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TEST BANK
MASTER VERSION QUESTIONS
How to Conduct Field Research: Getting in and Getting out with High Quality Data
Multiple choice
7. Which of the following could result in the researcher leaving the field beyond his or her
choice?
a. Lack of control over project
b. Lack of ethnical approval
c. The group or institution being studied ends research
d. Your personal preferences
Language: English
ARTHUR WEIGALL
With 17 Illustrations
G. P. PUTNAM’S SONS
NEW YORK LONDON
The Knickerbocker Press
1923
Copyright, 1923
by
Arthur Weigall
In this first chapter I propose to extol the Egyptologist who works abroad in
the field, in contrast to him who studies at home in the museum; for, in
reading over the papers collected into this volume, I see that there is a sort of
motif which runs through them all, linking them together, namely that the
archæology of Egypt, to be properly appreciated, must be studied, so to
speak, at the lips of the Sphinx itself.
It is an unfortunate fact that the archæologist is generally considered to be
a kind of rag-and-bone man; one who, sitting all his life in a dusty room,
shuns the touch of the wind and takes no pleasure in the vanities under the
sun. Actually, this is not so very often a true description of him. The ease
with which long journeys are now undertaken, the immunity from insult or
peril which the traveller usually enjoys, have made it possible for the
archæologist to seek his information at its source in almost all the countries
of the world; and he is not obliged, as was his grandfather, to take it at
second-hand from the volumes of mediæval scholars. Moreover, the
necessary collections of books of reference are now to be found in very
diverse places; and thus it comes about that there are plenty of archæologists
who are able to leave their own museums and studies for limited periods.
And as regards his supposed untidy habits, the phase of cleanliness
which, like a purifying wind, descended suddenly upon the world in the
second half of the nineteenth century, has penetrated even to libraries and
museums, removing every speck of dust therefrom. The archæologist, when
engaged in the sedentary side of his profession, lives nowadays in an
atmosphere charged with the odours of furniture-polish and monkey-brand.
A place less dusty than the Victoria and Albert Museum in London, or than
the Metropolitan Museum in New York, could not easily be imagined. The
disgusting antiquarian of a past generation, with his matted locks and stained
clothing, could but be ill at ease in such surroundings, and could claim no
brotherhood with the majority of the present-day archæologists. Cobwebs
are now taboo; and the misguided old man who dwelt amongst them is
seldom to be found outside of caricature, save in the more remote corners of
the earth.
The archæologist in these days, then, is not often confined permanently to
his museum, though in many cases he remains there as much as possible;
and still less often is he a person of objectionable appearance. The science is
generally represented by two classes of scholar; the man who sits in the
museum or library for the greater part of his life, and lives as though he
would be worthy of the furniture polish, and the man who works in the field
for a part of the year and there lives as though he regarded the clean airs of
heaven in even higher estimation. Thus, in arguing the case for the field-
worker, as I propose here to do, there is no longer the easy target of the dusty
antiquarian at which to hurl the javelin. One cannot merely urge a musty
individual to come out into the open air. That would make an easy argument.
One has to take aim at the less vulnerable person of the scholar who chooses
to spend the greater part of his time in a smart gallery of exhibits or in a
well-ordered and spotless library, and whose only fault is that he is too fond
of those places. One may no longer tease him about his dusty surroundings;
but I think it is possible to accuse him of setting a very bad example by his
affection for home comforts, and of causing indirectly no end of mischief. It
is a fact that there are many Greek scholars who are so accustomed to read
their texts in printed books that they could not make head nor tail of an
original document written in a cursive Greek hand; and there are not a few
students of Egyptian archæology who do not know the conditions and
phenomena of the country sufficiently to prevent the occurrence of
occasional glaring errors in the exposition of their theories.
There are three main arguments which may be set forward to induce
Egyptologists to go as often as possible to Egypt, and to urge their students
to do so, instead of educating the mind to the habit of working at home.
