexico, M a x Uhle (1856-1942) in Peru, George Reisner (1867-1942) in Egypt, and Alfred Emerson in Greece. Most of these archaeologists were only nominally affiliated with the department, refusing to prepare research reports and considering themselves accountable solely to Mrs. Hearst (Kroeber to Putnam, 31 March 1903: F W P ) . Instruction was initially offered at the initiative of Kroeber. T h e 19011902 Catalogue noted that courses would be taught when m u s e u m and library "shall have attained the necessary development". A year later, the Catalogue observed: "For the present, the department is mainly one of research". Public lectures were substituted for courses, and Putnam felt that Kroeber could supervise students but should not "take part in the general academic instruction" (Putnam to Kroeber, 1 Dec. 1902: F W P ) . This, of course, was the system Putnam had employed at Harvard before the formal establishment of a teaching program. In fact, Putnam always preferred research to academic work per se and was disconcerted w h e n Kroeber began teaching on his o w n initiative (to Kroeber, 9 Dec. 1901: F W P ) : I think it was distinctly understood that, for the present, there was to be no regular instruction at the University, in order that the time of all connected with the department might be given to the accumulation of linguistic and archaeological and ethnological material, so that when the time comes for installation there should be the necessary material to aid in such instruction. Kroeber replied (26 Dec. 1901: F W P ) that President Wheeler had suggested the course and it did not interfere with his fieldwork. Although Putnam's public statement indicated that teaching was not planned immediately, Kroeber had interpreted the policy as flexible. Kroeber requested Putnam's "personal, non-official opinion"; Putnam responded drily (11 M a y

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1902: A L K ) that the original instructions were irrelevant since the course had already been taught. Interestingly, Boas (18 Oct. 1910: A L K ) , also advised expanding the course program gradually alongside Kroeber's o w n research. A systematic program would be a full-time job and would still depend on cooperation from others. Boas apparently expected professional training to grow out of research as research attracted students. In spite to his difficulties with m u s e u m sponsored research in N e w York, Boas remained quite optimistic in principle about the mutual advantages of m u s e u m and university collaboration. The nature of the academic program remained in question for some time. Teaching loads concentrated in one semester to permit fieldwork during the rest of the year. Public lectures continued alongside formal courses. A n early lecture series was well attended, although presented in German by archaeologist M a x Uhle ( R o w e 1962:397-398). Kroeber saw the issue as a choice between "training of future investigators in California anthropology" and "general anthropology" (to Putnam, 1 Nov. 1902: A L K ) . Professional training would not interfere with research, although popular diffusion of knowledge would have to be more systematic and thus would require more time for preparation. Kroeber favoured professional training, with courses intended "to furnish systematic instruction to prospective anthropologists. A s far as feasible they are based on m u s e u m and fieldwork" (Catalogue for 19041904). In spite of Kroeber's preference for specialized courses, the program at Berkeley w a s forced to concentrate on more general anthropological teaching. In a state university, specialized training discouraged the students w h o had to be attracted if the department was to survive (Kroeber to Goddard, 8 March 1907: U C D A ) . Kroeber himself recognized an obligation to teach "school teachers in the Indian service, missionaries and others w h o might put the knowledge gained to a practical purpose" (Kroeber to Rieber, 5 Aug. 1912: U C D A ) . California rapidly developed the largest undergraduate anthropology program in the country. The quality of students was problematic. Sapir, spending the year of 1907-1908 at Berkeley while completing his Columbia dissertation, jokingly described them to Lowie, as he m o v e d to Berkeley for hisfirstteaching position (26 June 1917: U C B ) : As for university teaching, you will have the extraordinary inspiration of lecturing to a batch of youths and maidens of a degree of sophistication that

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Chapter 8 most readily classes them with Jersey cows, lambs and other peaceful varieties of domestic animals. B e sure to take a carload of lantern slides [...]. Only have no illusions about the material out there. They are not Harvard or Columbia grade.

Graduate studies lagged, mostly from lack of qualified applicants. Promising students had to be sent to Columbia for the final training not available at Berkeley, and only two Ph.D.'s were granted before 1925 — Samuel Barrett (1879-1965) in 1908 and John Alden Mason (1885-1967) in 1911. Barrett studied at Columbia and Thomas Talbot Waterman (1885-1936) actually received his degree there. Both Pliny Earle Goddard (1869-1928) and Nels C . Nelson (1875-1964) left Berkeley for positions at the American M u s e u m . N e w York City remained the h o m e base, both intellectually and institutionally. Between limited finances and geographical isolation, the California department had difficulty maintaining adequate staff. Putnam had stressed (to Kroeber, 26 M a y 1906: A L K ) the need for training a m u s e u m anthropologist, but salaries were low and the m u s e u m work mostly mechanical. Young m e n , particularly if they had formal training, were not interested in m u s e u m work (Kroeber to Boas, 30 Jan. 1912: A P S ) Goddard, a former missionary to the Hupa of northwestern California w h o had obtained a P h . D . in Indo-European philology under Berkeley president Benjamin Ide Wheeler in 1904, left for the American M u s e u m in 1909. Kroeber (to Putnam, 2 March 1910: F W P ) had hoped to replace him with two m e n w h o would alternate between m u seum and university. But both Nelson and Waterman were more interested in teaching than in the m u s e u m . Sapir's one-year appointment in 1907-08 was not renewed because of the greater need for m u s e u m staff and general uncertainty about the future of Kroeber's academic program. Kroeber believed that Sapir continued for years to resent the absence of a permanent position (Kroeber to Sapir, 6 Dec. 1918: A L K ) . The m u s e u m problems, however, were largely resolved when Edward Winslow Gifford (1887-1959) came to Berkeley as assistant curator in 1912. Although he offered courses after 1920, Gifford's primary interest was in California archaeology and ethnology and in the M u s e u m . Because of difficulties in organization and financing, Kroeber did not immediately consider California to be his life's work (Kroeber 1923b, Thoreson 1975). A s early as 1902, Mrs. Hearst had balked atfillingvacancies in the research program (D'Aquinto to Wheeler, 26 Sept. 1902: U C D A ) . She

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was uncertain about the department's future as the initial fieldwork neared completion (Kroeber to Putnam, 4 March 1904: U C D A ) ; since continuing the department would "amount to taking up a new thing," extension of existing projects was more likely. W h e n Putnam was told that the California fieldwork would be discontinued (Kroeber to Goddard, 7 June 1904: A L K ) , Kroeber felt that he ought to resign (Kroeber to Putnam, 15 M a y 1904: A L K ) . Mrs. Hearst eventually agreed to support the department for two more years at a reduced rate (Putnam to Kroeber, 31 M a y 1904: U C D A ) . Kroeber (to Putnam, 20 M a y 1904: F W P ) concentrated on publishing previousfieldworkto secure his o w n position in anthropology and facilitate job hunting. Kroeber attempted unsuccessfully to get Putnam to come to California full-time and to encourage both Wheeler and Mrs. Hearst to take more interest in the affairs of the department (Kroeber to Putnam, 16 March 1905: F W P ) . B y 1907, Kroeber was trying to wind up his personal research in California so that new work could be carried out "in part or chiefly by other men" (Kroeber to Putnam, 18 July 1907: F W P ) . T o Boas (21 Sept. 1907: A P S ) , he wrote that he was not yet afixtureand that the position was still impermanent. Kroeber considered positions at Pennsylvania, Harvard and the Field M u s e u m . In 1908, Putnam was ill and Kroeber's increasingly desperate letters went mostly unanswered (Kroeber to Miss Putnam, 19 February 1908: F W P ) . Mrs. Hearst (to Putnam, 27 June 1908: F W P ) realized she could not support the m u s e u m as originally envisioned and was discouraged about the value of any realistic support she could offer. Allfieldfunds were cancelled. Kroeber noted (to Sapir, 3 A u g . 1908: U C D A ) that "Our recent period of expansion has come to an end and w e realize that w e are definitely d o w n to bedrock". A previous "superabundance" offieldworkneeded to be analyzed and written up anyway (Kroeber to Swanton, 22 Dec. 1908: U C D A ) . The University of California Publications continued to appear under university auspices and small-scale research proceeded. Although not trained in m u s e u m work, Kroeber initially found the m u seum a convenient framework for ethnological research in California. Increasingly, however, the Berkeley m u s e u m made research difficult (Kroeber to Gifford, 28 M a y 1918: U C D A ) : It doesn't matter a bit to science or to the future of the world, and least of all to the University, whether our little museum work runs half shift or double shift. In fact I haven't found anyone outside our immediate selves w h o cares one red cent. Not even Mrs. Hearst, [...]. I ' m a scientist, not a businessman. I'll do

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Kroeber continued, however, to defend the value of m u s e u m anthropology (to Barrett, 6 Oct. 1909: U C D A ) : W e must expect to do missionary work wherever you go [...]. It is just as well for you to k n o w something about medieval armor and Egyptian m u m m i e s instead of being only a specialist in ethnological specimens from uncivilized peoples. W e have always spoken of our m u s e u m here,and continue to do so advisedly, but of course in the real sense of the word w e have none [...]. It looks like a pretty narrow-minded institution that after it has been collections worth half a million refuses to provide three or four thousand dollars more for completing the collection in its o w n h o m efieldwhile there is still time. D o you not suppose that I have rebelled m a n y times at the prospect of seeing things here take final shape with big and comparatively useless collections from Egypt and Peru w h e n w e have no representation and can get none, from the Wintun and A c h o m a w i right under our o w n noses. Kroeber believed that a m u s e u m should serve the public by specialized administration and technical research. Because the m u s e u m building was not opened to the public until 1911, he had ample time to carry out research before turning to care and exhibition of specimens for public viewing. Kroeber also used the m u s e u m to improve the public image of his department. The staff of both institutions presented public lectures in the M u s e u m (Kroeber to Wheeler, 2 April 1912: U C D A ) . Kroeber explained to Barrett (8 Oct. 1909: A L K ) that the institutional base in a m u s e u m facilitated the kind of research he wanted to do: The m u s e u m idea pure and simple has always been the leading motive here, and research and everything else was merely an accidental by-product. Exactly the same has been the case in N e w York and at Harvard and at Chicago, even in Philadelphia, and in fact wherever anything worthwhile has been done in anthropology in this country. Cooperation of m u s e u m and university was more productive at Berkeley than anywhere else except Harvard. Indeed, the Peabody M u s e u m set an example for the Berkeley work which was reinforced by the Putnam's leadership during the initial years. But the Berkeley m u s e u m never grew to the size and importance of the Peabody. It had the advantage, however, of being devoted solely to anthropology and being run by the same people w h o taught

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in the University. Ethnology and linguistics, thus, could hold their o w n against archaeological emphasis on material culture suitable for public exhibit. The m u s e u m carried some bargaining power with the University administration. Reflecting on the history of the department years later, Kroeber noted (to Lipman, 24 Oct. 1932: U C D A ) that m u s e u m anthropology on a long-term basis had been successful only at Harvard (where archaeology held sway). The problems of the joint department and m u s e u m were conflicts between public instruction and graduate training and between popular education and field research in the m u s e u m . Kroeber's o w n research often suffered because he recognized the validity of both kinds of concerns. But he was a product of the n e w academic anthropology and was committed to university teaching as Putnam was not. Under Kroeber's direction, the Berkeley program m o v e d more and more into an academic context for anthropological research. Indeed, after Putnam's retirement in 1909, it joined unequivocally the Boasian anthropology developing in an increasing number of universities as Boas's students from Columbia obtained positions elsewhere.

James Mooney (1861-1921) Smithsonian Institution. Reprinted with permission.

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Boasian University Programs

Although the combination of the institutional resources of m u s e u m and university had been crucial to developments in the major centres of late 19th and early 20th century anthropological activity, Boas and his students found themselves progressively more dependent on universities for institutional support after conflicts within museums led to separation from the academic departments. Boas's students, w h o came to constitute the major power bloc in American anthropology early in the century, headed academic departments which looked to Columbia and to Boas for access to publication outlets and money for fieldwork. Berkeley under Kroeber, Pennsylvania under Speck, the Canadian Geological Survey under Sapir, and Chicago under Fay-Cooper Cole (1881-1961) all maintained the "Boasian" tradition in this sense. Although Columbia's anthropology program had its growing pains along with other academic departments, the presence of Boas there meant that Columbia was the centre for younger m e n w h o , though they disagreed on particular points and were often personally at odds with Boas, shared his general conception of anthropology and the validity of its academic power base. Just as Harvard had provided the model for m u s e u m and university cooperation, Columbia became the model for academic training of professional anthropologists specializing in ethnology and linguistics. 9.1 Boas's Teaching at Columbia A s early as 1890, Boas's uncle, Abraham Jacobi (1830-1919), a distinguished physician in N e w York City, had negotiated unsuccessfully with Columbia president Seth L o w (1850-1916) about an appointment for Boas (7 Sept. 1890: A P S ) . Boas's appointment, when it came, however, grew out of Putnam's hopes for cooperation between Columbia and the American M u seum. Columbia already offered some courses in anthropology taught by Livingston Farrand in philosophy and William Ripley (1867-1941) in politi-

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cal science. Boas became a lecturer in the Faculty of Science in 1896, but the Department of Anthropology became independent only with his full professorship in 1899. T h e original work in anthropology was coordinated by a committee headed by James M c K e a n Cattell (1860-1944) of the psychology department. Cattell was interested in Boas's appointment; Boas in turn was intrigued by Cattell's experimentalism (Kroeber 1956:154). Boas's previous teaching at Clark University under the auspices of Hall's psychology department m a y have influenced his affinity toward this program. Moreover, Boas had administered psychological as well as anthropomorphic tests at the Chicago Exposition. Although the two departments shared adjacent quarters for m a n y years, personal acquaintance led to little intellectual stimulation, primarily because the two disciplines were changing in different directions. Wissler was the only student to specialize in psychology, and he withdrew from thisfieldafter accepting his post at the American M u s e u m . Boas was dubious about the proposed cooperation with Farrand and Ripley but accepted the position because the m u s e u m affiliation seemed advantageous (Boas to Putnam, 6 July 1895: A P S ) . H e expressed doubts, however, about the calibre of the anthropological work of Farrand, w h o was "not even a beginner", and of Ripley, w h o was "certainly quite unknown as an anthropologist". In addition, Boas remained skeptical about President L o w ' s commitment to active development of collaboration with the American M u seum. Nonetheless, Boas was eager to settle d o w n in a single location capable of supporting the comprehensive research program he envisioned. Boas concentrated on developing institutional support and personal contacts in N e w York, commenting to Zelia Nuttall (16 M a y 1901: A P S ) : I a m committed here in m a n y directions, which center in m y activity for the M u s e u m and in Columbia; and if I were to sever m y connection with these institutions, it would practically mean beginning over again.

Indeed, Boas hoped that all N e w York institutions with an interest in anthropology could be coordinated through Columbia (Boas to Columbia President Nicholas Murray Butler, 18 June 1902: A P S ) , under his o w n control, of course. A s early as 1887, while employed as an editor for Science, Boas had campaigned for the reorganization of the American Ethnological Society, originally founded in 1842 by Albert Gallatin. In 1896, he started an anthropological club at Columbia and, after 1895, his students joined the A E S , which strengthened its ties to the American M u s e u m and Columbia

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University (Bieder & Tax 1976; Smith 1943:183). Boas commented (to Jesup, 12 Dec. 1899: A P S ) : "Anthropology is developing so rapidly that a society of this kind is bound to c o m e and I believe it a wise m o v e to affiliate it with the M u s e u m n o w , as long as w e can control the movement". Boas clearly saw the revitalized A E S as part of his o w n plans to consolidate the institutional development of American anthropology under his personal direction. H e was sufficiently successful that in 1898 the A E S was declared co-sponsor of the reorganized American Anthropologist together with the Washington-based Anthropological Society of Washington. Boas wanted to "develop our work in the direction of the studies of general history of civilization, based on detailed and throrough historical and linguistic knowledge" (Boas to Kroeber, 18 Sept. 1906: A L K ) . After resigning from the American M u s e u m , he was forced to depend more upon the internal resources of the University. H e noted to Schiff (12 April 1909: A P S ) : " M y o w n work during the last few years has been moving entirely along theoretical lines". M o r e accurately, some kinds of research were more difficult without m u s e u m support. The Columbia department did not, moreover, develop as quickly as Boas had hoped. Farrand became a full-time m e m b e r in 1903 and Marshall Saville (1867-1935) received a Loubat Professorship (Mason 1906:466). Saville, although the only archaeologist on the staff, was engaged in Mexican fieldwork with Zelia Nuttal and did little teaching (Boas to George Heye, 17 N o v . 1913: A P S ) . Wissler became a lecturer in 1905 and Boas gave up his o w n salary increase in order to pay him (Boas to Butler, 25 Feb. 1905: A P S ) . Boas summarized the situation to Laufer (21 Oct. 1908: A P S ) : Columbia is as slow as ever. This is the second year that Savillle has given no courses at all. Farrand gives the old routine course to the undergraduate students, and all the more advanced work falls on m y shoulders. The m e n [no w o m e n yet] w h o m I have this year are not particularly good. Boas was interested in developing professional training gradually and discretely from the popular education work (Boas to Thomas, 3 March 1910: A P S ) . H e wanted promotions for his young staff and enough positions to let him retire from undergraduate teaching (Boas to Butler, 14 N o v . 1913: A P S ) . T o Butler (15 N o v . 1902: A P S ) , Boas stressed the unity of the four subdisciplines of anthropology as the basis of his "diverse" program and the directions of its needed expansion. In physical anthropology, he emphasized his o w n course on the statistical study of variation and cited problems in

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establishing productive collaboration with the Zoological department and the Medical School, which forced him to rely on American M u s e u m facilities. Boas considered the linguistic work his strongest since "all the younger m e n w h o study Indian languages" were trained in his courses. H e wanted to formalize instruction in m u s e u m administration for his advanced students. Archaeology was the weakest branch of anthropology in Boas's opinion. In fact, he recognized only three m e n in the country w h o could offer a comprehensive archaeological program: Holmes and Fewkes of the Bureau and M a x Uhle, then at Berkeley. Although in his letter to Zelia Nuttall (16 M a y 1901: A P S ) a year earlier, Boas had noted Harvard as the only place for training archaeologists, he clearly hoped to expand Columbia's program in this direction. M r s . Nuttall's association with Putnam at Harvard m a y have motivated Boas to overstate his enthusiasm. T o Butler, Boas suggested that Columbia should train its o w n archaeologist, preferably under Professor Hans-Jakob Seler in Germany. That is, he preferred not to draw on Harvard resources to expand his o w n program. The spectre of competing loyalties doubtless loomed. Comparative and special ethnology was the least successful part of Boas's early program. The Jesup Expedition and its inclusion of Asian ethnology had been designed to extend the scope of American anthropology beyond the study of the American Indian (Boas to Nuttall, 16 M a y 1901: A P S ) . In fact, however, anthropological fieldwork outside the United States did not become commonplace until after 1920. Boasian anthropology was by default, if not intention, Americanist. Boas did, however, m a k e several early attempts to expand the geographical scope of the Columbia anthropology program. His hopes for an oriental studies program culminated in an appointment at the American M u s e u m for Sinologist Berthold Laufer, w h o would also teach at Columbia (Boas to Butler, 2 March 1904: A P S ) . Harvard, Yale and Columbia were all involved in a foreign area research program including Latin America, U . S . dependencies and the Orient (Boas to Butler, 15 June 1905: A P S ) . Anthropology contributed descriptive ethnography to these programs. About the same time, Boas was involved in plans for an International School of American Archaeology in Mexico and supported Adolph Bandelier's research on Spanish archaeology and historical documents. Columbia efforts to extend its base in comparative ethnology were largely unsuccessful before the First World W a r . Institutional support was

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simply not available in the American museums and universities which provided Boas's major support at this time. Most of Boas's fieldwork remained in American languages under the sponsorship of outside institutions, particularly the Bureau. Because Boas's o w n resources were so limited, he was forced to depend initially on the programs established by Kroeber at Berkeley, Speck at Pennsylvania, Dorsey and Cole at Chicago, and Sapir in Ottawa on the model of his o w n work at Columbia. 9.2 The University of Pennsylvania The academic department at the University of Pennsylvania, like that at Columbia, took shape out of difficulties in the cooperation of university and m u s e u m . The Pennsylvania M u s e u m began under the guidance of Putnam, in the sense that itsfirstdirector during the 20th century was George Byron Gordon (1870-1927), a Harvard P h . D . w h o headed the Harvard Expedition to Honduras. Putnamfirstrecommended William Curtis Farabee but then was able to retain him at Harvard (Putnam to Stevenson, 3 July 1903: U M A ) . The only other available m a n was Gordon. Although Putnam recommended him with less enthusiasm, Gordon met the M u s e u m ' s specification of an academically trained archaeologist with m u s e u m andfieldexperience. Gordon also fit Boas's suggestion (to Stevenson, 23 Jan. 1903: U M A ) that they needed a m a n w h o could develop the connection between university and m u s e u m and train a generation of anthropologists in this dual context. Gordon took for granted that both kinds of institutions were necessary to the development of anthropology. In accordance with his o w n training under Putnam, he viewed academic courses as a means to produce competent archaeologists for m u s e u m work. In addition, the academic program helped Gordon to consolidate his position in the m u s e u m , long noted for its factional politics (Darnell 1970). O n e of Gordon'sfirstacts on arrival in Philadelphia in 1903 was to present Provost Harrison with a proposal for "the needs and the outlook for instruction in Anthropology in the University of Pennsylvania" (1903: U M A ) . Gordon's proposal repeated m u c h from that of Brinton a decade earlier, especially regarding existing precedents for anthropological teaching and facilities available in Philadelphia. H e noted the rapid growth of anthropology during the last ten years without mentioning Brinton. Ambitiously, Gordon proposed nine courses, four designed for graduate students, covering archaeology, ethnology and somatology. H e offered to give any or all of them himself, beginning with introductions to archaeology

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and general ethnology in 1904-1905. Anthropology thus became Section C under Archaeology and Ethnology, the nominal graduate group formed after Brinton's death and still headed by archaeologist Hermann Hilprecht. Early in his tenure, Gordon built up the academic program at considerable personal sacrifice. W h e n the University refused funding to teach American archaeology, he voluntarily offered a course to arouse interest (Gordon to Bowditch, 31 Oct. 1905: U M A ) . In 1907, Gordon presented a second proposal to the graduate school, requesting permission to teach anthropology as a full major and add courses in anatomy and laboratory work. Since 1903, courses and students had been increasing and little more was needed to achieve "a large and flourishing department of anthropology". Gordon also wanted anthropology recognized as an independent department (to A m e s , 22 Sept. 1908: U P A ) . Classical and Semitic archaeology were related to their respective language departments, but prehistoric archaeology was retained within anthropology and held to be quite distinct. B y strategic use of M u s e u m resources to pay salaries, Gordon staffed his n e w academic program. Frank Speck received his M . A . under Boas and came to Pennsylvania to accept a newly-established fellowship in anthropology. After receiving his P h . D . from Pennsylvania in 1908, Speck joined the University faculty, teaching within Gordon's broad scope of anthropology and working as a m u s e u m assistant to justify his salary (paid by a m u s e u m patron as a personal favour to Gordon). Speck withdrew from active m u s e u m work when he became an assistant professor in 1911. Edward Sapir became a teaching fellow in 1908 and an instructor and m u s e u m assistant the following year. Only during these two years was linguistics part of the curriculum, and thus of the effective scope of Penn anthropology. Gordon wanted to continue the work but couldfindno suitable instructor when Sapir departed to become Chief of the Anthropology Section of the Geological Survey of Canada in 1910; he does not seem to have considered Sapir's protégé John Alden Mason. Although both Speck and Sapir had been offered the inducement of a teaching position in the University after a few years, Sapir became convinced that Gordon was overly optimistic and that "he doesn't k n o w enough about the necessary work in ethnology and linguistics to k n o w just what he wants, though he m a y mean well" (Sapir to Kroeber, 7 M a y 1909: U C D A ) . Sapir sought employment elsewhere partly because he realized that Gordon's majorfinancialbackers in the M u s e u m

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were unenthusiastic about ethnology, not to mention linguistics, or academic anthropology. Although the n e w graduate department had a number of students, professional training was subordinated to interdisciplinary work. Graduates and undergraduates took the same courses, since neither had background in the discipline[!] (Gordon to A m e s , 8 M a y 1911: U P A ) . Sociology was the most frequently alliedfield,with that department offering an introductory course which covered 'primitive society' in some detail. Students in several other departments worked with ethnological materials. Another major link was to the history of religion department founded in 1910. Both Gordon and Speck were listed on its original faculty, although Gordon resigned after one year. Speck, however, recognized an obligation to train missionaries in the scientific study of other cultures and took the work quite seriously. His position in this department was also important in giving Speck a University position politically independent of the museum-centred anthropology department. Although instrumental in developing the academic program, Gordon had little time for it after 1910. Moreover, both the Board of Managers and the M u s e u m scientific staff were gradually modified in accordance with Gordon's preference for popular education. The concept of archaeology narrowed substantially from that of the Peabody M u s e u m where Gordon had been trained under Putnam. J. Alden Mason, an early student in the department, reports (1964) that Gordon never enjoyed teaching. A . Irving Hallowell (1892-1974) has also provided recollections of the period (1951, 1964, 1967). The official history of the M u s e u m (Madeira 1964:58) notes that he came to believe m u s e u m work inherently incompatible with university teaching. At the same time, the academic department, like American anthropology generally under the influence of Franz Boas, was moving further from m u s e u m concerns. Sapir and Speck were more interested in ethnological and linguistic fieldwork and in instruction which emphasized non-material culture. Gordon's retrenchment policy after 1910 further widened the gap between the m u s e u m and academic traditions. In this context, a struggle developed between Gordon and Speck for control of the academic department. Individuals were forced to take sides. The students were firmly behind Speck and his academic program. The trustees and curators of the M u s e u m were equally firmly behind Gordon. In 1913, Speck complained to Dean Quinn (11 Feb.: U P A ) that he was not

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welcome in the M u s e u m and that public lectures were scheduled for the hours his classes were supposed to meet. Specimens were locked up and graduate students had no more privileges in the M u s e u m than the general public. The situation became so difficult that courses were held across campus from the M u s e u m , which Speck (to Quinn, 13 Feb. 1913: U P A ) described as "a decided detriment to the interests of the department". H e complained that his work in that year had not "developed any m a n w h o can be expected to become a serious candidate for the advanced research of field work in Anthropology which it is m y aim to require". Cooperation with the M u s e u m had become impossible. Although in this instance the Provost intervened and the availability of the M u s e u m lecture hall for courses was politely though formally confirmed through the Dean (Quinn to Speck, 18 March 1913: U P A ) , the episode had considerable repercussions for the organization of the academic program in anthropology. Speck replaced Gordon as group advisor in 1913, becoming chair in 1914. Between 1914 and 1917, Gordon's courses were eliminated from the roster. In each case, letters in Quinn'sfilesindicate that the initiative came from Speck (16 M a y 1913, 27 M a y 1914, 23 March 1916: U P A ) . The detailed politics of this change are difficult to reconstruct from the incomplete archives of the M u s e u m and University. However, the personal papers of Speck and Boas provide glimpses of the professional issues. A former student (Aitken to Boas, 5 A u g . 1916: A P S ) said that Gordon's n a m e was "dropped from the roll by action of the faculty at the instigation of Deans A m e s and Quinn with the full knowledge and approval of the Provost". Wilson Wallis (1886-1970) even went to far as to publicly charge Gordon with drunkenness in the presence of University officials (Waterman to Kroeber, 17 N o v . 1915: U C D A ) . Speck's papers include a three-page handwritten list of grievances, notes for an otherwise unrecorded committee meeting late in 1913. Gordon had m a d e his personal research difficult or impossible, tampering with m a n u scripts, excluding him from his office, and withdrawing promised support for fieldwork. H e had made Speck's teaching difficult, arbitrarily devising course rosters, imposing work for the M u s e u m , preventing use of M u s e u m specimens for classes, appearing in Speck's courses and contradicting his authority. The animosity is blatant: W h e n I suggested some changes in course announcements and other improvements in Dept. of Instruction, after 4 or 5 years of experience with the work, [he]

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told m e I was a boy and he would condescend to give m e advice. Then he wrote announcements to courses and intended m e to give them in accordance with the announcement. H e had never given some of the courses under question. I had for some years, and so far as I know he had never had such courses in his career at Harvard. (Speck n.d.: APS) In such a situation, Speck preferred the inconvenience but predictability of meeting his classes outside of the M u s e u m . The battle between Speck and Gordon for control of the academic program extended beyond Philadelphia. Speck and his allies staged a widespread effort to discredit Gordon's abilities both as a teacher and as a scientist. Former Pennsylvania students were loyal to Speck but hesitant to become involved in personal accusations. Speck, however, had considerable success outside the University. His obvious allies were fellow Boas students w h o had already been hurt by restrictive m u s e u m policies making their fieldwork difficult and publication of its results even more so. Lowie (to Speck, 28 N o v . 1913: A P S ) was willing to state publicly that Gordon was in his opinion nothing but a promoter, although he admitted he did not k n o w Gordon personally. Lowie was an ardent Boasian, recalling the period as one in which every student of Boas had to stand firmly behind the collective version of anthropology (quoted by Stocking 1968:276) if anthropology was to continue to progress. Lowie also suggested to Speck that Goddard of the American M u s e u m and Dixon of the Peabody were likely to agree. Tozzer of the Peabody was sympathetic, but hesitated to become involved in a local dispute (to Speck, 12 July 1915: A P S ) and requested return of a previous more "bellicose" letter. The composition of this group is interesting. Lowie and Speck were Boas students. Goddard was an admirer. Tozzer mediated between Boas and the semi-professional Archaeological Institute of America. Dixon was Harvard's link to Boasian anthropology. W h e n Boas was censured by the American Anthropological Association ( A A A ) in 1919 (see 13.6 for details), all of these m e n except Dixon were among his defenders. Gordon, on the other hand, voted for censure, as did Farabee, by then also on the Pennsylvania M u s e u m staff. Indeed, in 1919, in protest over Boas's political and anthropological activities, Gordon dropped his membership in the A A A and in the American Folklore Society (Tozzer to Boas, 28 March 1919: A P S ) . The reorganization of the Pennsylvania department opposed cultural anthropology to archaeology; Boas's students combined the two. Therefore, the position of Philadel-

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phia within the Boasian camp was at stake. At the cost of dissociation from a major m u s e u m , the academic department at Pennsylvania went with the Boasians, and similar minded colleagues elsewhere approved of this action. This division did not begin to heal until after Gordon's death in 1927. Physical reincorporation within the m u s e u m was not accomplished until some years after Speck's death in 1950. 9.3 Boasian Anthropology at Chicago W h e n Frederick Starr retired from the University of Chicago in 1923, the department was left without instructors and could be rebuilt on alternative lines. Thefirstyear, Ralph Linton (1893-1953) taught introductory work. The following year, Fay-Cooper Cole, a Boas student already employed at the Field M u s e u m , was appointed as assistant professor. Cole taught seven major courses plus seminars and research during the first year and pleaded for additional faculty (Cole to Small, 12 N o v . 1924: U C A ) . Albion Small noted to the University president (Small to Burton, 23 March 1923: U C A ) that anthropology had been de facto independent of sociology and that it should be placed in its proper relationship to the other social science disciplines by giving it autonomy. Cole's teaching improved relations to the Field M u s e u m , since students could use his collections there (Cole to Starr, 15 Feb. 1924: U C A ) . Sapir came to Chicago in 1925 and offered technical courses in American languages for thefirsttime in the history of the Chicago department. Robert Redfield (1897-1958) arrived in 1926 and offered courses in Middle America and anthropological theory. The department formally became independent of sociology in 1928. Although Linton, Cole, Sapir, and Redfield were all associated with Boasian anthropology, the department did not restrict itself to American Indian studies, continuing the wide areal ethnographic studies encouraged by the Field M u s e u m and Starr's teaching. After 1920, of course, Boas's students at Columbia and elsewhere were also beginning to m o v e away from studies of American Indians. Chicago simply maintained its continuous tradition of ethnographic diversity. Moreover, the n e w Chicago department took a partial turn toward social anthropology after A(lfred) R(eginald) Radcliffe-Brown (1881-1952) replaced Sapir w h e n he m o v e d to Yale in 1931; even RadcliffeB r o w n , however, had distinguished Americanist students, particularly Sol Tax (1902-1996) and Fred Eggan (1906-1991). In any case, Chicago retained a Boasian flavour at a distance through faculty and students trained in both Americanist and British traditions.

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9.4

The Geological Survey of Canada Edward Sapir left the University of Pennsylvania in 1910 to accept a position with the new division of anthropology at the Geological Survey of Canada, a position he was to hold forfifteenyears. H e optimistically envisioned a role for the Survey comparable to that of the Bureau of American Ethnology in the United States three decades earlier (Sapir 1911a:789) and intended to carry forward research begun by Boas and D a w s o n under the B A A S . The Survey S u m m a r y Report for 1910 (p. 282) noted: The plan of the anthropology division [...] includes fieldwork among the native tribes of Canada for the purpose of gathering extensive and reliable information on their ethnology and linguistics; archaeological field work; publications of results obtained [...]. It is planned to m a k e an ethnological and linguistic survey of several of the tribes of Canada. The Survey began with Sapir's o w n work on Nootka and continued with reconnaissance fieldwork among Iroquois and Algonquian groups of Ontario and Quebec. Especially in the early years of Sapir's appointment (1910-25), fieldwork was extensive but usually survey. The Anthropological Division brought professionalization to Canadian anthropology but was seen by m a n y amateur and regional anthropologists as an alien imposition (Cole 1973, M a u d 1982). The Boasian anthropology that Sapir took for granted was quite different from that of his British-trained colleagues in Ottawa, Marius Barbeau (1883-1969) and Diamond Jenness (1886-1982). Sapir did not, of course, lose contact with work being done in the United States, particularly through Kroeber and the California department. Although his position enabled more time in fieldwork than his academically-situated colleagues, Sapir perceived his position as intellectual exile — without students and with heavy administrative burdens (Darnell 1976b, 1986b, 1990; Murray 1981). H e wrote to Lowie (28 Nov. 1921: U C B ) : It is high time I got on to a university job if I a m not to die without feeling I spent most of m y life as a square peg in a round hole. This place is getting too confoundedly on m y nerves. W h a t the hell do I care about exhibits? T o be sure, I spend precious little time on exhibit work, but then I always feel that I ought to. I should like nothing better than to leave the honors of m y present status to Harlan I. Smith, even at the expense of being a mere philologist. I cannot say just yet h o w I would actually feel about taking up mainly anthropological work at a university, but I m a y have to do it to get back to semicivilization. O f course, a strictly linguistic position would please m e more other things being equal.

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T o Boas (25 A u g . 1920: A P S ) Sapir expressed his need for contact with people interested in linguistic research and complained that N e w York could not find room for one general student of language. Boas, although he realized Sapir's feeling of isolation, favoured the Canadian position because of "the great advantages to anthropology of maintaining centers of interest in different cities" (Boas to Sapir, 15 June 1909: A P S ) . Boas was engaged in building up a network of contacts and students across the continent, and Sapir's Ottawa position fitted his aspirations, while providing fieldwork opportunities for Boas's students. 9.5

The Autonomy of Academic Anthropology B y the end of the 19th century, a number of American anthropologists were consciously concerned about the developing institutional framework of their discipline. A s early as 1897, Boas suggested that the A A A S should prepare material on graduate and undergraduate programs in anthropology and noted that George Dorsey and Alexander Chamberlain had already assembled some of the relevant materials. M c G e e might comment on " A n thropology as represented in government institutions". In 1899, the A A A S appointed a committee on anthropological teaching, with M c G e e as chairman (MacCurdy 1899). It also included Frank Russell of Harvard and George Grant MacCurdy (1863-1947) of Yale (who reported on A A A S meetings for the AA). Boas and Holmes were added later. MacCurdy noted (1902b:211) that the committee was preparing "a circular the object of which is to set forth the aims, scope and importance of anthropology, as well as its place in higher education". MacCurdy's summary in 1902 indicated that 31 institutions offered some instruction in anthropology. Usually, it was subordinated administratively to some other discipline, especially sociology or psychology. MacCurdy (1902b:211-213) stressed the need of the n e w discipline to perpetuate itself. Most people teaching anthropology "are impelled to do so because of its important bearing on their chosen field of work and because there is, at present, no one else to do it". Such anthropologists should be able to expect their specialized students to take over part of this burden and "hold professorships where none n o w exist". Professional training for research justified the sacrifices Boas and others m a d e to offer their courses. MacCurdy apparently envisioned a continued growth of professional anthropology in the university which would permit established academics to devote more time to personal research and less to the development of the discipline itself.

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B y 1916, Boas could summarize the institutional achievements of academic anthropology in America. H e assembled a group of close associates, m a n y of them former students, at the A A A S meetings (Boas to H o d g e , 2 2 M a y 1916: S W M ) . T h e papers from the symposium are preserved in the H o d g e papers. Boas's brief s u m m a r y appeared in the American Anthropologist in 1919. M a c C u r d y reported on anthropology courses taught in various departments. Boas discussed the appropriate scope and aim of instruction in the absence of an independent department and, in a separate essay, the need for linguistic training which drew upon "a wider range of languages" than normal linguistics program. Western European languages were merely "a local form of speech". Kroeber, instructed to prepare a paper on introductory undergraduate teaching, decided to discuss the need for theoretical training defining the scope and autonomy of academic anthropology at the introductory graduate teaching level. Dixon focused on relating advanced undergraduate and introductory graduate teaching and concluded that the ideal w a s nowhere realized. Ernest A . Hooton outlined the implications of physical anthropology for students from other disciplines. Speck talked about graduate teaching of primitive religion to non-anthropologists. Tozzer discussed the role of m u s e u m s in teaching, concluding that " A n anthropological m u s e u m is a necessary adjunct to adequate instruction in anthropology with the exception of thefieldsof social anthropology, religion and language" and that "the teaching of most branches of anthropology has its beginning and its end in a m u s e u m and the closer the coordination between the teaching and the m u s e u m , the more successful will be the results" (Boas 1919: 44). Goddard described the administrative relations between universities and m u s e u m s , noting that m u s e u m collection had usually preceded university instruction in anthropology but that in no case were the two kinds of institutions closely linked under the same administration and physical setting: [...] the greater amount offieldresearch is carried out by institutions like the Bureau of Ethnology, the Field Museum and the American Museum, who, having no student body, must depend on the universities to furnish the necessary supply offieldworkers and that important graduate schools have too few laboratory and museum facilities for the practical training of the advanced student [...] (quoted by Boas 1919: 47) This symposium w a s in part a statement of what had been accomplished over the previous two decades and in part a declaration of faith by individuals

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engaged in defining a n e w discipline, at least within American universities. In 1916, the implications of an academic framework for anthropological research were still emergent. Several of the papers dealt with the crucial relationship between university and m u s e u m . Most of the participants, h o w ever, were committed to the shifting of American anthropology into the university under the leadership of Boas. The existence of academic programs was taken for granted; the questions were of scope, aim and supplementary institutional affiliation. The only complaint about the symposium came from Wissler of the American M u s e u m , w h o thought it failed to "justify the position of anthropology in a university" because the subject itself was not yet a synthetic whole (Wissler to Boas, 14 N o v . 1916: A P S ) . Wissler's yearning for completed synthesis was also reflected in a dissertation on the history of American anthropology written under his supervision in the late 1920s; Mitra (1933) argued that the Boasian paradigm provided thefirstsuch synthesis. In 1916, in any case, Wissler was pessimistic about the future of anthropology as a profession, perhaps because he himself at that time lacked university affiliation: "The universities are turning out more anthropologists than there are jobs" and "some of them will have to content themselves with other means of livelihood and do anthropology, if at all, in their leisure hours" (Wissler to Kroeber, 5 Jan. 1917: A L K ) . Wissler was correct that finding positions for n e w anthropologists was not always easy. Most of the burden fell on Boas, whose cultural anthropology and linguistics graduate students were trained for university rather than m u s e u m work. W o o d w a r d of the Carnegie Institute commented to Boas (28 Sept. 1906: A P S ) : "Until w e can start work in anthropology [...] on a more rational basis I a m not disposed to devote m u c h time to supplying places for young m e n just out of the colleges and universities". Boas found that funds for linguistic work were particularly limited (to W o o d w a r d , 5 N o v . 1908: A P S ) : " W e have not enough research work going on to keep the well-trained m e n w h o m w e have occupied". Opinions varied. Boas himself was occasionally quite sanguine. A few years earlier, he commented to Butler (15 N o v . 1902: A P S ) : The majority of our students must make a living by what they learn at the University. Anthropological positions are not numerous, nevertheless every student w h o has chosen thisfieldand w h o has passed through our department has found a position at once.

