Inspirational Archaeology
Robert Wilson Shufeldt, M. D., “Inspirational Archaeology,” Religio-Philosophical Journal, August 29, 1891
Nearly, nay all my life has been devoted to scientific study and original investigation, and often indeed have I thought what a grand thing it would be were we poor scientific plodders but occasionally, at long, long intervals apart, assisted by some invisible independent intelligence, and if not so much as permitted to see ahead in our labors at least be allowed to know of some of the happenings in the world’s great unwritten past. Even little tiny bits of knowledge of that kind would be of the most inestimable value to science. I must say, however, that now with life more than half spent, all my yearnings for such directions have ended in the most complete disappointment, and with a sigh, I can but feel the still greater truth of the saying that “there is no royal road to knowledge,” and even the assistance from those behind the veil is denied us.
Good reader, I pray you just think calmly for the moment what the realization of such a state of things would mean to humanity. Say such an occurrence as has been hinted at above had actually taken place beyond all peradventure of a doubt—where, indeed, would be the limitations of its importance? Say, for example, that the spirit of a man should come to us who had lived upon this continent when men had barely shaken off the most glaring structural vestiges of the brute, and yet had gained sufficient intelligence, and the power of speech, to communicate clear descriptions of objects that he saw. That that spirit should intelligently give us a detailed account of his environment at the time it lived in the flesh. Of the forms that existed; how they lived; and how all in the earth that was, and appeared. He could not deceive the scientific student in such matters, for even our present knowledge, as meager as it is, would be a constant check upon him! One single case of this nature proved absolutely, would be of such preeminent import to all mankind, that were I to meet with one, I would feel sure that Col. Bundy would allow me at least half a dozen columns of The Journal to set it forth in its minutest detail. Or even were I to meet with a case that purported to be of such a nature, but upon its very face was printed as plain as could be the simple find “not true,” then would I be also sure that he would grant the full measure of space to stamp out the fraud, once and for all. I feel bold as I pen these words, and so do not hesitate to ask him to republish the following account which lately appeared in a paper claiming to be devoted to Spiritualism. It read thus:
Arrow-Making.
Extraordinary Experiences by Hudson Tuttle.
He is Carried Back to a Former Age.On a high point of the Lake Ridge, overlooking all the country to the shores of Erie, the plow turned up some crumbling bones, and among those on the crest of the furrow was the lower jaw of a human being; it was of an aged person, for the teeth were worn down by long use. A little beyond, the central part of the leg-bone appeared, and a flint arrow, with the point imbedded therein. The bone crumbled to my touch, but the arrow was of material which resists the changes of time. To what race belonged these remains, which were only faint white streaks in the soil? Indian, mound-builder, or a yet remoter people? Evidently the warrior had been killed in battle, but buried on this commanding eminence by his friends.
I carefully preserved the beautifully-formed arrow-head, and the perfection of its workmanship set me to thinking how it could be broken from the obdurate and brittle flint. Perhaps no handiwork of man has attracted greater interest or called forth more conjecture.
Arrow-making has long been considered among the lost arts. It has been asserted by high authority that no man living, with all the appliances of modern art, can make a flint arrow-head. The savages, supplied with more destructive instruments of iron or steel, have lost the capabilities they possessed during the stone age.
He was a chief, unable by age to lead the war-path or the chase, and found honorable employment in the art in which he excelled.
When the character of the material is studied, a part, at least, of the mystery of arrow-making is cleared away. Flint occurs in nodules, with a rough, clayey, stained surface, and in the center, crystallization more or less. The cleavage of the globular mass is from the surface to this center. It tends to break into irregular prisms, and this cleavage, though somewhat conchoidal, is along nearly straight lines. The nodule is first broken in two, and then into smaller pieces; each piece having the outside of the nodule for one end, and the center for the other. The inspection of the illustration, No. 1, will show this clearly.
Even among primitive savages, it is not probable all had the ability for the delicate task. There would be some more skillful than others, and the arrow-maker would be the first occupation to separate and become distinguished from war and the chase. Thus we read in the beautiful language of Longfellow: [The words of the poet are omitted in the narrative as originally published, and not being essential to my purpose I do not supply them.—R. W. S.]
It is an exact representation of a fragment of flint found by the writer, and from which he received the evidence of the statements here made. It was a block from which arrows had been broken, and was in shape to yield others. I went to my cabinet, and taking this piece, with the arrow before mentioned, I saw long in a musing mood, examining them. The fragment was just as the arrow-maker left it, after splitting off the last piece. If he could be recalled, and resume his task where he left it, what a flood of information might be gained!
