An Ass was being driven along a road leading down the mountain side, when he suddenly took it into his silly head to choose his own path. They who will not listen to reason but stubbornly go their own way against the friendly advice of those who are wiser than they, are on the road to misfortune. Some days later, while stalking his prey in the forest, the Lion was caught in the toils of a hunter's net. One day as he sat watching the Sheep and the quiet forest, and thinking what he would do should he see a Wolf, he thought of a plan to amuse himself.
His Master had told him to call for help should a Wolf attack the flock, and the Villagers would drive it away. As he expected, the Villagers who heard the cry dropped their work and ran in great excitement to the pasture.
Then one evening as the sun was setting behind the forest and the shadows were creeping out over the pasture, a Wolf really did spring from the underbrush and fall upon the Sheep. A Gnat flew over the meadow with much buzzing for so small a creature and settled on the tip of one of the horns of a Bull. Two Travellers, walking in the noonday sun, sought the shade of a widespreading tree to rest. A Stork of a very simple and trusting nature had been asked by a gay party of Cranes to visit a field that had been newly planted. The Sheep in the pasture were much astonished and amused at the Pig's behavior, and followed the Shepherd and his charge to the pasture gate.
Two men were traveling in company along the road when one of them picked up a well-filled purse. We cannot expect any one to share our misfortunes unless we are willing to share our good fortune also. One day as the Lion walked proudly down a forest aisle, and the animals respectfully made way for him, an Ass brayed a scornful remark as he passed. Jupiter saw what simple and foolish creatures they were, but to keep them quiet and make them think they had a king he threw down a huge log, which fell into the water with a great splash. Now there was a certain old Owl who had become very cross and hard to please as she grew older, especially if anything disturbed her daily slumbers.
But the Grasshopper answered saucily that he had as much right to his place in the sun as the Owl had to her place in the old oak. The wise old Owl knew quite well that it would do no good to argue with the Grasshopper, nor with anybody else for that matter. Just then an immense shadow blotted him out entirely, and the next instant a Lion struck him down with a single blow. But just then the royal Cat spied him, and the next instant, the Rat knew he was not quite so important as an Elephant.
The stones were flying thick and fast and the Boys were enjoying themselves very much; but the poor Frogs in the pond were trembling with fear. At last one of the Frogs, the oldest and bravest, put his head out of the water, and said, "Oh, please, dear children, stop your cruel play! In a spell of dry weather, when the Birds could find very little to drink, a thirsty Crow found a pitcher with a little water in it.
Based on stylistic comparisons such as striations inside body contours and the presentation of horns in twisted perspective, several Paleolithic art experts, including the first curator of the Chauvet Cave, Jean Clottes, have accredited the Portuguese friezes to the early Solutrean of about 20,000 years ago3. In Portugal, the government did the opposite a€“ plunging ahead with a project destined to destroy the nationa€™s oldest cultural heritage by completing a 300-million-dollar dam whose reservoir will flood a valley packed with dozens of art sites spread over at least 17 kilometers. Yet construction continues - even on holidays - and the water is about to rise another hundred meters.
A male ibex with his head shown in two positions, as if he were turning to watch the female behind him. As we drove up to a sentry box perched on the lip of a road into the vast, unnatural gashing of mountains at Foz CA?a, it was hard to tell if the young guard blocking us in a crisp red and gray uniform represented a well-heeled security service or an elite military unit - but it was plain that bluff and sweet talk wouldn't get us far. The next time the car eased over the knuckles of a road crisscrossed by up-ended strata, past empty huts built just of stacked slabs, and jostled between overhanging and plunging cliffs until an avalanche of tailings from an old quarry almost blocked the path. Here was one of the places of grandeur where our ancestors had first grasped visions and then concretized them by hewing - and sometimes painting - images into rock panels. As I pushed forward and the river grew shallower, turtles became so numerous that their stacks toppled like circus acts from the brinks of submerged cliffs. As a draftsman, I could feel empathy for the beast flowing into the hands that had etched her. This first frieze stood at a fitting point, practically where the reservoir yielded to the original rapids and long pools of the virgin river.
Far away across the moonscape of rutted ramps, knots of men stood before tunnels as fleets of dump trucks, made so tiny by distance that they only gave away their magnitude by over-sized wheels, eased to the brink of platforms, and added avalanches to tailings.
Above us, the titanium-white cleanliness of the cement plant's towers stood in bold contrast to the devastation, like a phalanx of gigantic chess-rooks bunched for the kill.
According to press articles, the dam-builders had recognized him as the true discoverer of Portugal's first reported Paleolithic engravings, at nearby Mazouco, even though the doctoral student's mentor, Professor Vitor Oliviera Jorge, had stolen his thunder.7 They had given Rebanda a job as their obligatory salvage archaeologist when the new doctor somehow couldn't get a position on a faculty. In return, all he'd had to do was wait till their concrete curtain had gone up and its reservoir had risen into a sea so voluminous and costly that its drainage would have been unthinkable.
My goateed interlocutor smirked as he told me I could try looking for the doctor at the complex built for the previous dam, 15A kilometers downstream. But I'd hit pay dirt: the fact that I might hear Rebanda's mea culpa was more than Ia€™d hoped for. Sebastian elected to wait outside and embarked on Jules Verne's Journey to the Center of the Earth as I knocked at the locked door. Still, I complimented her on her English, sympathized with them for having to put up with this hierarchical bother, and kept spinning innocuous questions, while she kept waiting for me to go. When Rebanda's secretary came out again, to see if she could get either me a€“ or her boss - to give up as the wait grew embarrassingly long, I asked her what the round silos with tipped roofs on the hills had been used for.
But the next time, after they had gotten used to my rounds, I stepped inside and admired a sequence of two eight-foot-tall maps full of pins. Something was wrong: in addition to the constellations of pins extending for 17 kilometers upstream from the construction site, there were dozens downstream, along the reservoir behind the dam just outside! Finally, so many hours had passed, and she'd informed the doctor so many times that I was still hanging around, that I was forced by the sheer need for new scenery to vary my route, and drifted through empty rooms.