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Indeed, most of Boas's students obtained satisfactory positions. Figure 3. Ph.D. 's granted in anthropology in North America1 Year

Name

Clark University Alexander Francis 1892 Chamberlain* University of Chicago David Prescott 1897 Barrows Merton Miller Leland 1897 Leslie A . White* 1927 1928

Robert Redfield*

University of Wisconsin Albert Ernest Jenks 1899 Harvard university 1894 George A m o s Dorsey+ Frank Russell+ 1898 Roland B . Dixon* 1900 1900

John Reed Swanton*

1903

William Curtis Farabee+ George Byron Gordon+ Alfred Marston Tozzer*+ Herbert Joseph Spinden+ Raymond Edwin Merwin+ Alfred Vincent Kidder+ Robert Gorham Fuller+ Carl Eugen Guthe+

1903 1904 1909 1913 1914 1915 1917

Subject

Later employment

Missasauga language

Clark

Coahuilla Ethnobotany

President, Berkeley

Taos pueblo Medicine Societies of the Southwest Maya Ethnology

Michigan Chicago

Wildricegatherers of the upper Great Lakes

Chicago, Wisconsin

The Necropolis of Ancon

Harvard, Chicago

Eskimo crania Maidu language (with Boas) Chinook Morphology (with Boas) Physical anthrop.

B A E , Harvard Harvard

BAE

Mexican serpent motif

Harvard, Penna. Museum Penna. M u s e u m

Maya and Lacandones

Harvard

Maya art

Brooklyn M u s e u m

Maya archaeology Southwestern ceramics Tennessee crania

Harvard

Maya lunar count

Peabody Foundation, Michigan

1 * = Boasian tradition; + = Putnam tradition

172 1917 1917 1920 1923 1925

Chapter 9 Nenozo Utsirikawa+ William Hubbs Mechling* Edward Smith Handy+ Li A n Chi+ Ralph Linton*+

Columbia University 1901 Alfred Louis Kroeber* 1904 William Jones* 1907 Albert B . Lewis*

Indonesian decorative art Malecite and Micmac (under Speck) Polynesian religion China Marquesas arch.

Arapaho decorative symbolism Fox word formation Northwest coast ethnology Test theme in Amer, mythology Takelma language

Ottawa M u s e u m Chicago Chicago

Berkeley Philippines Chicago museum

1908

Robert Harry Lowie*

1909

Edward Sapir*

1910

Alexander Goldenweiser*

Totemism

1910

Leo Frachtenberg*

Northwest coast language

BAE

1911

Paul Radin*

1914

Thomas T . Waterman*

B A E , Berkeley, etc. California

1915 1915

Herman K . Haeberlin* Fay-Cooper Cole*

Winnebago medicine dance Explanatory element in A m . mythology Pueblo symbolism Tinguian folklore

1918 1920 1922 1923

Martha Beckwith* Leslie Spier* Manuel Gamio* Ruth Benedict*

1926

Melville Herskovits*

1926 1928

Gladys Reichard* Margaret M e a d *

Hawaiian folklore Plains sun dance Teotihuacan, M e x . Guardian spirit in North America East African cattle complex Wiyot grammar and texts Polynesian cultural stability

University of California, Berkeley: 1904 Pliny Earle Goddard* Hupa language (not anthr. dept.) 1908 Samuel Alfred Barrett* P o m o basketry 1911 John Alden Mason* Salinan basketry (Penna. before)

American M u s e u m , Berkeley Geological Survey of Canada Columbia, N e w School for Soc. Research

BAE Chicago museum, then dept. Vassar Washington Mexico Columbia Northwestern Columbia Columbia, A m e r . Museum

Berkeley, A m e r . Museum Milwaukee M u s e u m Pennsylvania

Boasian University Programs University of Pennsylvania: Frank Goldsmith 1908 Speck* 1915 Earnest William Hawkes Alfred Irving 1925 Hallowell*

173

Yuchi ethnology (Boas before) Eskimo skeletal measurements Bear ceremonialism (with Boas)

Pennsylvania Geological Survey of Canada Pennsylvania, Northwestern

Kroeber, himself strongly committed to the academic framework, maintained to Harrington (16 Nov. 1905: A L K ) : I k n o w of no one of ordinary ability w h o has taken up any branch of anthropology within the few years of m y experience w h o has had serious difficulty in establishing himself, and there are but few m e n w h o have not obtained opportunities for carrying on researches. Specifically speaking, however, almost everything depends on the connections formed during the years of preparation. For this reason I think you would do much better practically by completing your training in this country.

At about the same time, moreover, academic training was becoming recognized as a reasonable prerequisite for existing positions. For example, Laufer commented to Boas (3 A u g . 1916: F M A ) : "I should certainly hesitate to make an offer to a m a n w h o has not yet completed his academic work with a degree". Boas had most of the students in anthropology outside the archaeological program at Harvard. Indeed, by about 1925, Boas or his direct students had produced twice as m a n y Ph.D.'s as Harvard (see Figure 3). A number of students worked partly with Boas and partly elsewhere. Cooperation between graduate departments permitted students outside Columbia to carry out their research under Boas's direction (for example, Swanton and Dixon from Harvard, Speck from Pennsylvania). Dorsey sent Fay-Cooper Cole to Columbia, and noted to Boas (22 Feb. 1906: A P S ) : I a m especially anxious that he should get the sort of insight into methods of anthropology which it is impossible for him to get here in Chicago; especially I a m desirous that he should receive the benefit of your instruction in linguistic methods, and in the second place, I a m desirous that he should obtain the ability to define and investigate ethnological problems from your point of view.

Dorsey himself had come to Columbia for Boas's help on his Pawnee linguistic materials (Dorsey to Boas, 24 Sept. 1906: A P S ) . Several of Kroeber's students also came to Columbia on the understanding that they would return with teaching positions after receiving the broad

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training available only at Columbia. Neither Waterman nor Barrett enjoyed the experience. Barrett spent the year thinking about the California work he had left unfinished. Boas complained that Barrett did not come to talk about his courses, in fact did not do m u c h coursework, and occupied himself with proofreading for California (Boas to Kroeber, 10 Dec. 1907: A L K ) . T o Kroeber, Barrett noted (4 Feb. 1908: A L K ) that the only person worth talking to at Columbia was Boas. Kroeber's difficulties in his o w n relationship with Boas m a y have predisposed his students to maintain their distance. Boas accepted such students willingly, fully aware that his former students, placed in other departments, constituted a network of communication which rendered the discipline increasingly 'Boasian'. Although the development of academic anthropology is usually associated with Boas, the teaching of anthropology was of concern to others as well. Several members of the Bureau staff taught briefly, O . T . Mason at Columbian University in Washington D . C . and W J [sic] M c G e e at the University of Iowa (MacCurdy 1902:216; M c G e e to Schaeffer, 22 Oct. 1897: B A E ) . Truman Michelson (1979-1938) wanted a university position "to get more in the limelight" (to Boas, 3 Oct. 1928: B A E ) ; he eventually taught at George Washington University (Margaret Blaker, p.c.). Swanton offered lectures at Johns Hopkins briefly around 1902; Holmes considered this "in the nature of missionary work" for the Smithsonian. Swanton, although he recognized Boas's hopes for this cooperation with a major university, did not enjoy teaching (to Boas, 31 March: 1905: B A E ) : I do not know h o w this Johns Hopkins matter will come out, but I do not feel capable of building up a big department there. I can never do m y best work unless I a m all alone by myself, and a m n o w out of touch with classroom routine.

Boas tried to obtain a permanent position for Swanton, but Johns Hopkins decided not to develop a program in anthropology (Boas to Remsen, 15 Feb. 1905: A P S ) . S u m m e r session exchange of faculty served to increase contact among the growing academic departments. At Columbia, Kroeber, Goldenweiser (1880-1940), Waterman (1893-1961), Spier, Michelson, Sapir, and Lowie all lectured between 1911 and 1927. At Berkeley between 1909 and 1921 Waterman, Paul Radin (1883-1959), Jaime de Angulo (1887-1950) and Boas taught, in addition to the regular staff of Kroeber, Lowie and Gifford. At Chicago, sociologist Lester W a r d lectured in 1896, Boas in 1908 and Ralph

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Linton during the 1920s. Harvard also had a tradition of visiting lectureships (Fewkes to Tozzer, 3 N o v . 1932: B A E ) . B y 1920, therefore, American anthropology was primarily institutionalized in universities. Most of the academic programs were directed by students of Boas or m e n influenced strongly by him. The Bureau, lacking such affiliations, w a s unable to maintain its 19th century prominence. Geographical isolation was breaking d o w n as a result of the similar training of the n e w university anthropologists and the frequent interchange of personnel a m o n g departments. Anthropology had its o w n national journal, the American Anthropologist, in 1898 and a professional association after 1902. These changes reflected the increasing size of the discipline and constituted milestones toward its professionalization. S o m e of the changes were characteristic of American science generally. Others were internal to anthropology and centred around the growing theoretical and institutional power wielded by Boas. Boas and his former students directed most early 20th century anthropological research. Their goals, however, persisted from the earlier American anthropology, particularly as practised at the Bureau of American Ethnology.

Franz Boas as Hamatsa Dancer Smithsonian Institution. Reprinted with permission.

III

Continued Mapping of Nor

Chapter 10

Boas and the Bureau of American Ethnology

The commitment of American anthropology to research through academic departments was due in large part to the vision and administrative ability of Franz Boas, whose students drew upon his precedents to create a 'Boasian' anthropology. Nonetheless, the roots of Boas's achievement in the early 20th century lay in the work of his immediate precursors and presupposed an institutional context dominated by the Bureau of American Ethnology. W h e n Boas came permanently to the United States in 1886, changes in the established Americanist anthropological tradition were already underway. Boas was personally influential in determining the direction of such changes. His early theoretical critique was formulated explicitly to counter the excesses of American evolutionary theory. Although his originality lay in his reformulating the evolutionary paradigm for the study of the American Indian, the enterprise necessarily preserved considerable continuity to earlier work. Just after the turn of the century, the centre of gravity of American anthropology m o v e d from the Bureau to Columbia University, where Boas's work in ethnology and folklore was centred. Boas continued, however, to use the resources of the Bureau for his work at Columbia. T h e other major ethnological fieldwork centre w a s California, where Kroeber, Dixon, and Sapir emphasized linguistic description and classification as handmaidens to ethnology. In both cases, substantive continuity to the Bureau tradition was strong, particularly in the theme of mapping basic information as a prelude to more intensive study. Continuation of this approach w a s virtually inevitable because the tribes of the West coast were still little k n o w n . Their description was supported mainly by m u s e u m s concerned with collection of specimens rather than with collection of cultural information. T h e gradual shift from

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m u s e u m to university set the stage for intensive fieldwork after 1920 by students trained in the Boasian tradition. 10.1 From Synonymy to Handbook Powell's collaborative projects were all structured around the image of mapping the cultural and linguistic diversity of the continental United States. In practice, however, the 'mapping' envisioned by Powell involved classification, primarily linguistic because it was seen as an index to ethnological diversity, as well as geography. The last great mapping project envisioned by Powell, the tribal synonymy, was virtually complete at his death in 1902, although publication was delayed until 1910. The synonymy was integral to Powell's self-imposed mandate to m a p North America. It was completed by m a n y of the same individuals w h o worked on it in the late 19th century. O. T . M a s o n began the work in the 1880s as a card catalogue for internal use. Even before his appointment to the Bureau, James M o o n e y began independently to collect terms of tribal and geographical reference for what was referred to later, in-house at least, as the 'Synonymy' (Hodge 1907:vi). Cyrus T h o m a s "contributed greatly to the interests of the Bureau in a practical way, putting in final and concise form m u c h of the knowledge accumulated during his thirty years of service in his chosenfield"(24th A R for 1902-03, 1907, p . xvii). H . W . Henshaw supervised the necessary office work from 1885 until his resignation in 1893, with "[a] careful examination of all the literature pertaining to those correlated subjects [...] and also the preparation of tentative tables of synonymy" (6th A R for 1884-85, 1888, p. xiv). During this period, the scope as well as the label of the Cyclopedia, Synonymy, Dictionary or Handbook changed several times. The initial intent was to arrange material by linguistic stocks, each occupying a separate volume (15th A R for 1893-94, 1897, p . lxxx). Tribal monographs were to include names, chronological history, ethnographic description, distribution m a p and illustrations. During the 1890s, "the synonymy proper diminished relatively while the body of general information became greatly expanded" (16th A R for 1894-95, 1897, p. lxxxi): Early experience in the work indicated the desirability of incorporating collateral information in connection with the names [...]. [A]s the material accumulated and came into constant use in manuscript form, it was found convenient to include Indian names other than tribal, and still further to increase the scope of the work. Meantime the n a m e synonymy was retained. W h e n a definite plan was formulated for publication in a series of stock monographs, it was found that the

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designation employed for some years was inadequate and misleading, and the term "Dictionary" came into use orally; but this term seems too narrow, and it is thought best to arrange the material for printing in bulletin form as family monographs under the designation "Cyclopedia of the American Indians". The introduction to the published Handbook summarized (1907:viii): It has been the aim to give a brief discussion of every linguistic stock, confederacy, tribe, subtribe or tribal division, and settlement k n o w n to history or even to tradition, as well as the origin and derivation of every n a m e treated, whenever such is known, and to record under each every form of the n a m e and every other appelation that could be learned [...]. Under the tribal scriptions a brief account of the ethnic relations of the tribe, its history, its location at various periods, statistics of populations, etc., are included. [In 1902] [t]he scope of the subject matter was enlarged to include the relations between the aboriginees and the government, their archaeology, manners, customs, arts and industries; brief biographies of Indians of note; and words of aboriginal origin that have found their w a y into the English language. It was proposed also to include Indian names that are purely geographic, but by reason of the vast number of these it was subsequently deemed advisable to embody them eventually in an independent work. The actual publication was supervised by Hodge and heavily influenced by the Bureau's need to reassert its public utility in the years after Powell's death. Smithsonian Secretary Samuel Langley stressed the "popular style of treatment" (Holmes to Langley, 1 July 1905: B A E ) and wanted a less technical enlarged scope. Hodge (to Langley, 1 N o v . 1902: B A E ) preferred tribal monographs and denied that the Bureau had ever planned "a treatise on abstract science, or indeed anything but a work of reference that would be in every sense utilitarian even to those with only a c o m m o n school education". Hodge wanted arrangement by tribe rather than linguistic stock so that any interested person could locate materials easily. The enlarged scope of the Handbook required consultation with "experts best qualified for the preparation of m a n y of the special articles" (26th A R for 1904-05, 1908, p. xxiii). In addition, a complete set of galley proofs was sent to each collaborator for suggestions and corrections (Holmes to Hewett, 18 A u g . 1905: B A E ) . A n e w , more professional body of collaborators was available. Boas had been involved in the project since 1886 and Powell intended to incorporate materials from his (partly Bureau-sponsored) fieldwork (Pilling to Boas, 4 Jan. 1887: B A E ) . The n e w plan incorporated western fieldwork, especially by Kroeber and his associates in California (indeed, Kroeber would soon propose that the Bureau publish a summary of his work

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in the State). Kroeber and Dixon used Bureau manuscripts to supplement their o w n field studies (Holmes to Dixon, 6 Dec. 1902: B A E ) for the California sections of the Handbook. Dixon even tried to postpone publication for a year to incorporate the results of another season'sfieldwork(to Holmes, 9 D e c e m ber 1902: B A E ) . Radin, Sapir, Wissler, George Dorsey, and Barrett were also drawn in. These additions reflect the changing balance of power in American anthropology toward Boas and his students. 10.2 Boas's 'Handbook of American Indian Languages9 Boas was directly responsible for the Bureau's Handbook of American Indian Languages (henceforth HBAIL)', for the Handbook of American Indians North of Mexico, he had been merely one of many collaborators. But the linguistic project retained considerable continuity with earlier goals of the Bureau. The 24th Annual Report (for 1902-03, 1907, p. xxii) recognized that the HBAIL built on Powell's efforts and systematized a line of work long important to Americanist linguistics: The ripening of linguistic studies in America initiates a new era in philologic research. Powell gave great impetus to the work, and numerous other students have devoted their energies assiduously to the important task of recording and classifying the American languages and of applying the results to the elucidation of the history of the languages and peoples. The continuity was emphasized by Boas, whose plan of operations (31 June 1903: B A E ) stressed revision of Powell's Introduction to include morphological information, as Powell himself had envisioned. Boas wanted to add material on classification and structure of American languages, a brief analysis of ten type languages, an alphabet and accumulated vocabularies. The Bureau's existing vocabulary schedules were inadequate to elucidate "the essential features of the morphology of American languages". Rather, what was needed was "an analytical study of grammar" (loc. cit.) which would also clarify detailed phonetics. Thefirstvolume appeared in 1911, including grammatical sketches of Hupa by Pliny Goddard, Tlingit and Haida by John Swanton, Tsimshian, Kwakiutl and Chinook by Boas, Maidu by Dixon, Fox by Truman Michelson and William Jones, himself a Fox Indian, Dakota by Boas and Swanton, and Eskimo by the Danish Indo-European trained scholar William Thalbitzer (1873-1930). The second volume appeared in 1922, including sketches of Takelma by Sapir, Coos and Lower U m p q u a (Siuslaw) by Leo Frachtenberg

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(1883-1930), and Chukchee by Waldemar Borgoras (1865-1936). The third volume, due to Bureau cutbacks in linguistic publications, appeared through Columbia University Press between 1933 and 1937. It included Tonkawa (Harry Hoijer), Quileute (D'Andrade), Yuchi (Gunter Wagner), Zuni (Ruth Benedict), and Couer D'Alene (Gladys Reichard). Volume 4 in 1941 consisted exclusively of Mary Haas's Tunica. These volumes, prepared by a second generation of Boas students with virtually no Bureau connection, took for granted the academic framework of American anthropology and an autonomous discipline of linguistics only partially grounded in anthropology. In spite of the three decades in the production of the Handbook of American Indian Languages, however, all four volumes were framed within a fundamentally Boasian model (Stocking 1974; Voegelin 1952). Stocking emphasizes the control over selection of personnel and increasing influence of Boas over this period. Swanton, Dixon, Jones, Sapir and Frachtenberg were direct students of Boas. Goddard was an ardent disciple. Michelson, though a m e m b e r of the Bureau staff, associated himself with Boas on such issues as conservatism in recognition of genetic groupings of American Indian languages; he even co-authored a grammatical sketch with a deceased Boas student, Hermann Haeberlin whose fieldwork was sponsored by the Bureau. Thalbitzer was a Danish scholar eager to embrace Boas's revisions. Boas explicitly identified the project as representing the new anthropology in America, especially insofar as it was under his direction and included most of those then engaged in serious professional study of American languages. T o M c G e e , Boas explained in 1901 (27 Aug.: B A E ) that he had n o w trained enough young m e n to make systematic work of this kind possible. T o Kroeber (19 N o v . 1901: A L K ) he noted: "I a m very desirous that everybody w h o studies Indian languages should contribute his share towards this work, and I hope you will also cooperate with us". In 1889, Boas's students did fieldwork under Bureau auspices, but under his direction. The Bureau thus bankrolled a kind of Columbia field school, with results to be incorporated in the Handbook. Boas held the position of 'Honorary Philologist', agreeing to use materials collected by him for the American M u s e u m and to serve without pay for five to seven years to complete a description of "all the fundamental languages" (Boas to M c G e e , 20 April 1901: B A E ) . Kroeber (in Linton 1943:16) said that Boas saw this position as "a means toward the fulfilment of a programmatic preparation of a

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series of adequate grammars and text collections of native American languages". The bulletins published by the Bureau during the late 1890s were intended to serve as basic texts for the Handbook (32nd A R for 1901-02, 1908:24) and the Annual Reports assiduously catalogued progress, even as Boas's appropriations were begrudged by old-line members of the Bureau staff. Secretary Langley was perhaps least enthusiastic, urging Boas to "divert" these materials to other publication outlets, on the grounds that they were too technical for the audience envisioned by the government anthropology of the day. Boas's o w n aims were more comprehensive than the Bureau's. H e envisioned a follow-up series of Handbooks devoted to each of the linguistic stocks "in which the development of each language, so far as it can be traced by comparative studies, should be treated" (32nd A R for 1910-11, 1918:27). Moreover, he intended to produce "a uniform series of outlines of Indian languages to be published in synoptic form for use in comparative studies by the philologists of the world" (33rd A R for 1911-12, 1919, p. xxxiv). H e envisioned a selection of Indian texts for class use from the languages covered in the Handbook (Boas to Dixon, 23 Oct. 1905: A P S ) . Although these goals were abortive, they indicate the powerful urge toward systematization in which Boas and his students were engaged. Boas's linguistic interests were changing. His early fieldwork necessarily focused on survey ethnography and linguistic classification in little k n o w n areas. Only broad genetic groupings of languages emerged from such methods. T o recheck more carefully "would necessitate a special study of each language which in most cases cannot be undertaken" (Dawson to Boas, 23 Feb. 1886: A P S ) . Boas's last serious contribution to genetic classification of American languages was published in 1894. Already, he was moving toward more intensive analyses of particular languages. Stocking (1974b) suggested that Boas was already turning away from regional trait studies w h e n he began his Chinook work in 1890. In any case, the Handbook aimed toward morphological classification and psychological characterization, which could result from either genetic relationship or diffusion. T h e inclusion of Tlingit, Haida and Athabascan indicated that Boas was still interested in genetic relationship, although he also stressed "comparison of differing psychological types in a single broad geographical region" (Stocking 1974b: 461).

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Ethnology

185

Boas's Introduction to the Handbook set forth his views o n linguistic description of American languages. T h e content recapitulated that of his article on languages for the H B A I but w a s greatly elaborated and far m o r e didactic. Boas emphasized the diversity of American languages, although s o m e traits were widespread (as previously noted b y Duponceau, Pickering, Gallatin, Brinton and even Powell, w h o interpreted the similarities as reflecting a c o m m o n evolutionary stage, characterized by polysynthesis or incorporation): It is often assumed that there is one type of American language, but even a superficial knowledge of representative dialects shows that much greater than their similarities are their differences, and that the psychological basis of morphology is not by any means the same in thefifty-fivestocks that occur on our continent. (Boas 1906:644) T h e categories of each language were unique, and description must not rely o n Indo-European g r a m m a r . Boas disputed evolutionary assumptions that, despite patterns of habitual thought, culture change could modify the resources of any language in response to the changing needs of its speakers. Languages were selected to represent as m a n y "psychologically distinct types" as possible (Boas to Kroeber, 4 April 1904: A P S ) . T h e psychological goals, however, proved less tractable than Boas had envisioned: It was originally intended to give a somewhat elaborate introduction, setting forth the essential psychological characteristics of American languages; but with the development of the plan of work it was found necessary to relegate this discussion to the end of the whole work, because without a somewhat detailed discussion of the various languages the essential points can not be substantiated by reliable evidence. (1911a: 75) T h e psychological s u m m a r y of American languages w a s never completed, although it defined the scope of the Handbook. Each sketch contained brief typological generalizations about the particular language. Nonetheless, the psychological interest of the Handbook sketches w a s hailed as a major innovation b y Boas's contemporaries. Goddard (1914:560) praised the psychological emphasis o n ideas and "the mental classification applied b y the particular people as evidenced b y their language". Sapir (1917:81) considered Boas's w o r k the culmination of Bureau linguistics because of the "aesthetic delight" of the psychologically distinct structures of the languages compared. Boas w a s , however, somewhat wary of the typological-psychological school of linguistics, particularly in America, because of its usual evolutionary overtones. In contrast, Boas emphasized the diversity of

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North American linguistic structures and their entailed mental worlds. In contrast, scholars such as Brinton and Powell assumed that all American languages shared grammatical features and evolutionary stage of development. Boas stressed that his contribution to the Bureau Handbook project was the format for writing a descriptive grammar. Despite unique categories for each language, the list of things to be covered had to be systematic or 'analytical'. His o w n sketch of Kwakiutl in the American Anthropologist was presented as an explicit model for contributors (1911a:77): "the psychological groupings" would "depend entirely upon the inner form of each language" so that "the grammar has been treated as though an intelligent Indian was going to develop the forms of his o w n thoughts by an analysis of his o w n forms of speech". The analytic results of such analysis were synchronic, reflecting "the present state of grammatical development in each linguistic group" rather than "the fundamental categories from which the present form of each language has developed" (1911a:77-78). Tidy answers to psychological questions could not be formulated because "in no language can be found a psychological system which is carried through logically" (Boas to Holmes, 16 July 1904: B A E ) . The Handbook marked a distinct change in Boas's relations to the Bureau. His early association (as with the National M u s e u m ) preceded his emergence as major figure in the reconfiguration of American anthropology around an independent power base in N e w York City. Although the Handbook was conceived at least by 1890, in 1901 M c G e e (to Boas, 5 April 1901: B A E ) felt that resumption of linguistic work on Mexican language classification required a change in Bureau publication policies. But negotiations began again from scratch after Powell's death and the appointment of Holmes as Chief of the Bureau. Holmes was forced to concentrate on getting the Handbook of American Indians into print. Thus, fieldwork by William Jones and H . H . Sinclair, under Boas's direction, was cancelled. The "preparation of the proposed outline of American linguistics" simply had to wait (Holmes to Boas, 12 N o v . 1903: B A E ) . Holmes did, however, attempt to persuade Langley (15 N o v . 1903: B A E ) that the work was imperative because texts in the original language were "the only material on which a later study of American linguistics can be based". H e also suggested limited technical editions, although this contradicted the established Bureau policy of publishing only popular materials.

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W o r k on the Handbook began on a small scale in 1903. Boas (to Andree, 27 N o v . 1907: A P S ) became rapidly disillusioned with its progress: "I a m very sorry to say that our American work is going on very unsatisfactorily [...] [It] has c o m e to a standstill, and what is more, it would be very hard to revive it again". Boas (to Hodge, 15 Feb. 1909: B A E ) was forced to emphasize the salvage value of his fieldwork, in whichfieldnotes could be worked up later by students w h o had not collected them (to Hodge, 29 Jan. 1914: B A E ) . Boas's problems multiplied when Fewkes succeeded Holmes as Chief of the Bureau. Fewkes was barely willing to meet existing obligations (to Boas, 1 April 1918: B A E ) . Boas noted to Kroeber (23 Sept. 1918: A P S ) that "Fewkes is not very kindly disposed toward linguistics". The Bureau failed to respond to his argument that the grammatical structure of m a n y American languages was virtually unknown and that, in m a n y cases, material had only to be written up and published. Boas (to Fewkes, 6 Feb. 1924: B A E ) was forced to pursue publication outlets elsewhere until the Bureau could again afford such work. A s a result, the Handbook continued under Columbia University auspices. Boas's position in the Bureau was somewhat ambiguous. Although he controlled the linguistic work of the institution in his role as Honorary Philologist, problems arose from the ambiguous mandate of 'philology' among the priorities of the Bureau. Boas took it upon himself to supervise and correct the linguistic work of the entire Bureau staff. Swanton and Frachtenberg were his protégés and Michelson willingly accepted such direction, especially because it enhanced his fieldwork opportunities (Michelson to Hodge, 8 M a y 1911: B A E ) . Others were less enthusiastic. All letters on American Indian linguistics were referred automatically to Boas (Boas to Holmes, 7 Dec. 1903:

BAE). Moreover, Handbook personnel were selected directly by Boas. The long course of preparation encompassed changes in the discipline of anthropology between 1890 and 1911 and as well as in standards for getting along with Boas. Boas (to Holmes, 17 Feb. 1906: B A E ) was often "discouraged" by the quality of fieldwork. H e excluded most of the older Bureau staff, Powell's associates, and the missionaries whose work the Bureau used without m u c h critical judgment. Although Swanton became a Bureau m e m b e r and Goddard had been a missionary, both were, at the time of the Handbook sketches, at least honorary Boasians (Stocking 1974b: 458). Boas had originally counted on Kroeber and the California department

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for m u c h of the urgent work on American languages but demurred to Hodge (7 Feb. 1910: B A E ) : "As matters have developed in California, the task is m u c h greater than it seemed a few years ago. The University of California has not enough money and both Dixon's and Kroeber's work are not quite satisfactory". Although trained by Boas, Kroeber was in rebellion against his mentor. H e obtained his California job through Putnam, over Boas's protests of his inexperience. Kroeber had little enthusiasm for participation in the Boas-controlled Handbook project but could not refuse outright. W h e n Boas wanted to include California languages among those requiring additional fieldwork, Kroeber responded politely but frankly that he hoped to control work within California himself. Boas (to Kroeber 13 March 1905: A L K ) was offended: "I a m sorry that it seems impossible to get you interested in any work that does not originate with you, and so I give up further attempts to interest you in our work". Kroeber questioned the propriety of publishing his research outside California, complained about the language Boas wanted him to describe, and requested more information about the structure to be imposed on all contributions (to Boas, 23 Dec. 1903; 21 Feb. 1904: A P S ) . Boas sent some of his o w n work to illustrate what was intended (to Kroeber, 19 M a y 1904: A P S ) . Kroeber wanted to do Yuki rather than Yokuts, on which he claimed his work was "unsystematic" (to Boas, 19 M a y 1904: A P S ) . H e prepared the sketch, then complained of publication delays and requested permission to publish it elsewhere (Ibid.). After a curt exchange of letters, Boas decided to omit Kroeber's sketch altogether. Although Kroeber had not worked extensively on either Yokuts or Yuki, he had sufficient material to comply with Boas's plans had he wished to do so. His collaborator Roland Dixon prepared a sketch of Maidu which was further from Boas's standards than m u c h of Kroeber's published linguistic work; nonetheless, Dixon's sketch was included. In fact, Kroeber welcomed Dixon's contribution because it would force him to "formulate the grammars" of the languages on which he had worked (Kroeber to Sapir, 22 Sept. 1922: A L K ) . M u c h of Kroeber's o w n work on California languages, e.g., W a s h o , was in the Boasian style, stressing territorial contiguity and reshaping of traits within a limited historical area over time. Kroeber even presented a comparative sketch on Yuki and Yokuts for a 1906 volume commemorating the 25th anniversary of Boas's doctorate.

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Kroeber's primary commitment, however, differed from Boas's. H e was concerned with surveyfieldworkamong the diversity of California languages aimed at establishing genetic relationship and typological characterization. Even at this early date, Kroeber was concerned with stylistic overview in a w a y that contradicted Boas's emphasis on 'analytic' grammar, with elements presented in detail. Kroeber noted to Boas (19 M a y 1904: A P S ) : "[...] on almost any California language I would probably find it easier to give you a semi-philosophical description based on analysis than a complete statement of all the exact details of structure". At stake, in part, was the length of the analysis. Both Kroeber and Boas were interested in psychological and typological characterization of languages. Both drew on work in German philosophy of language. Boas, h o w ever, was more rigid about the amount of detail that had to be presented as evidence for such generalizations. Kroeber was closer to the typological interest of Sapir, illustrated in his Language (1921c), which was employed later by his students in writing process-oriented descriptive grammars of American languages. The third California sketch was by Pliny Goddard, w h o embraced wholeheartedly Boas's view of the Handbook. Despite his interest in Athabascan historical comparisons, Goddard docilely accepted Boas's dictum of 'analytic' or descriptive treatment of each language within this widespread and divergent stock (Stocking 1974b:470). Goddard, however, preferred to reserve judgment on doubtful analytic points pending more systematic knowledge of comparative Athabascan (to Boas, 18 Dec. 1907: A P S ) . Although neither Goddard nor Dixon wrote linguistically brilliant sketches, they met the format established by Boas and were included with minor revisions. Even Sapir, Boas's most brilliant linguistic student, had problems with his Handbook contribution. The Takelma grammar, Sapir's Columbia dissertation under Boas, was too long in its original form (Sapir to Boas, 1 July 1907: A P S ) . Boas m a d e no attempt to rearrange Sapir's material, but postponed its publication to the second volume because it did not match the other contributions (Boas to Hodge, 19 Feb. 1910: B A E ) : Sapir "has not confined himself to a sketch such as I wanted for the Handbook but has written out the grammar very fully, so that consequently his paper will not be quite in accord with the rest of the book". Less talented linguists simply found themselves out of the field as defined by Boas, w h o was coming to control more and more of the resources

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for American linguistic research. Boas (to M c G e e , 5 March 1898: B A E ) believed that a diligent worker approached linguistics like a clerk. Boas preferred to depend on "one of the young m e n to w h o m w e must look to continue our work" rather than to revise the unsatisfactory work submitted. M c G e e , though he approved of thefieldworkitself, accepted this decision. T o Henning, he could only suggest a direct appeal to Boas: I fear his failure to give you encouragement indicates question in his mind as to your special capability for those lines of scientific research in which he has been testing you [...]. His scientific standards are indeed high; but it is because they are high that he is esteemed in scientific circles. (25 N o v . 1898: B A E )

Boas eliminated Henry Hull St. Clair from his program after two years of academic work andfieldstudy. St. Clair failed to present his monthly reports from thefieldto Boas and the Bureau. Boas (to Holmes, 18 Jan. 1904: B A E ) was explicit about h o w directed research should proceed: St. Clair has given m e considerable worry. H e is admirably adapted to conduct linguistic work and I have no fault to find with his work of last s u m m e r . H e [...] cannot bring himself to feel the necessity of reporting regularly on the progress of his work, [so] that I told him I could not put up with it any longer. Consequently I simply want him to work out the material that he has collected for us up to this time in such a shape that it will be available for future students. I should not want to entrust him with any more fieldwork. It is a great pity that one of the most promising of young m e n has to be cut out in this way.

Elsewhere, Boas noted (to Holmes, 13 Feb. 1904: B A E ) : "I have no fault with the results of his work, although his failure to communicate with the h o m e office is intolerable". St. Clair's sketch of Shoshone was omitted from the Handbook. (A later Shoshone fieldworker, moreover, also complained of Boasian tyranny, in which discipline was valued over scientific merit (Dmitri Shimkin to B A E archivist Margaret Blaker, 11 July 1965: B A E ) . The most satisfactory sketches were contributed by Boas's o w n students. Frachtenberg and Speck caused no major problems. Jones described his native Fox adequately, and Boas hoped that the Bureau could hire him as a lifelong specialist in Algonquian (to Holmes, 18 Jan. 1904: B A E ) . After Jones's murder in the Philippines (Rideout 1922), Michelson of the Bureau staff revised his materials for inclusion. Swanton, hired by the Bureau as a Siouan specialist to replace J. O w e n Dorsey, prepared sketches of Haida and Tlingit, on which he had worked under Boas's direction. At the end of his life, Swanton looked back on the linguistic portion of Boas's urgent ethnology

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program and concluded that little of the work met later linguistic standards: "I regard myself for the most part as only afiller-inbefore the real linguists (Sapir and his students) arrived on the scene" (Swanton to Dell H y m e s , 14 Jan. 1957). Each of these students accepted Boas's intention that the Handbook stand as a major statement of the n e w American anthropology, simultaneously providing descriptive linguistic materials, a model for linguistic description, and methodological principles for the study of language. T h e Handbook was only possible after Boas had trained researchers w h o would follow his guidelines for such a synthesis. Boas insisted that this mandate be taken entirely seriously. Gatschet had sufficient material for "a very fair grammatical sketch of a number of languages which are nearly extinct" (Boas to M c G e e , 9 Feb. 1900: B A E ) . T h e abundant descriptive material should be arranged for utility to other scholars. Boas did not, however, think Gatschet k n e w h o w to write an 'analytical' grammar of the detail and extent required by the Handbook format. Boas's policies did not endear him to the Bureau, especially its less professional supporters. A particularly virulent protest was waged by Jacob Platt D u n n (1855-1924), a private scholar w h o wanted to revise Gatschet's work (C. D u n n 1939). Boas's approach was defended by Michelson because the so-called practical grammars extolled by D u n n missed "the structural peculiarities" of languages (Michelson to Hodge, 6 A u g . 1912: B A E ) . Michelson stressed that he had no reason to defend Boas, since he had not been trained by him, but insisted that the days for practical grammars were past. Moreover, Michelson accused D u n n (31 A u g . 1912: B A E ) of criticizing comparative linguistics without understanding it; all American philologists had been influenced by the German school: "I seriously doubt if a book could be written showing the structural peculiarities of American Indian languages in such a style as to be intelligible in all its details to someone w h o did not k n o w even the rudiments of linguistic science". Both Boas and Michelson concluded that D u n n knew no linguistics. Excerpts from Dunn's letters illustrate the level of the dispute: Some very good things have come out of Germany, such as Carl Schurz [German-born American General in the Civil W a r (1829-1906)] and beer. What I object to is German mystification — the German system of making a science of words instead of facts, and incidentally falling down on facts (Dunn to Michelson, 8 Sept. 1912: B A E ) .

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Chapter 10 I a m not surprised that m y work should not receive the approval of anyone w h o has absorbed the ideas of Dr. Boas, and I should be grieved if it did, because I would know that I had failed in m y effort to get something practical and within the understanding of fairly intelligent Americans. The greatest source of trouble that I have found in awakening interest in American languages is the unintelligible character of such publications as Boas' Handbook [...]. To m e this is the result of trying to make a mystery of Indian languages to promote professional exclusiveness. I would just about as soon undertake to learn an Indian language as to learn the "lingo" of scientific phonetics. (Dunn to Hodge, 20 July 1912: BAE) M y object in what I wrote was to suggest to the Bureau the advisability of cutting out some of this German rot and getting down to a c o m m o n sense basis [...]. There is no reason w h y languages that can be understood and spoken properly by untutored Indians should be made incomprehensible to average Americans [...]. O n conclusion, I beg to assure you that m y hostility is not to you, but to your system. I venture the prediction that unless something is done to popularize the language work of the Bureau of Ethnology, you will wake up some fine morning andfindthe Bureau abolished. (Dunn to Michelson, 27 Aug. 1912: BAE)

Dunn's criticisms of Boas's program of American Indian linguistics were undoubtedly shared by a substantial portion of the Bureau staff, particularly the archaeologists. The Bureau had long utilized information collected by untrained observers. Boas's methods, grounded in a theoretical linguistics whose unfamiliarity must have infuriated those whose goals were set elsewhere, were consistent with his anthropology. His innovations created a discontinuity with m u c h of the past history of American anthropology. Established anthropologists as well as students failed to meet Boas's n e w standards, engendering predictable hostility. Objection to this project, and Boas's refusal to compromise his standards for it, demonstrate that American anthropology in 1911 was not yet thoroughly Boasian. 10.3 The Myth Concordance The morphological description of American languages was not the only Bureau 'mapping' project continued by Boas and his students. Powell and Curtin had envisioned a myth concordance two decades before Boas proposed collaboration between the American Folklore Society and the Bureau (Boas to Henshaw, 6 Dec. 1890: B A E ) . Boas proposed including work by John Murdoch, Garrick Mallery, Daniel Brinton, Reverend John M c L e a n , Horatio Hale, James Mooney, A . S . Gatschet, J . O . Dorsey, Powell, J. W . Fewkes, Washington Matthews, John Bourke, Jeremiah Curtin and Alice Fletcher. Several of these did not hold professional positions in anthropology.