Slowly my musings merged into an intelligence I had never felt before. The fragment began to glow with light, and I saw that the process began with breaking a piece from the block. The form of the arrow depends on the shape of the piece thus obtained. If an arrow is desired with a heavy center, the piece is broken from an angle, as a, b, in fig. 1. If a light, lofting arrow is wanted, it is broken from one of the sides, as along the dotted line, d e. Having obtained the piece and examined it for flaws, the least of which will spoil it, it is held, with the fingers of one hand, edgewise on a soft stone, like sandstone, which prevents its breakings, and yet furnishes a solid support. This is essential, for when placed on wood, the breakage is entirely different and unreliable. The work by savages is done with another piece of flint. The blow is given on the edge, with a slight inclination in the direction the breakage is desired. Of course this requires experience and tact. The twist of the arrow is not worked out designedly, but comes as a part of the conchoidal cleavage, and it is nearly impossible to make the arrows without this desirable property. It is presumable that in choice of pieces, those having this desirable form most perfectly were preferred.
The influence grew stronger, and I said: “Oh, that one of this departed race might come and demonstrate his identity, not by imparting thought, but by doing some task like this, which practice made easy for him, but which civilization has forgotten.” The answer came slowly and clearly: “It shall be. Take this fragment as it was left, and you shall see an arrow cleft therefrom. It has been exposed for centuries, and will not break with the certainty of a stone fresh from the earth. There are two ways, according as you want a light, a heavy and strong arrow. I broke the arrows with a piece of flint, which required a constant repairing, but we shall succeed best with a hammer, as your own familiarity with that instrument will assist us.”
I used a light riveting hammer, and under this strange influence struck with the sharp edge along the line c d a few blows, and a flake cleaved off. A weather crack, or seam, spoiled it for an arrow point. The next trial gave a flake of perfect texture.
Taking one of these flakes and using a block of sandstone on which to support it, a few rapidly-given blows brought it into the form represented by figure 2.
Two blows on the line a b broken off another perfect piece for an arrow of the other class. It was flat on one side, and angular on the other. To break it to a delicate point seemed impossible. A few well directed blows, and it took the form as in figure 3. The engravings are made from careful drawings, and every detail represented.
It is safe to say that if the arrow points Nos. 2 and 3 were cast among ancient specimens, it would be impossible to detect them. There is not a hammer mark on them, and they have the same form and twist. There was this remarkable circumstance attending the manifestation:
There was no failure. After the right piece had been selected there was no wrong breakage. Every blow counted, and these two were made, and no more. There were no imperfect attempts. It seemed an absolute certainty to the blows, and the flint took form with every blow. It broke and cleaved, but always as was desired. Having completed them, the intelligence again strongly impressed the thought that with better material, more artistic work could be done. “The twisted point and the saw-toothed edges must have inflicted ghastly wounds,” I said.
“With a strong bow and practiced arm the shaft could be driven through the body of the elk or bison, yet there was something worse than that, which is hateful to me now, when I speak of it or recall it. We were not content with the arrow; we dipped it in poison when we went to war, and a touch of this point was death. The little hollows of the flint held the poisonous matter.”
“Where did you get this poison? From plants?”
“No plant distilled the deadly juice. We caught the rattlesnake, and taking the fresh lungs of a deer, allowed the maddened reptile to strike its fangs into the mass again and again, until it became saturated. Then it was placed in an earthen vessel by the fireplace until it melted or dissolved. Into this we dipped the points of the arrows. Death was sure, swift and terrible. The blood melted, the flesh decayed, there was violent thirst, and fever burned up the fountains of life. We could in our most vindictive hate, ask no more terrible torture for our enemies. It was a dark, brutal age, and the heart was full of murder.”
The arrow-maker left me astonished and delighted. An hour afterwards I determined to see what I could do unaided. The block of flint was in good condition for the trial, as three flakes had been riven off, and the operation appeared of the most simple character. As the blows were given which broke off the other flakes I had studied the matter with the keenest interest, as an outside spectator. Carefully I gave the blows, yet after breaking the last fragment of the block, I had not a single flake of the desired form. Taking some of the best, I attempted to fashion them into arrows, and a few blows, sometimes the first, shattered them. I used up all my material, and had not obtained even a resemblance to an arrow-head.
I present this experience, which I regard as one of the most wonderful I have ever had, with my own interpretation. Perhaps the critical may see in it other elements. It may be argued that taking the fragment and the arrow in my hand, they might have imparted an influence psychometrically, and the manifestation be thus accounted for. It must, however, be remembered that psychometric influence is never an identified, independent agent, and that the psychometrist can readily distinguish it.
Others may invoke a too vivid imagination, and claim that it made objective its own fancies, giving them personality.
I would ask such to explain how fancy could make possible doing that which normally I was incapable of. To make two perfect arrows, without a false blow or breakage, I regard as an impossible feat for me normally, and would be even after years of practice. To my mind, there is only one adequate explanation and that is the presence of an independent intelligence.
H. T.