The only thing the reports agreed on was that Rebanda had somehow discovered the flooded portion of Canada do Inferno by the previous autumn22 a€“ asking the EDP to lower the Pocinho reservoir by just 3 meters in November 1994 so he could study the engravings.23 a€?They told me it was too expensive,a€? Rebanda had told the New York Times.
So who had shot these photographs, which looked like they had been taken when the sites were dry vegetated hillsides instead of among the muck and bare banks below a fallen waterline? I realized that the photos of the dry sites might have been taken before the Pocinho Dam, which had flooded them, had even been completed a€“ over 12 years before! UNESCO had suggested Clottes, who, in an uncanny convergence of good and bad karma, was taken on a whirlwind tour of the tip of the iceberg at Canada do Inferno, then immediately whisked to a press conference in Vila Nova do Foz CA?a on Dec 16th, 199428 a€“ just two days before the discovery of the Chauvet Cave that catapulted him, as its first interpreter and protector, from the summit of the French archaeological establishment to world fame. But Clottesa€™ judgement was mixed, confirming that the art could be dated on stylistic grounds to the early Solutrean or even late Gravettian of twenty to twenty-four thousand years ago while suggesting that flooding the valley might be the best way of protecting it, since Portugal was ill-equipped to protect such widely dispersed panels from vandals!29 a€?There is no easy solution,a€? he told a reporter.
What the press forgot to emphasize with quite as much fervor was the fact that Clottes had prefaced his Solomonic verdict by saying, a€?Whatever happens, the engravings must be preserved and not be damaged.a€? Clottes might have felt that he could safely pass the buck because no art conservationist could honestly guarantee the engravingsa€™ fate once they were subjected to currents carrying abrasives, burial under the petrifying alluvia that accumulates behind dams,33 and the worlda€™s most destructive solvent a€“ water, which would dissolve pigments and destabilize rock that had proven its resistance to aerial conditions over tens of millennia. While chatting up the gaunt fellow traveller at the construction site, Ia€™d pretended to make small talk by asking engineering questions, including one about the depth of the sediment that had accumulated behind the Pocinho dam.
The irony of it was that Clottesa€™ efforts to be honest without irritating his hosts had been the spark that the French diplomats had dreaded. Despite the fact that the great prehistoriana€™s reputation would remain largely intact, and with good reason, in much of the rest of the world,34 the Portuguese intelligentsia began to shun him. A€ propos of CA?a, two Portuguese rock art researchers, who couldna€™t stomach Clottes after his press conference, ironically echoed him by telling me, confidentially, that flooding the engravings could still be a blessing since it would save them from graffiti and those boogeymen of archaeologistsa€™ dreams, prowling collectors. My guess is that he was so beleaguered by advisers that he was just trying to get out of an awkward situation as quickly, judiciously and diplomatically as possible. I mentioned to Rebanda that I had just attended the lecture on Chauvet, that I even had a videotape of it right there in my camera. So it's true, I thought, drowning the site was Rebanda's solution to the problem of ownership of photographic rights.
But then, what about Rebanda's self-serving talk of photo credits, not to mention the engravings already submerged by the dam at the doorstep a€“ and his belief that the engravings were doomed to be flooded? Strangely enough, I could again see it being both ways, since the roots of tragedy are self-deception and entwined motives.
He must have realized that I was rooting for him to pull himself out of his tailspin, because suddenly he decided. Upon leaving, Sebastian asked to check out the Pocinho dam, so I drove round an interchange into an empty parking lot with planters.
As the sun slanted over the plateau into the wilderness of the CA?a valley, I decided to sneak into a side-valley to the north of our campsite that Rebanda's map had cluttered with pins. Then, after breaching a wall of rushes, we broke to the reservoir's edge - and were met by a horned skull stuck on a stake. Suddenly, I remembered what Rebanda had said about the engravings' association with witchcraft. Being obstinate (or perhaps because of the prehistoric setting), I started whittling stone, knapping a microlithic surgeon's kit, and then bent single-mindedly to my task - failing till I was disgusted with myself and worried for my victim (which I had bizarrely associated with Rebanda). This time there were two guards behind an overhanging military fence crested by barbed wire. The guard who beckoned us in was rearing a guard-dog puppy, which scampered around, tumbling over ledges and using its chin to lever itself over steps.
Our guide was a decent young man who couldn't help feeling uneasy blocking access to these bold masterpieces at the source of all our arts.
Still, these guards were actually tame as the locals poured down to catch a glimpse of the animals through the fence.
After he'd hastened to take up his time-clock again, I wandered if there might not be even more testimonials of man's attraction to this classical Eden with its islets and fords in the flowery river, and browsed through a plowed orchard, along a contour which I judged would have been the valley floor half a million years ago. We knew the next dawn would be our last, so we broke camp in blue light to explore the teeming side-valley beyond the first auroch. Not Portugal's - OURS - because this art is so old, despite its elegance, that we share the blood and genius of those distant ancestors who awoke to the universe, whether our cavalcade of ancestors migrated around the Old World or came across the Bering Straits 14,000 years ago. Footnotes have been added to the internet version of the article to provide historical perspective and more detail about sources than the versions that were published & distributed in 1995. 1 The three discoverers of the Chauvet Cave were Eliette Brunel Deschamps, Christian Hillaire, and Jean-Marie Chauvet.
2 The IPPAR announced the existence of the valleya€™s engravings on November 19, 1994 but a video was made of them in 1993.
10 Bahn 1995 for a re-capitulation of the same accusations against the IPPAR & Rebanda. 33 Bednarik & Jaffe have been the most outspoken spokesmen about delusions concerning the protective qualities of reservoirs a€“ which not only inundate art panels with water but deep alluvial deposits that make their later recovery dangerous and impractical.
34 Interestingly, a few years after this appeal was written, Clottes came under fierce attack and even ridicule by many representatives of the French intelligentsia, including some of the countrya€™s most prominent prehistorians, after he and David Lewis-Williams published a€?The Shamans of Prehistory: Trance and magic in the painted cavesa€? in 1996.