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Most, however, including "Miss Fletcher", were somehow affiliated with the Bureau. Only for the Northwest coast could Boas depend on his o w n fieldwork. The plan was abortive for a number of reasons, including lack of publication funds and difficulty of eliciting appropriate material from wouldbe contributors. B y 1905, however, when Boas returned to the idea of a myth concordance, m u c h had changed in American anthropology. N o w he could draw on the work of his former students, w h o recognized the need for such a concordance and agreed that Boas should supervise it. Indeed, Kroeber hesitated to become involved with Bureau efforts unless Boas oversaw the work (to Dixon, 16 Dec. 1905; to Boas, 15 Dec. 1905: A L K ) : "In any case I hope the project will not be turned over to anyone w h o is a mere compiler or s u m m a rizer and has not had occasion, through having done productive work, to understand the problems and requirements of the subject". Boas became chair of an A A A myth concordance committee which also included G . A . Dorsey, Kroeber, and Swanton. Swanton was appointed by Boas to chair the American Folklore Society committee which also included Boas and Dixon. Swanton promptly asked Boas's advice on h o w to proceed (26 March 1906: A P S ) . Boas suggested listing materials by 'catch-words' for incidents (to Dixon, 21 M a y 1907: A P S ) and wanted to present a tentative list of these at the next A A A meeting. Each committee member was expected to collect catch-words for his area of specialization (Boas to Kroeber, 21 M a y 1907: A P S ) . Boas conceived the work as growing out of his o w n mythological element studies on the Northwest coast, but his students were less clear about what was intended. Kroeber sent a list but commented: "what is the next step with this mass of material?" (to Boas, 3 Aug. 1907: A P S ) . Swanton noted to Boas (3 Aug. 1907: A P S ) : "I haven't a clear idea of the method of identifying myths by catchwords, and should like an example". Kroeber was startled by the initial results and the magnitude of the project (to Boas, 16 N o v . 1909: A L K ) . Swanton (to Kroeber, 23 Sept. 1910: U C D A ) felt that only partial success could be attained: "If w e take an extreme Humistic position w e can not prove connection between more than a thousandth part of our myths". Even so, "the resemblance between many more than that is sufficient for some sort of classification that is vastly better than our present chaos". Swanton thought that directly related, probably related, and merely similar myths could be distinguished (to Kroeber, 9 Sept. 1910: U C D A ) .

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In spite of these difficulties, the Journal of American Folklore published a theoretical article by Swanton in 1907 which suggested a method to bring together similarities of "genuine" American myths by means of "mythic formulae" or separate episodes and ideas. Lowie listed some "suitable tags" for American myths in 1908 (a, b) and 1909. Kroeber (1908a, 1908b) stressed a system to deal with concrete ideas and episodes as well as the more inclusive groups which organized them. In 1912, one of Kroeber's students decided to tackle the matter in earnest. Kroeber (to Waterman, 17 June 1913: U C D A ) counselled proceeding with caution: "Your plans for a handbook on mythology interest m e greatly but I fear you willfindit a bigger undertaking than you imagine. I have played around the fringe of the problem enough to be impressed by it". Waterman (to H o d g e , 29 M a y 1913: B A E ) attempted to interest the Bureau in a concordance for occurrence and diffusion of every tale, apparently under the impression that the Bureau w a s already engaged in s o m e such compilation. Waterman had hoped to approach Boas with a "matured" scheme already in place, but H o d g e (10 June 1913: U C D A ) immediately referred him to Boas. Waterman's Columbia dissertation w a s in fact considerably more limited in scope, dealing only with explanatory elements in American mythology. After the completion of this project, however, the idea of a myth concordance faded from view. Boas's interest arose largely from the implications for primitive psychology (Boas to Waterman, 12 Feb. 1913: A P S ) : Incidentally, towards the end of your discussion you make the remark [...] that there is no reason to suppose that the psychological conditions in early times were different from what they are now among primitive people... [T]his thought ought to be expressed very much more emphatically [...] because it is really the raison d'etre of your whole thesis. The effort to prepare a concordance of American mythology persisted through the tradition from semi-professional anthropology to the Bureau to early Boasian work. B y the early 20th century, resources for this task were still restricted to the Bureau and the American Folklore Society. Even Boas's initiative failed to muster the necessary cooperative effort, and the first comprehensive concordance, prepared by a non-anthropologist, appeared only in 1929. Stith T h o m p s o n ' s Tales of North American Indians (1968) arose from his Harvard dissertation on European borrowings in American Indian folktales under George L y m a n Kittredge (1860-1941). T h o m p s o n had inquired about the progress of Boas's concordance early on (29 M a y 1913: A P S ) .

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10.4 The Phonetics Committee In spite of the best efforts of the Bureau, techniques of phonetic transcription of American languages, and consequently a reliable sense of their phonetic characters, remained unstandardized at the onset of the 20th century. T h e 1880 Bureau alphabet designed b y William D w i g h t Whitney had n u m e r ous limitations. First, it w a s based o n Indo-European languages, with each sound illustrated in one of them. Whitney w a s an outsider to the Bureau's cooperative effort to describe American languages. Second, the alphabet consisted of a list of sounds, with special notations for vowel length, nasalization, aspiration and glottalization. "Synthetic sounds" were to b e represented by whatever sound seemed m o r e frequent. It would be 1889 before B o a s resolved this issue of "alternating sounds" in which conditioned perception rather than lack of phonetic consistency explained European inability to hear the sounds of Indian languages unambiguously. M c G e e (to B o a s , 2 7 M a y 1903: B A E ) wanted B o a s to revise this alphabet as a "final" and "general" system for recording Indian languages. B o a s responded (28 M a y 1903: B A E ) that the question w a s m o r e accurately phased as "... whether it is at all desirable to adopt a general scheme for all languages". H e objected: " O n the whole [...] because it unnecessarily increases the n u m b e r of diacritical marks." His o w n system w a s "quite adequate" for the Northwest Coast languages, "but the s a m e scheme could not b e applied to languages like the Sioux or to those of the Pueblos". In spite of this conservatism o n terminology and notation, B o a s chaired of the A A A committee o n phonetic transcription of Indian languages. T h e report appeared in the 1916 Smithsonian Miscellaneous Contributions. T h e committee consisted of Boas, Goddard, Sapir, Kroeber, and Harrington of the Bureau (later dropped because he w a s not a m e m b e r of the A A A ) . T h e n e w alphabet w a s aimed at specialists (Boas et al. 1916: 2 ) : To provide for the recording and discussing of the complex and varied phonetic phenomena encountered in American linguistics, a fairly detailed and comprehensive system has been provided. It is necessarily of such a character that it can be employed only by a specialist in phonetics. By its aid it is to be hoped that the phonetic features of all of the extant North American languages may be discussed and compared. T h e committee faced an inherent conflict in attempting to reconcile the simplest possible notation with use of established symbols. Sapir, w h o d o m i nated the committee, maintained that, whatever the particular inconsistencies,

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the new system would not be successful if it forced explanation of symbols in individual cases (Sapir to Kroeber, 29 April 1913: U C D A ) . Indeed, the committee focused on organizing American linguistics around conventional phonetic signs and accepted standards of presentation. Previously, there had been no such authoritative body of scholars systematizing the description of American languages. The single outside expert, Whitney, had been replaced by a group of practitioners whose self-conscious professionalism was symbolized by the new orthography. The n e w system also differed formally from its Bureau predecessor. Sapir was elated that the alphabet explained the character of sounds peculiar to American languages (to Kroeber, 23 June 1913: U C D A ) . T h e report presented a chart of consonants, organized by point of articulation, showing blanks where theoretically possible sounds were nowhere attested. Vowels followed Sweet's system, although some possible feature combinations were not illustrated. Examples were drawn from Indian languages. For example, /i/, a high-back-wide vowel, was represented by Southern Paiute Piva'c. Such a system encouraged description of the relationship of sounds rather than mere listing. Although Sapir's formulation of the concept of the phoneme appeared a decade later, the presentation is consistent with his later efforts to describe the actual organization, for a m e m b e r of the culture, of the sounds in a language. The committee debated over the validity of sponsoring such a specialized system. Kroeber (to Sapir, 13 June 1913: U C D A ) disapproved of legislating such matters but considered the result "better than would have been expected" for a "compromise patchwork". Kroeber thought the phonetic detail too exaggerated for the needs of most anthropologists. Indeed, only Harrington and Sapir found it important, and they already realized the grounds of their disagreement. Although eager to moderate Harrington's "[r]iotous inclination to indulge in the expression of fine shades of sounds in the symbols used for them" (Kroeber to Sapir, 13 June 1913: U C D A ) , Kroeber thought that the "learned and elaborate" format would lessen the "practical influence" of the standardization effort. Kroeber, like the Bureau, hoped to use the results of semi-professional collaborators whose work was valuable even though it could not meet the criteria for inclusion in Boas's Handbook of American Indian Languages. Sapir's formulation excluded m u c h such work. Indeed, Boas himself tended to favour professional standards which excluded a number of respectable scholars. The "specialist" bias

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of the phonetics committee report was, then, consistent with the overall direction of Boasian innovations in the practice of American anthropology but it was not accepted with equal enthusiasm by all of his students, particularly those whose talents lay in ethnology rather than linguistics.

Edward Sapir (1884-1939) Philip Sapir. Reprinted with permission.

Chapter 11

Mapping the Languages of California

Kroeber attempted to encourage ethnological and linguistic research in California, realizing increasingly that his o w n "ultimate work" would be in the state (to Hodge, 22 M a y 1916: B A E ) . Indeed, of 34 dissertations presented in the department prior to Kroeber's retirement in 1946, only one was archaeological (Rowe 1962:409). As Putnam withdrew from the department, Kroeber moulded it to his o w n interests. Putnam became formal head of the Berkeley department in 1903, after his resignation from the American M u s e u m , and Kroeber seized the chance to plead for formalization of the California survey work (to Putnam, 8 Aug. 1903: A L K ) : [...] the purpose of m y work would be rendered more precise and its scope m a d e more generally apparent if it could be designated as an Ethnological Survey of California. A s this is exactly what the work has been, this n a m e would give the researches a more definite popular appreciation and a more formal standing. Kroeber (to Swanton, 10 M a y 1912: U C D A ) believed that the department could not do too m u c h such mapping, stressing (to Harrington, 16 Nov. 1905: A L K ) that the uniquely American ethnological tradition involved practical "research directed principally toward the accumulation and digestion of new information". California ethnology was beginning to be k n o w n through the efforts of his staff (Kroeber to Gifford, 10 July 1918: U C D A ) : "California is not a new and freefieldfor us, but one with established and (in intent at least) coherent workings". Indeed, such survey ethnography provided the data on which more sophisticated and intensive work could proceed in the future. The most salient characteristic of California ethnology was its diversity, which encouraged the survey approach. Kroeber stressed to the Advisory Committee of the department (Nov. 1902: A L K ) that "ethnological conditions in California are different from those elsewhere, and therefore the methods of work must be somewhat different". In practice, this meant that a

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"reconnaissance" of the state entailed comparative methods to clarify the "range of California culture" {Ibid.). T h e work of the department was systematic only in California, and Kroeber used this mandate to determine his other projects (Lowie 1936:xxi): Kroeber, on the other hand, very soon came to organize the chaotic maze of facts, summarizing his major findings for the benefit of his colleagues. A s the spirit m o v e d him, he would redefine regional types of culture, the morphological peculiarities of native tongues, or the essence of aboriginal beliefs. Since the political boundaries of the state did not coincide with ethnic divisions, he was inevitably drawn into intensive consideration of other geographical units. Kroeber's linguistic work was similar in intent and method to that of the Bureau in the 19th century. H e and his students did not produce full descriptions of languages. Rather, they tried to clarify the linguistic affiliations of isolated peoples and languages. This might involve anything from the fact of relationship to subclassification of closely related languages to dialect studies. Kroeber's attitude toward linguistics was generally positive. For example, his paper on Moquelumnan dialects involved fine-grained phonetic analysis. Kroeber w a s also fascinated by the pattern and coherence of languages. Indeed, his earliest contacts with anthropology came through immersion in Boas's Chinook materials at Columbia (Hymes 1961a:2). But linguistic work was not pursued for its o w n sake. Kroeber believed that "in the last resort ethnology does not require for its successful prosecution an absolute understanding of the structure of the language spoken by the people w h o are being studied" (Kroeber to Swanton, 22 Dec. 1908: U C D A ) . Linguistics gained Kroeber's attention w h e n it clarified culture history (1940:7). Ethnology needed historical linguistics: the Handbook of California Indians w a s arranged by linguistic families and culture areas, i.e., geography and philology (Kroeber 1925: 281): [...] the philologist, and only he, can come to the ethnologist's or historian's rescue. A dozen randomly preserved facts from the history of civilization of a nation are almost certain to be so disconnected as to allow only of the most general or doubtful inferences. The same number of words, if only they and their meanings are carefully written down, m a y if there are more fully k n o w n cognate tongues, suffice to determine with reasonable assurance the provenience and the main outlines of the national existence of a lost people. The student of history w h o permits the difference of material and technique of the sister science philology to lead him into the lax convenience of disregarding it as something alien and useless, withdraws his hand from one of the most productive tools within his reach — on occasion his only serviceable instrument.

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In Kroeber's view (Hymes 1961a:24), "[languages, like cultures, were units to be ordered, their connections traced and explained, and in this period of American anthropology the value of linguistics for ordering ethnological data was at a peak". The linguistic survey w a s the "rapidest, most economical and most decisive of the several methods of anthropology" (Kroeber to Barrows, 25 June 1909: U C D A ) . The linguistic work of C . Hart Merriam illustrates the methodology (1962:xii): [...] Merriam did not set out to do linguistics, did not profess to, and obviously would not have k n o w n h o w . H e remained a natural historian recording the distribution of words as a means to ascertaining the precise distributions of dialects, languages, tribes, families, and their beliefs and customs as earlier he had recorded the distribution of song sparrows and grizzly bears and yellow pines [...] in order to delimit life zones. W h a t was at stake was not phonetic and phonemic accuracy in elucidating grammars — which Merriam never dreamed of doing — but an identification of words. Language w a s an explicit means to an end (Kroeber 1925:vii): "I have considered speech only insofar as the accumulated knowledge of the languages of California has led to their classification on a genetic or historical basis and thus contributes to the insight of the origin, movements, and relationship of the several nations". Indeed, linguistics was most useful w h e n it correlated with other things. Gifford's study of California kinship terms attempted to isolate "a kinship stratum c o m m o n to all of California" (Gifford 1922:283), the results hopefully to correlate with Kroeber's linguistic typologizing. In practice, of course, California ethnology was more complex and correlation of linguistic family with social organization remained, for the most part, "a wild dream" {Ibid.). M u c h of the instruction in the California department w a s linguistic, intended to facilitate these 'mapping' goals. Kroeber's courses worked directly with several languages for which informants were available in Berkeley (Kroeber to Estee, 17 Oct. 1912: U C D A ) . The crucial linguistic problem was separating the influence of past genetic relationship from that of recent borrowing. The point of view was Boas's, using linguistic results for ethnological classification. W h e n Goddard left California in 1909, however, Kroeber was unable to hire another linguist. Sapir's one-year research fellowship ended in 1908 and Kroeber failed to obtain a permanent position for him.

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The mapping of California ethnology was carried out independently of Boas, despite Kroeber's Columbia training. Boas realized (to Lowie, 8 March 1918: A P S ) that "the future of California and of N e w York seem to be welding together". California was indeed, part of 'Boasian anthropology'. Boas and Kroeber, however, often disagreed about research priorities. Boas (to Kroeber, 2 April 1902: A L K ) , for example, thought that survey work was overemphasized: I fully believe that you and Goddard have enough to do in southern and central California. I should rather think that five or six m e n more would find enough work to do for quite a little while. I understand fully the reason for your scattering work. I have done the same thing in B . C . for some years, and this had led m e to the conviction that it is not well to continue scattering work for too long a time. In addition to surveys, Boas (to Kroeber, 6 Jan. 1902: A L K ) urged concentrated description of more limited areas: "I a m of the opinion that you ought not to do m u c h more miscellaneous work among the various tribes, but that you should take up one group by itself and work it out thoroughly. Kroeber was not, however, interested in taking Boas's advice, believing that the kind of survey work Boas had done in British Columbia had yet to be completed for California. H e even attempted to keep Boas from extending his o w n linguistic work to California (Kroeber to Boas, 3 March 1905: A L K ) , hoping to retain control of all work done in the state. Boas's Handbook, however, was intended to cover all American languages, including those of California. Kroeber did not welcome such collaboration and was determined that his former teacher would not dictate research problems in his department regardless of potential benefits. 11.1 'The Handbook of California Indians' Kroeber's goals for California ethnology could not be achieved by relying on institutional resources available in California. Through M r s . Hearst, the M u s e u m had extensive Egyptian collections but extremely limited representation of most localities in California (Kroeber to Putnam, 4 March 1903: U C D A ) . Extra resources in the state included Indian agents, boarding school officials and missionaries. Vocabulary forms and questionnaires were sent out, in the tradition of the Smithsonian and the Bureau. The University of California Publications in American Archaeology and Ethnology were intended to present factual summaries of work in progress with "reasonable

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installments" of longer projects (Kroeber to Barrett, 16 M a y 1913: A L K ) . The series stressed general work on California ethnology in advance of "the larger and more detailed monographs on limited regions" (Kroeber to Boas, 19 M a y 1903: A L K ) . At the same time, the Berkeley department tried to maintain popular interest (Kroeber to Gifford, 28 Jan. 1916: U C D A ) : "Our business is to be human, not to look learned". With the emphasis on on-going research, a summary of the California fieldwork was postponed repeatedly. Kroeber's major effort to synthesize this ongoing research was the Handbook of California Indians which, although the fieldwork was c o m pleted by 1918, appeared under B A E auspices only in 1925. Kroeber and his California collaborators had already contributed extensively, of course, to the Bureau's Handbook of American Indians. Kroeber (to Hodge, 28 M a y 1913: U C D A ) phrased his project as a summary of existing knowledge of California ethnology: "I believe that building on what has already been done I could prepare for you a smaller work of reference that would satisfy m a n y needs not n o w reached by the Handbook". Kroeber envisioned a framework combining state boundaries and culture area. The Bureau (34th A R for 1912-13, 1922:24) recorded merely the intention to produce "...a series of handbooks devoted to the Indians of the respective states" of which California was to be the exemplar. Kroeber noted to Hodge (20 June 1913: B A E ) : In some ways the volume of California will probably be the least typical of the entire series, both on account of the great number of groups involved, and because the state is itself an entire culture area. This, however, would make the problem of fitting it to a general scheme all the more interesting. The Handbook was to be a cooperative project, drawing on the labours of Goddard, Sapir, Barrett, Nels Nelson, Waterman, Gifford, L . L . Loud, Dixon, Mason, Philip Mills Jones (1870-1916) and, from the Bureau, Harrington. Kroeber (1925:viii) simply combined "the knowledge which has accumulated through the efforts of the group of which I a m one". The facts came from the unpublished work of all these collaborators (Kroeber to Hodge, 17 Jan. 1915:

ALK): I a m becoming tremendously reinterested in the archaeology of California as a whole, which attention to special problems has caused m e to remember only perfunctorily in the last few years. A balanced marshalling and summing up of the most important pieces of our knowledge is really called for. A n d the facts are there.

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The California Handbook, however, encountered m a n y of the same problems with Bureau publication as did Boas's work on American languages. Kroeber stressed to Hodge (8 April 1919: B A E ) that the work "occupies a rather unusual position in the Bureau's publications because it tries to be so definitively a summary and interpretation of all available knowledge on the subject". Butfinancialuncertainties in the Bureau precluded commitment to "a definite project for systematic research in a c o m paratively limited area". Although the California materials were eventually published, no other state handbooks were ever seriously planned (Hodge to Kroeber, 19 Jan. 1917: B A E ) . Kroeber found publication delays almost intolerable since the material was gradually becoming known, particularly through his o w n teaching at Berkeley; credits for the work were becoming increasingly complex (Kroeber to Fewkes, 28 Jan. 1920: B A E ) . The need for a summary peaked several years before it actually appeared. 11.2 California Institutional Cooperation The California department provided an institutional connection for a number of independent or part-time scholars whose work articulated with the aims of Kroeber and his associates to describe the broad outlines of California ethnology (Leeds-Hurwitz 1983). A storekeeper in Indian territory worked on a grammar of Luiseno from 1904 until his murder in 1907. Kroeber, impressed with Sparkman's results, had urged him to prepare them for publication. Kroeber (to Sparkman, 14 Jan. 1902: A L K ) was interested in similarities of Luiseno to Ute, noting: "There has never been, strange as it m a y seem, a grammar published of any dialect of the large Shoshonean family, nor for I k n o w , even compiled". Another non-professional collaborator was Miss Constance Goddard DuBois, w h o m Kroeber urged to prepare detailed descriptions based on her knowledge of Mission Indians. Although department appropriations were not always available for such collaborations, Kroeber was committed to using such materials. The department even accepted the offer of Washington Matthews, formerly associated with the Bureau, to rearrange his notes for use to others. Matthews commented to Kroeber (18 N o v . 1902: U C D A ) : "I do not wish to have [my material] fall into the hands of those w h o m a y misinterpret it in its present state". Matthews was persuaded not to destroy his materials and worked on them under the general supervision of Goddard, also a specialist in Athabascan languages. Matthews' death in 1905 was a great shock to Goddard. Although the material

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remained in the Berkeley department, Goddard could not revise it himself. Most of the papers went to the M u s e u m of Navajo Ceremonial Art in Santa Fe, now renamed the Wheelwright M u s e u m (Halpern & McGreery 1997). One of the major cooperative enterprises of the early 20th century was the Huntington California Expedition of the American M u s e u m , sponsoring Roland Dixon's fieldwork in northeastern California. This territory was avoided by the California staff. Kroeber and Dixon exchanged m u s e u m collections and collaborated on ethnographic and linguistic work (Kroeber to Putnam, 18 April 1902: A L K ) . Dixon began work on Maidu in 1898 for his Harvard dissertation (Dixon to Putnam, 8 N o v . 1908: F W P ) . Dixon ran into problems, however, when Boas and Wissler disagreed over management of the American M u s e u m . Dixon's primary loyalty (to Kroeber, 2 Jan. 1906: U C D A ) was to Boas and he hoped to reestablish productive collaboration with the Columbia department. Kroeber (to Dixon, 21 March 1906: U C D A ) was able to support Dixon's Chimariko work, even offering to publish some of his American M u s e u m materials (Dixon 1910). Kroeber's intention to sum up existing knowledge of California meant that he needed to use manuscript materials from the Bureau of American Ethnology. Kroeber approached the matter through Boas (8 M a y 1904: A P S ) , expressing hope that the Bureau would see this as a mutually beneficial supplement to their o w n work. Dixon and Kroeber were permitted to use Bureau manuscripts in Washington and attempted to incorporate results of previous work as well as to summarize work emanating from the Berkeley department. In 1916, Kroeber made a serious effort to coordinate all researches in the state of California, particularly those of the Bureau, under the general direction of his department. H e envisioned a "conference on anthropological plans and methods" and a "heart-to-heart talk" about c o m m o n aims (Hodge to Harrington, 30 Sept. 1916: B A E ) . In addition to his o w n staff, Kroeber hoped to include Harrington and Frachtenberg from the Bureau as well as Wilson Wallis and Hermann Haeberlin (Kroeber to Boas, 30 Sept. 1916: B A E ) and to clarify "the relations of the researches of this Bureau with those of the University of California, especially with respect to the ethnology and philology of the Indian tribes of Northern California and the adjacent regions". The results of this conference, however, were less than felicitous. Kroeber's summary letter was signed by Harrington and Frachtenberg. Harrington (to Hodge, 12 Dec. 1916: B A E ) felt his research was prejudiced

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b y K r o e b e r ' s suggestions but did not w a n t K r o e b e r to realize his objections: The division of the field recommended is definite and extensive to an unprecedented degree, and its acceptance would bar the Bureau for years to c o m e from the study of areas which might prove to be vitally connected with work already undertaken by the Bureau. It seems to m e that such far-reaching division is wholly unnecessary and unprecedented [...]. Meanwhile I want to beg you to let m e continue with the important and urgent work which I have before m e here in the Chumashan field. H o d g e agreed (29 Jan. 1917: B A E ) that Kroeber should not be able to dictate Bureau fieldwork: [...] it will probably be impracticable for the Bureau of subscribe to all the provisions of the recommendations for the reason that ourfieldof operations is virtually limitless while our working force is so small that w e do not k n o w [...] what future demands m a y necessitate. At the same time, H o d g e reminded Harrington that the Bureau could not afford to specialize extensively on a particular remnant tribe and that the Chumashan work had already taken too long. Kroeber (to H o d g e , 3 Feb. 1917: B A E ) disclaimed intent to dictate to the Bureau: I a m sure it never entered m y mind to try to commit you or the Bureau to any scheme. T h e establishment of clarity in the purposes of you and our students in the c o m m o n Pacific coast field was the first thing I had in mind. So far as submitting our report to you is concerned, I did not think you would regard it as other than a m e m o r a n d u m to be followed so far as seemed desirable and as opportunity allowed. In other words you can if you like utilize it in planning Frachtenberg's work, and I can use it in the same spirit. A s a matter of fact, I a m no more in a position to commit the University of California by formal contract than you can commit the government of the United States. I do think, however, that the meeting was fruitful. Harrington and Frachtenberg both seemed stimulated and all of our people were put in a position to take hold of their problems as a definite part of a wider set of problems. T h e conflict of goals is clear in this incident. The Bureau stood to profit by keeping institutional cooperation in defining research problems on an ad hoc basis whereas Kroeber wanted to consolidate ethnological and linguistic work in California under his o w n direction. Although personal relations remained cordial throughout, the Bureau was equally determined to maintain its scientific autonomy so that institutions other than the University of California could continue to work in the state.

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Harrington's work overlapped most dramatically with Kroeber's plans for California ethnology and linguistics. H e replaced Matilda Stevenson at the Bureau in 1915 and also worked for the Archaeological Institute of America. Harrington was often in conflict with employing institutions because he failed to report the progress of his work and to prepare manuscripts for publication. H o d g e (to Harrington, June 1915: B A E ) worried continually that Harrington was accumulating far more material than he could possibly work up. A c cepted standards of fieldwork at the time are clarified by Hodge's c o m m e n t to Hewitt (3 Nov. 1916: B A E ) : "[...] w e k n o w Harrington and his methods well enough to appreciate the fact that if he devoted a solid year there he would feel that the subject of its ethnology was only well commenced". Kroeber (to Hodge, 3 April 1915: B A E ) acknowledged Harrington's ability but felt he merely needed careful direction. T o Boas (11 Sept. 1909: A L K ) , Kroeber noted Harrington's "unsurpassed brilliance" and total unreliability; Mithun (1996:55) characterizes him as "colorful but secretive" (see also Laird 1975). Harrington's near paranoia that Kroeber would steal his materials brought a response of equal distrust from the Berkeley department. W h e n Harrington wanted to collaborate with the California group in 1916, Gifford assumed that his motives were selfish and devious. Kroeber reassured Gifford (21 Jan. 1916: U C D A ) that he would: [...] stand absolutely pat on all our original plans for research, on m y responsibility.... A s between the University and Harrington, the University comes first, and second, and third, and after that, if he'll play fair, we'll consider him; and the University includes you, and Mason and Outhwaite and Waterman and Wallis if he wants to be in, and it doesn't include Harrington. Kroeber assumed that Harrington's unreasonable requests were on his o w n initiative and preferred to work through H o d g e or Edgar Lee Hewett (1865-1946) of the Archaeological Institute. Kroeber told Gifford (1 Feb. 1916: U C D A ) that he trusted Harrington's basic integrity and thought he simply did not want to be left out. Despite these difficulties, Harrington remained on civil terms with the California department, perhaps because Kroeber tried to avoid direct confrontation. Indeed, Kroeber and Harrington became quite close again at the end of Harrington's life (Hymes, personal communication). B y this time, of course, the conflict between the Bureau and the California department was in the distant past. The Archaeological Institute of America caused more severe problems for Kroeber. A s Director, Hewett envisioned the Institute as an alternative to

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University expeditions in providing fieldwork for students. H e was closer to the Bureau than to Boas and his students, both in his scientific network and in his willingness to employ semi-professional personnel and methods. In practice, the Institute limited itself to the Southwest. Kroeber refused to become involved with the San Francisco branch because of the ineffectiveness of its work in California (Lumnis to Kroeber, 30 Sept. 1908: A L K ) and objected to the limited conception of archaeology and its relations to ethnology (Kroeber to Dixon, 4 N o v . 1908: A L K ) . Boas (to Kroeber, 6 N o v . 1907: A L K ) was dubious about Hewett's methods, noting that he would want to be certain of a student's breadth before permitting him to work for the Institute: " M r . Hewett's view of archaeology is only the training of m e n in careful collecting [...]. [H]is method is an extension of digging but not an improvement of methods of research". For Boas, the opportunity to test his o w n ideas about archaeology came not in the Southwest where Hewett already held some local advantage but through an archaeological school established in Mexico in 1910: the International School of American Archaeology was also to Boas's liking because it included linguistics as well as archaeology (Tozzer 1915:384). H e did not, however, want to be left out entirely. Only after repeated failures to extend the Institute's scope to include ethnological interpretation of archaeological data and a wider geographic area did Boas finally decide to resign. H e explained his point of view in a public circular (24 Dec. 1909: A L K ) , arguing that the Institute was "unprofitable and undignified" and that he was unable to support its "scientific and administrative policies". The Circular implied that Hewett had been devious, if not consciously dishonest, in his dealings with the Institute committee (Spencer to Jacobi, 22 N o v . 1911: A P S ) . Kroeber (to Boas, 23 April 1909: A P S ) felt that Boas should try to influence Institute policies from within, since direct attack was not feasible. H e considered Hewett a schemer but not necessarily unreliable and urged Tozzer of the Peabody M u s e u m to mediate. Kroeber (to Tozzer, 2 April 1909: A L K ) stressed that resignation gave the impression of "a disgruntled clique" and that what was called for was an alternative policy. Other Boasians were more outspoken. Goddard even suggested (to Kroeber, 8 Feb. 1912: A L K ) that Hewett should be censured by the A A A . Boas's disapproval became progressively more explicit (Boas to Marett, 2 Dec. 1912: A P S ) :

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[...] nobody w h o is interested in the scientific advance of anthropology wants to have anything to do with him. Even among the Washington people, w h o are supporting him for political reasons, the only archaeologist, Fewkes, is bitterly opposed to him for scientific reasons. Hewett's association with the Bureau arose from its long-term commitment to Southwestern archaeology (Givens 1992). H o d g e eventually acknowledged the diminishing scientific status of the Institute and responded to 'Boasian' pressure (Dixon to Boas, 28 Jan. 1912: A P S ) . Kroeber (to Wheeler, 21 June 1913: U C D A ) considered the dispute more political than scientific but noted: " M y personal friendships are all with Boston and N e w York m e n w h o were put out of control by the present administration". B y this time, although Boas was himself less active in archaeology than in any other field of anthropology, he and his students were able to exert considerable political pressure on Hewett and the Bureau. T h e cleavages between 'Boasians' and other American anthropologists usually revolved around the scope and methods of anthropological research. Boas's inclusive theory of the subdisciplines of anthropology and their interrelationship continued to dominate modern American anthropology, although it remained practically u n k n o w n outside the United States. The focus on American Indians studied from all points of view is, however, insufficient explanation. Although the Bureau also held this commitment, it failed, except briefly under Powell, to connect its archaeological and physical anthropological researches with those in ethnology and linguistics. Hewett and other early 20th century archaeologists disagreed bitterly with Boas's concept of what should be included in their researches, and such disagreements served to crystallize the unity of Boas and his students in opposition. Gradually, however, the Boasian position c a m e to characterize American anthropology as a whole.

Sapir's M a p of his Six-Unit Linguistic Classification, 1921 Philip Sapir. Reprinted with permission.

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Revising the Linguistic Classification

During the second decade of 20th century American anthropology was preoccupied with reexamination of the 1891 Powell classification resulting from the cumulative work of the Bureau of American Ethnology. T h e Bureau itself m a d e minor revisions in 1894, 1906 and 1915 (Goddard 1996:305). Although the Powell classification seemed to answer the questions for which it was designed, and provided one kind of ethnographic classification for North America, subsequent fieldwork, primarily by Boas and his students, m a d e a number of further connections seem plausible and, more importantly, changed the w a y anthropologists thought about the relevance of linguistic classification to culture history. A number of the participants have commented on the excitement generated in the period w h e n discovery of n e w genetic relationships w a s in the air. Kroeber (1940:7) described in retrospect the emerging n e w questions and problems by about 1915: A s regards relationship problems, the relief afforded by Powell's classification was so great, and the influence of Boas so strong in showing h o w a particular language could be conceptually expressed in terms of its o w n characteristic configuration, that for about 25 years such problems were almost completely in abeyance in American anthropology. About 1915, however, there began to be some stirrings of dissatisfaction, and more or less simultaneously, and mainly independently, Dixon and I in the West, Sapir in the North and elsewhere, began to indicate evidences, however preliminary, of similarities between particular languages suggestive of a c o m m o n origin. Swanton worked in his chosen field of the Southeast [...] and there seems little doubt that his findings [...] will stand [...]. The whole matter of linguistic relationships in native America has assumed an unnecessarily controversial color. In part this is due to Sapir's pronouncements not being understood for what they were, and others, such as Radin attempting proofs but going beyond them. O n the other side, Boas has simply disliked and deplored all historical problems, such as those of relationship necessarily are; and others, like Michelson and Uhlenbeck, have refused to accept any findings worked out with less than the neat precision to which they have been trained in Indo-European.

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Closer to the events, Kroeber (1915a:287) noted his confidence that "the language m a p of North America will be thoroughly recolored in a few years". His optimism was based on the existence of a group of scholars attacking these problems (p. 288): At a chance gathering of anthropologists in Washington a few months since, predictions were m a d e , informally it is true, and in part perhaps not very seriously, but with an undercurrent of conviction, as to the number of families that would be generally recognized in ten years. The estimates ranged from 15 to 30. Surely anthropologists m a y begin to realize that in these matters a n e w order is upon them, merely through the progress of knowledge and without any abandonment of the safely conservative principles of the past.

A few years later, just after Fewkes became Director, Kroeber w a s requested by the Bureau to summarize the state of American linguistic researches. Kroeber urged the Bureau toward collaboration with Boas's students w h o were attempting to revise the linguistic classification. Consensus was needed about at least some of the proposed n e w relationships; he reminded the Bureau of its policy to use linguistic classification to organize the ethnographic diversity of North America (20 Dec. 1919: B A E ) : T h e present situation is this. At one extreme stand workers like S apir, w h o reduced nearly half the accepted stocks of the continent to a very few; and Radin, w h o does not hesitate to assert the ultimate unity of all on a m u c h slenderer basis of adduced evidence. At the other extreme are Michelson, w h o disclaims theoretical hostility to reductions, but whenever one is m a d e that touches his field, exacts a standard of completeness of proof that would be difficult to attain under the most favorable conditions; and Boas, w h o instead of rejecting alleged specific proofs, substantially holds any further reductions of stocks to be unprovable, or at least the attempt at proof to be unprofitable. Between these extremes are found students like Swanton, Dixon, Kroeber, and Harrington, [...] in m a n y cases an agreement is clearly in sight, and m u c h aid will be afforded to non-linguistic students if linguists, without trying to settle everything at once, will announce those cases of reduction, be they few or m a n y , on which they are unanimously agreed [...]. [E]nough work has n o w been done to find a residuum of c o m m o n opinion, if only the workers in the subject can be brought to meet on a basis of tolerance, mutual concessions, and desire to cooperate.