Firstly, the study of archæology in the open helps to train up young men
in the path of health in which they should go. Work in the Egyptian desert,
for example, is one of the most healthy and inspiring pursuits that could be
imagined; and study in the shrines overlooking the Nile, where, as at Gebel
Silsileh, one has to dive into the cool river and swim to the sun-scorched
scene of one’s work, is surely more invigorating than study in the
atmosphere of the local museum. A gallop up to the Tombs of the Kings puts
a man in a readier mood for a morning’s work than does a ride in a street-car
or an omnibus through crowded thoroughfares; and he will feel a keenness
as he pulls out his notebook that he can never have experienced in his
western city. There is, moreover, a certain amount of what is called
“roughing it” to be enjoyed by the archæologist in Egypt; and thus the body
becomes toughened and prepared for any necessary spurt of work. To rough
it in the open is the best medicine for tired heads, as it is the finest tonic for
brains in a normal condition.
In parenthesis an explanation must be given of what is meant here by that
much misunderstood condition of life which is generally known as
“roughing it.” A man who is accustomed to the services of two valets will
believe that he is roughing it when he is left to put the diamond studs in his
evening shirts with his own fingers; and a man who has tramped the roads all
his life will hardly consider that he is roughing it when he is outlawed upon
the unsheltered moors in late autumn. The degree of hardship to which I
refer lies between these two extremes. The science of Egyptology does not
demand from its devotees a performance of many extreme acts of
discomfort; but, during the progress of active work, it does not afford many
opportunities for luxurious self-indulgence, or for any slackness in the taking
of exercise.
As a protest against the dilettante antiquarian (who is often as
objectionable a character as the unwashed scholar) there are certain
archæologists who wear the modern equivalent of a hair shirt, who walk
abroad with pebbles in their shoes, and who speak of sitting upon an easy-
chair as a moral set-back. The strained and posed life which such savants
lead is not to be regarded as a rough one; for there is constant luxury in the
thought of their own toughness, and infinite comfort in the sense of
superiority which they permit themselves to feel. It is not roughing it to feed
from a packing-case when a table adds insignificantly to the impedimenta of
the camp; it is pretending to rough it. It is not roughing it to eat canned food
out of the can when a plate might be used: it is either hypocrisy or
slovenliness.
To rough it is to lead an exposed life under conditions precluding the
possibility of indulging in certain comforts which, in their place and at the
right time, are enjoyed and appreciated. A man may well be said to rough it
when he camps in the open, and dispenses with the luxuries of civilisation;
when he pours a jug of water over himself instead of lying in ecstasy in an
enamelled bath; eats a meal of two undefined courses instead of one of five
or six; twangs a banjo to the moon instead of ravishing his ear with a sonata
upon the grand piano; rolls himself in a blanket instead of sitting over the
library fire; turns in at nine p.m. and rises ere the sun has topped the hills
instead of keeping late hours and lying abed; sleeps on the ground or upon a
narrow camp-bed (which occasionally collapses) instead of sprawling at his
ease in a four-poster.
A life of this kind cannot fail to be of benefit to the health; and, after all,
the work of a healthy man is likely to be of greater value than that of one
who is anæmic or out of condition. It is the first duty of a scholar to give
attention to his muscles, for he, more than other men, has the opportunity to
become enfeebled by indoor work. Few students can give sufficient time to
physical exercise; but in Egypt the exercise is taken during the course of the
work, and not an hour is wasted. The muscles harden and the health is
ensured without the expending of a moment’s thought upon the subject.
Archæology is too often considered to be the pursuit of weak-chested
youths and eccentric old men; it is seldom regarded as a possible vocation
for normal persons of sound health and balanced mind. An athletic and
robust young man, clothed in the ordinary costume of a gentleman, will tell a
new acquaintance that he is an Egyptologist, whereupon the latter will
exclaim in surprise: “Not really?—you don’t look like one.” A kind of
mystery surrounds the science. The layman supposes the antiquarian to be a
very profound and erudite person, who has pored over his books since a
baby, and has shunned those games and sports which generally make for a
healthy constitution. The study of Egyptology is thought to require a depth
of knowledge that places its students outside the limits of normal learning,
and presupposes in them an unhealthy amount of schooling. This, of course,
is absurd.
Nobody would expect an engineer who built bridges and dams, or a great
military commander, to be a seedy individual with longish hair, pale face,
and weak eye-sight; and yet probably he has twice the brain capacity of the
average archæologist. It is because the life of the antiquarian is, or is
generally thought to be, unhealthy and sluggish that he is so often regarded
as a worm.