As soon as their results indicating that the art might be only 3,000 to 6,500 years old (if not even younger) were announced a€“ which actually made the engravings even more astonishing, potentially rewriting the history of rock art or even making Portugal the last bastion of the Paleolithic tradition a€“ the most important Portuguese right-wing weekly screamed that the direct-dating results proved that stylistic daters like Clottes had perpetrated a a€?FRAUDa€? (O Independente, 7 July 1995). It should also be noted that the individuals who participated in the debate were often somewhat unwittingly drawn into playing secondary or tertiary roles in a struggle between the Portuguese Ministry of Culture and Ministry of Industry. 40 In November 1995 - six months after this call-toa€“arms was published and circulated to Prehistoric Art Emergencya€™s volunteers (who Ia€™m glad to report included a young actor, Yann Montelle, who went on to earn a doctorate in prehistory) - a book edited by Jorge called a€?Dossier CA?aa€? appeared with 20 contributions by him or his wife. 44 After writing this article in May 1995, it occurred to me that I might have missed one of the main reasons for eliminating Rebanda from Portugala€™s archaeological milieu a€“ the fact that he was so effective at finding rock art that drew international attention, first to Mazouco, then to CA?a. 49 When I wrote the article, I assumed that the two young men were Rebandaa€™s subordinates and referred to them as a€?draftsmena€?. 50 After initially denigrating both the art and the idea of extracting it, the EDP later adopted the idea as one of its three strategies for overcoming opposition to the dam project. Chris is planning one of his very infrequent trips to New York for next Januarya€™s BSI weekend, and I think I know what aspect of it is on his mind. Ia€™ve just finished re-reading Irregular Crises of the Late a€?Forties which, of course, had to end just as the BSJ was about to be relaunched. Edgar Smith provided some of the desired information himself in a a€?Special Notice to a€?Old-Timea€™ Irregularsa€? that was included with some copies of the July 1951 issue sent out. The press runs for each issue were already growing, he told the 60 graybeards: a€?Only 200 copies of Volume 1, Number 1 were printed, and 250 copies of Volume 1, Number 2.
Almost precisely a year ago, during my websitea€™s Great Hiatus, I received a BSI history question from John, so here it is, and Thucydidesa€™ answer. I recently thought maybe I could buy a copy of the same book by Grillparzer that Morley used for the original Irregulars, and I remembered Tom Stix once telling me that he owned the book, but didna€™t want to give it to the BSI, instead to pass it on to someone who would care for it. Mike Whelan wrote me saying that Tom Stix never had possession of the Grillparzer Book, and that there are no copies extant because it was a blank book into which club members wrote short commentaries. George Fletcher has an entire chapter describing Morleya€™s Grillparzer Book and its history in my BSI Archival History volume Irregular Memories of the a€™Thirties. Never used a typewriter, I think I said Adrian claimed (along with knowing his father better than anyone else living or dead). As Peter says, a€?ita€™s hard to imagine anyone forging Juliana€™s signature to make some money, since he signed just about everything he sent to anyone .
My recollection is about the same as Jima€™s, and along the following lines, althoughA uncertain after all these years. The report at Stevea€™s link on Ye Sette of Odd Volumes makes interesting reading even if we fail to find a connection to the BSI. I know about Bostona€™s Club of Odd Volumes,A as Ia€™m sure you do, but this English outfit is new to me. Ita€™s possible Christopher Morley, deep-dyed bookman, was aware of Ye Sette of Odd Volumes.
The other day I had the good fortune to meet a famous English printer who is visiting in this country; and instead of talking about Plantin and Caslon and Bruce Rogers we found ourselves, I dona€™t know just how, embarked on a mutual questionnaire of famous incidents in the life of Sherlock Holmes. How I wish therea€™d been a garrulous eye-witness to that meeting of Morley and Morison in New York in 1926!
Now Smith might have been peeved with Ben Abramson, given the OS BSJa€™s collapse, butA I doubt he was a€?excommunicatinga€? him in giving Hoffman the same investiture in a€™52: Smith was a benign personality never given to nastiness even in exasperation, something clear from the many score letters of his in my Archival Histories. And then, Edgar Smith excommunicating the likes of David Randall, Rufus Tucker (Smitha€™s colleague at GM), Rolfe Boswell, or Belden Wigglesworth? But even in 1985, when Julian Wolff had Peter Blaua€™s excellent lists to work from, and Tony Montag and Dean Dickensheet were both alive, he conferred Vamberry the Wine Merchant a third time, on Arthur Liebman.
I appreciate the attempt by my opponent at Augusta€™s Great Debate at Minnesota over the Sherlockian insignificance of Fr. The first three stock certificates were issued in January 1948 to Morley, Smith and Starrett. Miriam a€?Deea€? Alexander, Smitha€™s secretary at GM Overseas Operations at the time, and serving as Secretary-Treasurer of the BSI, Inc., had already received a share as a gift in recognition of her unpaid service. I cana€™t say now whether Smith succeeded in unloading any more shares to any additional stockholders in the 1950s, but if he did, it would have been as a purely charitable act on the part of the new stockholders, because it was clear by then that the BSI Inc. Manfred Lee, half of the pair of cousins who were the mystery-writing team of Ellery Queen starting in the 1920s, was not a Baker Street Irregular, though he did attend the annual dinner in 1946. ROBERT KATZ: I recollect hearing that the BSI once met at the Players Club and the speaker (possibly Leslie Marshall) ended his presentation by igniting a piece of flash paper, as used by professional magicians. The Irregularsa€™ annual dinner was held at The Players on January and was attended by 100 thirsty enthusiasts. Of course, all of our customs were strictly observed, and the Conanical and Irregular toasts were drunk. It was a long time ago, 1971: the second dinner at The Players, I believe, falling beyond the scope of my Archival Histories but before my first annual dinner at the Regency Hotel (the second there) in 1973. With regard to Jim Montgomery, and the difference between membership in the BSI and the Irregular Shilling [see below], I dona€™t think we disagree . Roosevelt and Rathbone and Bruce received membership certificates, but so far as I know never Shillings nor Investitures .
Ia€™m reminded of the distinction that once was made between Irregular and irregular, but I dona€™t recall who started it . Ita€™s the same with my list of Sherlockian societies, which does not distinguish in any way between societies that are scions and those that are not .
Actually, Don Pollock and I once wrote about a€?Packaging Holmes for the Paperbacksa€? that way in Baker Street Miscellanea (No.