Frachtenberg (1918:6) also stressed the continuity of Boasian work and the gradual accumulation of n e w information. This emphasis, in an article presenting his o w n modifications of the existing linguistic classification, encouraged acceptance of his results by more conservative, particularly nonBoasian, linguists:

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The last ten years or so have witnessed an almost feverish activity in the field of American Indian linguistics, culminating in more or less successful attempts to reclassify and to reduce the seemingly too great number of linguistic stocks that are found on the American continent North of Mexico. It is by no means accidental that these efforts should have commenced at such a late date [...]. [T]he real stimulus to a comprehensive and intelligent study of the various American languages, both analytical and historical, came not from the writings of the earlier students but through the activities of Powell and Boas... The wealth of material presented by the various investigators resulted in the perfectly natural tendency to look for and establish, wherever possible, genetic relationships between the multiple linguistic stocks. Furthermore it was perfectly natural that these reductive efforts should be applied to a field where the greatest multiplicity of stocks prevailed and where these stocks were observed to occupy a comparatively limited and, in most cases, continuous area [...]. T o be sure, a number of these reconstructions are by no means n e w ideas [...]. [I]n most cases, the younger linguists merely tried to follow up and develop the deductions arrived at by their predecessors [...]. [For some of these reductions] sufficient correspondences have been found to meet the requirements of even the conservative and exacting scholars. T h e consensus view of the history of linguistic classification taken by practitioners throughout most of the 20th century has accepted Powell's classification as virtually an absolute baseline from which Sapir, perhaps with a few sympathizers, proceeded, largely by intuition, to reduce to half a dozen stocks. T h e term 'reduction' is somewhat misleading, since reduction of the number of linguistic stocks w a s accomplished by consolidation of Powell's units according to their putative wider genetic relationships. Participants seem to have thought in terms of the number of colours necessary to represent the linguistic stocks of the continent on a m a p . Sapir's 1920 six-unit classification w a s illustrated by a m a p , as w a s the Bureau's. T h e independence of race, language and culture had presumably been established by Boas in 1911, but in practice linguistic relationships were still used for ethnographic classification. Indeed, in the days before archaeological stratigraphy, linguistic classification offered the most accurate indicator of time depth in American Indian culture history. Evidence accumulated gradually in several regional centres (Berkeley, Washington, Ottawa, N e w York at least). Researchers shared a c o m m o n outlook toward anthropology, mostly through their relationships to Boas; they exchanged information about their work in ways that often m a k e individual discovery of particular connections something of an oversimplification. That Boas's Handbook encouraged synchronic description and drew attention

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away from problems of genetic relationship has been largely ignored in the history of Americanist linguistics. The individuals w h o put forth the new linguistic relationships differed in their ideas about the task at hand as well as the meaning of the results. Evidence in particular cases mattered less than ideological position in the controversy and w h o proposed the connection. Sapir noted to Speck (2 Oct. 1924: A P S ) : At last analysis these controversies boil d o w n to a recognition of two states of mind. O n e , conservative intellectualists, like Boas (and his camp-followers, Goddard and Reichard for instance), w h o refuse absolutely to consider farreaching suggestions unless they can be demonstrated by a mass of evidence [...]. Hence, from an over-anxious desire to be right, they generally succeed in being more hopelessly and fundamentally wrong, in the long run, than m a n y more superficial minds w h o are not committed to "principles" [...]. The second type is more intuitive and, even when the evidence is not as full or theoretically unambiguous as it might be, is prepared to throw out tentative suggestions and to test as it goes along [...]. I have no hope whatever of ever getting Boas and Goddard to see through m y eyes or to feel with m y hunches. I take their opposition like the weather, which might generally be better but which will have to do. Unlike Powell, Sapir was firmly convinced that languages could not be proved to be unrelated. O n e could only note that "the evidence for relationship is not cumulative enough to m a k e the inference of c o m m o n origin absolutely necessary" (1921a:408). Thus, the question of further genetic relationships could always be raised. Sapir found the Powell classification "tantamount to a historical absurdity" (Ibid.). A classification should aim to reflect the past history of the linguistic group. "The terrifying complexity" of the Powell classification was yielding to further study of the languages (1917:79), producing a more realistic picture of "the actual historical current" of particular languages (Sapir to Michelson, 30 Nov. 1917: B A E ) . Sapir's drive to consolidate North American stocks was welcomed by some of his colleagues. His correspondence with Kroeber, Spier, Swanton, Paul Radin, and others is full of optimism. Sapir commented to Kroeber (28 Jan. 1914: U C D A ) : "I have, like you, lost m y love for an unlimited number of stocks". T o Lowie (12 Aug. 1916: 1965), Sapir noted: "The isolated chaps are gradually coming around". Kroeber (to Goldenweiser, 8 Sept. 1914: A L K ) , w h o valued linguistics as a means to culture history, was among the most energetic supporters of the new connections: "I feel very enthusiastic about

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the revelations that are n o w pouring in, in spite of their obviousness, for it means an entirely n e w basis of classification both for our ethnography and linguistics". T o Sapir, Kroeber wrote (20 June 1913: U C D A ) : " W e seem at last to have got Powell's oldfifty-eightfamilies on the run, and the farther w e can drive them into a heap, the more fun and profit". Harrington recorded ( B A E M S ) his enthusiasm for Radin's ill-considered hypothesis (1919) that all American languages might eventually be related: The thesis of Radin was in deep accord with m y o w n experience, I at the time being crazy with ambition toward linguistic correctness and fully realizing the enormity of the American languages field, in which the span of one devoted lifetime is like a drop in the bucket, and this same love of correctness resulted in making m e hesitate in publishing which would have helped toward the oneness in origin of American languages. This enthusiasm for finding ever-wider relationships was, however, far from universal. Michelson of the Bureau was convinced that Sapir had "fallen another victim to the deplorable tendency to consolidate linguistic stocks without adequate proof' (to Boas, 26 April 1917: A P S ) . Sapir's view of Michelson (to Lowie, 15 Feb. 1921: U C B ) was that Indo-Europeanists tended to be conservative, "that their perspective is strictly limited, and that differences of morphology that seem somewhat minor to us are of staggering importance to them". Radin (1919:2-3), although himself quick to propose new relationships, acknowledged h o w easily American linguists departed from the standards of modern philology and accepted exceptions to sound laws in unwritten languages. Frachtenberg (to Boas, 2 March 1915: A P S ) also objected to application of methods developed for languages with a written history to American Indian materials: I perfectly agree with you in what you say [...] concerning the methods of Sapir. Like you I do not maintain that some of the stocks are not genetically related, but it is m y belief that his methods are wrong, and m a y lead to wrong conclusions. I know very well that Sapir has been influenced by the methods applied in Indo-European linguistics which he n o w tries to apply to the field of American Indian linguistics. Boas, w h o was not trained in Indo-European linguistics, assumed that genetic relationship could not always be distinguished from borrowing in the absence of written records. Frachtenberg was m u c h interested in the n e w genetic relationships, though he defined himself as a conservative linguist. His posi-

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tion in the Bureau was somewhat precarious and depended upon Boas, w h o was even more conservative. Frachtenberg's comments to Boas on Sapir's work should be interpreted in this context. Sapir alone combined philological training and receptiveness to n e w connections. Standards for description of Indian languages were changing. Sapir wrote to Lowie (26 Oct. 1920: 1965) that Boas was the only linguistically sophisticated worker in American linguistics; "purely descriptive study" would have to give w a y to "comparative and reconstructive work" with "the most minute attention to phonetic detail" (1911a:793). Sapir's review of the linguistic work of the Bureau for the first volume of Boas's n e w International Journal of American Linguistics in 1917 criticized that institution's deliberate restriction to purely descriptive work with shallow time depth. Indeed, he stressed (to Kroeber, 28 N o v . 1930: A L K ) that formal linguistic training was needed for the work still to be done: The fact is that I think w e are allowing too m a n y poor or improperly qualified m e n to do linguistic work that should be entrusted to well-trained persons with a special flare for both phonetics and morphology. Boas still has very m u c h the old pioneering attitude that the main thing is to rescue languages and put a lot of uncritical material on record. I do not subscribe to his view in the least. I think it is high time that all the work w e sponsor be of a quality that is high enough to satisfy the requirements of a genuine linguist. Sapir ignored the salutary effects of the revolution in Americanist linguistics initiated by Boas's insistence on 'analytic grammars' for the Handbook. B y 1930, Sapir's linguistic standards had m o v e d beyond those of Boas, for w h o m linguistic work, particularly on genetic relationships, remained a means to other, more purely ethnographic goals. Criteria for genetic relationship were also in flux. Haas (1968) and H y m e s (1956) have reviewed the debate over grammar vs. lexicon. Powell used only lexical evidence, but most Boasian linguists sought mutual corroboration of lexical and grammatical data. Frachtenberg (1918:177) summarized the consensus: Nothing is more dangerous and unsatisfactory in an investigation of this sort than to arrive at so-called final conclusions that are seemingly based solely on lexicographic material. In the same way it would be wrong to deny the existence of a relationship between two languages merely because the evidence of the lexical material is negative. It is well to bear in mind that in trying to establish genetic relationships between languages that seem to be, at first sight, nonrelated, lexical and morphological evidence must be treated separately, and that

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morphological evidence must be accorded greater weight. I believe [...] that lexicography is more easily subject to borrowing [...] and that the formative elements and structure of a language are more stationary and less influenced by those of some neighboring tongue. Kroeber (to Sapir, 9 July 1913: U C D A ) sought correspondences of both form and meaning, finding grammatical evidence intrinsically more interesting than lexical (Kroeber to Snowden, 11 Dec. 1903: A L K ) . T h e changes in linguistic classification were seen differently by different participants. Kroeber (1915b:289) believed that the goal w a s "reasonably demonstrable" genetic unity, and that the n e w relationships were similar in kind to those proposed by Powell, with additional data and analysis. Sapir, in contrast, realized that the larger units were not coordinate in their time depth and that Powell's units would fall into place within his o w n larger stocks. Interpretation of the n e w relationships was a source of disagreement a m o n g American linguists, with Boas and Sapir representing the poles. 12.1 'Diffusional Cumulation' and 'Archaic Residue' During the period of burgeoning genetic connections a m o n g the language stocks of the Powell classification, Sapir and Boas often operated at cross-purposes. T h e stereotype that Sapir was bold and Boas conservative is an oversimplification; rather, there were consistent reasons that Boas favoured 'diffusional cumulation' and Sapir preferred 'archaic residue' (Swadesh 1951). S apir's intellectual starting point was comparative linguistics as understood in Europe, while Boas's was the study of culture in a limited geographic area. T h e methodological implications were quite different. Boas's views developed out of his Northwest coast research where diffusion of folklore elements convinced h i m that recent borrowing could not be distinguished from c o m m o n origin. Sapir, using a linguistic model, assumed a recognizable structural distinction between the two kinds of similarity, i.e., systematic sound correspondences were by definition genetic. Boas's early Northwest coast fieldwork included a survey of the languages of the area. B y 1888, he suggested to Henshaw that Tlingit and Haida were genetically related (8 A u g . 1888: B A E ) . Henshaw (16 N o v . 1888: B A E ) immediately inquired about lexical similarities, without which Powell would not accept the similarity as genetic in origin. Powell (to Gould, 11 July 1889: B A E ) commented: "If, as is n o w believed, the vocabularies are radically

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dissimilar, their connection is, to say the least, open to grave doubt". Boas's initial interpretation was cautious (to Henshaw, 6 Dec. 1890: B A E ) : "I should not be surprised if itfinallyturned out that each of these groups are one stock only, but so far there is no way of proving it". At this time, Boas proposed the similarity of Athabascan, Tlingit and Haida as well as Salish, C h e m a k u m and Nootka, without committing himself to the underlying cause. B y 1894, however, Boas had decided in favour of genetic relationship (1894:342): This similarity of structure becomes the more surprising if w e take into account that not one of the neighboring languages shows any of the peculiarities enumerated here. The structural resemblance of the two languages and their contrast with the neighboring languages can be explained only by the assumption of a c o m m o n origin. The number of words which m a y possibly be connected by etymology is small, and the similarities are doubtful. Nevertheless, the structural resemblance must be considered final proof of a historical connection between the two languages. Both Brinton and Powell had accepted Boas's relation of Nootka and Kwakiutl, based on lexical resemblances. The connection of Wakashan (Nootka and Kwakiutl) to Salish was, however, a more perplexing problem. Powell (1891:180) thought that additional evidence might conceivably result in a connection of the two stocks. Boas stressed morphological similarities (1894:343-434): the southern languages (Kwakiutl, Salishan and C h e m a k u m ) "which have hardly any connections of relationship, so far as their vocabulary is concerned, have a series of peculiar traits in c o m m o n [...]. These similarities are so pronounced and so peculiar that they must have originated from a c o m m o n source". The larger relationship was not widely accepted. Boas failed to pursue the matter after his 1894 synthesis of the Northwest coast languages. Sapir, having done fieldwork on Nootka, was skeptical because the morphological similarities were not confirmed by lexical ones (1911d:19). A s late as 1918, he commented (to Kroeber, 21 Nov.: A L K ) that Salish was "a stubborn and specialized group [...] but it will, of course, link up somewhere". The n a m e M o s a n was proposed by Frachtenberg; Sapir appended M o s a n to his Algonquian phylum (1929). There was little discussion at the time, perhaps because Boas and Frachtenberg, w h o were generally conservative, accepted the genetic explanation proposed by Sapir. The explanation of morphological similarities continued to pose problems for Boas and the more conservative among his students. Chamberlain's

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article on linguistic families for the Handbook of American Indians (Hodge 1907:766-767) noted similarities beyond those recognized by Powell, but described them as possibly generic or typological, rather than genetic: Besides the classifications noted above, based on vocabulary, certain others are possible which take into consideration grammatical peculiarities, etc., c o m m o n to several linguistic families. Thus, groups m a y be distinguished within the fifty-six families of speech, embracing two or more of them which seem to be grammatically or syntactically related, or in both these respects, while in nowise resembling each other in lexical content. Since Chamberlain worked under Boas in the early 1890s, his position probably reflects Boas's at that time. S wanton's Haida and Tlingit sketches in the HBAIL were intended to clarify the relationship of Athabascan, Tlingit and Haida. Swanton noted to Kroeber (14 July 1905: A L K ) that comparing Athabascan to the others m a d e the similarities even more striking, concluding that "[i]n spite of the very great divergences which these two languages present, the points considered [...] can hardly be accounted for on the basis of either borrowing or coincidence" (26th A R for 1904-05, 1908:485). In the Handbook itself, Swanton (1911: 164, 209) treated Haida and Tlingit as separate stocks, although morphological peculiarities gave an impression of "a former more intimate relationship" and "a suspicion of genetic relationship". Sapir, w h o had previously identified some such correspondences, and Boas both accepted this evidence. A few years later, after working on Athabascan, Sapir considered the genetic relationship obvious (1917c:534): Important morphological, to a lesser extent also lexical, resemblances between Haida and Tlingit have long been pointed out by Boas and Swanton, resemblances which have led them to assume, though rather hesitantly, genetic relationship between these languages. Boas has also somewhat vaguely hinted at fundamental resemblances between Athabascan and Haida-Tlingit, but no concrete evidence on this point has been given. A full presentation of the comparative lexical, phonological, and morphological evidence serves to show, beyond all reasonable doubt, that Athabascan, Haida and Tlingit are indeed but divergent representatives of a c o m m o n prototype. Sapir proposed the n a m e N a - D e n e for this grouping, suggesting to Boas (21 Aug. 1913: A P S ) that lexical as well as grammatical evidence existed. Apparently having received a positive response, Sapir expressed his pleasure to Boas (27 A u g . 1913: A P S ) , "as I do not particularly like to differ from

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everybody on everything". Boas was never entirely convinced, however, since Sapir complained to Kroeber m u c h later (4 Oct. 1920: A L K ) that still Boas could not admit N a - D e n e had been adequately demonstrated (Krauss 1986). Swanton and others, particularly Michelson, thought that genetic relationship could be positively disproved in particular cases. Their assumption was that diffusion or genetic connection would account for all the similarities a m o n g languages. Sapir, in contrast, searched for gradual accumulation of evidence that languages were related and believed that further study would elucidate ambiguous cases. Boas was not concerned with genetic relationship per se. H e w a s more intrigued by the possibility that grammatical similarities might reflect psychological factors in the organization of languages (Boas to W o o d w a r d , 13 Aug. 1913: A P S ) : "The investigations m a d e during the last ten years suggest that there m a y be larger unities in existence based rather on similarity of the psychological foundations of languages than on phonetic similarity". In any case, the aim was to classify American languages "on a basis wider than that of linguistic stocks" (32nd A R for 1910-11, 1918:26-27). Boas, however, never found a way to formalize the results of the psychological research that went into the Handbook. In practice, he accepted genetic relationship only w h e n phonetic, lexical and grammatical evidence corroborated one another. Although Boas knew of no cases of morphological borrowing, extensive mutual influence had clearly occurred and "the concept of a linguistic family could not be sharply defined" (1911a:54): Thus the whole problem of the final classification of languages in linguistic families that are without doubt related, seems destined to remain open until our knowledge of the processes by which distinct languages are developed shall have become m u c h more thorough than it is at the present time. Under the circumstances w e must confine ourselves to classifying American languages in those linguistic families for which w e can give a proof of relationship that cannot possibly be challenged. Beyond this point w e can do no more than give certain definite classifications in which the traits c o m m o n to certain groups of languages are pointed out, while the decision as to the significance of these c o m m o n traits must be left to later times. Boas did not work further on genetic relationship of American languages and continued to illustrate his skepticism with the same cases, particularly TlingitHaida-Athabascan.

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Indeed, Boas's position became increasingly conservative in reaction to the work of his o w n former students, particularly between 1910 and 1920. This w a s the period in which the most extensive n e w relationships were proposed. Boas came to believe that his o w n earlier statements of genetic relationship had been unjustified. Evidence in particular cases was insufficient to decide between genetic and areal causes of similarity. The methods raised difficulties of interpretation which m a d e it impossible in principle to approach questions of wider genetic relationship. Boas became so concerned with the trend toward consolidation of linguistic stocks that, at the end of the decade, he formally repudiated the work of his o w n students (1940 [1920]: 211-212): Since for m a n y years I have taken the position that comparison between American languages should proceed from the study of fairly closely related dialects towards the study of more diverse forms, it seems desirable to state briefly the theoretical points of view on which m y o w n attitude has been and still is based.

T o the extent that language resembled the rest of culture, previous historical unity could not be distinguished from recent borrowing (1940 [1920]: 215216): While I a m not inclined to state categorically that the areas of distribution of phonetic phenomena, of morphological characteristics, and of groups based on similarities in vocabularies are absolutely distinct, I believe this question must be answered empirically before w e can undertake to solve the general problem of the history of modern American languages. If it should prove true, as I believe it will, that all these different areas do not coincide, then the conclusion seems inevitable that the different languages must have exerted a far-reaching influence upon one another. If this point of view is correct, then w e have to ask ourselves in h o w far the phenomena of acculturation extend also over the domain of language [...]. [There is a] tendency of language to absorb so m a n y foreign traits that w e can no longer associate a language with one or the other of the contributing stocks. In other words, the whole theory of an "Ursprache" for every group of modern languages must be held in abeyance until w e can prove that these languages go back to a single stock and that they have not originated, to a large extent, by the process of acculturation.

During the early 20th century, Boas was more interested in diffusion of folklore elements than in classification of languages. His attitude toward the possibility of genetic reconstructions, then, was shaped by his work in folklore (Hymes 1963, R o w e 1962, Stocking 1974b). Boas consistently maintained (1940 [1929]: 255):

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Boas, of course, assumed that linguistic phenomena, like cultural, had fuzzy boundaries (Boas to Sapir, 18 Sept. 1920: A P S ) . Borrowing could occur and the linguistic evidence could not determine the actual course of past events (Boas to Michelson, 11 March 1921: A P S ) . Boas became convinced that "morphological hybridization" was actually quite c o m m o n (to Laufer, 5 Feb. 1926: F M A ) . Thus, to the extent that languages behaved like cultures, as typified by folklore elements which could be abstracted and compared statistically, similarity might be due to multiple causes. This position, of course, made the comparative method as understood in linguistics untenable. If mixed languages could occur, then no language could be proven to be descended from an earlier stage of any other single language. Boas's lack of comprehension of the linguistic method used by Sapir is shown in his complaint that Sapir overemphasized the importance of phonetics (Boas to Hodge, 8 Feb. 1910: B A E ) . For Sapir, of course, sound correspondences were the heart of the comparative method. Sapir attempted to defend his o w n methods to Boas (e.g., 10 July 1918: APS): I feel confident that as soon as the dialectic phonetic laws have been well worked out, the lexical comparison will proceed with remarkable [speed] [...]. I must confess I have always had a feeling that you entirely overdo psychological peculiarities in different languages as presenting insuperable obstacles to genetic theories, and that, on the other hand, you are not sufficiently impressed by the reality of the differentiating processes, phonetic and grammatical, that have so greatly operated in linguistic history all over the world. Sapir suggested (to Boas, 2 Feb. 1912: A P S ) that "general results of value" were attained by daring imagination in historical problems. Although borrowing was important, "psychological approaches" had obscured understanding of "underlying drift", of basic linguistic forms, and of lines of historical reconstruction (Sapir 1921a:408). Sapir was interested in psychological questions, but considered them to be fundamentally different from the historical problems of genetic relationship (to Kroeber, 4 Oct. 1920: A L K ) . H e even considered the possibility that he had underestimated borrowing by going to the opposite extreme from Boas (Sapir to Lowie, 23 M a y 1921: U C B ) .

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In spite of his enthusiasm for genetic interpretations, Sapir did considerable descriptive work on diffusion in the Boasian style, particularly with Chinook and Tsimshian. H e considered areal problems valid, differing from Boas primarily in his conviction that areal and genetic phenomena could be separated. Sherzer (1976) discusses the undercurrent of areal linguistic studies which persisted throughout this period. In sum, the controversy between Boas and Sapir was based on significant issues of linguistic interpretation. Boas did not recognize the validity of Sapir's methods of inference and thus felt that conclusions could not be reached in this area with any degree of certainty. This conservatism was more methodological than dependent on the kind and amount of evidence presented in particular cases. The controversy surrounding Sapir's wider genetic groupings can only be understood in the context of this dispute — and the necessity for other Americanist linguists to reach some sort of compromise. 12.2 The Linguistic Stocks of California The state of California had more linguistic diversity than any other part of the United States, including 2 2 of Powell's 58 stocks. W o r k on these languages during the early 20th century centred in the Berkeley department and w a s synthesized through collaboration between Kroeber and Roland Dixon. The description of California languages was a cooperative enterprise extending over a number of years. Dixon worked on Chimariko and connected it to Shastean in 1910. Harrington joined C h u m a s h and Y u m a n in 1913 and Kroeber united Chontal, Seri and Y u m a n , following Brinton, in 1914. John Alden M a s o n worked on Salinan, and John Swanton studied various groups in the American Southeast which Sapir believed to be related to California languages. Sapir himself worked on Yana, joining it to H o k a n in 1917. Sapir, Dixon and Kroeber, and Harrington all worked on W a s h o and concluded independently that it w a s related to Chumashan. Sapir noted (1917d:449) that Harrington's connection of Chumashan and W a s h o was: [...] a welcome confirmation of a result which the undersigned had independently arrived at, namely, the necessity of including Washo in the Hokan group established by Drs. Kroeber and Dixon. Specific Chumash-Washo resemblances had also been noted by the writer. In 1903, Dixon and Kroeber compared 16 California stocks and placed them in three structural types: Central California, typified by Maidu; Northwestern Californian, typified by Yurok; Southwestern Californian, typified

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by C h u m a s h . They observed that linguistic diversity extended into Oregon but did not suggest particular connections. T h e classification w a s deliberately non-genetic (1903:2-3): [...] the classification that has been attempted deals only with structural resemblances, not with definite genetic relationships; that w e are establishing not families, but types of families [...]. The classification here proposed is really one of another order from that used by Powell, for structure and not lexical content is m a d e the basis on which all comparisons are made. Kroeber, however, had already considered the possibility of genetic connection w h e n he examined lexical materials (to Boas, 24 April 1903: A L K ) : Y o u m a y be interested to hear that on comparing vocabularies recently I found an unexpectedly large number of words c o m m o n to two or more languages [...]. I do not k n o w quite what to m a k e of the case, I think there has been extensive borrowing, but it is by no means impossible that m a n y of the languages will turn out to be related. Curiously enough the lexical similarities seem to be confined mainly to the group of simple languages of which Maidu is a type. In the northwestern region I k n o w of no cases of words c o m m o n to two languages. Dixon and Kroeber at this time accepted Boas's assumption that lexical and morphological information might provide different classificatory results. In line with Boas's o w n work on the Northwest coast, they started from an areal-typological perspective rather than a genetic one. Early descriptive work on the languages of California generally pointed out similarities a m o n g languages without definite commitment on genetic relationship. Over the next few years, Dixon and Kroeber expanded their structural comparison of California languages, attempting to separate the effects of borrowing from those of previous relationship (Kroeber 1905a:9-10): The relations between the languages of the different stocks are being more closely examined than heretofore. Where the languages have been regarded as unrelated, efforts are being m a d e to determine their roots for comparison instead of relying on words. Where there appears to have been borrowing, the geographical distribution of the borrowed words, their nature, and the causes of their being borrowed are studied. Within each linguistic family the dialects are examined to determine the nature of the changes occurring in them and the character and causes of their differentiation, since it is thought that a knowledge of these developments m a y m a k e clearer the processes that m a y have been in operation in a division of prehistoric Californian languages into what n o w appear to be distinct families. Kroeber w a s still pessimistic about the possibility of further connections

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among linguistic families (1906:652). H e assumed that lexical similarities were random, due to borrowing (1908a:282): "[...] almost every stock in California has at least a few words in c o m m o n with neighboring or more distant languages, but such words represent borrowing or diffusion". Neither vocabulary nor grammar provided clear genetic connections. In 1910, Dixon and Kroeber began to prepare systematic comparative vocabulary lists for the same set of California languages (Kroeber to Dixon, 14 Jan. 1910: U C D A ) with a view to clarifying the cause of observed similarities. Kroeber noted cautiously (to Dixon, 14 Jan. 1910: U C D A ) that borrowing had been "so strong that w e shall have to go very slow in the future in uniting any further stocks". Dixon, although he left the decision on interpretation to Kroeber, favoured borrowing as an explanation (to Kroeber, 9 M a y 1912: U C D A ) . Kroeber (to Dixon, 20 M a y 1912: U C D A ) agreed this was the only safe stance but could not help suspecting that "there might be demonstrable relationship" between some of the languages. Both Dixon and Kroeber believed that Chimariko and Shasta, Costanoan and M i w o k were related, but felt this could be proved only by lexical comparisons of all California languages (Kroeber to Sapir, 3 Jan. 1913: U C D A ) . Combination of lexical and grammatical data had convinced them that m a n y of their 1903 typological resemblances reflected original genetic unity. Both Dixon and Kroeber had been trained by Boas and shared his conservatism toward genetic relationship as a possible explanation. They considered this explanation only w h e n borrowing as a result of historical contacts failed to explain observed similarities. Nearly the same published data, and analysis in a similar theoretical framework, thus led to different conclusions in 1903 than in 1913 w h e n the new genetic hypotheses were published by Dixon and Kroeber in a note in AA (1913:652): After analysis of the collected information (comparison of two hundred stem words) had progressed beyond a certain point, it became apparent that the only satisfactory explanation of the resemblances between certain languages w a s genetic relationship. O n the basis of these indications the grammatical information extant on the same languages was reexamined, and in every instance was found strongly confirmatory. Lexical and structural similarities coinciding and being found relatively abundant, true relationships have been accepted as established. Dixon and Kroeber thus proposed three n e w genetic stocks: California Penutian, Hokan and Ritwan (Wiyot and Yurok). They insisted on the conser-

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There is available enough information on the structure of the five Penutian languages to prove their genetic affinity beyond a doubt even without recourse to lexical similarities. This relationship would have been recognized previously, were it not that attention has been directed chiefly toward phrases of structure that, while conspicuous, were not typical of the group in question; and especially because comparisons have been instituted between single languages instead of the whole five. This multilateral comparison (Greenberg 1987) extends the time depth to which methods of genetic reconstruction can be employed. Because of Dixon's competing fieldwork in the Orient, evidence for this genetic classification appeared only in 1919. T h e authors again stressed their caution; they had "proceeded, not impetuously, but rather reluctantly, and step by step" (1919:30). Indeed, they had hesitated so long that Sapir already had joined the languages in their Penutian and Hokan stocks to even larger units. The remaining task was to present the evidence for California Penutian. Dixon and Kroeber recalled their "baffled impotence" at the failure of geographical contiguity to explain similarities and commented that the n e w classification was merely a reinterpretation of their previous work (Ibid.): "In the main, or at least in several important points, the non-genetic type classification then advanced [1903] coincides with the genetic classification presented in the present paper". The chronology of interpretations by Dixon and Kroeber illustrates that, although both classifications were based on California fieldwork, the climate of Americanist linguistics had changed by 1913 such that genetic unity became a plausible explanation (cf. Jacobs 1954). M u c h of this change was due to the work of Edward Sapir. Indeed, particularly just after 1910, Kroeber and Sapir were in virtually daily correspondence about the languages of California and their ties to wider American groupings, especially while Sapir worked on Algonquian-Ritwan. Kroeber's conversion from a Boasian areal to a genetic approach was probably due in large part to this intense contact (cf. Golla 1986). Sapir accepted most of the relationships emerging from the California work, although he often looked askance at the particular evidence cited by his colleagues. For example, Dixon's examples were "rather far-fetched" (1913:643) although the relationship of C h u m a s h and Shastean held up. Sapir also complained (to Kroeber, 7 April 1915: U C D A ) about the quality of the

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descriptive material on which comparative work had to be based, lamenting the impossibility of obtaining accurate phonetic recording. Despite his considerable personal contribution to the changing picture of genetic relationships in North America, Kroeber deferred to Sapir in assessing evidence for genetic relationship. For example, he hesitated to publish the 1913 connections without Sapir's prior approval. Sapir w a s enthusiastic (to Kroeber, 24 Sept. 1913: U C D A ) but stressed the weight to be placed on particular evidence for each relationship: "I should be delighted if the total number of linguistic stocks in California should turn out to be very few in number after all". Kroeber stressed S apir's unique qualifications for linguistic inference as a result of both talent and training (to Sapir, 14 A u g . 1913: U C D A ) : W e are going to have a flood of similar cases in the next few years, and the prestige of American anthropology will be better maintained if at least some of the claims come with the backing of your critical faculty than if they are all made by people in w h o m the rank andfileof us have less confidence. In urging Sapir to work on Beothuk, Kroeber noted (8 Sept. 1911:

UCDA): I should do it myself but you know far more Algonquian, and besides you will be believed and I shall not. I expect that it will be ten years before the majority of our colleagues get over thinking of m e as having developed a streak of craziness in uniting families. Kroeber, of course, was eager to sustain Sapir's engagement with the California work and with problems of genetic relationship more generally. Kroeber greatly respected Sapir's linguistic abilities. Although California Penutian had been defined by his o w n work with Dixon, he accepted Sapir's extension of Penutian before seeing the evidence (to Sapir, 29 M a y 1915: U C D A ) . Moreover, he responded to Sapir's six-unit classification in 1920 as "hopelessly beyond m y depth" (to Sapir, 27 Dec. 1920: A L K ) . This response was partially a matter of lack of training in linguistics and partly of Kroeber's concentration on different kinds of linguistic problems. Shallow time depth was more relevant to his ethnographic survey work than the distant relationships which fascinated Sapir. Sapir w a s convinced that every language had genetic relationships which would emerge if enough information, including grammatical, were available (Kroeber to Waterman, 16 N o v . 1909: U C D A ) . In fact, Kroeber (1940:7) preferred subclassification or "intelligent

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classification of languages already admitted to be related" over work with more distant connections. W h e n Kroeber turned to the affiliation of language isolates with larger linguistic units, his work was sometimes based more on intuition than on detailed sound correspondences. For example, when he visited Zuni in 1915, Kroeber (to Waterman, 11 June 1915: U C D A ) concluded that it belonged to one of the "great stocks" although he had not yet decided which one! After three days, he decided Zuni was Siouan (7 July 1915: U C D A ) : I still nine-tenths believe it, but will have to give it up, as too few stems match. Specific Siouan grammatical traits are lacking, but there is nothing un-Siouan. It is not Algonquian, Muskohogeam, Athabascan, Uto-Aztecan, or Penutian; an ultimately ancient Hokan affinity seems in the range of possibility. Sapir considered Kroeber's linguistic work different in focus from his o w n . H e did not expect Kroeber to accept some of his wider connections since "it is hard for an outsider (part outsider in your case) to tell" (Sapir to Kroeber, 21 N o v . 1921: A L K ) . Kroeber'sfirstlinguistic work was on Arapaho, and he welcomed Sapir's search for Yurok-Wiyot correspondences in hisfieldnotes. Sapir, seeking divergence within Algonquian, noted (28 A u g . 1917: A L K ) that Kroeber had failed to use the comparative materials which fascinated him. T o Lowie (12 August 1916: U C B ) , Sapir stressed that Kroeber was "not strong on comparative phonology, nor does he betray any great intimacy with Algonquian linguistics". Kroeber's work, of course, was restricted to California, at least after his initial bout with Arapaho. Although he was m u c h intrigued by it, he did not attempt the kind of comparative work which allowed Sapir to extend his stocks beyond California. For example, Dixon and Kroeber had agreed that their Hokan was a widespread unit and probably the "nucleus of a very large stock" (Kroeber to Sapir, 8 M a y 1913: A L K ) . Kroeber even believed that Hokan was the group which "the older students were unconsciously thinking of when they attempted formulations for the American languages in general" (Kroeber to Sapir, 27 Dec. 1920: A L K ) . Sapir's conception of Hokan was based on culture history as well as on linguistic evidence. H e never assumed that the California languages provided the closest cognates and attempted internal reconstruction within his larger Hokan-Coahuiltecan stock generally. Sapir relied heavily on the Coahuiltecan work of S wanton in the Southeast. S wanton was peripheral to postulating larger connections but found Sapir's work useful and interesting (1940:144-145).

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Swanton presented evidence for connections among Tunica, Chitimacha, Natchez, Muskohogean, Atakapa, Tonkawa, Coahuiltecan, Karankawa, Comecrudo and Cotoname. Haas (discussion in Elmendorf 1965:105-106) noted Swanton's fondness for "neat packages" and classification based on geography, particularly in the case of his Natchez-Muskhogean. Swanton himself referred to Hokan-Coahuiltecan as his "waste-basket" (Haas, cited in Elmendorf 1965:105). That is, it was more widely extended than other America linguistic stocks and could be used to link the California work with that on adjacent culture areas, e.g., Swanton's work in the Southeast and Frachtenberg's in Oregon. Sapir, indeed, was the only linguist to deal with the linguistic families of the whole of North America. 12.3 The Sapir Classification Sapir's classification of American languages grew out offieldworkand comparative studies in the first two decades of the 20th century. His 1929 grouping of all American languages within only six major stocks was arrived at gradually over the preceding years. Indeed, it was published in substantially the same form in 1921 in Science, necessarily without evidence. Sapir's work was "a synthesis of his o w nfindingsand those of his predecessors and contemporaries" (Swadesh 1961:667). T h e fact of genetic relationship w a s clear in most cases, although specific time depth could rarely be specified. Increasing information permitted carefully documented conclusions of genetic relations inaccessible only a few years earlier. Sapir assumed that Powell's units would be rearranged as units within larger units, maintaining in the first volume of IJAL that 16 or less were likely (1917b:79-80). T h e following year, he wrote to Speck (1 A u g . 1918: A P S ) : [...] it is becoming fairly clear that the great stock of North America is HokanYuchi-Siouan-Muskohgean-Tunican-Coahuiltecan, probably with further affiliations southward. Na-dene, Penutian (as extended by m e ) , AlgonquianYokuts-Wiyot, Wakashan-Sahsh-Chimakuan stand apparently apart but even n o w there are some suggestive connections visible here and there. Getting d o w n to brass tacks, h o w in Hell are you going to explain general American n- "I" except genetically? It's disturbing I k n o w but (more) non-commital conservatism is only dodging after all, isn't it? Great simplifications are in store for us, but w e must be critical and not force our evidence. Besides w e must try to work out genealogically degrees of relationship. Only so will the fascinating perspectives appear. It seems to m e that only n o w is American linguistics becoming really interesting, at least in its ethnological bearings.

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Sapir grew progressively more excited about the possibilities of a linguistic classification to accurately reflect culture history. While working on his book Language, Sapir wrote to Lowie (9 September 1920: U C B ) : This renewed contact with linguistic ideas and data is stimulating m e . I a m n o w flirting with the idea of undertaking the little job of grouping all American languages [...] morphologically and genetically. I think it can be done, if one has method. Such a study should be a great interest to ethnologists as providing a definite historical background [...]. O n e can almost see movements of population on such a basis. Sapir suggested using morphological units to test his proposed six families lexically. Received tradition in the history of American linguistics has it that the six-unit classification was based almost entirely on morphological evidence (e.g., Lackner & R o w e 1955). B y Sapir's o w n statement, both in print and in correspondence, this is an oversimplification. Indeed, his initial hint of relationship most often came from lexical similarities which could be confirmed and elaborated through morphological evidence. T o Speck (9 Oct. 1920: A P S ) , Sapir wrote: A s a matter of fact I have far-reaching ideas these days in regard to North American Indian linguistics, some of which will set our friends the conservatives by the ears. I have again been greatly interested in Athabascan and expect to continue one of these days an elaborate work I had begun on Nadene relations. I feel n o w that all the linguistic groups in America from the M a y a and Aztec north and including the Eskimo m a y be classified into six large divisions, each of which I feel to be a genetic unity. Even those six m a y not prove to be entirely unrelated. The most extensive is the one I tentatively k n o w as Hokan-Siouan. Sapir described his scheme to Kroeber (1 Oct. 1920: A L K ) and elaborated on several "provoking" Proto-American features. T h e n e w classification was presented orally at the Chicago meeting of the A A A S in December 1920, and Kroeber urged him (20 Jan. 1921: A L K ) to publish his findings. Although Kroeber admitted to "gaping a bit" when the outline was presented, he assumed Sapir could produce evidence "in unlimited quantities". Sapir, however, considered the six-unit classification extremely tentative. His note in Science (1921a:408) and his letters late in 1920 attempt to clarify relations between the six units. N a - D e n e was highly specialized, Hokan-Siouan the basic American type. Penutian ultimately perhaps developed from Hokan-Siouan. Uto-Aztecan was a mixture of Hokan-Siouan and Penutian. Algonquian-Wakashan had perhaps developed out of Penutian.

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Sapir noted to Boas (3 Sept. 1920: A P S ) that his classification c a m e out of his "feel" for the languages and stressed the possible proto-American traits. H e suggested that Boas felt such connections better than anyone else and was merely hesitant to interpret them genetically. Indeed, Boas's interest in the psychological similarities of languages led him to compare, typologically, languages which Sapir felt to be related genetically. For example, Boas (1911a) found parallels between Iroquois and Pawnee (Caddoan), and Sapir-1911c) used the same example in his work on noun incorporation. At that time, neither suggested a genetic explanation of the similarities. In his 1921 Language, however, Sapir maintained that one could distinguish genetic and typological relationship, primarily on the basis of the "morphological kernal" of a language. His particular evidence for the relationship between Iroquois and Caddoan, however, has never been identified (Elmendorf 1965:105). Sapir's interchanges with his colleagues — Boas, Kroeber, Lowie, Speck, Swanton and Michelson — were at least as important as the one-page note in Science. Attitudes toward the n e w classification were based on Sapir's reputation as a linguist and on the logic with which he presented his conclusions. T h e m e n to w h o m he wrote about his n e w findings constituted a major segment of Sapir's intended audience, and the work of each was incorporated in the classification (with the exception of Speck, a close personal friend from Sapir's early position at the University of Pennsylvania). T h e 1921 article, then, w a s as m u c h a summary of the on-going research of this group by its leader as it was afinishedproduct. The earlier version omitted several languages (Waiilatpuan-LutuamiSahaptian, Beothuk and Zuni), leaving blank spaces in the continental m a p . B y 1929, these languages had been placed within the six-unit classification. Sapir had not worked on any of these languages in the interim. Their incorporation represented a tying up of loose ends rather than any n e w descriptive discovery. B y 1920, the classification purported to include all of North America, although some of its connections were admittedly more tentative than others. Interestingly, Sapir initially referred to his six groups as "presumably" genetic (1921a:408). M o r e evidence was necessary, but he believed that the cumulative weight of morphological and lexical evidence would eventually confirm the genetic explanation. Sapir continued to work out the implications of his classification between 1921 and 1929 w h e n the better-known version appeared in the Encyclopedia Britannica. His sense of intellectual isolation during this period was consider-

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It fills m e with something like horror and melancholy both to see h o w long and technical a road I must travel in linguistic work, h o w fascinating its prospect, and h o w damnably alone I must be. There is practically no one to turn to for either assistance or systematic interest. Sapir realized that most of his colleagues were actively skeptical of his wider relationships (to Speck, 11 Jan. 1924: A P S ) : I a m perfectly willing to let people laugh at m e for all kinds of slips if m y main points prove sound. Moreover, I do not allow myself to lose sight of perspective. T o m e Yurok-Wiyot: Algonquian is like, say, German: modern Greek, and these, in the absence of connecting historical evidence are remote enough. I don't believe I a m so innocent as to look for Ojibwa details in Wiyot! [...] What emerges pretty clearly n o w in m y mind is that Hokan-Coahuiltecan is the linguistic group correlated with the earliest and culturally most primitive people in California, northern Mexico and the Gulf region. This people was quickly scattered by later "Penutian," Uto-Aztecan, and Athabascan movements. It is not accidental that w e get such primitive folk as Seri, Tonkawa, and Shasta in marginal areas. But preceding this "Hokan-Coahuiltecan" group [...] seems to have been an Otomi-Chintanec, Mixtec-Zapotec-Chiapanec-Mangue group, which was scattered in Mexico and Central American by various incoming movements. The linguistic classification, then, was a means to reconstruct the culture history. Sapir's famous 1929 classification was more sophisticated than other contemporary efforts in avoiding blank spaces on the m a p and in specifying degree of relationship within broad stocks. Indeed, in presenting his conclusions, Sapirfirstoffered a classification representing a reasonable consensus of his colleagues before his o w n bolder and more nearly original one. The relationships indicated in the more conservative classification had been proposed by Sapir and his associates between 1900 and 1920. Sapir included Ritwan and M o s a n within Algonquian-Wakashan; N a Dene as a major stock including Athabascan, Tlingit and Haida; California, Oregon and Plateau Penutian as units within a broader Penutian category also encompassing Chinook, Tsimshian and several Mexican languages; within Hokan-Siouan, Hokan as defined by Dixon and Kroeber, Tunican (Atakapa, Chitimacha, Tunica) and Coahuiltecan on the basis of S wanton's work, and Iroquois-Caddoan; Harrington's Tanoan-Kiowa was merged with Sapir's carefully documented Uto-Aztecan to form Aztec-Tanoan. Sapir noted

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Revising the Linguistic Classification Figure 4. North American Linguistic Classifications S A P I R 1929 I. Eskimo-Aleut Π . Algonquian-Ritwan

S A P I R (IMPLICIT)

POWELL 1891

Eskimo *Algonquian-Ritwan

Eskimo Algonquian, Beothukan, Wiyot, Yurok Waskashan, Chemakuan, Salish Kootenay Haida, Tlingit, Athabascan

*Mosan

III. Na-dene

IV. Penutian

Kootenay *Tlingit-Athabascan Haida *California Penutian *Oregon Penutian

*Plateau Penutian

V . Hokan-Siouan

Chinook Tsimshian (Mexican Penutian) *Hokan

*Coahuiltecan *Tunican

VI. Aztec-Tanoan

*Iroquois-Caddoan Yuki Keres Timucua Muskhogean Siouan *Uto-Aztecan *Tanoan-Kiowan ?Zuni

Miwok, Costanoan, Yokuts, Maidu, Wintun Takelma, Coos (-Siuslaw), Yakonan, Kalapuya Waiilatpuan, Putuamian, Sahaptian Chinook Tsimshian Karok, Chimariko, Salinan, Yana, Porno, Washo Tonkawa, Karankawa, Coahuiltecan Tunica, Atakapa, Chitmacha Iroquois, Caddoan Yuki Keres Timucua Muskhogean Siouan, Yuchi Nahuatl, Pima, Shoshonean Tanoan, Kiowa Zuni

* Twelve units Sapir considered accepted by most of his colleagues. The reduction of Powell's 55 stocks to 23 reflected the work of Sapir's generation. The further reduction to six units, he considered to be his own work.

