ose
stones rose high above the streets of Camelot.

Moreover, those who make researches independently must needs contribute
their results to scientific journals, written in the jargon of the
learned. I came across a now forgotten journal, a short time ago, in
which an English gentleman, believing that he had made a discovery in
the province of Egyptian hieroglyphs, announced it in ancient Greek.
There would be no supply of such pedantic swagger were there not a
demand for it.

Small wonder, then, that the archaeologist is often represented as
partaking somewhat of the quality of the dust amidst which he works. It
is not necessary here to discuss whether this estimate is just or not: I
wish only to point out its paradoxical nature.

More than any other science, archaeology might be expected to supply its
exponents with stuff that, like old wine, would fire the blood and
stimulate the senses. The stirring events of the Past must often be
reconstructed by the archaeologist with such precision that his
prejudices are aroused, and his sympathies are so enlisted as to set him
fighting with a will under this banner or under that. The noise of the
hardy strife of young nations is not yet silenced for him, nor have the
flags and the pennants faded from sight. He has knowledge of the state
secrets of kings, and, all along the line, is an intimate spectator of
the crowded pageant of history. The caravan-masters of the elder days,
the admirals of the "great green sea" the captains of archers, have
related their adventures to him; and he might repeat to you their
stories. Indeed, he has such a tale to tell that, looking at it in this
light, one might expect his listeners all to be good fighting men and
noble women. It might be supposed that the archaeologist would gather
around him only men who have pleasure in the road that leads over the
hills, and women who have known the delight of the open. One has heard
so often of the "brave days of old" that the archaeologist might well be
expected to have his head stuffed with brave tales and little else.

His range, however, may be wider than this. To him, perhaps, it has been
given to listen to the voice of the ancient poet, heard as a far-off
whisper; to breathe in forgotten gardens the perfume of long dead
flowers; to contemplate the love of women whose beauty is all perished
in the dust; to hearken to the sound of the harp and the sistra, to be
the possessor of the riches of histor