Rex Stout was well-known for his Nero Wolfe mysteries when in early January 1941 Irregular Lawrence Williams suggested to Edgar W.
But in not too much time, the Irregulars decided Stouta€™s heart was in the right place (after all, Archie Goodwin in at least one Nero Wolfe book had mentioned a picture of Sherlock Holmes hanging on the wall of their West 35th Street office), and he became a regular at the dinners; soon with a place at the head table, and the investiture a€?The Boscombe Valley Mysterya€? (conferred in 1949).
In 1954, the Higher Criticism of the Wolfe Canon got underway with an article in Harpera€™s Magazine (July) by editor Bernard DeVoto.
According to a friend of mine who belongs to the Baker Street Irregulars [DeVoto began], a paper by one of his colleagues suggests that Nero Wolfe may be the son of Sherlock Holmesa€™s brother Mycroft.
DeVoto proceeded to spread frivolous speculation tricked out to look like scholarship across half a dozen pages in that montha€™s Harpera€™s, all for the purpose of confounding Irregular speculation about Nero Wolfea€™s parentage. DeVotoa€™s volley only encouraged Irregular speculation, and the principal word on the subject, a€?Some Notes Relating to a Preliminary Investigation into the Paternity of Nero Wolfe,a€? was published in the Baker Street Journal in 1956 by John D. Back in 1942, at that Januarya€™s BSI dinner, Julian Wolff had responded to Stouta€™s a€?Watson Was a Womana€? with a talk of his own entitled a€?Nuts to Rex Stout.a€? Stout was not in attendance to hear it. Besides Baring-Gould, well known to Irregulars is John McAleera€™s biography Rex Stout in 1977. Thata€™s right, and I didna€™t exactly find space for Woollcott in Baker Street Irregular -- he storms up the stairs to Morleya€™s hideaway office on West 47th Street, flings open the door, marches in, and seizes control of the secret meeting going on between Morley, Elmer Davis, Edgar W. However, the sad lack of a good old-fashioned bodice ripping in the previews of Baker Street Irregular is a discouragement for further page turning.
I dona€™t know that Ia€™d call it seismic, exactly; though I wouldna€™t call it joyous either. I suspect the attrition rate among men in these scions due to the change of policy by the BSI is close to zero, though it did affect the allegiance of some to the BSI itself.
And now that women do have seats at the national table, why, in your view,A have we seen so little classic Sherlockian scholarship from women or leadership at the scion level?
Many scion societies today do have women at the helm, on the other hand, and not only recently founded scions.
The question is whether Woollcott was expected by Morley that night, or instead came as an unwelcome surprise to him. I cana€™t swear that Smith invited Woollcott to the 1940 dinner, or subsequent ones prior to Woollcotta€™s death in January 1943.
The saga of the Holmes Peak will have to await another historian to do it and its Head Sherpa, the late Richard Warner, full justice, Bob. As if to prove that the age of Sherlockian fun is far from over, let us turn to 1985a€™s humorous highlight, Richard Warnera€™s guide to the ascent of Holmes Peak.
But time and Warner prevailed, and in this little chapbook, with a foreword by Michael Hardwick who represented the Empire at the dedication of Holmes Peak, Warner relates all one needs to know in order to scale this lofty monument to the best and wisest man we have ever known.
Buster Keaton could not do it better than the deadpan Warner, without whom Holmes Peak might never have been named (or even noticed). It is a lovely hill, what in the Ozarks would be called a a€?bald knoba€? (that means no trees, for the less botanically astute), and the view is very fine. Dicka€™s case, boiled down, was that as Sherlock Holmes was once employed by the Vatican, naming the Peak after him qualified as meaningful to the Bishopa€™s work. Billa€™s contributions to the BSI and our understanding of its history are legion, but his masterpiece is his splendid history of a piece of Irregular folklore bestowed upon the BSI at the end of the a€™40s by its greatest musical voice, James Montgomery (a€?The Red Circlea€?) of Philadelphiaa€™s Sons of the Copper Beeches: We Always Mention Aunt Clara. Will Oursler was invested in the BSI in a€?The Abbey Grangea€? in 1956, preceded in that investiture by his father Fulton Oursler whoa€™d received it in 1950. Bill Vande Water has been engaged for some time in deep research on both Ourslers, for both the BSI and Mystery Writers of America, and if he ever finishes it, it should be the definitive account of the two men in our sphere.
Can any reader shed light on this?A  Please let Thucydides know at the email address at the top of the column. He could see his stall at the foot of the mountain, and to him the quickest way down seemed to be over the edge of the nearest cliff. Though the task they had to do was very light compared with that of the Oxen, they creaked and groaned at every turn. A timid little Mouse came upon him unexpectedly, and in her fright and haste to get away, ran across the Lion's nose. So now, though he had not seen anything that even looked like a Wolf, he ran toward the village shouting at the top of his voice, "Wolf! But when they got there they found the Boy doubled up with laughter at the trick he had played on them. Wolf!" But though the Villagers heard the cry, they did not run to help him as they had before. But the party ended dismally with all the birds entangled in the meshes of the Farmer's net. He very quickly captured the porker, which squealed at the top of its voice the moment the Shepherd laid his hands on it.
They had so much freedom that it had spoiled them, and they did nothing but sit around croaking in a bored manner and wishing for a government that could entertain them with the pomp and display of royalty, and rule them in a way to make them know they were being ruled.
The Frogs hid themselves among the reeds and grasses, thinking the new king to be some fearful giant. Then after sundown, when the rosy light fades from the sky and the shadows rise slowly through the wood, out she comes ruffling and blinking from the old hollow tree. One warm summer afternoon as she dozed away in her den in the old oak tree, a Grasshopper nearby began a joyous but very raspy song. Besides, her eyes were not sharp enough by day to permit her to punish the Grasshopper as he deserved. Up he jumped to the Owl's den, but as soon as he was near enough so the old Owl could see him clearly, she pounced upon him and ate him up. As he ran, the setting sun cast his shadow far out on the ground, and it looked as if the wolf were a hundred times bigger than he really was.


When the wind blew, the great Oak stood proudly upright with its hundred arms uplifted to the sky.