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It is impossible to say at present what is the irreducible number of linguistic stocks that should be recognized for America north of Mexico, as scientific comparative work on these difficult languages is still in its infancy. T h e following reductions of linguistic stocks which have been proposed m a y be looked upon as either probable or very possible. In context, then, the 1929 classification m a y be summarized (Hymes 1961b: 74; see also H y m e s 1959): The proper confrontation of Powell is with Sapir's "other classification,*' that [...] which is presented before his adumbration of six, admittedly partly conjectural, broader groups. The nineteen-unit classification is no more than a codified report on the joint accomplishments of American anthropologists during the decade from 1910 to 1920. Almost all of it, and of the combinations in the sixunit classification can be traced to earlier work, to which Sapir was to be sure a major but not the sole contributor. Dixon, Kroeber, Radin, Swanton, Harrington, Frachtenberg, as well as Sapir, contributed, sometimes independently arriving at the same n e w results, sometimes corroborating and accepting each other's conclusions. Scientific progress is a result of cooperative effort. Sapir's work was part of the over-all effort of Boas's students and a few others to describe and classify the languages of the West coast in thefirstpart of the 20th century. Sapir's work consolidated a number of stocks formerly accepted by Powell, but the evidence Sapir presented was interpreted in light of Boas's rather limited views of the nature of linguistic change. Individuals were quite consistent in their response to n e w relationships and the same kinds of objections were raised for several of the major connections. The response to Sapir's bolder suggestions within the American linguistics of the time is perhaps the best evidence of the range of opinion in a period of changing relevance and scope of linguistic classification for anthropology. O n e of the most controversial of the Sapir postulates was the connection of Wiyot and Yurok in California to the widespread Algonquian family of the eastern United States and Canada. The relationship was clearly a remote one and did not seem plausible in terms of geographical distance and cultural content. Sapir, however, was enthusiastic: "This, of course, was one of m y strong pieces. It is laughably obvious" (to Kroeber, 6 A u g . 1913: U C D A ) or "Are these accidents? Fiddlesticks!" (to Kroeber, 8 August 1913: U C D A ) . Sapir was willing to trust his extensive sound correspondences, though the connection initially came as a surprise to him (to Kroeber, 23 August 1913:

UCDA).

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Kroeber came to share Sapir's enthusiasm for this orgy of n e w relationships. The country's major Algonquianist, Truman Michelson of the Bureau, however, was bitterly skeptical. Michelson, like Sapir, had been trained in Indo-European philology; but he was unwilling to accept genetic relationship among languages without written records. His work consisted of detailed dialectology and subgrouping within Algonquian on the basis of his o w n fieldwork and manuscripts left by A . S. Gatschet. M o r e distant relationships were of little interest to him, and he resented Sapir's encroachment on his territory. Michelson (to Kroeber, 2 Feb. 1911: A L K ) was unable to formulate sound correspondences for divergent languages within Algonquian as conventionally understood. Sapir's effort to add even more distantly related languages to the stock merely incensed him. His published critique (1914: 362-363) argued that morphology was so unlike that the wrong lexical elements were being compared, that Kroeber would not have missed the relationship if it existed, that the morphological material was insufficient for such analysis, that similarities to other (non-Algonquian) languages also existed, and that, therefore, Sapir's resemblances were accidental. Sapir (to Kroeber, 9 Sept. 1914: U C D A ) considered the negative evidence absurd, and Kroeber replied (15 Sept. 1914: U C D A ) that the review was "puritanical" and the argument "hypercritical and negative". Sapir's rejoinder (1915: 190, 194) urged Michelson to reexamine the evidence and accused him of failing to comprehend the nature of linguistic comparison. Michelson'sfinalsally (1915) cited Yuki and Yokuts parallels to demonstrate that the amount of similarity Sapir noted could occur by chance. H e also explicitly stated his unwillingness to generalize the Indo-European case of stocks diverging from an original type in a 'family tree' model (the basic postulate of comparative linguistics). Interestingly, Michelson accepted Sapir's Nadene (Swadesh 1951), for which detailed sound correspondences were presented. His conservatism on matters Algonquian was not, therefore, entirely a failure to consider any consolidation of Powell's stocks. Although Michelson was the conservative Algonquian expert, reactions a m o n g other linguists were nearly as intense. Goddard commented to Kroeber (12Feb. 1913: A L K ) that Wiyot and Yurok were joined to Algonquian because "they are both unanalyzable and incomprehensible". Gladys Reichard (18931955), w h o described Wiyot under Boas's direction in the early 1920s

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(Reichard 1925), accepted the Algonquian connection but found Sapir's evidence inaccurate in m a n y details (to Boas, 19 June 1923: A P S ) . Her c o m m e n t on the strength of this relationship dealt with the personalities rather than the evidence: "It is very amusing to m e to hear their remarks. Michelson: 'Absolutely un-Algonquian!' Sapir: "I don't see h o w anyone can look at this and say it is not Algonquian'". Haas (1958:160) stressed the "invidiousness" of Michelson's attack since Sapir presented more evidence for this connection than for others which were readily accepted. Because Sapir's wider groupings drew on the descriptive contributions of his fellow linguists, their acceptance depended heavily on the reaction of these specialized scholars. In several cases, there was considerable hostility. Sapir's N a - D e n e raised several other hornets' nests, though his Athabascan proper was the first linguistic family "in the Americas to which the comparative method was comprehensively applied" (Foster 1996:90). Boas and Swanton had preferred a more conservative interpretation and the recognized Athabascan specialist, Goddard, refused to take seriously any explanation other than borrowing (1920:271). Goddard had long planned a comparative study of Athabascan and thus felt justified in avoiding the question of additional comparative generalizations in his grammars of single languages (such as H u p a and Kato, Athabascan languages of California) (Goddard to Putnam, 11 D e c . 1902: A L K ) . Goddard and Sapir had been friends during Sapir's year at Berkeley (1907-1908), but Sapir's respect for Goddard's work decreased thereafter (Lowie 1965:6). Sapir's efforts to pursue his interest in N a - D e n e brought seemingly inevitable conflicts. Kroeber advised Sapir (27 Dec. 1920: A L K ) to pursue his o w n fieldwork and m a k e the unusability of Goddard's materials as impersonal as possible. Sapir (to Kroeber, 1 Oct. 1921: A L K ) had little patience with Goddard's lack of interest in distant genetic relationships: H e is a m a n of no more than average linguistic ability, completely at the mercy of his local sentimental memories, and absolutely without vision as to the older drift of Athabascan. H e probably imagines his lists of stems are the last word on the whole subject. The degree to which he has failed to analyze his material is shocking in the extreme. Sapir particularly objected to Goddard's lack of professionalism about the languages he studied, complaining to Kroeber (1 N o v . 1921: A L K ) Goddard could not discuss genetic relationships on any but a personal basis. Sapir concentrated on N a - D e n e because he believed it to be a recent

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intrusion into North America, holding the key to the relation of American to Asian languages. W h e n he came to compare N a - D e n e to Indo-Chinese, however, virtually no one took him seriously. Despite the necessity to m o v e out of the American continent for evidence, Sapir was enthusiastic (to Kroeber, 1 Oct. 1921: A L K ) : If the morphological and lexical accord which Ifindon every hand between N a Dene and Indo-Chinese is "accidental", then every analogy on God's earth is also an accident. It is all so powerfully cumulative and integrated that when you tumble to one point a lot of others fall into line. I a m n o w so thoroughly accustomed to the idea that it no longer startles m e . For a while I resisted the notion. N o w I can no longer do so. Sapir asked Kroeber not to m a k e this discovery public because more evidence would be needed to convince the inevitable skeptics: But I a m n o w interested in a rather big linguistic possibility. I tremble to speak of it, though I've carried the germinal idea with m e for years. I do not feel that Na-Dene belongs to the other American languages. I feel it as a great intrusive band that has perhaps ruptured an old Eskimo-Wakashan-Algonquian continuity. A n d I decidedly feel the old quasi-isolating base. Then there is tone, which feels old [...]. I a m all but certain that Athabascan and Haida are like Tlingit as to tone. In short, do not think m e an ass if I a m seriously entertaining the motion of an old Indo-Chinese offshoot into Northwest America [...]. A m I dreaming? Sapir's N a - D e n e has been accepted by some later scholars, but only Morris Swadesh has seriously pursued the Asiatic connections. American anthropology generally has avoided considering Asiatic relationships. Physical anthropology and archaeology particularly have restricted themselves to the American continent. Reasons included previous purely conjectural speculation on Old World relations, lack of time depth in archaeology and physical anthropology during this period, and the struggle of American anthropology for recognition as an autonomous and relatively self-contained discipline. For Sapir, however, thinking in terms of long-range perspective on culture history led logically as well as linguistically to the Asiatic origin of at least one major American language grouping. F e w of his contemporaries were prepared to think in such terms, regardless of the evidence. Dixon and Kroeber (1903: 1) first characterized the Penutian languages typologically rather than genetically, concluding that "relationship, in the only precise and allowable sense of the term, could not be alleged". Sapir took up California Penutian and compared it to Oregon languages. Kroeber (to Sapir, 8 M a y 1913: U C D A ) agreed that connections outside California were

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likely and also looked toward Oregon, realizing that the scope of his linguistic work crossed artificial modern political boundaries. S apir's Penutian hypothesis was formulated in terms of culture history (to Kroeber, 15 April 1915: U C D A ) : N o w I begin seriously to suspect both Coos (perhaps eventually also Siuslaw, Alsea, and Kalapuya) and Takelma are North Penutian, cut loose from Southern Penutian by northern intrusion (Shasta-Achomawi, Chimariko, Karok, Yana, Porno) of Hokan languages, which seem to gravitate south [...]. If you ehminate Athabascan and Shoshonean, which clearly moved in south and northwest respectively, you can almost read California history from linguistic geography. O n the basis of stem form, and inferences from historical linguistics, Sapir extended Penutian to include ("though you m a y wink with incredulity") Chinook and ("don't faint") Tsimshian. The result m a d e geographic sense of Frachtenberg's Alsea and Kalapuya materials (Sapir to Kroeber, 9 Dec. 1915:

UCDA): If these two fall into line, w e have a continuum from Yokuts to Chinook, broken only by obviously intrusive Athabascan between Takelma and Coos and doubtless also intrusive Shasta between Takelma and Wintun. Clearly Tsimshian would be really much apart geographically. If its inclusion proves O . K . , the Waskashan-Salish-Chemakuan group form an interesting problem from the point of view of movements of population. Sapir was also concerned with Penutian subgrouping, stressing that, although the California languages were more compact, the Oregon and California units were not necessarily more closely related. Sapir (19 Dec. 1915: U C D A ) urged Kroeber to publish his materials, particularly on the relation of Coos to Penutian: "I should be glad not to be alone in this n e w series of developments". Sapir's Penutian work was quite different from that of Frachtenberg, carried out primarily under Bureau auspices. Frachtenberg preferred descriptive work and hesitated to accept several of the Dixon and Kroeber connections because of limitations in the published data. His examination of unpublished evidence in the Berkeley department, however, tended to confirm their work (1918:176). Frachtenberg's o w n postulate of genetic relationship between Takelma, Kalapuya and Chemakuan stressed 'co-worker' verdicts and the conservatism of his o w n position. H e proposed a probable c o m m o n origin for Coos, Siuslaw, Yakonan, possibly Kalapuya and Alsea, albeit retaining the possibility of borrowing (1918:176). Moreover, Salish, Chimakuan and Wakashan might eventually prove genetically related.

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Frachtenberg and Sapir worked largely independently, reaching similar conclusions at about the same time. H y m e s (MSa) has discussed the detailed evidence available to each and the probable priority in formulating the Oregon Penutian hypothesis. Sapir's work on Takelma was available before Frachtenberg's on Coos and Siuslaw. Both had access to Dixon and Kroeber's unpublished work and to Tsimshian and Chinook sketches in the Handbook of American Indian Languages. H y m e s concludes that Sapir had reached the hypothesis before 1918, although his public response came after Frachtenberg's article. Sapir noted (1921b:58) that Oregon Penutian "shines with conclusions or hypotheses I had arrived at independently". H e dated his discovery in retrospect to Frachtenberg's Coos grammar in 1914 which suggested morphological parallels in Takelma and Yokuts. Sapir was delighted (to Kroeber, 14 June 1917: A L K ) w h e n Frachtenberg independently added Chinook, because morphological specialization had m a d e him hesitate to link it to Penutian (1921b:59). Only Tsimshian remained unique to Sapir, which he thought meant the entire stock was reasonably well documented because of the juxtaposition of these various evidences. Sapir also felt, however, that Frachtenberg's self-imposed limitation to two languages at a time prevented him from seeing points of comparative interest. Frachtenberg understood which languages should be joined but not the principles of subgrouping necessary to specify their precise relationships (to Kroeber, 9 Dec. 1915: U C D A ) . Frachtenberg, on the other hand, thought Sapir overly facile in his postulations of genetic relationships without previous descriptive knowledge of the languages involved. In retrospect, of course, it was Sapir w h o m a d e the greater contribution to American Indian linguistics. Frachtenberg dropped out of anthropological work after the First World W a r and never matched Sapir's talents. Despite his Boasian training, however, Frachtenberg responded to suggestions of genetic relationship far more reasonably than Michelson or Goddard, and probably even than Boas himself. Frachtenberg's data were sufficiently sophisticated to be useful to Sapir in his comparative Penutian work. This example illustrates the cooperative nature of the linguistic work. The relationships being proposed were far too broad for any single scholar to have worked directly with each language. Sapir was perhaps unique in the diversity of languages on which he actually did work firsthand (17 between 1907 and 1920). Historical insight and description were inextricably linked. Sapir also differed from his contemporaries in the number of unrelated

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languages on which he worked. Unlike most others, he did not specialize in a single area or linguistic stock. Although Sapir has been remembered for his wide connections of language families, he was also prominent in setting rigorous standards for proof of relationship. For example, his work on Uto-Aztecan has been cited as the first application of the comparative method in America ( N e w m a n 1954:4) and thefirsteffort at reconstruction of the phonemic system of a proto-language (Lamb 1964:121). It was "something of a model for the w a y in which language can serve the ends of culture history" (Foster 1996:90-91). Sapir himself felt that he had placed Uto-Aztecan "on bedrock" and that it was "almost humorous" h o w simply divergent stems matched with the application of phonetic laws (to Kroeber, 12 Sept. 1913: U C D A ) . Kroeber (to Sapir, 12 Sept. 1913: U C D A ) considered this work to establish a new kind of proof: If anyone can still doubt the general proposition of relationship he is obviously prejudiced. I a m glad, however, that you have brought the situation to a point where the question is no longer one of fact as to relationship, but one of working out its circumstances and tracing the history of the individual languages. Sapir also realized that a different kind of evidence was needed for very distant genetic relationships than for linguistic description. T h e most explicit statement of his position was in the assignment of Subtiaba, in Nicaragua, to the H o k a n stock. The superficial morphology had little parallel in Hokan, but anomalous features in morphology provided evidence for very ancient stages of the language (Sapir 1925a:492): [...] the most important grammatical features of a given language and perhaps the bulk of what is conventionally called its grammar are of little value for the remoter comparison, which m a y rest largely on submerged features that are only of minor interest to a descriptive analysis. Those w h o find this a paradox think descriptively rather than historically. That is, the 'morphological kernal' is the oldest layer that can be reconstructed of a particular language, usually on the basis of features which have become archaic in the present language. For Sapir, descriptive work included a comparative perspective toward both vocabulary and grammar. Thus, despite emphasis on genetic relationship during the second decade of the century, descriptive work still provided the base for n e w proposals. American Indian linguistics continued to include synchronic descriptions of languages, comparative linguistics, and areal linguistics in the Boasian m o d e .

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12.4 Radin and the Genetic Unity of All American Languages The linguistic work of Paul Radin clarifies the standards for acceptance or rejection of genetic relationship. Radin's linking of Yuki to Athabascan as a result of his W a p p o fieldwork was received by his Berkeley associates with little enthusiasm (Gifford to Kroeber, 10 June 1918: U C D A ) . Gifford considered it "a surprise indeed, for Kroeber and Dixon went over the ground very carefully and compared Yukian with everything in sight a few months ago". Kroeber (to Gifford, 18 June 1918: U C D A ) was clearly annoyed: Radin is the same old boy. H e goes to work society and finds that Siouan is Athabascan. For 17 years we've all fiddled with California and in two weeks on W a p p o he unites half the continent. W a p p o m a y be Siouan; but you can't make Siouan Athabascan and Hokan on a jaunt at Healdsberg. It's the same old story: he goes to sell a dozen eggs and brings home a lame horse. This trick will only make himridiculousin the profession; the next one m a y queer him (and us) at Berkeley. Radin's suggestion in 1919 that all North American languages were demonstrably related genetically m a d e him even less popular with his fellow linguists. H e attempted to place 19 languages in three broad groups (1919: 429) and, by accepting all connections proposed by his colleagues, reduced the number of linguistic families to twelve (p. 490). Although Sapir was to propose six major groupings the following year, Radin's work was not taken seriously. Boas (to Sapir, 22 M a y 1924: A P S ) considered the paper "outrageous" and Michelson (to Boas, 12 June 1919: A P S ) lumped it with the work of Kroeber and Sapir — precisely the reaction Kroeber had feared. Boas devoted considerable energy to refuting Sapir's methods. Radin, he ignored. Kroeber (to Sapir, 27 D e c . 1920: A L K ) felt that Radin fought the established classification "less because it was antiquated than because it was established". Kroeber was uninterested in the number of families unless this shed light on " h o w these languages grew out of their origins and what the causes of the changes have been". Indeed, he became progressively less interested in genetic problems as Sapir and his students postulated wider and wider connections, fearing "over-all anarchy". At the end of his life (Kroeber 1960:19), he even thought Boas might be justified in believing that "all but the more obvious reconstructive and historic classifications of unwritten languages contained elements of unreliability". In the long run, however, Kroeber believed that such lack of consensus would be positive (quoted in H y m e s 1961a: 27). W h e n linguistics stopped being a useful tool for the

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interpretation of California ethnology, however, Kroeber turned to other problems. H e had never been interested in the linguistic questions for their o w n sake. Indeed, after S apir's 1929 classification, Americanist linguistics turned more to descriptive work, and individuals could choose whether to accept Sapir's classification, Powell's, or some compromise. Both the six and the 23unit Sapir classifications s u m m e d up the period of intense activity at the beginning of the century. A s in the case of the Powell classification, a further surge of work on the same problems had to wait for n e w methods or information and a n e w generation of scholars. The later return to genetic problems by Sapir's students at Yale and Chicago in the 1930s again involved a group of scholars sharing basic assumptions about the nature of their cooperative task (Hymes 1968: 216): "[...] several important traits link these scholars: commitment to the study of American Indian languages; concern with both structural analysis and historical reconstruction; consciousness of an anthropological context for linguistics; a deep sense of the presence of patterning in the phenomena of m a n " . H y m e s and Fought (1976) identify a 'First Yale School' in the late 1930s, preceding the group around Bloomfield in the next decade. Revision of the linguistic classification, by about 1920, marked the completion of the Bureau's program to ' m a p ' the diversity of North America before proceeding to more intensive descriptions of particular groups. Within such a framework, Boas and his students turned to n e w linguistic and ethnographic questions.

IV Boasian Hegemony Consolidated

Chapter 13

Formalizations in the Face of Opposition

The paradigm shift which consolidated Boas' position at the centre of North American anthropology was more a gradual evolution than a revolution occurring at a single, uniquely identifiable m o m e n t in time. Despite Boas' apparent self-confidence during the crucial transitional three decades before 1920, the inevitability of Boasian hegemony was far from assured. Only in retrospect is it clear that the ways Boas strategized to reconstitute American anthropology reflected the tenor of the times. M a n y of his initial efforts to develop an institutional framework for professional science through the collaboration of university and m u s e u m were abortive; it was a leap of faith to opt for professional training in universities along the G e r m a n model of graduate education. Initially, Boas did not have the resources, in institutions or personnel, to carry out the systematic research program he envisioned. H e , and his early students, faced survey mapping constraints imposed by funding and the entrenched anthropological establishment in Washington and Boston; Boas took on whatever work it possible to do, in hopes of using it to establish a baseline for more intensive and systematic work in the future. Boasian dominance, w h e n it came, depended on the establishment of institutional bases for research and teaching and on networks of students and protégés w h o shared Boas's vision for the future. B y the First World W a r , the conditions for the emergence and rapid growth of a 'normal science' (Kuhn 1962) of anthropology were largely in place. In addition to academic departments and m u s e u m s , there were professional organizations, publication outlets, at least a few career opportunities, and sources of support for field research. A growing network of young anthropologists looked to Boas for leadership and patronage. This n e w institutional base, however, did not emerge without acrimony and confrontation. Over thefirsttwo decades of the century, Boas and his supporters repeatedly engaged the establishment on a variety of fronts and only gradually imposed their vision of the discipline.

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This period of incipient hegemony is the context within which Boas and his early students formulated their critique of the facile generalizations associated with the evolutionary 'paradigm' of Herbert Spencer (1820-1903), Lewis Henry Morgan, Daniel Brinton and John Wesley Powell. Boas focused on particular ethnographic problems that could be solved by empirical research in the field. The urgency of recording aboriginal North American cultures before their inevitable disappearance added fervor to the new paradigm, allowing Boas to attract a talented and committed cadre of students. In the decade between 1915 and 1925, these students produced a series of paradigm statements demonstrating that Boasian anthropology had c o m e of age. This disciplinary dominance would remain firmly in place at least until the end of the Second World War. Students trained in the interwar years and after could simply take for granted that American anthropology was coterminous with Boasian anthropology, thereby obliterating disciplinary m e m o r y of the gradual paradigm shift between 1879 and 1920. 13.1 The Establishment of a National Journal American anthropology in the 19th century was predominantly a local pursuit by relatively isolated scholars dependent on museums and local societies in a few major cities as their only means of communication. T h e American Association for the Advancement of Science, founded in 1848, provided American science with its first alternative of national scope. T h e A A A S compromised between professionals and amateurs in its ranks; anyone could attend meetings but the organization was run by professional scientists. Nonetheless, the line between professionals and amateurs remained somewhat flexible. The A A A S journal Science ranged over the entire field of American science, including, of course, ethnology. Ethnography and geography first appeared as subject headings in 1851; ethnology was listed separately after the Civil W a r . In 1873, the n a m e was changed to Anthropology, with a separate subsection established in 1876. Anthropology became 'Section H ' in 1882. The A A A S provided a vehicle for organizing personnel and resources for the discipline. A n informal committee of Section H , consisting of Daniel Brinton, Columbia psychologist J. M c K e e n Cattell, and Franz Boas, met in 1896 to consider the proper role of anthropology within the A A A S . Although the Bureau was not represented, W J M c G e e (1903:178) identified this meeting

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as the critical m o m e n t producing "the nucleus of a national organization of anthropologists". In 1896, however, the committee opted for a conservative stance on the progression toward professionalization: American anthropology could not yet support an independent society. The following year, the committee adopted aft interim measure, reconstituting the American Anthropologist, the official journal of the Anthropological Society of Washington since 1888, as a national publication. The journal would serve Section H and "all other anthropologic institutions" as its predecessor had served the A S W (Minutes of Section H Committee, 19 Feb. 1898: APS). This expanded scope was explicitly intended to set the groundwork for a future independent professional organization. A journal committee, consisting of Boas, M c G e e , Brinton, Putnam (permanent secretary of the A A A S ) , and Frank Baker (1867-1942) of Georgetown University and the A S W , was elected by the A A A S in an attempt to represent the full diversity of American anthropologists. M c G e e undertook the preparation of a circular to potential members (30 Sept. 1898: B A E ) emphasizing the "policy of devoting the journal in the fullest manner possible to the needs of working anthropologists in America". The actual arrangements were m a d e between Boas and M c G e e , w h o were already collaborating to coordinate Boas's linguistic studies for the Bureau. M c G e e , assured of the continuing institutional centrality of Washington anthropology, was willing to leave the scientific organization of the journal to Boas. H e guaranteed the contribution of the A S W to subscription numbers and laboured to strike an organizational balance between the A S W contingent and other American anthropologists. H e walked afineline, given the conservatism of the A S W Board and its conviction that it was the centre of the national discipline (McGee to Brinton, 19 Nov. 1898: B A E ) . Cooperation from non-Washingtonians, of course, necessitated minimizing the role of the Society. Boas achieved a major coup when the journal became the joint organ of the A S W and his o w n recently reconstituted American Ethnological Society in N e w York (Bieder & Tax 1976), an organization far smaller and less established than the Bureau. But M c G e e conceded the advantage of appearing to centre control outside Washington if others were to be enticed to participate. Brinton, in particular, was adamant that the A S W should not control the editorial board and choose a managing editor from its o w n membership: "This

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is a condition so grasping in character that I not only decline to assent to it, but, if adopted by a majority of the committee, I shall have to enter a minority report against it" (Brinton to Boas, 4 June 1898: A P S ) . In an effort at compromise, M c G e e reiterated the commitment to broad national representation, assuming that the A S W would retain its influence on grounds of n u m bers, even without specific provision. M c G e e protested to Boas (10 June 1898: B A E ) that Brinton was the major obstacle to compromise and urged the latter to reconsider (12 July 1898: B A E ) : "I hope you will not assume the destructive position of opposing the majority of the committee without alternative suggestions, and thereby antagonizing the whole movement". Brinton, w h o did not have the institutional resources to reorganize the journal himself, withdrew his minority report "on further consideration" after receiving a conciliatory letter from Boas proposing the Brinton should present the c o m mittee report to the A A A S (Boas to M c G e e , 13 Aug. 1898: B A E ) . Brinton was treated deferentially by both Boas and M c G e e . His considered opinions were respected by the pre-professional old guard. Brinton would not sacrifice his autonomy for the sake of national organization without assurance of space for independent scholars like himself. Although Brinton died during the second year of the N e w Series and was in poor health during m u c h of the negotiation, he functioned throughout as spokesman for the pre-Bureau establishment (McGee 1899). Boas and M c G e e moved slowly in order to avoid overt conflict. The original executive board was nominated by M c G e e on grounds of local representation rather than individual merit; institution within a given city was of less concern. The board consisted of Washingtonians Powell, Holmes, Baker, Hodge (managing editor), Putnam of Cambridge, Mass., George Dorsey of Chicago, Brinton of Philadelphia, Boas of N e w York, and George Mercer Dawson (1849-1901) of the Geological Survey of Canada, Ottawa. Replacements continued to follow geographical lines. W h e n Alice Fletcher was added, M c G e e urged that the suggestion come from outside Washington and emphasized her institutional affiliation to Harvard rather than to the Bureau (McGee to Boas, 16 Jan. 1899: A P S ) . W h e n Brinton died, he was replaced by Stewart Culin, also of Philadelphia. George Dawson, representing the B A A S , was replaced by A . F. Chamberlain of Clark University w h o had worked for the B A A S under Boas. Each such appointment minimized the appearance of Washington control. M c G e e explicitly urged Boas (15 March 1898: A P S ) to take a leading

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role in involving the American M u s e u m staff and emphasizing the link to the American Ethnological Society, founded by Albert Gallatin in 1842 but long dormant (Bieder & Tax 1976). Boas was in Europe during negotiations. M c G e e duly reported his regret (to Boas, 7 June 1898: B A E ) that "in your absence, it will almost inevitably become necessary for the onus of the movement to rest upon Washingtonians, w h o m a y be suspected of having ulterior motives". Boas, eager to build up his o w n sphere of influence, was delighted to acquire additional responsibility for the journal. A t least on paper, the A E S and N e w York held comparable status to the A S W and Washington. Moreover, the prestige of the n e w journal and the A E S helped Boas to solidify his still rather precarious position at Columbia. H e also looked to the n e w journal to publish his o w n and his students' research results. Boas, in sum, was well satisfied with the series of compromises that established the n e w American Anthropologist. 13.2 The American Anthropological Association Those wanting a national organization of anthropologists were not long satisfied with the enlargement in scope of the AA. The crucial issue became 'inclusive' or 'exclusive' participation. Washington anthropology, especially through the A S W , incorporated amateur interests without drawing a sharp boundary between professionals and amateurs. Boas, in contrast, favoured restricting membership to the fully professional. Putnam, and probably m a n y others, had found the A A A S an adequate framework for professional meetings and needed to be persuaded that a n e w organization was needed (to Dorsey, 12 M a y 1902: F W P ) . Boas attempted this persuasion (to Putnam, 27 Jan. 1902: A P S ) , emphasizing the lack of Washington participation in the A A A S and the need for geographical balance as well as professionalism in American anthropology. The primary promoter of a new association was M c G e e , w h o argued that the "magnificent distances" of America necessitated organization of research at a national level (1901:280). Although the reorganization of the American Anthropologist had met the major needs of "working anthropologists", "the feeling still remained that the dignity and importance of the science, as well as the convenience of its devotees, demanded a definite national organization" (McGee 1903:179). H e further noted the revival of the A E S and other advances in N e w York (resulting from Boas's efforts to organize anthropological research under his o w n direction) as evidence of national needs (p. 187):

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In spite of these formal disclaimers, however, M c G e e continued to think in terms of strengthening Washington anthropology. Somewhat naively, as a result of his personal connections to it, he saw Boas's work in N e w York as an extension of the work of the B A E . Certainly he did not share Boas's commitment to eliminating the amateur component of the A A A S . Indeed, M c G e e was forced out of the Bureau in 1902 partly because he was a self-trained ethnologist w h o did not meet newly emerging standards of professionalization. The relationship between Boas and M c G e e changed dramatically between the reorganization of the AA in 1898 and the founding of the A A A in 1902. With the death of Powell and M c G e e ' s resultant loss of power, Boas had fewer allies in Washington anthropology and thus fewer reasons to accept a professional organization dominated by the A S W . In Science, Boas discussed the "foundation of a national anthropological society" in terms of the infancy of professional training: " A conservative estimate of the number of anthropologists w h o can lay claim to a fairly symmetrical training, and w h o contribute to the advance of anthropology, would hardly exceed thirty" (1902b:808-09). Not all of these individuals would have professional training specific to anthropology, but they would meet Boas's standards for fieldwork and hold some institutional position in the discipline. H e emphasized that academic training programs at Columbia and Harvard were rapidly changing the situation, so that within a few years a truly exclusive professional society could be sustained. In the meantime, he preferred to remain within the sheltering umbrella provided by the A A A S . M c G e e , however, had constructed a more inclusive list of sixty-eight potential founding members, primarily fellows of the A A A S . The committee of thirteen incorporators cut this list to sixty and Boas further reduced it to forty. Stocking (1960b: 16) summarizes Boas's victory for professionalism: "From the character of the final list it is obvious that Boas emphasized employment in anthropological work and formal graduate training as criteria of inclusion". Most were government, m u s e u m or university staff. Twenty held a P h . D . or M . D . Eighteen were members of the A S W and twelve of the

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A E S , maintaining a degree of regional balance. Both academic training and the large N e w York contingent enhanced Boas's role in the new organization. Proportionately, of course, there were still m a n y Washington anthropologists. M c G e e led an integrated group with "a well-defined position" largely in opposition to Boasian aspirations (Stocking 1960b:8-9). Nonetheless, Boas was successful in eliminating the least professional sector of the

AWS. A S W votes were decisive in the strong majority favouring inclusive membership policy when Boas forced an opinion poll (Boas to M c G e e , 6 April 1903: B A E ) . After unsuccessful efforts at persuasion, including a lecture to the A S W on the aims of the new association, Boas agreed (to M c G e e , 12 April 1902: B A E ) to accept the inevitable and work within the inclusive framework. M c G e e (to Dorsey, 18 April 1902: B A E ) deemed the opinion poll worth the effort because it assured cooperation of all anthropologists in America; in practice, of course, this meant Boas. M c G e e acknowledged (to Boas, 28 March 1902: B A E ) that his plans for the n e w association had been presented to Boas as fait accompli. The timing of the founding, if not its actual form, was almost entirely a result of M c G e e ' s manoeuvring. M c G e e (to Dorsey, 18 April 1902: B A E ) justified expediency in terms of the necessity for continued growth of American anthropology. A s a result of these machinations, the A A A began with a strongly Washingtonian flavour. Boas, however, was able to establish the principle of a small council of professional anthropologists at its helm. 13.3 The National Association Becomes Boasian At the time of its founding, Boas felt the need to safeguard the professional calibre of the American Anthropological Association. From his point of view, the direction of professional anthropology in America still hung in balance. Stocking (1960b: 14) has argued that Boas exaggerated the dangers. Academic anthropology in itself would "guarantee the professionalism" of the n e w association. Professionalization in this sense was "a cultural process large enough to m a k e questions of organizational structure largely irrelevant". Stocking (Ibid.) acknowledges, however, Boas's likely frustration with the tenacious dominance of Washington anthropology "which must at times have taxed his professional patience and scientific standards", such that "he perhaps momentarily underestimated" the inevitability of his o w n plans bearing fruit.

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Whatever the inclusivity of the membership policy, however, actual control of the A A A was vested in the professional core from the outset. Because the original Board was dominated by Washingtonians, however, incorporation of the increasing number of younger, professionally trained anthropologists into the decision-making body remained problematic in the early years. Figure 5. Presidents of the American Anthropological Association

YEAR

NAME

AFFILIATION

1902 1903 1904 1905 1906 1907 1908 1909 1910 1911 1912 1913 1914 1915 1916 1917 1918 1919 1920 1921 1922 1923 1924 1925 1926 1927 1928 1929 1930 1931 1932 1933 1934 1935

W J McGee W J McGee W J McGee F . W . Putnam F . W . Putnam Franz Boas Franz Boas W . H . Holmes W . H . Holmes J . W . Fewkes J . W . Fewkes Roland B . Dixon Roland B . Dixon F . W . Hodge F . W . Hodge Alfred L . Kroeber Alfred L . Kroeber Clark Wissler Clark Wissler W . C . Farabee W . C . Farabee Walter Hough Walter Hough Arles Hrdlicka Arles Hrdlicka M . H . Saville M . H . Saville A . M . Tozzer A . M . Tozzer George MacCurdy John Swanton Fay-Cooper Cole Fay-Cooper Cole Robert H . Lowie

Washington Washington Washington Cambridge Cambridge Boasian Boasian Washington Washington Washington Washington Cambridge Cambridge Washington Washington Boasian Boasian Boasian Boasian Cambridge Cambridge Washington Washington Washington Washington Cambridge Cambridge Cambridge Cambridge Independent Boasian Boasian Boasian Boasian

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Presidency of the Association remained extremely exclusive. M c G e e served three terms, Putnam two and Boas two. Washingtonians and archaeologists then held the office until A . L . Kroeber became president in 1917. H e was succeeded by Boas's estranged former student Clark Wissler, a m u s e u m anthropologist. Through the end of the 1920s, the other presidents were archaeologists from Washington or Cambridge, Mass. The presidency of the Association did not, then, reflect the increasingly Boasian character of the discipline during these years. In fact, Boas held no official role in the political structure of the A A A during m u c h of this period. For example, he refused to comment on the reelection of his former patron Putnam as president (Kroeber to Dixon, 16 Dec. 1905: A L K ) . It fell to Kroeber, therefore, to represent the Boasians in the Association. Accordingly, he attempted to determine future slates several years in advance (Kroeber to Tozzer, 24 N o v . 1911: A L K ) . Whatever Kroeber's self-justifications for his machinations, however, Boas remained active behind the scenes. For example, he urged Kroeber to accept the position of Secretary so that businesslike standards could be adopted and, perhaps more importantly, the appearance of "the concentration of the work of the society in one city" could be avoided (Boas to Kroeber, 2 N o v . 1903: A L K ) . Kroeber protested that the distance from California was too great and fieldwork prevented his attention to such a position throughout the calendar year. Boas responded (8 Feb. 1904: A L K ) with considerable annoyance that Kroeber did not immediately share his enthusiasm for the general cause (of disseminating Boasian anthropology). Kroeber's role, Boas argued, was particularly significant because of his geographical location, which could m a k e the Association appear truly national. Indeed, the location of the 1905 annual meeting in San Francisco was thefirstpublic indication of the vastly increasing geographical expansion of American anthropology. Building up the Association's role in American anthropology was necessarily a gradual process. S o m e anthropologists experienced a conflict of loyalty between the A A A and the A A A S . Boas proposed only one annual meeting between the two societies so that all "competent anthropologists" would have to attend (Boas to Howard, 18 Dec. 1905: A P S ) . H e himself, however, thought that the provision of additional publication outlets was the most important factor in the growing professionalization of the discipline (to Putnam, 3 Jan. 1906: A P S ) . Putnam was more concerned to schedule papers by all "young and active workers in anthropology," primarily, of course,

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Boas's o w n students (Putnam to Boas, 25 Jan. 1906: A P S ) . The AA provided the focus for the silent battle between Boas and the Washingtonians which took place behind the scenes during the early years of the A A A . Association personnel changed gradually until, w h e n Kroeber became president in 1917, most of the officers had received academic degrees since 1900. The original Council had been limited to 24 members but this number was increased gradually to 60 before 1920, most of the n e w members being Boas's students (Stocking 1960b: 13). In 1910, Pliny Goddard became journal editor and moved the AA to N e w York. In 1912-1913, Robert Lowie and Alexander Chamberlain edited the short-lived Current Anthropological Literature. Lowie edited the book reviews which were written by Boasians for Boasians. The emphasis on foreign literature of theoretical importance for Americanist work helped to separate the Boasians from Washington-based anthropology which had few ties to anthropology outside North America. Chamberlain was responsible for the bibliographies. In 1920, Goddard was forced to resign as editor because of festering resentment against Boasian control of Association publication policies. A rift in the Association seemed inevitable, with sentiment particularly strong to return the journal to Washington. The choice of John Swanton as a compromise candidate avoided open conflict. Although a Boasian, Swanton was employed by the Bureau. Swanton was succeeded rapidly by Lowie, and the journal was predominantly Boasian in its organization thereafter, as was the Association itself. The journal's contents, however, changed more slowly, with m a n y Washington contributions in the early years of the N e w Series. 13.4 The American Folklore Society The American Folklore Society was not originally intended as an organization for the study of American Indian symbolic culture, but it quickly came to have strong ties to the work of Boas and his students (Coffin 1958, Darnell 1974, Zumwalt 1988). The Society was founded in 1883 to study the vanishing folklore of the old English, Negro, American Indian, French Canadian and Mexican cultures as "an important and essential part of history" (Newell 1888:5). The record of human civilization necessarily included, in Newell's opinion, "a complete representation of the savage mind", even if its products were cruel or immoral. American folklore was seen as taking its theoretical problems from the European version of the subject (Newell p. 6). Newell emphasized accurate collection of materials for "the basis of later study"

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rather than immediate comparison of inadequate materials (p. 7). Although not himself an anthropologist, William Wells Newell (18391907) was impressed by the methodological rigour of Boas's ethnology and constantly praised his work. In a review of Boas's Indianische Sagen (1896: 76), for example, he noted: While most English and French folklorists have been amusing themselves with comparing the merits of explanations offered by the 'anthropological' and 'philological' schools of mythic interpretation, D r . Boas, belonging to no school, but being both anthropologist and linguist, has put these theories to the only practical test of more extended comparison. Boas's standards of anthropological fieldwork, moreover, were acceptable to Newell (Newell 1888:162): W h a t is needed is to examine that psychology; to study the mythology of native races not as curious fancies or absurd superstitions but as living beliefs having a relation to the intelligence and imagination, the motives and conduct, of m e n w h o hold them to be an explanation of the world. After Newell's sudden death, Boas wrote to Roland Dixon (1 Feb. 1907: A P S ) that he had found in Newell "a representation of a time of greater devotion to ideals and a greater unselfishness than w e are accustomed to find at the present time". At the Memorial Meeting (10 March 1907: A P S ) , Boas emphasized that Newell had pointed out: [...] the analogy between primitive lore and that of Europe, the need of application of the well grounded principles developed in literary research, the necessity of viewing m a n y expressions of primitive thought as the artistic or philosophic expression of popular ideas formulated by artists or thinkers of high rank [...]. Thus it came to pass that he set anthropologists thinking in new lines, that he added new recruits to our ranks and that he pressed one after another of us into his service, and thus led in the work of making room in anthropology for a broad historical viewpoint. Newell's management of the American Folklore Society was congenial to Boas because it provided space for anthropological publication. Although the members were no more professional than those of the A S W , Newell's editorial policy gave Boas virtually a free hand in publishing his o w n materials and those of his students. Newell attempted to steer a neutral course among the anthropological factions of the time without compromising the scientific usefulness of the Society; he was particularly aware that local amateurs were still part of the picture in folklore (Newell to Boas, 9 M a y 1890: A P S ) .