Some attempt should be made to rid the science of this forbidding aspect;
and for this end students ought to do their best to make it possible for them
to be regarded as ordinary, normal, healthy men. Let them discourage the
popular belief that they are prodigies, freaks of mental expansion. Let them
shun pedantry and the affectations of the dons’ common-room as they would
the plague. Let their first desire be to show themselves good, useful, hardy,
serviceable citizens, and they will do much to remove the stigma from their
profession. Let them be acquainted with the feeling of a bat or racket in the
hands, or a saddle between the knees; let them know the rough path over the
mountains, or the diving-pool amongst the rocks, and their mentality will not
be found to suffer. A winter’s “roughing it” in the Theban necropolis or
elsewhere would do much to banish the desire for perpetual residence at
home in the west; and a season in Egypt would alter the point of view of the
student more considerably than he could imagine. Moreover, the appearance
of the scholar prancing about on his fiery steed (even though it be but an
Egyptian donkey) will help to dispel the current belief that he is incapable of
physical exertion; and his reddened face rising, like the morning sun, above
the rocks on some steep pathway over the Theban hills will give the passer-
by cause to alter his opinion of the students of antiquity.
As a second argument a subject must be introduced which will be
distasteful to a large number of archæologists. I refer to the narrow-minded
policy of certain European and American museums, whose desire it is at all
costs to place Egyptian and other eastern antiquities actually before the eyes
of western students, in order that they may have the comfort and
entertainment of examining at home the wonders of lands which they make
no effort to visit. I have no hesitation in saying that the craze for recklessly
dragging away unique monuments from Egypt to be exhibited in western
museums for the satisfaction of the untravelled man, is the most pernicious
bit of folly to be found in the whole broad realm of Egyptological
misbehaviour.
A museum has three main justifications for its existence. In the first
place, like a home for lost dogs, it is a repository for stray objects. No
curator should endeavour to procure for his museum any antiquity which
could be safely exhibited on its original site and in its original position. He
should receive chiefly those stray objects which otherwise would be lost to
sight, or those which would be in danger of destruction. He should make it
his first endeavour not so much to obtain objects direct from Egypt as to
gather in those antiquities which are in the possession of dealers or private
persons who cannot be expected to look after them with due care, or make
them accessible to students.
In the second place, a museum is a storehouse for historical documents
such as papyri and ostraca, and in this respect it is simply to be regarded as a
kind of public library, capable of unlimited and perfectly legitimate
expansion. Such objects are not often found by robbers in the tombs which
they have violated, nor are they snatched from temples to which they belong.
They are usually discovered accidentally, and in a manner which precludes
any possibility of their actual position having much significance. The
immediate purchase, for example, by museum agents of the Tell el Amarna
tablets—the correspondence of a great Pharaoh—which had been discovered
by accident, and would perhaps have been destroyed, was most wise.
In the third place, a museum is a permanent exhibition for the instruction
of the public, and for the enlightenment of students desirous of obtaining
comparative knowledge in any one branch of their work, and for this
purpose it should be well supplied not so much with original antiquities as
with casts, facsimiles, models, and reproductions of all sorts.
To be a serviceable exhibition both for the student and the public a
museum does not need to possess only original antiquities. On the contrary,
as a repository for stray objects, a museum is not to be expected to have a
complete series of original antiquities in any class, nor is it the business of
the curator to attempt to fill up the gaps without thought of the
consequences. To do so is to encourage the straying of other objects. The
curator so often labours under the delusion that it is his first business to
collect together by fair means or foul as large a number as possible of
valuable masterpieces. In reality that is a very secondary matter. His first
business, if he be an Egyptologist, is to see that Egyptian masterpieces
remain in situ so far as is practicable; and his next is to save what has
irrevocably strayed from straying further. If the result of this policy be a poor
collection, then he must devote so much the more time and money to
obtaining facsimiles and reproductions.
But the curator generally has the insatiable appetite of the collector. The
authorities of one museum bid vigorously against those of another at the
auction which constantly goes on in the shops of the dealers in antiquities.
They pay huge prices for original statues, reliefs, or sarcophagi; prices which
would procure for them the finest series of casts or facsimiles or would give
them valuable additions to their legitimate collection of papyri. And what is
it all for? It is certainly not for the benefit of the general public. It is almost
solely for the benefit of the student and scholar who cannot, or will not, go
to Egypt. Soon it comes to be the curator’s pride to observe that savants are
hastening to his museum to make their studies. His civic conceit is tickled by
the spectacle of Egyptologists travelling long distances to take notes in his
metropolitan museum.