The Boys amused themselves by throwing stones into the pond so as to make them skip on top of the water. But the pitcher was high and had a narrow neck, and no matter how he tried, the Crow could not reach the water. Not only were frescoes of rhinos, horses and lions over 30,000 years old found in a cave in the Ardeche on Dec.
Although theya€™re probably right, ita€™s worth noting that these same specialists used similar criteria to ascribe the animals of Chauvet to the same period - until carbon 14 results pushed their age back over 10,000 years, shattering the notion that prehistoric art had evolved linearly, like technologies.
In France, the Ministry of Culture placed its new treasure under the most draconian protection, despite the fact that the country already has the lion's share of Paleolithic art. Standing right in front of some of the most spectacular engravings, the Secretary of State for Culture dismissed them as being nothing more than a€?childrena€™s doodlesa€? a€“ whereupon the students from Foz CA?aa€™s high school turned the official into a laughing-stock by presenting him with a schist slab covered with their own scribblings4. It's now or never, the author of the following article decided in April 1995, as he set out to evaluate the engravings, find out the truth, and propose solutions.
My 13-year old son and I had flown to Porto in Portugal and driven far up the Douro valley into the northeastern mountains, prepared to maneuver around obstructions whether by negotiation or hiking through the back door.
Still, here was our first encounter with the powers that be, so I took this opportunity to probe, and get a first step up the hierarchical ladder. So I explained how Sebastian and I had come so far to see the Paleolithic glories that Portugal would be displaying with pride, spoke of credentials, and placed us (and our pen) in his hands. Still, we had our bearings, and drove off into the late afternoon to penetrate the heart of the forbidden zone. We were getting closer, very close now, and could spy loops of a trail among the folds of a distant ridge. And here too was the arena where one of the greatest feuds between discoverers and custodians of the past had exploded since the conflict between Othniel Marsh and Edward Drinker Cope over the fossils of extinct giants in Sioux territory during Custer's battles.
With swifts swirling in up-drafts around our heads, we scrambled and picked our way among sheer precipices and ledges. Its tight horseshoe of cliffs and rubble made the perfect hiding place for our car and tent from the gray guards roaming the surrounding crests with binoculars. Sebastian snuggled tighter into his sleeping bag, so I set out to reconnoiter alone, systematically working quadrants and contours between our quarry at Fariseu and Piscos brook.
Somewhere among the jumble of a thousand rock faces would be an ancient image - perhaps masked by lichen or so faint one had to trace its parts before seeing it whole. The numbed waters suddenly spangled upstream with glitter and so many flowery white tresses of water plants that the currents looked like sudsy pastures.
After all the noisy demonstrations against the dam in Lisbon, how were they to know how much clout a nosy prehistorian might have?
Whatever was going to happen to him afterwards in the backwater of Portuguese archaeology had surely been inconsequential, since experience proved that nobody made much fuss over sites that were out-of-sight and out-of-mind - especially with archaeologists beholding to dam-builders and political appointees for access and records. According to the insinuations, he could have continued his documentation right up to the headwaters as his masters worked their way upstream step by step.
I sensed that this crowd felt their doctor deserved to be the one to tell fellow archaeologists that they might as well ask to visit Atlantis.
Sure enough, there was the 12 year-old Pocinho dam sweeping the valley with a clean curtain.14 But the silos of this former construction site's cement plant were speckled with rust, the ranks of its offices and dormitories were deserted and almost every window was broken. Fortunately, Sebastian was becoming ever more engrossed in Verne's book, spelunking towards the planet's core, so I began to gravitate down halls for exercise and companionship, coming to the door of the room where the secretary was braiding the blind's cord while two laconic draftsmen labored over tracings of horses, ibexes and aurochs.
It has been insinuated that Rebanda probably discovered Rock 1 at Canada do Inferno as early as November 1991.18 In Dec. So, quixotically, he had proposed building a dry-dock around the outcropping, and, failing that, underwater exploration.
If so, the power utility may have known of incredibly rich sites years before the first blueprint for the new dam! Clottes was the worlda€™s reigning prehistorian a€“ the man who had risen to the pinnacle of the French archaeological establishment and held the only keys to the holy grail of art caves - the unbelievably strong and ancient Grotte Chauvet. After inspecting the 15% of the art that remained above water at the site in the rising dama€™s shadow, because the EDP had hardly felt it necessary to lower the water for the visit of the foreigner sent by the now antagonistic IPPAR, Clottes stepped before a highly polarized press corps. The dam-builders and their government backers felt vindicated while much of Portuguese public was crestfallen or furious. The dam had become a poisonous political issue in a national election with the President and his fellow Socialists attacking the center-right Prime Minister for its willingness to sacrifice both the nationa€™s patrimony and vineyards to a flaky building scheme.
As if the owners of villas built around the new lake would really allow it to be drained 100 meters to its bottom - where almost all of the known panels would soon be drowned a€“ once every decade! Suddenly, the Portuguese public felt that the dam-builders were not only destroying the nationa€™s most ancient claim to world grandeur and civilization, but that they were in league with a man who would never have been so cavalier with Paleolithic masterpieces in his own country! When I later asked Portuguese archaeologists if they were going to attend an up-coming conference organized by Clottes, they recoiled. First, because Clottesa€™ retinue of hosts, diplomats and reporters was rushing him and putting him in a bind a€“ even if his stature, pride, and role as UNESCOa€™s expert on rock art had led him into it. They even echoed his faith in getting dam operators to regularly empty the vast lake a€“ despite the glaring evidence of the EDPa€™s behavior at CA?a itself. No sooner had Clottes triggered a public outcry, than he began to explain away his tepid defense of the CA?aa€™s importance by saying that he had not been shown enough art to form a true idea of the valleya€™s richness.35 But the truth is, he was shown Rebandaa€™s trove of drawings from submerged sections and sites upstream36 and could have been more demanding.
After all it was a lot of money, the government was inflexible, the controversy had become a campaign issue a€“ which meant that his advice would seem like foreign meddling - and the elections were still far off. When, in fact, the long-term rights for the cave in France would belong to its Ministry of Culture a€“ which was already attacking its discoverer, Chauvet, for the pittance hea€™d received for his pictures. But I could hardly hold my tongue: why on earth had he invited people from this caste of academics back into his life - and the valley - when at least one of them had apparently abused him?