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Figure 6. Presidents of the American Folklore Society

YEAR

NAME

AFFILIATION

1888 1889 1890 1891 1892 1893 1894 1895 1896 1897 1898 1899 1900 1901 1902 1903 1904 1905 1906 1907 1908 1909 1910 1911 1912 1913 1914 1915 1916 1917 1918 1919 1920 1921 1922 1923 1924 1925

James Francis Child Daniel Garrison Brinton Frederick Ward Putnam Otis Tufton Mason John Wesley Powell Horatio Hale Alcee Fortier Washington Matthews John Bourke Stewart Culin Will W o o d Charles Edwards Franz Boas Frank Russell George Dorsey Livingston Farrand George Lyman Kittredge Alice C . Fletcher Alfred L . Kroeber Roland B . Dixon Roland B . Dixon John Swanton H . M . Belden H . M . Belden John Lomax Pliny Earle Goddard Pliny Earle Goddard Pliny Earle Goddard Pliny Earle Goddard Robert H . Lowie Marrus Barbeau Elsie Clews Parsons Elsie Clews Parsons Frank Speck Frank Speck Aurelio Espinoza Aurelio Espinoza Louis Pound

Folklorist Anthropologist/independent Anthropologist/Cambridge Anthropologist/Washington AnthropologistAVashington Anthropologist, independent Folklorist Anthropologist/Washington Anthropologist/Washington Anthropologist, independent Folklorist Folklorist Anthropologist, Boasian Anthropologist, Cambridge Anthropologist, Boasian Anthropologist, Boasian Folklorist Anthropologist, Cambridge Anthropologist, Boasian Anthropologist, Cambridge Anthropologist, Cambridge Anthropologist, Boasian Folklorist Folklorist Folklorist Anthropologist, Boasian Anthropologist, Boasian Anthropologist, Boasian Anthropologist, Boasian Anthropologist, Boasian Folklorist/Anthropologist Anthropologist, Boasian Anthropologist, Boasian Anthropologist, Boasian Anthropologist, Boasian Anthropologist, Boasian Anthropologist, Boasian Folklorist

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Anthropologists were prominent a m o n g the officers of the American Folklore Society. Francis James Child (1825-1896), the first president, w a s succeeded by Daniel Brinton. Other 19th century anthropologists to hold this office were Putnam, Powell, M a s o n , Matthews, Bourke and Culin. B o a s w a s elected president in 1900 and w a s rapidly followed in the decade by Frank Russell, George Dorsey, Livingston Farrand, Alice Fletcher and Roland Dixon. Kroeber served in 1906 and Swanton in 1909. A s in the A A A , Boas w a s thefirstanthropologist to break the W a s h i n g ton p o w e r bloc, followed b y Kroeber a few years later. Both Boas and Kroeber served as president of the A F S before the A A A , illustrating the relative freedom with which Boasian research could proceed through Newell (cf. Figure 5 for the A A A ) . Folklore meant natural history to the m u s e u m m e n and archaeologists associated with the Bureau. M a s o n summarized the positivist approach in his presidential address (1891b: 100-104): The work is done by men who insist on hearing a narrative over and over again until there is no mistake about accuracy [...]. N o attempt has yet been made to combine this material, to atomize it, as yet there need not be. In all sciences, the period of accurate instrumental, multiplied observation must succeed that by the mere senses, preparatory to higher generalization [...]. For m y own part, I have found it better [...] to make collections in the smallest possible classes of folklore, just as our museum collectors gather specimens, waiting for these to group themselves as occasion may depend. T h e Bureau staff and collaborators contributed considerably to the ethnographic content of the early volumes of the JAF, but they rarely ventured onto theoretical terrain. Indeed, m u c h of the this descriptive material w a s collected incidentally to w o r k on other topics (Goddard 1915:18). Boas's placement of publications in the JAF demonstrates his determination to establish a base for his w o r k independent of Washington control. Prior to the First W o r l d W a r , the JAF carried a higher concentration of Boasian research falling within its definition of folklore than the A A published o n all topics. O f the Bureau staff, 17 contributed primarily to the A A , with only Bourke, Cushing and Matthews coming close to the s a m e volume in their contributions to the folklore journal. J. O . Dorsey published a larger n u m b e r of articles in the JAF, but these were brief pieces compared to his major works for the Bureau o n Siouan languages and religion. O f Boas's students, about half favoured the A A , while the other half divided their contributions to it and to the JAF.

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Such tabulations reinforce the impression that the American Anthropologist remained oriented toward Washington and semi-professional anthropology. The AA also had more contributions from independent anthropologists such as Brinton, J. Dyneley Prince (1868-1945), D . I. Bushneil, Jr., and G . B . Grinnell. Neither journal, of course, published exclusively Americanist work in cultural anthropology, folklore and linguistics. T h e AA also included numerous archaeological publications, while the JAF included British folklore. Boas's interests were more easily encompassed within the latter format because of its mentalist leanings. H e explained to Kroeber (15 Dec. 1902: A L K ) that the Folklore Society allowed prompt publication in which the author "is in a position to control the form of the publication". The obvious candidate to succeed Newell as editor was Alfred Tozzer, a marginal Boasian located at Harvard where the A F S had long been based. Tozzer supplemented Newell's "often unsystematic" efforts (Kroeber to Dixon, 30 Jan. 1907: A L K ) . Between Newell and Chamberlain, Tozzer found thefinancialaffairs of the Society in some disarray (Tozzer to Boas, 20 Feb. 1907: A P S ) . Boas and Tozzer quietly agreed that Chamberlain, although Boas's first P h . D . student, was hopelessly antiquarian and should be excluded from editorial decisions (Dixon to Kroeber, 1 April 1907: U C D A ) . Tozzer preferred working with Boas in spite of his perfectionist standards (Tozzer to Boas, 6 March 1908: A P S ) . Tozzer wanted to distinguish the folklore journal from the anthropological one by expanding the anthropological work of the former in a literary direction. Boas, however, protested that overlap between the two journals allowed m u c h greater freedom for individual, in practice Boasian, research (Tozzer to Boas, 28 Jan. 1907: A P S ) . Tozzer's policy aimed to avoid factionalism, while Boas worried more about publication outlets. Although C h a m berlain, during his brief tenure as editor, had found it difficult tofillthe pages of the journal, Boas struggled throughout his editorship between 1908 and 1924 to secure outlets for publications too bulky for accommodation in the journal (Boas to Kroeber, 24 July 1917: A L K ) . Boas also increased the emphasis on first-hand materials and professional standards of collection and presentation. Specialized and theoretically oriented contributions were encouraged. Special issues on Canadian or American Indian folklore were produced. The Canadian contact was Marius Barbeau, Sapir's French Canadian colleague in Ottawa (Darnell 1990, N o w r y 1995). Once his folklore publication program was well established, however, Boas began to insist that

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"more general anthropological matter" should be reserved for the AA. H e even favoured journal cooperation in reviewing periodical literature. Editorial revisions were easier to m a k e in journals which Boas controlled quite directly. In addition to the JAF, these included the U A L , Columbia University Contributions to Anthropology, and the Publications of the American Ethnological Society. T h e "longer articles of greater weight" in the journal (Boas to Kroeber, 27 April 1908: A P S ) were primarily by Boas's students. Kroeber, however, urged Boas (5 M a y 1908: A P S ) to continue publishing descriptive contributions as well as theory. Kroeber spoke on behalf of his o w n constituency in the semi-professional California branch of the A F S , whereas Boas was foregrounding theoretical innovations of Columbia anthropology under his o w n direction. The branch societies caused considerable difficulty in the m o v e toward professionalization of folklore studies. Each branch was organized differently. B y 1900, branches were established in Phildelphia, Chicago, Montreal, N e w York, Boston, Louisiana, Baltimore, and at Hampton Institute. B y 1913, California, North Carolina, Kentucky, Berkeley, Arizona, British Columbia, Colorado, Missouri, Ohio, Nevada, Texas, and Pennsylvania had followed suit. Thefirstwave reflected the concentration of cultural activities in a few larger cities during the late 19th century, broadening to incorporate whole states after 1900. Boas's drive toward professionalization of publications was frustrated repeatedly by the existence of these branch societies. The California branch, founded in 1905 and restricted to studying the folklore of California (circular 1905: F W P ) , was the most intractably amateur. It did not help that Boas and his former student, Kroeber, disagreed on the appropriate degree of concession to amateur enthusiasms. Kroeber resorted to lantern slide lectures to arouse interest (Kroeber to Newell, 6 M a y 1905: F W P ) and lamented the typical audience of two or three for a guest speaker (Kroeber to Langue, 13 M a y 1907: U C D A ) . The California branch failed to identify with the national society or its journal (Kroeber to Boas, 14 Jan. 1908: A P S ) and nearly split off as an independent society (Dixon to Kroeber, 22 Jan. 1909: A L K ) . Meanwhile, back on the East coast, Tozzer objected to the California branch primarily for draining the national finances. H e proposed to Boas (2 March 1908: A P S ) , apparently seriously, that papers from the branch societies should be placed at the end of the journal and labelled simply 'miscellaneous'. Boas agreed that the journal was not "a missionary society" for

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popular interest: "Candidly, I a m of the opinion that the getting up of popular interest is of very slight use in the scientific development of our work" (Boas to Tozzer, 23 Feb. 1908: A P S ) . Boas reminded Kroeber (6 Oct. 1908: A P S ) that the California society would eventually have to support itself and objected to Kroeber's wish to "go on expanding without improving our scientific methods". Kroeber's difficulties with the editorial policy of the JAF, in sum, reflect the extent to which Boas succeeded in making the folklore journal represent his image of professional anthropology. Amateur contributions, at least to the anthropological segment of the journal, were virtually eliminated, counter to the inclusive publication policy favoured by Kroeber. 13.5 The American Council of Learned Societies During the early part of the 20th century, obtaining funding for linguistic or ethnological fieldwork among American Indians was a haphazard and difficult process. Most institutions were hard-pressed to support the fieldwork of their o w n employees. It was 1927 before the American Council of Learned Societies ( A C L S ) set the precedent of research support not tied to a particular institution. T h e A C L S Committee for Research on Native American Languages (Z. Harris 1946, Leeds-Hurwitz 1985) turned to the established leaders of the American anthropology for advice on which research to sponsor. Initial members of the Committee were Franz Boas, Leonard Bloomfield (1887-1949) and Edward Sapir; advisors included Roland Dixon, John P. Harrington, Pliny Earle Goddard, Alfred L . Kroeber, Diamond Jenness, Truman Michelson, Frank Speck and John Swanton (9 April 1927: A L K ) . The linguistic establishment was firmly Boasian by this point. Small grants supported the fieldwork of the Committee members and their students. The A C L S spent over $80,000 between 1927 and its merger with a joint committee of the Linguistic Society of America and the American Anthropological Association in 1937 (Flannery 1946:687). The Committee facilitated work on theoretically important or previously undescribed languages. Sapir even maintained that restudy was necessary on crucial points (to Kroeber, 13 March 1927: A L K ) . Boasian salvage ethnography and linguistics was n o w only part of the disciplinary mandate. The Committee set explicit research priorities. Kroeber (4 M a y 1927: A L K ) prepared a list of California languages and work in progress. Sapir c o m mented and suggested areas where his o w n expanded work mightfilltheoretical and endangered language gaps (Sapir to Boas, 12 M a y 1927: A P S ) .

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Project evaluations, especially those by Sapir, elucidate contemporary linguistic standards; like Boas, he was firmly committed to professionalization. Sapir preferred to exclude scholars w h o were not trained in linguistics, even if they had m a d e previous contributions; thus, he objected to further support for Dixon on the grounds that his grammar of Maidu w a s virtually unintelligible. Gladys Reichard, though more competent than Goddard or Dixon, w a s "obtuse to the less obvious facts of languages". Sapir's position was consistent with Boas' earlier stress on the need for trained scholars in ethnography and linguistics. A C L S funding m a d e it possible to enforce such selectivity. 13.6 Confrontations with the Old Establishment Resentments against Boas's policies and the effectiveness of his reforms within American anthropology came to a head just before 1920. Anti-German sentiment engendered by the First World W a r provided a convenient opportunity for Boas's enemies to express their disaffection for Boas, even though he was at that time the most powerful singlefigurein American anthropology. Boas was active in the Germanistic Society of America in N e w York and retained contact with m a n y German ethnologists and geographers during the W a r . Columbia University supported Boas's right to sympathize with the German cause (although this is a vast simplification of his actual position that science transcended national boundaries). W h e n Boas tried to publish his views in a faculty poll, however, his manuscript was rejected, presumably to avoid direct confrontation with popular patriotic sentiment (Boas to Wishburn, 2 2 March 1917: A P S ) . Boas wanted to force the issues, even attempting to poll his colleagues and reading his views to his Columbia classes to influence university policy on freedom of speech (Lowie 1963:430). During the W a r , Boas argued that patriotism was itself an irrational concept, be it pro-American or pro-German ( N e w York Times, 3 Jan. 1915: A P S ) . International ideals of science and brotherhood depended on mastering such irrational concepts. Boas also felt strongly about the higher duties of the scientist during wartime; in the army, he would disobey orders (Boas to Swanton, 21 Jan. 1920: A P S ) . Not surprisingly, patriotic service to their country by anthropologists was highly repugnant to Boas. Through the International School of American Archaeology in Mexico City, Boas had indirectly accepted responsibility for several scholars w h o later used their positions for wartime espionage. T h e deceit involved was

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always wrong in Boas's view, a quite different thing from overt army intelligence (Boas to Swanton, 15 Jan. 1920: A P S ) . After the Armistice, Boas wrote a public denunciation of the activities of four anonymous anthropologists to the editor of the Nation. It read, in part: [...] a number of m e n w h o follow science as their profession, m e n w h o m I refuse to designate any longer as scientists, have prostituted science by using it as a cover for their activities as spies [...]. B y accident, incontrovertible proof has c o m e into m y hands that at least four m e n w h o carry on anthropological work, while employed as government agents, introduced themselves to foreign governments as representatives of scientific institutions in the United States, and as sent out for the purpose of carrying on scientific researches. They have not only shaken belief in the truthfulness of science, but they have also done the greatest possible disservice to scientific inquiry [...]. Such action has raised a n e w barrier against the development of international friendly cooperation. The reaction against Boas was instantaneous and effective. Ultimately, he was censured by both the A A A and the A S W and forced to withdraw his candidacy for the National Research Council. Boas disputed the professional ethics of the N R C and wanted his position ("to which I hold uncompromisingly") read into the minutes (Boas to N R C nominations committee, end of 1919: A P S ) . Various efforts were made to smooth over the attack. Swanton suggested to Boas (16 Jan. 1920: A P S ) that he was too hard on businessmen and scientists, w h o only acted as they thought best. Above all, the subject should not have been broached publicly. J. Alden Mason, attempting to establish the integrity of his o w n position and salvage something of his relationship to Boas, argued with considerable dignity that scientists were citizens and as such were sometimes called upon to perform personally distasteful actions for national welfare (18 Feb. 1920: A P S ) . Kroeber, ever the peacemaker, stressed the unfortunate institutional consequences of Boas's action (to Boas, 2 Feb. 1917: A P S ) : I sincerely hope that you will not speak out, or if so, that you are denied the opportunity. Your complaint is not a national one, and you would have the same grounds in England or Germany. W a r is coercion [...]. Y o u would only be swimming against an impossible torrent, with no good for yourself or anyone else. It will run out of itself soon. It's not a question of 'detachment' but of fighting or taking the inevitable. A s self-appointed mediator, Kroeber preached a "gospel of harmony" except in cases of dishonesty or total incompetence (Kroeber to Tozzer, 27 Oct.

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1910: A L K ) . Boas's action had given his enemies a chance to muster their forces against him. Recurrence of such factional alignments could only be prevented by letting the whole matter drop (Kroeber to Sapir, 28 Jan. 1920:

ALK): The positively patriotic anthropologists and Boas' enemies in the profession, w h o cannot always be differentiated, promptly joined hands in N e w York, Washington and Cambridge, caucused, made their plans, brought them into the [ A A A ] meeting, and made a vote [...]. It is their victory and if nothing further happens there will be no great damage. The old m a n has promised Tozzer and m e that he will not reopen the subject for at least a year. Kroeber was fully aware that, if forced, Boas would destroy his personal career to preserve what he considered to be his integrity and hoped that Boas's enemies would rest content. Resentment of Boas was focused at the Bureau. Swanton summarized (Swanton n.d.: 34): A s a 'Boas m a n ' , I shared the opposition to Boas entertained by many, if not most, of the Washington anthropologists at that time. More than in his later life, Boas was inclined to lay about him with his rapier intellect, and while he was more often right than not, only the very great or the very unselfish can accept a rebuke to their self-esteem without entertaining a dislike of the source from which it comes. A n d while in m y experience of Boas I have always found him eager to accept truth whether or not it supported a private theory, he was not always right nor always just in his estimate of m e n . Edgar Hewitt's reference to "the disciples of Dr. Franz Boas" (to Jesse Fewkes, 9 Dec. 1920: B A E ) was not a compliment. Hewitt received a telegram from George Bushneil (26 Dec. 1920: B A E ) congratulating him for "eliminating Boas" from the Bureau by abolishing his position as Honorary Philologist. The Washington anthropologists argued that Boas had implicated all Americans by his accusations, so that reputable scientists would not be able to work abroad. Harvard-based physical anthropologist Arles Hrdlicka (1869-1943) wrote to Holmes (23 Dec. 1919: B A E ) , that the attack was against the government as well as American science (Judd to Tozzer, 22 Dec. 1919: B A E ) , that the A A A should not be influenced by an individual "so avowedly out of sympathy with the fundamental principles of Americanism" (Judd to Wissler, 22 Dec. 1919: B A E ) , and that the censure was a major step to "make the American Anthropologist safe for democracy again" (Laufer to Holmes, 14 Dec. 1920: F M A ) . Fewkes, as head of the Bureau, refused to aid the Germans because he saw them as automatically undesirable citizens,

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many of w h o m had abused American hospitality (Fewkes to Boas, 22 April 1919: A P S ) . Judd urged Hodge to attend the censure meeting since "the support of you free-thinking Americans" was necessary to deal with Boas (17 Dec. 1919: S W M ) . Holmes wrote to Hodge a few days later referring to the "Prussian control of anthropology" and the need to end the "Hun regime". Abolition of Boas's position in the Bureau was "not the final step in the official assault upon the H u n positions". If the censure motion failed, Holmes suggested a new, truly American association of anthropologists. Most anthro­ pologists outside N e w York, he believed, would willingly join "any m o v e ­ ment that will tend to purge the stables". Moreover, "the vicious, scheming minority of the Association has ruled long enough". The Bureau staff rallied round the anti-Boas sentiment. Hewitt and Harrington solicited signatures and wrote to Fewkes requesting the abolition of Boas's position. Boas's allies in the Bureau were not informed of the petition (Hewitt to Bushneil, 24 Dec. 1919: B A E ) . Swanton supported Boas unequivocally. Mooney, although not fond of him, noted to Boas (25 Dec. 1919: A P S ) that "I a m not in the habit of stabbing in the dark or using a scientific pretext to gratify political or personal animosity". The censure involved local allegiances of American anthropologists (Washington vs. N e w York), commitments to cultural vs. archaeological resources, and, rather more incidentally, national political issues (Stocking 1968). The votes for censure [names given as recorded] were: E . A . Hooton, S. K . Lothrop (1892-1965), W . K . Morehead, A . V . Kidder (1885-1963), G . G . MacCurdy, H . J. Spinden (1879-1967), J. W . Fewkes, M . H . Saville, G . B . Gordon, N . M . Judd (1887-1976), W . C . Farabee, [William] W . Gates (18631940), S. G . Morley, Miss Wardle, R . B . Dixon, S. Hager, H . H . Wilder (18641928), Β . Τ . Β . Hyde, Carl Guthe (b. 1893), and S. G . [sic = J.] Guernsey (1863-1936). Boas's supporters were: A . L . Kroeber, P. E . Goddard, R . H . Lowie, A . M . Tozzer, Mrs. Parsons, Chas. Peabody, Leslie Spier, Ν . C . Nelson, L . R . Sullivan, Frank Speck and Clark Wissler. Cutbacks in academic departments during the First World W a r also caused difficulties for Boas and his students. At Columbia, Boas was for a time the only anthropologist on staff (Boas to Thorndike, 12 N o v . 1919: A P S ) . At the University of Pennsylvania, all instructors were dropped in 1918 and the M u s e u m refused to provide interim positions (Boas to Gordon, 7 June 1918: A P S ) . At Berkeley, Kroeber had to eliminate courses during the war years. In Ottawa, Parliament met in the Victoria Memorial M u s e u m Building

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from 1916 to 1920 after the original chambers had burned d o w n completely. Everywhere, students and faculty were drafted (Boas to Engerrand, 11 June 1917: A P S ) . After the end of the W a r , however, with the growth of university education generally, academic anthropology underwent unprecedented growth, almost entirely Boasian. 13.7 Boasians in the Bureau Resentment of Boas had been simmering in the Bureau long before his letter to the Nation in 1919. S o m e of this hostility was expressed directly, especially w h e n opposition appeared to carry no professional cost. Hewitt and others judged his linguistic texts inaccurate and complained of Boas's general lack of scientific competence. Fewkes realized that the issue was as m u c h personal as scientific and solicited "the attitude of the members of the Bureau, from a purely scientific point of view, eliminating all personality" (7 Dec. 1920: B A E ) . In response, Swanton noted his difficulties with Boas's transcription system but thought the issue primarily personal, suggesting to Fewkes (9 Dec. 1920: B A E ) : "In the present bellicose state of the anthropological field it appears to m e desirable to do nothing likely to add to the disturbance". Over the previous decade, however, the resentment against Boas, blamed on his single-minded pursuit of his personal version of American anthropology, was taken out on his students and associates w h o came in contact with the Bureau through its program of linguistic fieldwork (initiated by Boas while he served as Honorary Philologist). Radin and Frachtenberg lost their staff positions on convenient rationalizations. The controversy clarifies attitudes toward Boasian dominance of American anthropology between 1910 and 1920, at least within the B A E . Radin had persistent difficulties with the Bureau before he was dismissed on grounds of inability or unwillingness to keep accurate government accounts. H e preferred to work at h o m e or in N e w York, contravening government regulations (Hodge to Radin, 29 Sept. 1910: B A E ) . H e purchased manuscripts without prior authorization and expected Hodge to support his judgment (Hodge to Radin, June 1911: B A E ) . H e criticized manuscripts by fellow Bureau staff before publication (Hodge to Radin, 13 Oct. 1911: B A E ) . Radin considered the Bureau action an effort to impugn his scientific reputation (to Walcott, 1 N o v . 1911: B A E ) . T o Boas (1 N o v . 1911) A P S ) he described thefinancialcharges as "exceedingly trifling" and requested help

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on the grounds that he had lost this position because he was a Boas student. Presumably Boas accepted the justice of Radin's complaint, since he protested the Bureau's action. Hodge wanted Radin to leave the office entirely, since he had "already unnecessarily consumed so m u c h of the official time of the members of the Bureau" (Hodge to Radin, 6 N o v . 1911: B A E ) . Walcott, then Secretary of the Smithsonian,flatlyrefused to let Radin complete his work in progress in the office "in view of the charges" — in spite of voluminous protest from both anthropologists and politicians (Walcott to Felix Frankfurter, 6 N o v . 1911: B A E ) . Pressure was put on Walcott to avoid aspersion of Radin's character so that he could obtain another position (Frankfurter to Walcott, 14 N o v . 1911: B A E ) . Hodge explained his actions to Boas (6 Jan. 1912: B A E ) with the comment that Radin had not denied the charges made against him. Moreover, his behaviour had become "very obnoxious; he did not hesitate to abuse m e and the Bureau behind his back". Boas responded in defense of his student (11 Jan. 1911 : B A E ) : "I can readily see his very grave error, but from m y knowledge of his character, do not believe for a m o m e n t that he was conscious of it". Goddard concluded (to Kroeber, 3 Jan. 1912: U C D A ) that Radin had beenfiredbecause he "criticized the Bureau too freely before too m a n y people". The repercussions of this dispute continued for m a n y years, while Radin's fieldwork languished unpublished. Boas stressed the importance of these manuscripts, even though he was not personally enthusiastic about Radin, w h o m he considered "supersensitive", "naive in all practical matters" and difficult to get along with (Boas to Hodge, 25 Jan. 1916: B A E ) . Opinions of Radin were, of course, based on more than this single incident. Boas (to Kroeber, 19 Jan. 1917: A P S ) thought he lacked "the icy enthusiasm" of good science. O n one occasion when Boas received a tirade from Radin on Boas's supposed animosity to his career and person, his former teacher responded succinctly: "This is another of your performances that are bound to destroy your scientific usefulness; I assume that I have not received this letter" (Boas to Radin, 7 Jan. 1915: A P S ) . (Nonetheless, Boas preserved the letter!) Sapir alone had apparently unlimited faith in Radin's genius (Kroeber to Boas, 25 Jan. 1917: A P S ) . Sapir (to Kroeber, 21 N o v . 1918: A L K ) was indignant over Radin's employment problems: "It does m a k e one sick to realize that so m a n y of quite inferior ability are comfortably fixed, some of them in anthropological positions of considerable responsibility". Radin suffered from, in Sapir's view, "what in America is a moral crime, that is, temperament".

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W h e n Radin lost his position at the Bureau, Sapir suggested a public circular expressing dissatisfaction with the arbitrary action. H e wrote to Boas (13 Jan. 1912: A P S ) that "anything in the nature of a reprimand could not but be useful". Lowie (to Boas, 2 Jan. 1912: A P S )firstthought Radin's problems due to his association with Boas but later accepted Hodge's explanation that Walcott was responsible for the adamant refusal to reinstate Radin: I have been unable to get evidence that Radin was dismissed because he was regarded as a 'Boas spy' or because of Hewitt's machinations [...]. I a m obliged to retract m y previous statements to you as based on insufficient evidence. That Radin should have been regarded as intimately connected with you, seems indeed very improbable as your unfavorable attitude towards his candidacy for the Bureau position is apparently a well-known fact in ethnological circles. M o r e accurately, Radin was associated with Boasian anthropology by virtue of his training at Columbia and his position in Boas's program of linguistic research in the Bureau. All this had very little to do with the quality of his personal relationship to Boas. The government-sponsored Bureau had little tolerance for the idiosyncrasies of genius. W h e n Radin failed to support the pervasive philosophy of the Bureau, it is not surprising that he lost his position at thefirstexcuse. Frachtenberg was also dismissed from the Bureau following administrative disputes. Most of Frachtenberg's work for the HBAIL was directly under Boas's supervision. Frachtenberg learned of the political charges against him only after each m e m b e r of the Bureau staff had been asked for a written report on his patriotism (Frachtenberg to Boas, 31 Oct. 1917: A P S ) . In Frachtenberg's o w n view (to Boas, 9 N o v . 1917: B A E ) , his crimes were having a German name, verbally defending the character of the German people, siding with the Central Powers before the entrance of America into the First World W a r , and thinking European policies were based on selfish motives. Frachtenberg presented what he considered conclusive evidence of his patriotism to Walcott (31 Oct. 1917: B A E ) : he had been denounced by a German-American newspaper for defending America, had purchased instalment bonds, and had used his linguistic skills for the Justice Department during the W a r . Charges were actually investigated and later dropped by the Justice Department. Frachtenberg concluded (to Boas, 3 N o v . 1917: B A E ) that "the whole thing is the outcome of some over-officiousness of some w h o wanted to curry the special favour of the [Smithsonian] Secretary". Walcott, however, remained adamant, even refusing to meet with

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Frachtenberg or anyone w h o defended him (Frachtenberg to Boas, 6 N o v . 1917: A P S ) . H e also ignored academic pressure (Walcott to Y o u n g of the American Association of University Professors, 24 N o v . 1917: A P S ) : "I do not fear that the prestige of the Smithsonian Institution is likely to be imperiled by any action it m a y take in support of the government of the United States in these trying times". Although accusations of treason were dropped, Walcott insisted to the U . S . Civil Service Commission (4 Feb. 1918: A P S ) that Frachtenberg's indiscretion had irrevocably impaired his scientific usefulness to the Bureau. Boas, although himself suspect on similar issues of patriotism, went to considerable effort to defend Frachtenberg. In his role of Honorary Philologist to the Bureau, Boas was notified of "serious" charges against Frachtenberg. H e immediately requested further information (to Hodge, 30 Oct. 1917: A P S ) : "I feel very m u c h shocked by the letter that you sent m e . O f course, I have no idea what m a y be up". Boas also wrote to Frachtenberg for details and Swanton for independent confirmation (1 N o v . 1917: A P S ) . Details of this episode c o m e almost exclusively from the Boas papers. Documentation of the large correspondence received by the Bureau in Frachtenberg's defense has not been preserved in its archives. In 1917, Kroeber became president of the A A A and expressed his confidence in Frachtenberg by nominating him for the Council. H o d g e retaliated by resigning from the Association, viewing this as a direct affront to the Smithsonian (Hodge to Kroeber, 2 Jan. 1918: S W M ) . Kroeber (to Hodge, 3 Jan. 1918: S W M ) took personal responsibility, noting that "it is the Association's policy to have every regular working anthropologist on the Council". Recognition of Frachtenberg's work was already belated. Kroeber declined to accept Hodge's resignation and it was not resubmitted. Boas later sought funds to prepare Frachtenberg's manuscript materials for publication but could offer him no alternative to a more profitable career in business. W h e n Fewkes became head of the Bureau in 1918, he attempted to intercede with Walcott (28 M a y : B A E ) . After this failure, Boas wrote regretfully to Frachtenberg (18 April 1918: A P S ) : "I think the best plan for you is to try to get a position without regard to future possibilities in the field of ethnology. I do not see any other way". Throughout this period, Boas's students could be attacked by the Bureau with greater impunity than could Boas himself. Although some of the objections to Radin and Frachtenberg were reasonable, the Bureau response was

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disproportionate to the severity of the formal charges. Indeed, these were welcomed as indirect opportunities to attack Boas himself; their effect on the future careers of his students was incidental. In this context, the censure w a s merely an escalation of the ongoing attack on Boas. Like the earlier Bureau efforts, the A A A censure w a s apparently effective. Years later, however, Kroeber (in Linton, 1943:20) concluded that something in American anthropology had been settled by this episode: "It was not the last time that Boas provoked resentment but it was the last time that resentment found formal or public expression". Indeed, in retrospect, the attacks against Boas were no more than 'rear-guard' actions. Boas's influence was growing inexorably and that influence entailed further professionalization of the discipline, a process which could not be halted once it was solidly underway. Ironically, the success of the censure motion marked a watershed after which Boas's power could no longer be effectively challenged. Americanist anthropology, as Boas envisioned it, was coming to have a unity of method and theory as well as a growing personnel that defended it against attacks such as that of the Bureau. The living symbol of this n e w anthropology was, inevitably, Boas himself. A s such, he became the target of hostility from the increasingly beleaguered non-Boasian establishment.

Robert Harry Lowie (1883-1957) American Philosophical Society. Reprinted with permission.

Chapter 14

Articulating the Boasian Paradigm

B y 1920, Boas had a group of students around him at Columbia and a number of former students teaching anthropology at other institutions. Kroeber, Lowie, S apir, Radin, Wissler, and others varied substantially in their interests and in their personal relations to Boas, but they all shared a core of theoretical and methodological concerns. Moreover, they formed a social organization of which Boas was the Centre. Melville Herskovits (1895-1963), a later student, commented (1953:65): The four decades of the tenure of [Boas's] professorship at Columbia gave a continuity to his teaching that permitted him to develop students w h o eventually m a d e up the greater part of the significant professional core of American anthropology, and w h o came to m a n and direct most of the major departments of anthropology in the United States. In their turn, they have trained the students w h o [...] have continued in the tradition in which their teachers were trained. The Boasian group became self-conscious at an early stage. Under pressure, e.g., in conflicts with the older anthropological establishment centred at the Bureau, Boas's students united for mutual support. They formed a cohort, "a group of m e n and w o m e n with shared life experiences" (Vincent 1990:9). They were perceived as a group by anthropologists outside it. Their influence in the organizational structure of American anthropology increased gradually between 1900 and the First World W a r . Boas's students differed in important respects from other American anthropologists. Leslie White (1966: 26) denigrated the closed-shop character of Boasian anthropology. Most early Boasians were foreign-born or the children of immigrants. Most werefluentin G e r m a n and m a n y were Jewish. This was, of course, Boas's o w n background. White argues that those w h o failed to meet these non-scientific criteria were autocratically excluded from the inner circle, citing Dorsey and Wissler as examples. This is a considerable oversimplification of the ability of the Boasian tradition to incorporate personal as well as scientific diversity. In spite of their

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shared disciplinary culture, each Boas student utilized the c o m m o n assumptions and perceptions in his or her o w n w a y . There were as m a n y versions of the 'Boasian paradigm' as there were Boasians. M a n y 'Boasians' were in some sense peripheral and no single individual can be taken as typical. For example, Lowie, Herskovits, and Leslie Spier (1893-1961) followed Boas's formulations of anthropological problems rather closely. Kroeber, Radin and S apir, however, were often in intellectual as well as social rebellion. Margaret M e a d (1901-1978; cf. Bateson 1984; Howard 1984; M e a d 1959, 1972, 1974; M e a d & Bunzel 1960) and Ruth Benedict (1887-1948; cf. Caffrey 1989; Modell 1974), a generation later, developed Boas's ideas in n e w directions. This internal divergence was often self-conscious. Lowie (1963:412) emphasized that Boas's students "have often differed from their teacher and from each other" and that Kroeber, Sapir, Radin "have repeatedly expressed their dissent from cardinal 'Boasian' views, and even I have uttered misgivings on certain points". In Lowie's view, differences within the group were more important than the similarities. H e contrasted his o w n "pedestrian" intellectual approach to that of the "American superintelligentsia — Goldenweiser, Radin, Benedict, Sapir" (Lowie 1959:133). That is, from within, differences in interest and approach were magnified. After 1920, w h e n Boas's students formed the core of American anthropology, their dialogue was to a large extent carried within their o w n network, an 'invisible college' (Crane 1972). American anthropologists peripheral to these developments were forced to define their interests in relation to Boas and his closer students even while formulating their divergencies. Individuals such as Laufer, Dorsey and T . Wingate Todd (1885-1997) were far from identifying themselves with Boasian anthropology, but often acted in accord with it (Herskovits 1956: 734). Boas supporters included the archaeologist Tozzer, the old-style linguist Goddard and the antiquarian Chamberlain as well as his direct students at Columbia. T o say that Boasian anthropology formed a unified and self-conscious program for anthropological research does not mean that individuals within this group had no difficulties getting along with Boas. The ambivalence that often pervaded these relations is well articulated by Sapir in two letters to Lowie (27 A u g . 1918; 15 Feb. 1921: U C B ) : It's too bad Boas has so much of the typical German Kleinlichkeit about him. The begrudging note that you refer to is not new to m e . I do not quite like to

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speak of it, but it always half-amused, half-irritated m e to hear Boas speak of h o w little opportunity for work was thrown in his w a y w h e n he was young, and h o w m u c h better off youngsters are n o w [...]. W h y is it he so signally lacks the ability to have his work strengthened and fructified by the efforts of his followers, but that, on the contrary, his followers, to find their w a y to fruition, have at some point or another to break away from him, and not always gently? A certain unimaginative quality — unfertile and a bit resentful. I sometimes wonder whether there is very m u c h more to Boas than a perfectly stupendous capacity for work and a happily sustained quality of enthusiasm [...]. I never saw a big m a n with fewer illuminating insights into things. But there I rattle on. Undoubtedly unjust to the old m a n , for I find that w h e n through speaking with him a fresh sense of the essential strength and bigness of his personality breaks through every time. I suppose that it is fineness that is lacking rather than largeness. [...] Well, Boas is a big m a n and he has his limitations. There are certainly things he can't do and that he therefore (subconsciously) decides should not be done. Historical inference is not easily possible for Boas, certainly not in languages. A s soon as he tries it, he loses his ground, gets involved in cloudy principles, and all tied up in fruitless inhibitions. I never saw a m a n w h o was so overawed by a feeling of the impossibility of certain things. Intuitionally he is almost a child; he has a perfect genius for hitting on unplausible or unfortunate hypotheses. A n d have you noticed this? — he will never take a preliminary theory of s o m e magnitude and see where it will lead him, test it out pragmatically. H e prefers to prance on one spot. But I've said enough. I would not for the world run afoul of him. A family quarrel would not be edifying and would help no one. A n d I like him too well personally.