The picture was compelling: SimAµes and her husband angelically insisting that the world must be told, while the hireling screamed demonically over the fire, accusing university archaeologists of trying to hog the credit yet again. If Rebanda had known SimAµes and Jaffe were going to paint him into a corner, wouldn't he have raced for the exit? Both Rebanda and SimAµes de Abreu could have been traitors and saviors at once, and as long as I was with this archaeologist, I felt bound to encourage the savior in him. It must have seemed like an insult to him after all his efforts, so with an anarchic gesture, he announced, what the hell, he'd photocopy their fax when it came, so we could enter a second. Huge black derricks hulked atop the dam beside a row of gate-lifting pistons that looked like Big Berthas.
We bagged the warning or omen, caught and released a giant water beetle - the kind that injects deliquescing enzymes into living frogs, then sucks out their juice - and worked our way along what was actually the upper tier of a disappearing cliff. When art panels are located in the CA?aa€™s side valleys, they are apparently concentrated on northern slopes. I was a willing guide as we skewered corn kernels on hooks, lashed lines around a log and threw the lethal leashes into the dark.
They were a hundred yards apart, making perpetual rounds as they kept time clocks happy by cranking them every few paces with keys chained to the fence. It was probably his first job after military service, but he was intelligent enough to realize that hea€™d been hired as a pawn in a vast conspiracy to keep Portugal's greatest cultural wonders out of sight and out of mind, till they could be obliterated. One, because any plan to remove the friezes not only meant assigning a value to them, but keeping the controversy alive. The mountainous dirt road forked, meandered and even skirted an imposing castle,51 but several classes of children were making the long dusty pilgrimage on foot while carloads of adults in their Sunday best made the excursion to see the only engravings to have escaped the censors - either because the site at Penascosa was so far from Lima Montiero's spyglass or because the valley was gentler here and had always been farmed. I hadn't passed the first olive tree when I happened upon a well-knapped hand-axe, and then another! On-line commentary entitled a€?Some corrections about the CA?a petroglyphsa€? in TRACCE no.
While Chauveta€™s name was given to the cave itself, the names of his co-discoverers were given to two of its large chambers. Mila SimAµes de Abreu and Ludwig Jaffe were the founders of the APAAR (AssociaA§ao Portuguesa de Arte e Arqueologia Rupestre), which has been a member of IFRAO (International Federation of Rock Art Organisations) since Sept. In an on-line commentary, Jaffe denounced what he perceived as a continuation of the scandal under new management: a€?In December 1994 IPPAR passed the responsibility for the rock art in the Coa valley to Mario Varela Gomes and Antonio Martinho Baptista.
Their critics often subscribe to the doctrine that modern ethnographic evidence cannot be used to interpret ancient cultures. Although Bednarik was one of the earliest crusaders for CA?a - calling for the EDP to stop building the dam in Nov.
The leftist press and Portuguese archaeological milieu reacted with just as much reflection, ignoring both Bednarika€™s qualifiers and his pioneering role in organizing the world campaign to fight for the whole valleya€™s salvation (see Dossier CA?a p.
Of the 66 contributions written by individuals, not one is by Nelson Rebanda, whose ghost a€“ to anyone interested in intellectual property a€“ haunts every line. After the CA?a scandal served its purpose as an electoral issue that helped the Socialists to win power, the new government kept its campaign promise by protecting the CA?a Valley but used the goodwill engendered by the decision to blunt criticism while flooding other huge assemblages of rock art.
3; Catherine Vincent, writing in Le Monde on March 11, 1995, goes into much more detail about one particular vineyard, Ervamoira, that would have been lost, along with its exceptional Port wine.
The first was to prove that the engravings were not Paleolithic a€“ an effort that entrapped researchers who wanted to apply experimental direct-dating techniques. I mean the quotation from the bar bill at some long-ago BSI Dinner, listing the number of whiskies, gins, and scotches consumed, and "1 beer"?
Anxious to avoid another failure through lack of support, he was appealing to 60 BSI a€?old-timersa€? (a€?in order to spread the clerical load, and to facilitate the voluntary work by which alone the Journal can keep goinga€?), to renew their subscriptions for 1952 right away without waiting for the renewal form that would accompany the October issue, the final one of the year. 1 and 2 a€?reproduction issuesa€? had to wait until the NS BSJ seemed securely on its feet, its subscriber base grown to a safe point and new subscribers seeking copies of the first two Numbers. I contacted Mike Whelan about it: I thought he would know enough about it that I could get another copy.
Someone (dona€™t remember who it was) who fancied himself a bit of a conjuror was at the head table, which included Alfred Drake as then-president of The Players, and seated next to Drake. Julian told me later that the bar bill was of the magnitude of treble the food bill.A Thing was, the bartenders, of whom there were several, strategically located around the rooms,A were pouring generously, including for themselves, encouraging BSIs to put down their partially consumed glasses and get fresh ones -- and soon lost the ability to check off accurate numbers of drinks served. A Both for its own sake, and because it suggests what the typewriter that Conan Doyle owned in the early 1890s may have been like.
Symons a€” author of The Quest for Corvo a€” and am thus reading his brother Juliana€™s biography of him. The notiona€™s wrong, and theA tip-off should have been the misapprehensiona€™s source a€” S. All it takes is to know the notiona€™s absurd is to look up what men Smith supposedly excommunicated.
The first comprehensive if imperfect list of investitures and holders I know of is one by C. Ronald Knox, to explain away such an elementary (let us say, fundamental) mistake on Knoxa€™s part, but Ia€™m reminded, a bit sadly, of the famous exchange between Dr. Smith started talking to Christopher Morley about incorporating the BSI sometime the summer of 1947, both to create a lucrative publishing program (they thought), and to manage takeover of the BSJ if Ben Abramsona€™s publishing of it collapsed (as it did in 1949).