Sapir, like other former students, was part of the family, with Boas as its patriarch (whether Jewish [ H y m a n 1954] or Victorian [Stocking 1974]), despite specific disagreements. 14.1 The Content of the Boasian Paradigm Emphasis has been placed primarily on the continuities of social organization and institutional context for the emergence of Boasian anthropology out of the Americanist tradition which preceded it. Such constraints o n scientific practice constitute the essential background for the dialogue of ideas in any discipline at any given m o m e n t . T h e intellectual content of Americanist anthropology, however, was changing alongside the personnel of the field and the professional calibre of their work. Indeed, it was the content of the Bureau paradigm which initially legitimized Boasian efforts to break away from established disciplinary forms. Characterization of the two

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paradigms as the evolutionary and the anti-evolutionary emphasizes the influence of thefirston the construction and elaboration of the second. T h e Bureau's commitment to evolutionary anthropology implied a mixture of classificatory variables (race, language and culture), on cross-cultural typology rather than on the internal organization of particular cultures. Superficial fieldwork and comparative ethnology without historical context mitigated against amassing a body of ethnographic descriptions. Boas's reaction against this paradigm took the historical development assumed by evolutionary anthropology as problematic, an empirical question in particular cases. H e insisted that race, language and culture were analytically independent, structured his ethnographic descriptions around the history of limited geographical areas and the context of elements within particular cultures. H e emphasized synchronic pattern within a single culture and the coherence of such a culture for the individuals within it. Boas's students turned to more detailed and intensive fieldwork to attack n e w questions which emerged from the critique of evolution. If there w a s a single unifying feature of the Boasian paradigm, it was the concept of culture. Indeed, this concept came to be seen as the legitimizing criterion for the autonomy of the discipline. The Boasian definition of culture was itself an innovation. Evolutionary anthropology had equated 'culture' and 'civilization' (as in Edward B . Tylor's famous definition). Boasian anthropology spoke for thefirsttime of cultures in the plural (Stocking 1968). There w a s considerable concern a m o n g Boas's students to demarcate a precise scope for anthropology. The relationship of the cultural and biological served this function for a time. Boas's version of the history of anthropology (1904a) suggested such a division, which was repeated in The Mind of Primitive Man (1911). Thefirstthird of Kroeber's Anthropology (1923a) w a s devoted to problems of race and culture. This is particularly interesting in that Kroeber, years later, recalled that he had not really been interested in race and race prejudice with the intensity which had motivated Boas, w h o "put so m u c h energy and strength behind his convictions that one got the impression there must be something important about the beliefs" (Kroeber to White, 5 Feb. 1947: A L K ) . At the time, of course, such a framework helped to justify the autonomy of anthropology as a discipline. Sapir's Language in 1921, Wissler's The American Indian in 1917 and Lowie's Culture and Ethnology in 1917, all began by specifying the relationship of culture and biology. T h e anthropology of Boas's students varied considerably. Sapir special-

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ized in language, Wissler in museology and material culture, Lowie in social organization, Kroeber in California ethnology. All of these, however, were encompassed by Boas's holistic conception of anthropology; indeed, its breadth defined the boundaries of American anthropology through most of the period between the two World Wars. Although his students did not practice the same version of anthropology, Boas set unavoidable standards for the scope and practice of the discipline. Boas contributed personally to all of the subdisciplines of anthropology, although his archaeological work w a s more organizational than substantive. In both physical anthropology and archaeology, his major concern w a s to delineate problems which cultural anthropology would ignore at its peril. Thus, he criticized students w h o could not relate their descriptive research to wider ethnological questions (Boas to Putnam, 10 April 1900: A P S ) . N o n e of Boas's students were quite so diversified in their interests as their teacher (Spier 1943:111): Boas had to concern himself with the wholefieldof anthropology in a w a y that m a y never be forced on another m a n [...]. Where some of the later students seem to be more systematic because they stayed with one topic, one cannot but feel that this was the result of rather narrow interests or of too limited a conception of anthropology. Boas believed as a matter of principle that the scope of anthropology w a s broader than any single scholar could encompass and thus counted on his students tofillin the details (Boas 1908: 5, 8). Particularly in the early years, Boas's o w n statements about this ideal scope tended to be programmatic: If the clear enunciation of the aims and methods of physical or biological science is not an easy matter, difficulties m a n y times greater are encountered in an effort to explain the present position of investigation dealing with mankind from the biological, geographical and psychological points of view — subjects that seem to lack in unity [...]. Owing to the apparent heterogeneity of method, it seems necessary to explain the aims that unify the m a n y Unes of anthropological research [...]. A s a matter of fact, the field of work as theoretically outlined would require such a vast variety of training, that no single person could hope to master it. His illustrations, of course, were empirical and analytical. Indeed, it w a s the contradiction between theoretical expectations and actual evidence which motivated Boas's critique of evolutionary anthropology.

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14.2 Boasian Ethnology Boas's ethnology, however, was rather different from that of any of his students. His life-long concern with problems of perceptual factors in objective description of phenomena led him from a dissertation in physics on the colour of sea water to ethnology by w a y of geography (Stocking 1968). Boas's concern with the psychological correlates of geographical phenomena developed in Germany through the influence of Friedrich Ratzel, Adolf Bastian and Theobald Fischer (1846-1910). This 19th-century German geography and ethnology was never as important to his students as to Boas himself. Indeed, most of them, particularly in the later years of his career, k n e w of this work mainly through its echoes in Boas's conception of American ethnology (Bunzl 1996). Boas continued throughout his life to pose problems of the connection between psychology and the history of particular peoples in m u c h the same w a y he had learned in Germany. T h e major influence on the form of his statement was the existing American ethnological tradition — primarily evolutionary, methodologically weak. Boas concentrated on negative criticism of the excesses of this older anthropology, stressing the complexity of ethnographic phenomena. In practice, this meant that Boasian anthropology was "self-consciously conservative" (Stocking 1974:27-28). Boas w a s concerned to define limited phenomena which could be described with methodological rigour. Simultaneously, he tried to define the autonomy of anthropology as a professional discipline. T h e result was an avoidance of broad scale theoretical synthesis in favour of describing the clear subject matter of anthropology — the culture of the American Indian. Ties to other disciplines were avoided, perhaps as a threat to this newly-claimed autonomy. In 1911, Boas produced two articulations of his views about the nature of anthropological problems and the appropriate methodology for attacking them. These paradigmatic statements provided a framework within which his students could define their research problems. Nearly half of The Mind of Primitive Man (191lb) was devoted to establishing culture rather than race as the frame of reference for scientific discussion of cultural diversity. In his "Introduction" to the Handbook of American Indian Languages, Boas argued that race, language and culture were analytically distinct variables and that an entirely satisfactory classification of peoples was ultimately unattainable because of the actual, historically-situated diversity of each group of people. The change in the usage of the term culture from singular to plural s u m m a -

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rizes the change in emphasis which Boas initiated (Stocking 1968). T h e artificiality of the concept of race and the ethnocentrism of the particular cultural practices of Western society were persistent themes which cleared the w a y for serious anthropological research meeting contemporary methodological standards. W h a t was primarily at stake was the nature of the generalizations anthropology could m a k e . M a n y Boasians were even less optimistic than Boas himself about the possibility of defining 'laws' or large-scale generalizations about h u m a n culture. Lowie, for example, suggested that details of ethnographic description could be organized by "ultimate irreducible facts, special functional relations, and principles of wider scope" (1917a:97). Indeed, "fruitful correlations" (Lowie 1963:13) might be the final result of research. Boas himself had professed greater optimism (1898:2): "It is only a few years since anthropology has begun to take its rank a m o n g the other sciences, and it [...] is already approaching the solution of its problem — that is, laying d o w n the laws governing the growth of culture". His later, more pessimistic statements were responses to the insufficiently rigorous work of his late 19th century contemporaries. Boas did not himself reject the possibility of eventually formulating more impressive generalizations. Descriptive ethnology with an emphasis on history was only the initial step toward the ultimate problems of anthropology which were psychological. L a w s had merely been formulated prematurely by the evolutionists (Boas 1906:642): A s w e have penetrated more deeply into these problems w e have observed that the general laws for which w e have been searching prove elusive, that the forms of primitive culture are infinitely more complex than had been supposed, that a clear understanding of the individual problem can not be reached without taking into consideration its historical and geographical relations. T h e methods of natural science, as adopted uncritically from evolutionary biology, had proved insufficient for the study of culture, which had an historical and aesthetic dimension requiring a different sort of analysis. Although recognition of the fundamental similarity of all h u m a n culture had been a necessary stage in the growth of anthropology as a science, the meaning of ethnographic phenomena in the present had to be sought in the particular details of each cultural context (1904a:516). T h e history of this detailed ethnographic or descriptive ethnology had scarcely begun w h e n Boas reviewed the history of anthropology for Science in 1904, and he acknowledged the gradual development of what has since

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been called historical particularism as a method. Indeed, most of the scholars Boas cited as having m a d e serious contributions to the emerging science were Europeans. A m o n g American theoreticians Boas discussed only Brinton, this disparagingly and without naming him. Boas's critique of evolutionary theory was directed against this American ethnological theory. His "Limitations of the Comparative Method" (1896b) was aimed primarily at Brinton (Harris 1968, Darnell 1988). T h e vehemence of this critique was necessary to Boas's quest to define the priority of particular historical research problems in American anthropology rather than generalizations about the American Indian. His point was that unilinear evolution was simplistic and ethnocentric, not that cultures did not progress from simple to complex. But simplicity and complexity have been taken for granted, as though "our present civilization is the necessary outcome of the activities of all the races of m a n " (Boas 1908:19). The problem lay in the excesses of interpretation of culture history by evolutionary theory (1908:23): Notwithstanding this serious criticism, m u c h of the older theory seems plausible; but presumably a thorough revision and a more individualized aspect of the development of civilization in different parts of the world will become necessary. The old historical methods in ethnology had to be replaced by a "careful and slow detailed study of local phenomena". "Steady empirical work" and "complete revision" of theoretical assumptions would reveal not a single line of evolution but "a multiplicity of converging and diverging lines which it is difficult to bring under one system" (1904a:516). Both comparative and historical methods, properly and cautiously applied, could contribute to "psychological researches into the conditions of transmission, adaptation and invention" in particular cases. S o m e psychological factors were the result of "the fundamental organization of the h u m a n mind" (1908:24), but only by empirical cross-cultural study could such pan-human traits be isolated. Most evolutionary theory, in contrast, took such psychological categories for granted. T h e history Boas envisioned included social usage and psychology as well as distribution of cultural elements. Graebner's work on trait distribution, for example, w a s dismissed as "mechanical" because the "significance of an ethnographic phenomenon is not by any means identical with its distribution in time and space and with its more or less regular associations with other ethnic phenomena" (1911a:296). Boas, in contrast, noted (1940 [1916]:317; 1940 [1924]:290):

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I do believe in the existence of analogous psychological processes among all races wherever analogous social conditions prevail; but I do not believe that ethnic phenomena are simply expressions of these psychological laws. [Rather,] the actual processes are immensely diversified. [...] all special cultural forms are the products of historical growth, and unless considerations entirely foreign to the observed distribution are introduced, no proof can be given that one of the extreme forms is more ancient than the other. 14.3 The Distribution of Folklore Elements Boas's methods of studying the history of particular peoples developed in the course of his work on the distribution of folklore elements on the Northwest coast. Comparison of present forms was the only evidence for past history, but this m a d e possible legitimate inferences about h o w elements had combined (Boas 1891:13). Evolutionary theoreticians had assumed that myths originated in contemplation of nature or from some other set cause, but Boas observed that the actual myths of a given people developed by m u c h more proximate causes through borrowing and culture contact. Original causes were also subordinated since myths had "social causes" — by which Boas meant that tales were reinterpreted after borrowing to fit the culture in which they were told (1940 [1898]:423). Cultural use was the most direct determinant of mythological form (1940 [1916]:403): [...] the imagination of the natives has played with a few plots which were expanded by means of a number of motives that have a wide distribution, and [...] there is comparatively little material that seems to belong to any one region exclusively so that it might be considered as of autochthonous origin. T h e character of the folk-tales of each region Hes rather in the selection of preponderant themes, in the style of plots, and in their literary development. Boas concluded that the interest of mythological elements lay in their reflection of detailed cultural history (1896:5): A great m a n y other important legends prove to be of foreign origin, being grafted upon mythologies of various tribes. This being the case, I draw the conclusion that the mythologies of the various tribes as w e find them n o w are not organic growths, but have gradually developed and obtained their present form by accretion of foreign material. Native explanations of their mythology were mere (at least from the point of view of origins) secondary rationalizations but provided invaluable psychological characterization of the culture (1940 [1903]:563). All cultures

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arranged concepts available to them through borrowing or invention in consistent and aesthetically pleasing ways. This process was subconscious but its results were rationalized in terms of concepts c o m m o n in the culture (1911: 198). Persistence of cultural items was not rational. The mythology was older than the "mythological use" to which its elements were put by the contemporary members of a culture (p. 203). Boas's view was thus m u c h more "functional" than that of his contemporaries, the evolutionists. H e did not commit himself as to the ultimate origin of folklore but described its place in on-going social life. Tylor had treated folklore as rational in origin but irrational in surviving customs. In contrast, Boas "saw it as unconscious in origin, but central to the maintenance of society through its rationalization of tradition forms of behavior" (Hatch 1973:31; cf. Stocking 1968:255). For Boas, the question of h o w cultures adopted and modified folklore elements was a psychological one, accessible to study only through the distribution of traits which reflected a past history resulting from subconscious choices grounded in h u m a n psychology. The integration of elements in a given culture never completely reached equilibrium, although h u m a n psychology tended toward consistency. Boas rarely m a d e general statements about the psychological implications of his findings; nonetheless, he was fascinated by the "particular reason" that certain elements were habitually "selected" for social purposes (Margaret M e a d in Goldschmidt 1958:36). Boas usually approached such problems through statements of historical process based on quasi-statistical study of element distributions. The identification of elements for comparison did not strike Boas as a major obstacle. H e apparently felt that a statistical approach would m a k e the results objective. (He m a y have emulated Tylor's 1889 efforts at quantitative formulation.) Psychological questions, in any case, were to be postponed until an equally rigorous method of handling them could be developed. Before Boas, the patterning in distribution and use of folklore elements remained latent (Darnell 1977a, Jacobs 1959). 14.4 Boasian Fieldwork The change of emphasis which began under the influence of Boas's students arose from changing standards of fieldwork on the Northwest Coast (Rohner & Rohner 1969; Cole 1985). Boas's o w n initial fieldwork was of survey scope due to constraints imposed by the sponsoring B A A S . H e was instructed to postpone investigation of "local details" because he was "work-

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ing not for a philological society, but for a committee on anthropology" (Hale to Boas, 12 July 1889: A P S ) . W o r k was to be synoptic, even if on the basis of potentially unreliable secondary materials. Boas was forced by exigency to comply. His early students also had to m o v e quickly from one tribe to another. Lowie has described the frustrations of survey fieldwork in the Plains for the American M u s e u m . M u s e u m emphasis on collection of specimens meant sacrificing cultural context in an effort to sample large areas. Wissler sent Lowie to the Plains to fill in lacunae in ethnographic knowledge of the area. M o r e intensive work was "out of the question" (Lowie 1959). Even the American M u s e u m ' s six year study of the Plains was a survey, dealing primarily with the theoretical problem of secondary association in military organizations. T h e stress on borrowing and reintegration of particular elements was Boasian and came later. The work of Boas's students before the First World W a r , however, laid a descriptive base for more intensive fieldwork after 1920. Lowie, Kroeber, Radin, Spier and Sapir all did intensivefieldstudies of particular American Indian groups, but not during this early period. Their major descriptive monographs, moreover, were written long after the completion of the fieldwork itself. Before Boas and his students could devote themselves to intensive fieldwork, they had to accumulate basic information as a context for the more limited studies. This was the 'mapping' mandate initiated by the Bureau and inherited by the Boasians. During the early 20th century, fieldwork was done almost entirely within the Boasian frame of reference. Reviewing American mythology in 1905, Chamberlain listed eight tribes which had been studied adequately; six had been described by Boas personally. Goddard's review of progress in American linguistics in 1914 noted twelve linguistic stocks on which satisfactory work had been done; nearly all were studied by Boas or his associates. T h e only exceptions were the large stocks, Algonquian and Siouan, in which genetic relationship had long been recognized and dialectology was possible even in the 19th century. Boas's standards for fieldwork were an innovation in the early 20th century. Swanton noted the difficulties in collecting reliable linguistic data (to Kroeber, 31 Dec. 1908: A L K ) : I really did not suppose that so m u c h labor w a s requisite to 'fix' the phonetics of a language. If that is the case the majority of them will have to go by the board

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Swanton even proposed a phonetic survey as prelude to more detailed analysis of particular languages. Intensive fieldwork was not yet a prerequisite for professional research in anthropology. Nonetheless, Boasianfieldworkwas beginning to produce new standards for understanding alien cultures in their o w n terms. Most of Boas's students contributed to a volume entitled American Indian Life, edited by Elsie Clews Parsons (1874-1941; Deacon 1997; Leeds-Hurwitz & Nyce 1986), consisting of fictional accounts by American anthropologists of the cultures in which they had worked. Most stressed life cycle as illustrated by individual biography or conflicts inherent in the culture. A s Kroeber's introduction emphasized (1922:5), these documents reflected an intimacy with the cultures studied which was lacking in most evolutionary descriptions. In his introduction, Kroeber cited the advent of a 'new ethnology' of association, sequence, geography and function. The fictional accounts supplied the sense of a living culture which added a new dimension to traditional ethnography. There is, thus, something new, something of the nature of an original contribution, in each of these stories; and they are reliable. T o m a n y of us the writing of our tales has been a surprise and of value to ourselves. W e had not realized h o w m u c h w e knew of the working of the Indian mind on some sides, h o w little on others (1922:13). Although most Boasian ethnographies were written more formally, 'feel' for a culture was becoming a qualification for any description. 14.5 The Culture Area Concept Boas's stress on distribution and explicit historical context led naturally to organization of research in terms of culture areas. Boas himself worked throughout his career on Northwest coast materials. Others had similar geographical specializations. Wissler and Lowie concentrated on the Plains, Kroeber on California, Radin on the Winnibago. Alexander Goldenweiser expressed this historical particularism (1933:154): Boas' outstanding contribution was the historical point of view, in accordance with which native cultures were to be investigated in their restricted historicgeographic homes [...]. These principles [...] soon brought fruit in the form of an

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imposing array of well-authenticated and partly coordinated data on Indian cultures. The historical standpoint received concrete expression in the culture area concept. T h e culture area concept w a s elaborated, however, not by Boas but by his students. Wissler assumed that wider distribution implied age, that distribution proceeded in concentric circles, and that biological analogies in the organization of cultural materials were justified. Others used the concept somewhat lessrigidlyand with greater stress on the particular cultures of their interest. T h e major theoretical exploration of perspective on the past history of an area through evidence remaining in the present was Sapir's Time Perspective in Aboriginal American Culture: A study in method (1916). Sapir considered the culture area concept a "customary" w a y of arranging data in American anthropology (1949 [1916]:426). Years later, in an attempt to evaluate Sapir's work, Lowie (1965:11) found this essay unproductive because it dealt with the "logic of ethnological research" rather than with ethnology itself. Lowie did appreciate, however, Sapir's realization that the conventional culture areas were "primarily classificatory" and thus of "unequal historical importance" (1965:11). Most of Sapir's essay w a s a methodological exercise in the extent to which language, the most "formal", "unified", and "compact" part of culture, could serve as a "stratified matrix" for unravelling cultural sequences (Sapir 1949 [1916]:432). Although Sapir was elsewhere more interested in problems of genetic relationship, diffusion of linguistic elements provided an important source of insight into culture (Sapir 1921c:211): H o w are w e to explain these and hundreds of similar phonetic convergences? In particular cases w e m a y really be dealing with archaic similarities due to genetic relationship that it is beyond our power to demonstrate. But this interpretation will not get us far [...]. However w e envisage the process in detail, w e cannot avoid the inference that there is a tendency for speech sounds or certain distinctive manners of articulation to spread over a continuous area in somewhat the same w a y that elements of culture ray out from a geographical center. Sapir's essay was written before American archaeology had reached the point of being able to postulate time sequences. His logic w a s comparable to that with which Boas had seized on all available evidence to reconstruct past history and Kroeber had attempted to systematize California prehistory ( R o w e 1962:408):

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Chapter 14 Boas had suggested that the 'history' of native culture in America could be reconstructed from ethnological data by a process of inference from the distribution of cultural elements, the inferences being based on assumptions about the processes of cultural change. The possibility of achieving some degree of time perspective by such methods was one of the things that attracted Kroeber to ethnology. H e realized that the method might not always give reliable results but [...] he saw no other hope of tracing the antecedents of native cultures in areas without a documentary record. In the anthropology of Kroeber's early years, then, ethnology seemed to be the diachronic branch of cultural anthropology, while archaeology was for the most part timeless and purely descriptive, with little to contribute to the study of culture history. B y the time of Kroeber's death [in 1960], the relationships of archaeology and ethnology to time had been substantially reversed.

For both Kroeber and S apir, then, linguistic prehistory was the most accurate means of access to the past. Kroeber was interested in shallow time depths for ethnographic classification and realized that more distant genetic relationships could not be deduced "by any off-hand inference from recent habits of life or distribution of the Indian tribes involved" (Sapir 1949 [1916]:73). Sapir, in contrast, regretted "our timidity in grappling with the time element in the history of culture" and sought to extend the boundaries of reliable inference (Sapir to Kroeber, 14 Dec. 1914: U C D A ) . Indeed, he believed that linguistic evidence alone could elucidate the most ancient prehistory of American aborigines. Sapir used language as a model for culture in an attempt to formalize historical inference about cultural materials for colleagues in ethnology (Aberle 1957). A s in linguistic classification, he distinguished genetic and areal relationships on formal comparative grounds. His o w n work leaned rather more toward the autonomy of linguistic form. T o Lowie (5 N o v . 1920: U C B ) , he referred to language as "So infernally conservative" and culture as "so veryfluid".Sapir continued to maintain (1921c:218-219) that language and culture were "non-comparable and unrelated". His stress on linguistic form was unique within Boasian anthropology. Because his linguistics was located in anthropology, Sapir continued to be concerned with the relationship between language and culture for the understanding of the history of peoples with unwritten languages. Most applications of the diffusional and culture area logic came, h o w ever, not from linguistics but from museums. Both Boas and Wissler had practical motives of m u s e u m arrangement in mind with their emphasis on geography (Kroeber 1939a: 11). Both Kroeber and Boas objected to Wissler's

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elaboration of the culture area concept, however, on the basis of its mechanicalrigidity.Boas explicitly avoided generalizations from quantitative results alone and refused to equate highest development with point of origin (Boas 1940 [1936]:309). Kroeber stressed the limitations of the culture area concept, arguing that it w a s most useful for understanding cultural wholes (1939a:ll): The study of processes tends to be analytical, and therefore to disregard time and space relations except so far as they condition the particular phenomena whose processes are being examined. In proportion as the study advances and learns to deal more directly with cultural process as such, the time and space relations become a sort of frame. It is the method which has been carried farthest, in penetration and exactness, by Franz Boas. This method can use culture areas only to a limited extent, as a sort of preliminary. Boas, like Kroeber, was less interested in the logic of culture history than in "the totality of cultural phenomena reflected in the individual culture" (Boas 1940 [1936]:309). T h e balance between distributional and psychological questions which Boas believed ideal was not necessarily the same he observed in practice, with the result that his historical reconstructions were criticized by Kroeber and others. Kroeber was unique a m o n g the Boasians in his continued insistence, in opposition to Boas, that history included spatial relationships as well as the temporal depth more c o m m o n l y associated with history. 14.6 The Critique of Evolution Boasian studies of the distribution of particular culture elements provided an empirical basis for a critique of the evolutionary paradigm which previously dominated Americanist anthropology. T h e success of this effort resulted from a cumulative series of illustrations that unilinear sequence did not exist, that the parts of culture advanced at different rates, and that the patterning in culture which anthropology sought to elucidate was to be found within single cultures. Boas's students were aware of the cumulative character of their work: M a n y of the emerging ethnographic facts were "quite inconsistent with the theory of unilinear evolution" (Lowie 1917a:81). Sapir (to Benedict, 25 June 1922 in M e a d 1959) referred to "the body of historical critiques that anthropology owes to Boas" and Lowie (1911:202) noted the existence of "methodological principles which are becoming the c o m m o n principles of all the

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active younger American students of ethnology". Boas himself recognized that particular examples of the inadequacy of evolutionary theory could be generalized methodologically. For example, he praised Goldenweiser's critique of the concept of totemism as supporting his o w n w o r k "in regard to practically all ethnological phenomena" (Boas 1910:393). T h e critique of evolutionary theory sought to invalidate its unilinear sequences b y illustrating the complexity of actual culture histories. Boas's w o r k on Alaskan needle-cases demonstrated that art-styles developed gradually and that the relation of abstract and representational motifs w a s not constant for all cultures. Lowie's studies of kinship were designed to replace M o r g a n ' s "dull uniformity" with "mottled diversity of actual social relations" (Lowie 1920 427). T h e real units were too "capricious" to fit into any sequence (p. 430). Indeed, Lowie's Primitive Society, in retrospect, seemed to its author to have been important primarily for its demonstration of the inadequacy of the evolutionary paradigm. In the preface to the second edition, he wrote (1947:xvii): This book was written originally in order to familiarize social scientists with the contemporary views of anthropologists concerning social organization. Cultural anthropology had by that time crystallized its criticisms of the earlier ambitious schemes of unilinear evolution. M u c h of the early Boasian w o r k was concerned to establish the existence of diffusion, which w a s inconsistent with a rigid unilinear sequence. Lowie's w o r k on the test theme in American mythology (1908) and Waterman's illustration that explanatory elements in folktales were secondary and restricted to a particular culture (1914) both helped to establish the central role of diffusion in culture histories, as did Boas's w o r k on myth cycles on the Northwest coast. T h e only question remained, at least within the Boasian paradigm, whether other factors also operated (Lowie 1920:8-9). T h e next step in the critique w a s to establish that unquestioned evolutionary sequences were accidental. For example, race, language and culture could easily be independent, although in practice they were often correlated. Sapir thus insisted that, in respect to the potentialities of his language, "Plato walks with the Macedonian shepherd, Confucius with the head-hunting savage of A s s a m " (1921c: 126). T h e parts of a culture did not progress at the same rate; evolutionary regularity w a s m o r e likely in the realm of technology than in that of social organization.

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In a similar vein, Goldenweiser's critique of totemism (1910: 266) argued that the concept had been produced arbitrarily as an artifact of evolutionary logic. Its component traits were independently distributed and different kinds of totemism had developed from historically diverse origins. Specific evidence was necessary in each case to demonstrate similarity of causes. Although Boasian distribution studies did not produce cross-cultural and typological generalizations, cultural traits proved to be far from random. Distributional studies led to an impasse only if synchronic cultural integration was ignored. Perhaps the most misunderstood passage in American ethnology was Lowie's famous statement that (1920:440-441): The belief in social progress was a natural accompaniment of the belief in historical laws, especially w h e n tinged with the evolutionary optimism of the seventies of the nineteenth century [...]. But no such necessity or design appears from the study of culture history. Cultures develop mainly through the borrowings due to chance contact. Our o w n civilization is even more largely than the rest a complex of borrowed traits [...]. T o that planless hodge-podge, that thing of shreds and patches called civilization, its historian can no longer yield superstitious reverence. Lowie's intent, of course, w a s to demonstrate that in origin the traits of a culture were arbitrary. Their integration within a given culture at a given time was patterned. For a later generation, which took culture to be a synchronic matter, the meaning of Lowie's statement was reversed. Numerous Boasian productions spoke to this point. Benedict's study of the vision quest in North America (1923) demonstrated that no consistent set of traits and accompanying meanings characterized the complex throughout the continent. Meaning was specific to each culture. This work led logically to Patterns of Culture in 1934. Haeberlin's dissertation in 1915 on the Pueblo concept of fertility falls within the same framework. The recurrent conclusion is illustrated by Spier's description of the Plains sun dance in which elements were acquired through intertribal borrowing but associated ideas and behaviours were more variable (1921:453): The corollary [...] is that tribal individuality has been expressed principly in pattern concepts of organization and motivation. Since there is no difference in the character of borrowed or invented traits which are incorporated in the sun dance and those which are rejected, it follows that the determinants must be sought in the conditions under which incorporation proceeds [...]. [T]he character of individual contributions to the ceremonial complex and the diversity in

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Chapter 14 receptiveness and interest, explain in part the elaboration and individualization of the several sun dances.

14.7 The Emphasis on Culture Wholes Boas's early historical work had balanced historical inference with geographical integration and functional integration of single cultures. Even before the beginning of the 20th century, Boas was placing increasing emphasis on pattern in particular cultures, for example, as part of his critique of evolutionary typology. The n e w attitude begins with the historical particularism of the diffusionist method, although it comes into its o w n through the culture and personality work of Benedict and M e a d beginning in the mid1920s. Boas himself was aware of the shift in focus (1940:311): The confusion with regard to m y o w n point of view is perhaps largely due to the fact that in m y early teaching, when I fought 'the old speculative theories,' as I a m n o w fighting the new speculative theories based on the imposition of categories derived from our culture upon foreign cultures, I stressed the necessity of the study of acculturation and dissemination. W h e n I thought these historical methods were firmly established, I began to stress, about 1910, the problems of cultural dynamics, of integration of culture and of the interaction between the individual and society. W h e n the battles against unilinear evolution had been w o n , at least methodologically, Boas and his students could turn to questions of the individual and his culture as well as to the role of anthropology in a complex modern world. Perhaps the best example of the gradual realization of the native point of view in subconsciously organizing cultural material came through the effort to record Indian languages accurately. Explanation of the different sounds found in these languages progressed from Powell's belief that Indians lacked "proper linguistic habits" and could not learn European languages (Powell to Baird, 15 April 1881: B A E ) to Boas's recognition of "alternating sounds" (sounds not heard by European observers because the phonetic distinctions of the Indian languages were absent in their o w n ) . Building on his previous work on the colour of sea water, Boas noted that the differences were a function of the observer's perception. Each language has a phonetic inventory of nearly fixed sounds which conditions hearing of another language (Boas 1889:52). It was, however, left for Boas's linguistic star pupil Sapir to define the "phonemic value" of sounds as having an internal structure for each language as a whole (1921c: 174). Sapir's concept of the phoneme developed gradually

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(1925b, 1933) but was implicit in his understanding of the nature of language by 1921 (Darnell 1992). Indeed, Sapir wrote to Kroeber (8 Sept. 1916: A L K ) that speakers would hear and write the inner sounds of their languages according to what he later called the "psychological reality of the phoneme". The difference between Boas and Sapir on this point is the crux of the difference between Boas's functional and contextual ethnography and Sapir's structuralism (cf. H y m e s & Fought 1976). Boas stressed the interconnectedness of phenomena but doubted the existence of unitary pattern for a whole culture (a relic of evolutionary generalization). T h e distinction is perhaps between patterning and a pattern (Dell H y m e s , p. a ) . Sapir sought positively identified form or configuration. The early 20th-century unity of the Boasian paradigm crystallized around the concept of culture. The formula 'Culture and X ' recurred throughout the period. Lowie's textbook Culture and Ethnology is illustrative. Indeed, culture continues to the present time, for m a n y American anthropologists, to integrate their discipline, albeit with substantial reformulation of the concept (Darnell 1997). A s late as 1952, Kroeber and Clyde Kluckhohn produced a voluminous compendium of usages and meanings of the term, and the project w a s welcomed as a contribution. The emphasis on culture was taken furthest by Kroeber, w h o believed that anthropology embraced a distinct level of reality, which he called the superorganic, as its subject matter. All sciences reflected similar orders of reality which could be studied only after their separation and definition. Kroeber (1917a) pushed emphasis on the autonomy of culture to its logical limit. The reaction, stressing the role of the individual, w a s immediate. But Sapir (1917a) and Goldenweiser (1917) both considered Kroeber's formulation an exaggeration rather than an untruth (see also Haeberlin 1915). T h e autonomy of culture as a thing to study remained unquestioned. This interchange, in the pages of the American Anthropologist, m a y be understood as a test of the integration of the Boasian paradigm around the culture concept. Although there were disagreements, with Kroeber and Sapir representing the extreme positions, the integration persisted as a guide for praxis. Efforts to sidestep culture as the legitimatizing concept of anthropology were simply peripheral to the theoretical centre of Boasian anthropology. For example, Sapir's article "Culture, Genuine and Spurious" (1924) took the point of view of the individual and contrasted the vitality of primitive cultures

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which were "inherently harmonious, balanced, self-satisfying" to their m e m bers with industrial society in which personal and aesthetic values were often submerged (p. 310). Lowie's verdict, years later (1965:9), reflected the unity of the Boasian approach. Sapir's analysis seemed to him to reject the technical meaning of culture, thereby placing itself outside the scope of science (certainly outside anthropology as Lowie understood it; cf. Radin 1933). 14.8 Theoretical Syntheses Boas's students, on the eve of the First World W a r , were developing his ideas in n e w directions. B y this time, a number of individuals were working on the same problems, although Boas was arguably lessflexiblein modifying his views than others. The result was a 'disciplinary matrix' in the Kuhnian sense: a series of limited problems were attacked as being capable of solution. This self-conscious realization of shared problems and framework for their resolution marked the coming of age of Boasian anthropology. This sense of achievement produced a number of textbooks and theoretical articles formulating the n e w ethnology. T h e sense of internal dialogue resulted in an aesthetic satisfaction which further unified the 'Boasian school' — both in their o w n eyes and in the eyes of others. Problems Boas had faced earlier in the century of preaching his version of anthropology to conservative and often antagonistic contemporaries gave w a y to a focus on details within a generally accepted format (Kuhn's 'normal science'). The syntheses defined the Boasian approach to the study of the American Indians and what was k n o w n about these cultures. Boas's emphasis on descriptive ethnology in historical context, although later criticized as atheoretical, was itself part of a consistent methodology based on an explicit theoretical commitment. Boas's o w n contribution to the synthesis grew from his Northwest coast fieldwork. His articles in the Journal of American Folklore constitute a theory of ethnography. These included: "The Growth of Indian Mythologies" (1896), "The Mind of Primitive M a n " (1901), " S o m e Traits of Primitive Culture" (1904), "Note on the Origin of Totemism" (1910), and "Mythology and Folk Tales of the North American Indians" (1914). B y 1920, the critique of evolution had been essentially completed and the mapping of North America was well enough in hand to provide an adequate context for more intensive research. Thefirstgeneration of Boas's students had been part of the 'mopping up operation' (Kuhn 1962) which produced

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Boasian anthropology. B y about 1920, however, it seemed possible to sum up the considerable accomplishments of the previous two decades to formulate the principles on which further work should be based. A s editor of the JAF, Boas encouraged theoretical articles, most written by his students and to elaborate some aspect of Boasian method. Indeed, Boas insisted that the data presented in every dissertation must have a theoretical justification, to the occasional disgust of both students and colleagues (Lowie 1963:436). Lowie's dissertation on the 'test theme' in American mythology, for example, fit alongside Boas's work on the distribution of folklore elements and the processes of borrowing (Lowie 1963: 2): M y maiden [field] trip likewise suggested m y doctoral dissertation. The casual w a y in which Lemhi narrators interwove explanatory elements into their tales convinced m e that they were not an organic part of the stories. This idea fell in with one of Boas' pet principles and he encouraged m e to elaborate it. Kroeber's work on Arapaho decorative symbolism appeared in 1901, Radin's on the Winnebago medicine dance in 1911, Goldenweiser's on totemism in 1910, and Lowie's on the same subject in 1911. Goldenweiser wrote on limited possibilities for independent invention in 1913 and Lowie on convergence (of forms with independent origins) in 1912, Swanton on the inadequacy of evolutionary theories of social organization in 1905, Waterman on history in 1917, Reichard on literary types and myth dissemination in 1921. Lowie, Kroeber, and Swanton (1910) all worked toward a concordance of American mythology. With the exception of Radin's Winnebago dissertation, most of these productions summarized previous work in a comparative framework. The Boasian method was descriptive and historical, requiring treatment of American Indian materials in a detailed comparative framework ('the ' X ' of North America') which was n e w to American ethnology. M u c h of this material was summarized for the International Congress of Americanists scheduled to meet in Washington, D . C . in 1914. The prepared papers were published, although the Congress itself was cancelled due to the outbreak of the First World W a r . Boas and his students seized the opportunity to summarize their point of view and demonstrate to European as well as recalcitrant American colleagues the maturity of anthropology in the United States under Boasian leadership. The papers published in the JAF were by Boas on North American folktales, by Radin on North American religion, and by Goldenweiser on

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North American social organization. The AA devoted two numbers in 1914 to the Congress papers (and the volume appeared separately in 1915). Swanton and Dixon wrote about primitive American history, Holmes about culture areas and the study of antiquities (archaeology), Wissler about material culture, Arles Hrdlicka about physical anthropology, Goddard about languages, and Lowie about ceremonialism. The American Anthropologist series included considerable non-Boasian material. Archaeology was left to the Bureau, although Holmes's point of view fit reasonably well with Wissler's work on culture areas. Physical anthropology was conceded to the National M u s e u m in spite of Boas's extensive early research on the plasticity of immigrant 'head-form' (Darnell 1982). Significantly, however, cultural anthropology of the American Indian devolved entirely on Boasians. Moreover, the Boasians w h o contributed were those w h o would prepare their papers to Boas's specifications. Kroeber was omitted; at this time, he was avoiding Boas-sponsored projects in an effort to secure his professional independence. The linguistic summary was prepared not by Sapir but by Goddard of the American M u s e u m , w h o was extraordinarily loyal to Boas. The result was a self-conscious 'inner circle' statement of the nature of Boasian anthropology — its methods and its results. Boas, as for the Handbook of American Indian Languages, took no chances of inappropriate contributions. T h e importance of a public statement was too great. Boas and his students had accepted a commitment to academic instruction as the institutional framework for their research. A s more students turned to anthropology and it became possible to require academic training for employment in the discipline, there was an increasing need for written expositions of the Boasian point of view. A non-specialist or a student required a source of information, especially as the size of the discipline increased to the point where not every student had direct access to Boas. There was a surge of general books and synthesizing works around 1920. Except for the work of Boas, they were not the products of mature years. Rather, they were the efforts of relatively young m e n to systematize the methods used in their on-going research. Each had its o w n questions and point of view. Taken together they represented the state of discipline. There was never again such a clustering of general works by the major figures in American anthropology. Something had been accomplished and the methods could be extended to n e w problems and areas of study. Professionalization of American science encouraged such statements. The Bureau, in contrast, had no such obligation to m a k e public the theory and methodology behind its results.