His cousin Frederic Dannay first attended it in 1942, and became part of the BSI for the rest of his long life (dying in 1982), and was invested as a€?The Dying Detectivea€? in 1950. I think the noted actor Alfred Drake was sitting next to the speaker and was, needless to say, quite startled by this. The Constitution and Buya€”Laws, as well as the Musgrave Ritual and Sherlock Holmesa€™s Prayer, were read, and the Sherlockian songs of Jim and Bruce Montgomery were played and enjoyed. So I asked Jim Saunders (a€?The Beryl Coroneta€?) and George Fletcher (a€?The Cardboard Boxa€?), both invested in 1969, for their memories. Nash was, Morley once said, one of the Doubleday, Doran a€?assembly mena€? present at the speakeasy in the East a€™Fifties in 1930 when Morley was commissioned to write his a€?In Memoriama€? foreword for the first Complete Sherlock Holmes. Perhaps the matter can be cleared up when I get to the a€™Fifties volumes of the Archival History, or perhaps Peter Blau or someone else can shed light on this.
Smith that Stout would be a good person to attend the up-coming 1941 annual dinner (held the 31st) and respond to some awful things Somerset Maugham had said about the Sherlock Holmes stories in a recent Saturday Evening Post article. He had already turned down an invitation from favorite-contributor Elmer Davis to join the Baker Street Irregulars, on grounds of silliness. I cannot find the treatise that contains this absurdity and mention it only as an example of the frivolous speculation tricked out to look like scholarship with which the Holmes cult defrauds the reading public. A strident anti-isolationist before Pearl Harbor, he was off creating the Writers War Board to support the U.S.
In 1961, when he became the BSIa€™s Commissionaire, he created the honor known as the Two-Shilling Award a€?for extraordinary devotion to the cause beyond the call of duty,a€? and the first one went that January to Rex Stout.
You cana€™t copyright titles of books, and if you could, this one would belong to the Conan Doyle Estate;-- fortunately, my client in a different sphere of my Irregular life. How heavily attended are the all-male scion societies these days, setting aside the Pips, as it is not a scion society?
The all-male scion societies 20 years ago that occur to me were The Maiwand Jezails of Omaha, Hugoa€™s Companions of Chicago, Philadelphiaa€™s Sons of the Copper Beeches, The Speckled Band of Boston, and The Six Napoleons of Baltimore. It has been a long time since the a€?Junior Sherlockian movementa€? of the 1960s replenished the BSIa€™s ranks during the a€™70s, and since the comparable a€?Sherlock Holmes booma€? of the 1970s flowed from the successes of the Royal Shakespeare Company revival of William Gillettea€™s Sherlock Holmes and Nicholas Meyera€™s novel The Seven-Per-Cent Solution. I need to point out that the first woman to be an Irregular, mystery critic Lenore Glen Offord (a€?The Old Russian Womana€?), was tapped way back in 1958, but I also acknowledge that it didna€™t include invitations to the BSIa€™s annual dinners. So far, in the Manuscript and International Series published by the BSI, why am I not seeing womena€™s bylines more often, if at all? Ita€™s a question youa€™d have to address to ones directly responsible for those series of books published by the BSI, or to the Big Cheese himself, Mike Whelan, who has also presided over the International Series from the start, I believe. He was of course a notorious enfant terrible, and Ia€™m sure not above crashing a party given by a fellow book-caresser like Christopher Morley.
But he sent Woollcott a copy of his 1939 Appointment in Baker Street lavishly inscribed to Woollcott as Baker Street Irregular, and Woollcott appears on Smitha€™s December 5, 1940, BSI membership list given in my BSJ Christmas Annual a€?Entertainment and Fantasya€?: The 1940 BSI Dinner.
He has only one scene with a speaking part, and that in June 1940, but he was such a Fabulous Monster it was great fun to write him into the tale. As you know, ita€™s been my steadfast intention from the start to cover the years 1930 to 1960, when Edgar Smith died and Julian Wolff succeeded him, and then stop, since the decades which followed are too recent for sound historical judgments. Those acquainted with the doings of The Afghan Perceivers of Tulsa know well the daring of their intrepid exploits, which have struck awe (and some terror) in small towns throughout the American Southwest.
To have been at the dedication last summer, complete with the Afghanistan Perceiversa€™ widely dreaded drum-and-bugle corps, must have been a marvelous one-of-a-kind occasion; but much of its charm and wit is surely captured in this little chapbook.
When Bishop Eusebius Beltran told Dick that the hill needed a name a€?more meaningful to his work,a€? a lesser mortal would have taken no for an answer, and returned to whatever one does on a windswept prairie. This letter was promptly bounced back to the esteemed Bishop Eusebius Beltran (fiction writers, I defy you to create a more dazzling cognomen), who replied on behalf of his Pontiff.
Rabe will get a chapter of his own in the first a€?Fifties volume of the Archival History, along with his Old Soldiers of Baker Street (the Old SOBs). I find I reviewed this item myself in Baker Street Miscellanea when it came out in 1990, see here. Katz: Will Ourslera€™s talks at BSI dinners are said to be legendary, although I am not sure why. Just as he was about to leap over, his master caught him by the tail and tried to pull him back, but the stubborn Ass would not yield and pulled with all his might.
The poor Oxen, pulling with all their might to draw the wagon through the deep mud, had their ears filled with the loud complaining of the Wheels.
But before he left he begged the Bull's pardon for having used his horn for a resting place.
Out popped the old Owl's head from the opening in the tree that served her both for door and for window. The wind redoubled in fury, and all at once the great tree fell, torn up by the roots, and lay among the pitying Reeds.
With each pebble the water rose a little higher until at last it was near enough so he could drink. 18th1, but Europea€™s biggest open-air gallery of Paleolithic animals was reported just a month earlier in the CA?a Valley of northeastern Portugal2. Regardless of how old the CA?aa€™s art turns out to be, it is unique in its richness above ground and astonishing in its illustrations of movement - with animals tossing their heads with the same stop-action dynamism found at Chauvet and only millennia later in photography and Futurist painting.
The Chauvet Cavea€™s prehistoric bestiary was proudly splashed across magazines around the world.