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The synthesizing trend began in 1911 with Boas's The Mind of Primitive Man and the Introduction to the Handbook of American Indian Languages. Both are programmatic in the sense of presenting a paradigm statement rather the results of applying the suggested methods to large bodies of descriptive data. Only a few years later, the suggestions in these general works had been elaborated by Boas's students and results could be presented formally. Indeed, Tozzer's synthesis points out the multiplicity of statements of the Boasian paradigm (1925:vii-viii): The Mind of Primitive Man [...] remained for almost ten years the sole account of the general American point of view towards Anthropology. Since that time, and more especially during the last four years, several of his students have produced books which n o w cover the field very adequately. H e notes particularly Lowie on early society, Kroeber's general textbook and the work of Wissler and Goldenweiser. These works, which came at the end of the period in which Boasian anthropology crystallized into a paradigm for all of American anthropology, include at least the following: 1911

1916 1917 1920

1921 1922 1923 1925 1926 1933

Franz Boas, The Mind of Primitive Man Franz Boas, Introduction to the Handbook of American Indian Languages Edward Sapir, Time Perspective in Aboriginal American Culture: A study in method Robert Lowie, Culture and Ethnology Clark Wissler, The American Indian Robert Lowie, Primitive Society A . L . Kroeber & T . T . Waterman, Sourcebook in Anthropology Edward Sapir, Language: An introduction to the study of speech Alexander Goldenweiser, Early Civilization A . L . Kroeber, Anthroplogy Clark Wissler, Man and Culture A . L . Kroeber, Handbook of California Indians Alfred Tozzer, Social Origins and Social Continuities Wilson Wallis, An Introduction to Anthropology Paul Radin, Method and Theory in Ethnology

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Boas acknowledged that his o w n work made it difficult for students to grasp his point of view (Kroeber to Macmillan, 16 Oct. 1911: U C D A ) . H e personally preferred to discuss "theoretical questions in connection with definite problems" but advised Kroeber to formulate his work to be more easily comprehensible to untrained readers, that is, to state "opinions in a somewhat formal way, and not tie them up with detailed investigations" (Boas to Kroeber, 24 July 1917: A L K ) . Textbooks were increasingly necessary, even though Boas himself did not want to write them. M a n y of Boas's students found his teaching methods "odd" (Lowie 1959:4). H e began with extremely specialized work and students repeated his courses until they understood what was going on. Lowie always resented this and attributed to it his o w n willingness to popularize and summarize anthropology (1959:137-8): Nothing, I have always felt, was more detrimental to m y anthropological education than the lack of any up-to-date summary of the elements of culture history in a systematic topical survey. Boas could have supplied the need, but never dreamed of doing so [...]. M y ever-smouldering resentment at Boas's failure to provide that solid basis of elementary fact, without which all one's ideas must be awry, no matter h o w one m a y advance knowledge in particular directions, was found to precipitate a prophylactic text for the young. M e a d (in Goldschmidt 1958:31) further described Boas's pedagogical style: "Boas disliked textbooks and seldom sent us to his o w n written work. H e gave us the gist in his lectures and assumed w e would resort to it only when w e needed the actual material". Boas did not m u c h care whether his students acquired factual information. In fact, he was "decidedly of the opinion that for a young m a n , grasp of method is m u c h more important than special knowledge, which is generally acquired only in the course of practical work" (Boas to Hodge, 15 Feb. 1910: B A E ) . The success of these general Boasian works, then, resulted partially from the previous absence of such summaries. Lowie (1959:129) attributed the immediate success of Culture and Ethnology to need for a book that "expounded the methods of Americanfieldworkers". His book s u m m e d up and evaluated "the contributions of the Boas school in its initial period of development up to World W a r I" (Lowie 1937:vi). Primitive Society was successful, in his retrospective view, because (Lowie 1959:132-133): There has not been any modern work by a trained ethnographer that surveyed the facts of comparative sociology. In other words, I happened to be thefirstto apply the critical anti-evolutionist position of the American ethnologists not

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merely to the clan problem in North America, as John R . Swanton had already done years before (1905), but in principle at least, to all phases of social organization and to the entire world. Sapir noted that Lowie's book had "a good chance to become known as the typical exponent of what w e may call the American view" (Sapir to Lowie, 25 M a y 1920: U C B ) . Sapir also pointed out the limitations of the Boasian method. Lowie's point of view made "a systematic treatment of primitive sociology" practically impossible, with the alternative being "more or less detailed historical and descriptive surveys of particular societies, or else general treatises on methods of studying social units" [Ibid.]. Lowie's effort to go beyond the American Indian in very specific historical context was less successful than his methodological statements about social organization. Sapir's own work presented "the essential statements of modern linguistics in postulational or definitional form" (Harris 1952:289). His Language was designed as a non-technical introduction to linguistics, although he worried that it was too personal for a textbook (Sapir to Lowie, 19 April 1921 : U C B ) . Similarly, Wissler intended his The American Indian as (1917:v) "a general summary of anthropological research in the N e w World [...] a byproduct of the author's activities as a museum curator, [attempting to] objectify and systematize the essential facts relating to North America". In spite of its faults, Sapir (to Lowie, 1965:72) thought Wissler's work "met a real need, providing the only possible text for courses on American Indians". In the absence of textbooks, exchange of information on presentation of courses was one expedient. Kroeber and Tozzer exchanged course outlines during their early years of teaching (Kroeber to Tozzer, 13 M a y 1907; Tozzer to Kroeber, 3 M a y 1907: U C D A ) . The possibilities for academic anthropology were opening up in ways that made cooperation among the few major departments highly beneficial to all. Tozzer noted (to Kroeber, 4 June 1907: U C D A ) : " M y head is full of schemes for next year [...]. I believe in trying them all as I a m firmly convinced that the teaching of anthropology is just beginning". Kroeber realized early the need for more textbooks (to Leonard, 24 April

1913: UCDA): The truth is that the so-called science of anthropology is as yet so completely unorganized that the only part of its literature worth anything is the many pieces of descriptive detailed work. S o m e of these are written with some outlook but of course they can never take the place of works of general character.

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The immediate lack of descriptive materials was to be remedied by the Sourcebook in Anthropology conceived by Kroeber and Waterman in 1913 (Waterman to Kroeber, 7 M a y 1913: U C D A ) . The Berkeley department had the largest undergraduate teaching program in the country and thus the greatest need for summaries of anthropological research which could be used in teaching. T h e scope of the science was to be indicated by a selection of articles previously inaccessible to students (Kroeber & Waterman 1920:iii): The passages in this volume have been selected for their utility in stimulating discussion. They are included not because they present ultimate scientific truth, but because they embody facts and interpretations which are useful for the exercise of thought in some of the larger problems of anthropology. Explication was avoided since classroom instruction, in the Boasian tradition, could supply it (Kroeber to Waterman, 26 July 1913: U C D A ) . Kroeber turned to the articulation of his personal views only w h e n he wrote a textbook per se {Anthropology in 1923). The presence of such syntheses and textbooks meant that students took for granted the Boasian method from the beginning of their exposure to anthropology. Only for the first generation w h o produced them was the articulation of underlying assumptions of the Boasian 'school' at stake. T h e presence of such a series of paradigm statements relegated earlier American ethnology to the past — the student had only to master Boas. Comparably, at least within the Bureau, during the 1880s, a budding ethnologist need have read little besides the publications of the Bureau itself. Later history has repressed the gradual character of the shift from one such paradigm to another; it is characteristic of professional socialization that things seem always to have been as they are n o w . 14.9 Envoi American anthropology crystallized once around Powell and his Bureau in the years just after 1879 and again around Boas and his students at Columbia during the first two decades of the 20th century. Nonetheless, continuity across the paradigm shift is more salient in historical retrospect than it seemed to particpants. The Americanist tradition, Boasian rhetoric to the contrary, retained a considerable amount from the ethnographic and linguistic mapping projects of the Bureau and built on its data base. Professionalization was a gradual process, beginning with the Bureau, m o v ing to m u s e u m s and universities, fully accomplished only over a considerable

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period of time. T h e end of the First World W a r m a y be taken as a convenient cut-off point for the establishment of classical Boasian anthropology, and simultaneously for the eclipse of its complex roots in earlier Americanist scholarship. T h e lessons of paradigmatic shift remain exemplary for contemporary anthropology. T h e Americanist tradition has become so pervasive that its continued centrality to the discipline has been eclipsed, albeit not as thoroughly as that of the Bureau. T h e persistence and reflexive revitalization of this tradition is another story (Darnell, forthcoming), one which comes into clear focus only in the context of its history. That history is one of continuity and cross-fertilization with other national traditions, most particularly British functionalism and French structuralism, and other disciplinary explorations, especially feminist theory, postcolonial theory and postmodernism. A mentalist, reflexive, symbolic anthropology persists at the intersection of anthropology, linguistics and an open-ended, ongoing Americanist tradition.

Alfred Louis Kroeber (1876-1960) American Philosophical Society. Reprinted with permission.

Illustrations

List of Illustrations Frontispiece: Franz Boas 1901 (1858-1942) John Wesley Powell (1834-1902) Daniel Garrison Brinton (1837-1899) James O w e n Dorsey (1848-1895) Frank Hamilton Cushing (1857-1899) James Mooney (1861-1921) Franz Boas as Hamatsa Dancer Edward Sapir (1884-1939) Sapir's M a p of his Six-Unit Linguistic Classification, 1921 Robert Harry Lowie (1883-1957) Alfred Louis Kroeber (1876-1960)

ν 44 68 96 116 156 176 198 210 270 298

Illustration Credits Photographs are reprinted with the permission of the following: National Anthropological Archives, Smithsonian Institution: John Wesley Powell, James O w e n Dorsey, Frank Hamilton Cushing, James M o o n e y , Franz Boas as Hamatsa Dancer; American Philosophical Society: Franz Boas (1901), Daniel Garrison Brinton, Alfred Louis Kroeber, Robert Harry Lowie; Philip Sapir for the Sapir family: Edward Sapir, Sapir's m a p of his six-unit linguistic classification

Illustrations

300 List of Figures 1. 2. 3. 4. 5. 6.

Major Staff and Collaborators of the Bureau The Founding of Universities and M u s e u m s P h . D . ' s Granted in Anthropology in North America North American Linguistic Classifications Presidents of the American Anthropological Association Presidents of the American Folklore Society

80 117 171 233 252 256

References

Abbreviations used in this Bibliography: AAA American Anthropologist ACLS American Council of Learned Societies AL Anthropological Linguistics BAEAR Bureau of American Ethnology Annual Report BAEB Bureau of American Ethnology Bulletin CNAE Contributions to North American Ethnology HL Historiographia Linguistica HOA History of Anthropology UAL International Journal of American Linguistics JAF Journal of American Folklore JHBS Journal of the History of the Behavioral Sciences KASP Kroeber Anthropological Society Papers Lg Language: Journal of the Linguistic Society of America MAAA Memoirs of the American Anthropological Association PAPS Proceedings of the American Philosophical Society PASB Philadelphia Anthropological Society Bulletin SCK Smithsonian Contributions to Knowlege SMC Smithsonian Miscellaneous Collections SJA Southwestern Journal of Anthropology TASW Transactions of Anthropological Society of Washington University of California Publications in American Archaeology and UCPAAE Ethnology UCPL University of California Publications in Linguistics VFPA Viking Fund Publications in Anthropology Aberle, David. 1957. "The Influence of Linguistics on Early Culture and Personality Theory". Essays in the Science of Culture ed. by Gertrude Dole & Robert Carneiro, 129. N e w York: Thomas Crowell. Ames, Michael. 1986. Museums, the Public and Anthropology. Vancouver, B . C . : Univ. of British Columbia Press. Andresen, Julie Tetel. 1990. Linguistics in America, 1769-1924. N e w York: Routledge. Anonymous. 1914. "Alexander Francis Chamberlain: In memoriam". Publications of the Clark University Library 4:2. ---. 1937. Dictionary of American Biography. 20 vols. N e w York: Charles Scribner's Sons.

302 ---.

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Index of Biographical Names

A. Abbott, Charles (1843-1919): 120 Adler, Cyrus (1843-1920): 23, 128 Agassiz, Louis (1807-1873): 12, 122, 140 Angulo, Jaime de (1887-1950): 174 Β. Bachofen, Johann (1815-1887): 101 Baird, Spencer (1823-1887): 13, 22-24, 75 Baker, Frank (1867-1942): 247-248 Bandeher, Adolphe (1840-1914): 84, 160 Barbeau, Marius (1883-1969): 167, 258 Barrett, Samuel (1879-1965): 49, 152, 174, 182, 203 Bartlett, John (1820-1905): 49 Bather, F . A . : 145 Bastian, Adolph (1826-1925): 101, 276 Benedict, Ruth (1887-1948): 2, 183, 232, 272, 287-288 Bickmore, Albert: 84, 140 Bloomfield, Leonard (1887-1949): 260 Boas, Franz (1858-1942): xi, xii, xiii, 1, 3, 6, 12, 18, 22, 30, 39, 46-47, 50-51, 56, 59, 63, 65, 72-73, 77, 94, 99-100, 104-106, 108-11, 113-115, 121, 123131, 133-134, 136-141, 143-149, 151, 157, 163, 168-170, 173-175, 179, 181-192, 195-196, 202, 208-209, 211-225, 231, 234, 236, 241-242, 245-251, 253-255, 257-265, 267-269, 271, 273, 275-291, 293-294

Bogoras, Waldemar (1865-1936): 183 Bourke, John: 192, 257 Bowditch, Charles Pickering (18421921): 136 Brinton, Daniel Garrison (1837-1898): xi, 11-12, 15, 54, 57-60, 62, 65-66, 75, 78, 85, 88, 92, 99, 104-107, 110, 114, 161, 186, 192, 218, 223, 246248, 257-258, 278 Bumpus, Herman C : 142-143, 146-147 Burgess, John William (1844-1931): 104 Buschmann, Johann Carl Eduard (18051880): 58 Bushneil, David I. (1875-1941): 34, 258, 263 Bushotter, George (1864-1892): 75 Butler, Nicholas Murray (1862-1947): 104, 158 C. Cass, Lewis (1782-1866): 21, 73 Cattell, James M c K e a n (1860-1944): 158, 246 Chamberlain, Alexander Francis (18651914): 108-109, 168, 218-219, 248, 254, 258, 272, 281 Child, Francis James (1825-1896): 257 Chomsky, N o a m : 1 Cole, Fay-Cooper: 114, 166, 173 Collitz, Hermann (1855-1935): 102-103 Cresson, Hilborne: 106 Culin, Stewart (1888-1929): 106, 248, 257

322 Curtin, Jeremiah (1835-1906): 12, 45, 47, 51, 64, 192 Cushing, Frank Hamilton (1857-1899): 22, 32, 46, 75-78, 84, 89, 91, 94 D. Dall, George: 63 Darrow, Clarence (1857-1938): 110 Darwin, Charles (1809-1882): xiii Davis, Edwin Hamilton (1811-1888): 21 Dawson, George Mercer (1849-1901): 167, 248 Dilthey, Wilhelm (1883-1911): xiii Dixon, Roland Burridge (1875-1934): 119, 121-122, 130, 139, 165, 169, 173, 179, 182-183, 188, 203, 205, 211-212, 223-228, 232, 237, 257, 260-261, 292 Donaldson, Henry: 146 Dorsey, George A m o s (1868-1931): 111, 113, 117, 120-122, 129-130, 138-139, 145, 168, 173, 182, 193, 248, 257, 271, 272 Dorsey, James O w e n (1848-1895): 12, 17, 29, 50-51, 61-66, 70, 75, 77, 78, 85-89, 94, 192, 257 DuBois, Constance Goddard: 204 Dunn, Jacob Platt (1855-1924): 191192 Duponceau, Peter Stephen (1760-1844): 54 E. Eggan, Fred (1906-1991): 166 Emerson, Alfred: 150 F. Farabee, William Curtis (1865-1925): 122, 161, 165 Farrand, Livingston (1867-1939): 124, 147, 157-159, 257 Fewkes, Jesse Walter (1850-1930): 12, 31-32, 42, 94, 132, 160, 187, 192, 209, 263-265, 268

Index of Biographical

Names

Field, Marshall (1839-1906): 135, 138 Fischer, Theobald (1846-1910): 276 Fiske, John (1842-1901): 47 Fletcher, Alice Cunningham (18381923): 83-84, 149, 192-193, 248, 257 Fletcher, Robert (1823-1912): 13 Frachtenberg, Leo (1883-1930): 182183, 187, 190, 205-206, 212, 215216, 218-219, 229, 238-239, 265, 267-268 Franklin, Benjamin: 11 G. Gallatin, Albert (1761-1849): 11, 21, 52, 54, 58, 73, 158, 249 Gates, William W . (1863-1940): 264 Gatschet, Albert Samuel (1832-1907): 12, 29, 50, 53, 61-66, 72, 75, 78, 86, 191-192, 235 Gibbs, George (1815-1873): 28, 50-51 Gifford, Edward Winslow (1887-1959): 152, 174, 201, 203, 207, 241 Gilbert, Grove Karl (1843-1918): 13 Gilbertson, Albert Nicolay: 113 Gilman, Daniel Coit (1831-1908): 13, 101-102 Goddard, Pliny Earle (1869-1928): 61, 148-149, 152, 165, 169, 182-183, 185, 187, 189, 195, 201-205, 208, 235-236, 239, 254, 260-261, 266, 272, 281, 292 Goldenweiser, Alexander (1880-1940): 174, 272, 282, 286-287, 289, 293 Goldschmidt, Walter: 2 Gordon, George Byron (1870-1927): 161-166, 264 Grant, Ulysses S. (1822-1885): 25-26 Gratacap, Louis: 143 Grinnell, George Bird (1849-1938): 83, 258 Guernsey, SJ. (1863-1936): 264 H. Haas, Mary: 183, 236 Haeberlin, Hermann (1888-1918): 109, 183, 205, 287

Index of Biographical

Names

Hale, Horatio (1817-1896): 11, 65, 85, 192, 281 Hall, Granville Stanley (1844-1924): 49, 102-103, 107-109, 158 Hallowell, Alfred Irving (1892-1974): 163 Harper, William Rainey (1856-1906): 103, 109-112, 137-138 Harrington, John Peabody (1884-1961): 58, 84, 130, 195-196, 203, 205-207, 212, 215, 223, 232, 260, 264 Harris, Marvin: 3 Hayden, Ferdinand Vandiveer (18291887): 26 Hearst, Phoebe Apperson (1842-1919): 148-150, 152-153, 202 Henry, Joseph (1797-1878): 12, 16, 1922, 25, 28 Henshaw, Henry Wetherbe (18501930): 12, 51, 59-65, 69, 94, 180 Herder, Johann Gottfried (1744-1803): 101 Herskovits, Melville (1895-1963): 2, 271-272 Hewett, Edgar Lee (1865-1946): 207209, 263-264 Hewitt, John Napoleon Brinton (18591937): 12, 45, 51, 56, 66, 71-72, 265 Higginbottom, Hiram: 135 Hilprecht, Hermann (1859-1925): 106, 162 Hinsley, Curtis: 5 Hodge, Frederick W e b b (1864-1956): 59, 63, 130-131, 181, 194, 206-207, 248, 264-268 Hoffman, Walter James (1846-1899): 12 Hoijer, Harry (1904-1976): 53, 183 Holmes, William Henry (1846-1933): 12, 34-35, 94, 124-126, 129, 130, 134, 137-138, 160, 168, 174, 186, 248, 263-264, 292 Honigmann, John: 4 Hooton, Ernest (1887-1954): 122, 169 Humboldt, Wilhelm von (1767-1835): 101

323 Hrdlicka, Arles (1869-1943): 263, 292 Hymes, Dell: 191, 234, 239, 289

J. Jacobi, Abraham (1830-1919): 157 Jacobs, Melville (1902-1971): 66 Jefferson, Thomas (1743-1826): 11, 21, 73 Jenness, Diamond (1886-1982): 167, 260 Jesup, Morris K . : 141-146 Jones, Philip Mills (1870-1916): 203 Jones, William (1871-1909): 139, 182183, 186, 190 Judd, Neil (1887-1976): 264 K. Kidder, Alfred Vincent (1885-1963): 264 King, Clarence (1842-1901): 13, 26 Kittredge, George Lyman (1860-1941): 194 Kroeber, Alfred Louis (1876-1960): 2, 53, 58-59, 62-63, 69, 99, 101, 111, 129, 131, 136, 139, 143, 147-155, 167, 169, 173-174, 179, 181-183, 187-189, 193-196, 199-208, 211-212, 214-215, 217, 223-228, 230, 232, 235-237, 240-242, 253-254, 257, 259-260, 262-263, 268-269, 271-272, 274-275, 282-285, 289, 291-296 Krupat, Arnold: 6 Kuhn, Thomas: xvi, 1, 6, 290 L. Langley, Samuel (1834-1906): 29-30, 94, 125-129, 181, 184, 186 Laufer, Berthold (1874-1934): 139, 160, 173, 272 Linton, Ralph (1893-1953): 2, 166, 175 Lothrop, F . K . (1882-1965): 264 Loud, L.L.: 203 L o w , Seth (1850-1916): 157-158 Lowie, Robert Harry (1883-1957): 2, 101, 148, 151, 165, 174, 194, 254,

324 267, 271-272, 274-275, 277, 281-283, 285-287, 289-295 M. M a c h , Ernst: xi MacCurdy, George Grant (1863-1947): 168 Malinowski, Bronislaw (1884-1942): xiii Mallery, Garrick (1831-1894): 12, 29, 41, 45-6, 75, 82, 90-91, 94, 192 Mark, Joan: 5 Marsh, Othniel C . (1831-1899): 118119 Mason, John Alden (1885-1967): 152, 162-163, 203, 207, 223, 262 Mason, Otis Tufton (1838-1908): 12, 23-24, 29, 36, 38, 82, 87, 91, 124, 174, 179, 257 Matthews, Washington (1843-1905): 12, 17, 90, 192, 204, 257 M c G e e , William J (1853-1912): 12, 16, 32, 37, 41, 46, 69, 71-72, 74, 79, 8384, 91-94, 124, 126-127, 137-138, 168, 174, 190, 195, 246-251, 253 McLean, John: 192 M e a d , Margaret (1901-1978): 2, 272, 288, 294 Merriam, C . Hart (1885-1942): 149, 201 Michelson, Truman (1879-1938): 130, 174, 182-183, 187, 190-191, 211-212, 215, 220, 235-236, 239, 260 Mooney, James (1861-1921): 12, 45-6, 61, 72, 75, 78-79, 89, 134, 180, 192, 264 Moore, Clarence: 120 Moorehead, Warren K . (1866-1939): 112 Morgan, Lewis Henry (1818-1881): 1113, 17, 21, 51, 54, 56, 73, 76, 85, 8889, 246, 286 Morley, Sylvanus (1883-1948): 264 Murdoch, John: 192 Murray, Stephen O . : 5

Index of Biographical

Names

N. Nelson, Neis: 203 Newell, William Wells (1839-1907): 254-258 Nuttall, Zelia: 120, 141, 149-150, 158160 O. Osborne, Henry Fairfield: 142, 146 P. Parsons, Elsie Clews (1874-1941): 282 Peabody, George (1795-1869): 118 Pepper, William: 105, 148 Pickering, John (1777-1846): 21, 54 Pilling, James Constantine (18461895): 12, 22, 29, 31, 46, 48-49, 59, 75, 89, 94 Pinart, Alphonse Louis (1852-1911): 41 Powell, John Wesley (1834-1902): xi, xii, xiii, 5, 12-13, 15, 17, 23, 24, 26, 29-32, 34, 36-42, 45-6, 48, 52, 54-56, 58, 60-67, 70-76, 79, 83, 86-91, 9394, 99, 122-127, 132-134, 181-182, 186, 213-214, 217-218, 234, 246, 248, 250, 288 Powers, Stephen (1840-1904): 12, 32, 52, 61, 90 Prince, J. Dyneley (1868-1945): 258 Putnam, Frederick Ward (1839-1915): 5, 15, 84, 99, 104, 109, 111, 114-115, 118-123, 133, 136, 138, 140-142, 145, 148-150, 153-155, 157, 188, 199, 247-248, 253 R. Radcliffe-Brown, A . R . (1881-1952): 166 Radin, Paul (1883-1929): 174, 182, 211-212, 214-215, 241-242, 265-267, 271-272, 282, 291 Ratzel, Friedrich (1844-1904): 101, 276 Ray, Verne: 2-3 Redfield, Robert (1897-1958): 166 Reichard, Gladys (1893-1955): 183,

Index of Biographical

Names

214, 235-236, 261, 291 Reisner, George (1867-1942): 150 Remsen, Ira (1846-1927): 13 Riggs, A . L . : 86-87 Riggs, Stephen Return: 86-87 Ripley, William (1867-1941): 157-158 Rorty, Richard: xiv Rouse, Joseph: xvi Royce, Charles: 73, 90 Russell, Frank (1868-1903): 122, 168, 257 S. Sapir, Edward (1884-1939): xiii, 57, 62, 148, 151-152, 162, 166-167, 174, 179, 182, 189, 191-196, 203, 211220, 222-223, 227-242, 260-261, 266-267, 271-274, 283-285, 288-290, 292, 295 Saville, Marshall (1867-1935): 159 Schoolcraft, Henry Rowe (1793-1864): 17, 21, 73 Schutz, Carl (1829-1906): 191 Seler, Hans-Jakob: 160 Seligman, Charles G . (1873-1940): 139 Shea, John Gilmarry: 21, 49 Skiff, F.J.: 135-138, 142 Small, Albion (1854-1926): 112, 113, 166 Smith, Erminie (1836-1886): 12, 70, 71 Smith, Harlan Ingersoll (1872-1940): 146 Sparkman, Ned: 204 Speck, Frank Goldsmith (1881-1950): 109, 162-166, 169, 173, 190, 214, 231-232, 260 Spencer, Herbert (1820-1903): xi, 246 Spier, Leslie (1893-1961): 174, 272, 287 Spinden, Herbert J. (1879-1967): 264 Squier, George Ephraim (1821-1888): 21 Starr, Frederick (1858-1933): 110, 112114, 138, 140 St. Clair, Henry Hull: 190

325 Steinthal, Hermann (1823-1899): 101 Stevenson, Matilda Coxe (1850-1915): 31, 76, 207 Stevenson, Sarah: 120, 148 Steward, Julian: 2 Stocking, George W . , Jr.: 2, 4 Swadesh, Morris: 53, 217, 237 Swanton, John Reed (1873-1958): 94, 121-122, 128-129, 173-174, 182, 187, 190, 193-194, 211-212, 214, 219-220, 223, 229, 236, 254, 257, 260, 262265, 268, 281-282, 291-292, 295 T. Tax, Sol (1902-1996): 166 Thalbitzer, William (1873-1930): 182183 Thomas, Cyrus (1825-1910): 12, 34, 180 Thomas, William Isaac (1863-1947): 111, 113 Thompson, Stith: 194 Todd, T. Wingate (1885-1997): 272 Tozzer, Alfred (1877-1954): 121-122, 165, 169, 208, 258-259, 272, 293, 295 Trumbull, James H a m m o n d (18211897): 28 Tylor, Edward Burnett (1832-1917): 274, 280 U. Uhle, M a x (1856-1942): 150-151 Uhlenbeck, C . C . : 211 V. Vincent, Joan: 5 Voget, Fred W . : 4 Volk, Ernest (1845-1919): 120 Von Den Steinen, Karl (1859-1929): 128, 146 W. Wagner, Gunter: 183 Walcott, Charles Doolittle (1850-1927):

326 126, 128-129, 137, 266-268 Wallis, Wilson (1886-1970): 164, 205, 207 Ward, Lester (1841-1913): 13, 36, 174 Waterman, Thomas Talbot (18851936): 152, 174, 194, 203, 207, 286, 291, 296 Waters, Miriam van: 113 Wayland, Francis (1796-1865): 101 W a x , Murray: 2 Wheeler, Benjamin Ide (1854-1927): 120, 148-150, 152, 154 Wheeler, George M . (1842-1905): 26 White, Leslie (1900-1975): 3, 4, 113, 271

Index of Biographical

Names

Whitney, William Dwight (1827-1894): 50, 103, 195-196 Wilder, H . H . (1864-1928): 264 Willoughby, Charles: 120 Wilson, Daniel (1778-1858): 108 Wilson, Thomas (1832-1902): 23, 134 Wissler, Clark (1870-1947): 147, 158159, 170, 182, 205, 253, 271, 274275, 281-284, 292, 295 Wundt, Wilhelm (1832-1920): 101, 103 W y m a n , Jeffries (1814-1874): 118-119 Y. Yarrow, Henry Crecy (1840-1929): 13, 29, 41, 45-46, 90

Index of Subjects and Terms

A. Abenaki: 39 Academy of National Sciences of Philadelphia: 15, 107 Acculturation: 40, 77, 221, 288 Achomawi: 65, 154 Alaskan needle cases: 286 Algonquian: 49, 65, 218, 227-228, 230, 232, 234-235, 281 Allison Commission: 27 Alternating sounds: 195, 288 American Anthropologist: 14, 73, 92, 127, 159, 169, 175, 246-249, 254, 257-258, 263, 289, 292 American Anthropological Association: 165, 193, 195, 249-254, 262-263 American Antiquarian Society: 15 American Association for the Advancement of Science: 14, 15, 106, 108, 122, 169, 248, 250 American Council of Learned Societies: 260-261 American Ethnological Society: 15, 31, 158-159, 247, 249 American Folklore Society: 192-193, 254-260 American M u s e u m of Natural History: xii, 15, 84, 114, 122, 126, 136, 139148, 160, 205, 281 American Oriental Society: 15 American Philosophical Society: xi, 11, 14, 107 Analytic grammar: 186, 189, 191, 216 Anthropological Society of Washing-

ton: 13, 92, 159, 247, 251, 255, 262 Anthropology, scope of: 33, 91 Anthropometry: 108-109, 158 Applied anthropology: 36-40 Arapaho: 228, 291 Archaeological Institute of America: 84, 165, 207-208 Archaeology: 32, 160, 203, 208-209, 275, 283, 292 Archaic residue: 217 Arid lands: xiii, 25 Aryan: 57, 89 Atakapa: 58, 64 Athabaskan: 49, 184, 189, 204, 218220, 232, 236, 241 Authorship: 60-67 Aztec-Tanoan: 232 B. Beothuk: 64, 227, 231 Bibliographies: 48-49 Biloxi: 78 Boasian paradigm: 170, 272-278 Boasian school: xv, 155, 174, 271, 290, 294-295, 297 British Association for the Advancement of Science: 63, 108, 248, 280 Brooklyn Institute: 106 Bureau of American Ethnology: xi, 5, 14, 117-118, 123, 125-132, 167, 175, 179, 194, 196, 200, 202-203, 206, 211, 216, 250, 265-269, 292, 296 Bureau of Indian Affairs: 39

328 C. Caddo(an): 58, 64, 231-232 California, State of: 58, 181, 189, 199 California, University of: 84, 122, 136, 148-155, 188, 264 Carnegie Institute: 14, 170 Catawba: 58 Catch-words: 193 Cayuse-Molale: 66 Chemakuan: 218 Cherokee: 83 Cheyenne: 79, 83 Chicago as social laboratory: 112 Chicago, University of: 99, 103, 105, 109-114, 166 Chimariko(an): 64, 205, 223, 225 Chinook(an): 49, 121, 182, 184, 200, 238-239 Choctaw: 87 Chontal: 58, 223 Chukchee: 183 Chumash(an): 206, 223-224, 226 Clark University: 103-105, 107-110, 114 Coahuiltecan: 228-229, 232 Couer d'Alene: 183 Colorado River: 24, 33 Colour of sea water: 288 Columbia University: 6, 104-105, 110, 114, 117, 140, 147-148, 157-160, 173, 179, 187, 249-250, 261, 264, 271 Conjectural history: 21 Coos: 65, 182 Cosmos Club: 13 Costanoan: 64, 225 Culture, concept of: xiii, 274 Culture area: 203, 282-285 Culture and personality: 288 D. Dakota: 86, 182 Destructive criticism: 83 Diachronic: 284 Diffusion: 56

Index of Subjects and

Terms

Diffusional cumulation: 217 Disciplinary matrix: 290 Drift: 222 E. Endangered languages: 121 Eskimo: xiii, 31, 49, 63, 182 Ethnic classification: 37-38 Evolution (cultural): xi, 3, 5, 74-75, 8793, 110, 127, 179, 185,246, 274, 285-287, 290 Evolution, unilineal: 278, 285-286, 288 Explanatory elements: 194, 291 F. Field Columbian M u s e u m : 99, 111, 113, 126, 133-139, 145 Fieldwork: xiv, 73-79, 89, 134 First Yale School: 242 Folklore: 179 Folklore elements: 221-222, 279-282, 291 Foreign policy: 36, 41, 43 Fox: 182

G. Genuine culture: 289 Geo-ethnic units: 125 Geological Survey of Canada: 162, 166, 248 Geological Surveys: 19, 24-26, 40 Geological Survey: 24, 27, 35-37 German model (graduate education): 100-104, 245 German-returned: 101 Ghost dance: 79 H. Haida: 65, 182, 184, 190, 217-220 Handbook of American Indians: 85, 125, 181 Handbook of American Indian Languages: 39, 50, 52, 183-192, 202, 219, 239, 292

Index of Subjects and Terms Handbook of California Indians: 200 Harvard University: 5, 84, 99, 103-104, 117, 119, 149, 155, 157, 173,250 Hawaii: 41 Hemenway Expedition: 84 Historical materialism: 3 Historical particularism: xi, 3, 278, 282, 288 Hokan: 58, 223, 225-226, 228-229, 230, 232, 240 Honorary Philologist: 128, 183, 187, 263, 265, 268 Hopi: 58 Huntington California Expedition: 205 Hupa: 152, 182 I. Indo-Chinese: 237 Indo-European: 78, 185, 195, 215, 235 Inductive method: 36, 144 Inner form: 186 Inner life: 77 International Congress of Americanists: 291 International School of American Archaeology: 160, 208, 261 Introduction to the Study of Indian Languages: 50-51, 66, 83 Iroquois(an): 49, 56, 231-232

J. Jeffersonian tradition: 20 Jesup North Pacific Expedition: 22, 145, 160 Jewishness: 271, 273 Johns Hopkins University: 101-102, 107 Journal of American Folklore: 194, 258 K. Kinship: 201, 286 Kiowa: 58, 65, 134, 232 Klamath-Modoc: 66 Kwakiutl: 182, 186, 218

329 L. Language, role of: xii Language isolates: 228 Latin: 31, 143 Lewis and Clark Expedition: 21 Linguistic anthropology: 5, 38 Linguistic geography: 238 Linguistic Society of America: 103 Lower Umpqua (Siuslaw): 182 Luiseno: 204 Lutuami(an): 66, 231 M. Maidu: 121, 182, 188, 205 Mapping: xii, 25, 34, 45-67, 69-70, 95, 179-180, 199-209, 213, 242, 245, 281, 290 Mexico: 41, 84, 159-160, 186, 208 Missionaries: 85-87, 163, 187 Miwok: 64, 225 Mixed languages: 55, 222 Modernism: 13 Moquelumnan: 64, 200 Morphological hybridization: 222 Morphological kernal: 231, 140 Morrill Land Grant Act: 101 Mosan: 218 Mound builders: 21, 33, 34 Multilateral comparison: 226 Museum arrangement: 124, 143-144, 284 Muskoghean: 49, 65 Myth concordance: 47, 192-194, 291 Mythological elements: 279 N. Na-Dene: 219-220, 230, 232, 235-237 Nahuatl: 58, 65 Natchez: 58, 63, 65, 229 Nation, the: 262, 265 National Museum (see United States National Museum) National Research Council: 262 Native American anthropologists: 71 Native point of view: 74, 78

Index of Subjects and Terms

330 Navaho: 58, 78 Neologisms: 92-93 Nootka: 167, 218 Northwest coast: 58-59, 63, 66, 123, 193, 195, 217, 224, 279-280, 286, 290 Noun incorporation: 231

Psychic unity: 75, 278 Psychological reality: 289 Psychological types: 184, 220, 222 Publication outlets: 253-260 Pueblos: 34, 58, 195 Pundits: 13

Q. O. Omaha: 77 Oral history: xi, 6 P. Paleolithic: 33 Paradigm shift: 245, 296-297 Paradigm statement: 246 Pawnee: 58, 139, 231 Peabody M u s e u m of American Archaeology and Ethnology: 99, 114, 117123, 154 Pennsylvania, University of: 15, 84, 105-107, 114, 161-166,264 Penutian: 225-227, 230, 232, 237-239 Peyote: 79 Philadelphia anthropology: xi Philology: 38, 102, 168, 191, 200, 215, 255 Phoneme, concept of: 196, 240, 288 Physics: 16 Piman: 65 Plains sun dance: 287 Political anthropology: 5 Polysynthesis: 54, 185 Porno (Kalapuya): 64 Popularization, dangers of: 144 Powell classification, revision of: 229 Professionalism: xi, 11, 82, 84, 106, 120, 143, 246, 249, 258 Professionalization: xvi, 5-6, 15, 19, 29, 47, 69, 99, 104, 117-118, 122, 123, 167, 247, 250-251, 259, 269, 292, 296 Progress: 88 Proto-American linguistic features: 230-231

Questionnaires: 20, 41, 46, 83, 88, 202 Quileute: 183 R. Race, language and culture: 39, 213, 274, 276, 286 Reduction of linguistic stocks: 213 Reformer science: 38 Reservations: 36-40 Ritwan: 225-226 S. Sahaptian: 231 Salinan: 49, 64 Salish(an): 65, 218, 223 Salvage ethnology/linguistics: 40, 187, 216, 260 Science: 27, 128, 144, 145-146, 158, 229, 246, 250, 277 Scientific revolution: xi, xii, 6, 245 Secondary rationalization: 279 Section H ( A A A S ) : 246-247 Seri(an): 58, 66, 223 Shahaptian: 66 Shasta(n): 65, 225-226 Shetimacha: 64 Smithsonian Institution: 5, 14-15, 19, 20, 22-25, 27-28, 35, 84, 144, 268 Shoshone(an): 33, 58, 65, 67, 190, 204 Shreds and patches: 287 Siouan: 17, 49, 65, 70, 77, 195, 228, 230, 232, 281 Siuslaw: 65 Sound correspondences: 222, 234-235 South America: 57 Southwest: 22, 32-33, 34, 76 Specialist bias: 196

Index of Subjects and Terms Standpoint: xiv, 6, 283 Subgrouping: 227, 238-239 Subtiaba: 240 Superorganic: 88, 289 Survey method: 34, 46, 95, 167, 184, 189, 199, 201-202, 245, 280-281 Survivals: 91 Synchronic: 186, 213, 240, 274, 287 Synonymy: 53, 61, 62, 180 T. Taensa: 63 Takelma: 182, 189 Tanoan: 65, 232 Tenth Census: 35 Tequislatecan: 67 Test theme: 291 Textbooks: 290-296 Texts, linguistic: 31, 129, 186 Time depth: 213, 226-227, 229, 237 Time perspective: 283 Tlingit: 182, 184, 190, 217-220 Tonkawa: 183 Totemism: 286-287, 291 Tsimshian: 31, 182, 223, 238-239 Tunica(n): 64, 183, 232 Tutelo: 65 U. United States National Museum: 14, 22, 34, 40, 94, 117-118, 123-125, 127 Unwritten languages: 215 Urgent ethnology: 40, 190 Ursprache: 221 Uto-Aztecan: 58, 230, 232, 240

331 V. Victoria Museum, Ottawa: 264 Victorian family: 273 Vision quest: 287 W. Waicuran: 67 Waiilatpuan: 67, 231 Wakashan: 49, 65, 218, 230, 232 Walker Museum: 111 Wappo: 241 Washo: 188, 223 Wheelwright Museum: 205 Wilkes Expedition: 85 Winnebago: 291 Wintu: 154 Wishram: 31 Wistar institute of Anatomy and Biology: 107 Wiyot: 225, 228, 234-235 World Columbian Exposition: 99, 108109, 111, 122, 133-135, 140 Y. Yakonan: 65 Yana: 223 Yokuts: 188 Yuchi: 58, 183 Yuki: 188, 241 Yuman: 66-67, 223 Yurok: 223, 225, 228, 234-235 Z. Zuni: 75-78, 91, 183, 228, 231