Soon, the guard turned into a regular lad, wrote down the chief engineer's name and pointed beyond the ramp-laced moonscape - into the wilderness. In this walled garden, the conflicting passions of archaeologists had exploded around a campfire, set a president and prime minister against each other, and cowed the emissaries of UNESCO. Lizards skidded into fissures, a rusty blade wedged in a nook beside a sliver of cliff garden spoke of an emigrant who had never returned, but the walls seemed barren. Over and over again, the scene seemed set, the rock stretched, but its lines were just fractals. I yanked myself up to a platform less than a step wide and a ten-foot long cow - an auroch! By holding the animal's form and movement vividly in mind, the maker had poured himself into its body and experienced a power beyond abstraction, beyond even tool-making, to thrill to the new power of passing through the looking-glass into another being. A stream, running pure as its springs over crisp cresses between alternating bull rushes and crags, almost made it to the river unaltered, but met it just below the threshold and sank into an estuary. We had arrived at Pandemonium and would try to insinuate ourselves into an audience with the Chief Engineer himself. Only one was so spotless and redolent of perks, though, with its rolled lawn incongruous in the desert, that we knew right where to head among forking roads. I was hardly surprised when these well-fed pros passed the buck to the only gaunt and partially toothless fellow traveler among them. So they decided to play it safe by dumping me on their pet nemesis, the organizationa€™s own archaeological a€?hirelinga€?, Dr. He could have added to his hoard of exclusive photos and measurements, imposed interpretations, and generally lorded it over his peers - for who could have naysayed him with his treasures locked a hundred meters deep in so many great watery safes?10 And to think that all the dam-builders' pet archaeologist and his accommodating superiors at the Portuguese Institute for Architectural and Archaeological Heritage (IPPAR)11 in Lisbon - to whom Rebanda had reported his discoveries at least twice12 - had had to do to pull off this economically patriotic (not to say mutually beneficial) stunt was keep their mouths shut!
After having suffered at the hands of his mentor, Professor Jorge, why had Rebanda put himself at the mercy of two similar academics and representatives of an international body to boot - Mila SimAµes de Abreu and her archaeologist husband, Ludwig Jaffe, who represented the International Federation of Rock Art Organizations (IFRAO)?
At least such nuisances would keep him from getting up to more mischief by turning up new discoveries.
But, finally, a secretary answered my summons and let me into a vestibule empty except for a display of postcard-sized photographs of some of the engravings, and a cartoon caricaturing the scandal - which I reckoned had been knowingly posted to co-opt criticism. I couldn't quite make out the man's features through the crack, but it was obvious he was gushing recriminations - and no wonder: the entire archaeological profession had ganged up on the pariah. We all knew I had crossed a threshold, but, after all, I had paid my dues, and in any case, I padded off to the foyer again. Yet they'd prattled to the press that they had found the art a year ago, and then more like two years ago, and now, word had it, a€?onlya€? three years ago25 - when it was always somehow too late to stop the process leading up to construction, which had only started in September a€™94.26 The gall!
Instantly, I whipped out paper and scribbled the fastest copy of the main map that my hand could draw.
After SimAµes de Abreu and Jaffe had unleashed the scandal by revealing the conspiracy to flood Europea€™s richest assemblage of open-air Paleolithic art, the IPPAR and Portuguese Ministry of Culture had scrambled to get their own expert witness a€“ and, in a further twist, had asked UNESCO to recommend an expert to challenge the power companya€™s growing efforts to prove the art wasna€™t Paleolithic but recent27 a€“ in which case, the EDP seemed to think that the public would drop the subject as being the relatively recent work of peasants drawing their cows. For all their heightened sensitivity to having CA?aa€™s fate evaluated by a foreigner, the Portuguese press viewed Clottes as a referee and expected a verdict. Then, as fate would have it, Clottes was back in the headlines within the week, announcing drastic measures to protect Francea€™s new crown jewel, Chauvet. And as if anyone could even find new art during the two weeks a lake might be emptied (every hundred years) while everything was coated with algae and grime! Opposition editorialists had a field day with Clottesa€™ apparent hypocrisy and dismissiveness towards Portugal - and demonstrators flooded the streets.
Two, because people are often driven to produce their greatest work and worst mistakes by similar drives.
Rebanda was even fooling himself on this score, I thought - after all, the Foz CA?a photographs would probably end up belonging to Portugala€™s own ministry or even the EDP. Scientists - like lawyers - ply an adversarial trade, but the chance to put Portugal into the archaeological heavens a€“ and to boost their own reputations with it - had given many researchers more ulterior motives than usual.
Personally, I couldn't see anybody bedding down for the night and traipsing out the next morning with people who had announced that they were going to expose him. In essence, my heart a€“ if not my mind - had taken his side for the moment; he was the underdog, on the verge of a nervous breakdown, and I was concerned that he might even attempt suicide. If I didn't mind coming back at 9 the next morning, he apologized, the approval should be there. But basically the dam was a streamlined machine without much need for local intervention or maintenance.
My unequivocal certification of their global importance only made him uneasier, as he didn't know whether to feel flattered or upset. We peered into a dovecot, a squat white tower lined inside with empty compartments like a city after a plague.
Suddenly, a deeply hammered auroch on the rock stood out boldly as a road sign - alerting us to an entire herd. The geology, erosion, & silica skins protecting engravings all seem similar on both slopes, so I theorize that this positioning is not simply a taphonomic illusion created by the disappearance of engravings on the southern slopes. I wasn't expecting anything when I ambled down at dawn, but there it was: a big mound under the bank!
From what I could tell, even his draftsmen had decided to take the day off 49, once they realized the coast was clear. By God, I thought, if the flooders don't save them, I hope the townspeople storm the valley!
If the guards hadn't been under strict orders not to sell admissions, they'd have made a killing; but then any financial association with the art is anathema to the dammers: the next thing they knew, they'd have a revolt on their hands! And like the first guard, when he realized that I had somehow gotten authorization despite my evident opposition to the reservoir, he let out his pent-up indignation - for we were insiders. As we passed the threshold between the deadened depths and virgin current with its billowing water-foliage, we had to skirt and climb over a sheer wall blocking the side-valleya€™s entrance. The intertwined couple, spanning the length of a single real horse, was still necking in Eden after twenty millennia. Rock Art and the CA?a Valley Archaeological Park: A case study in the preservation of Portugal's prehistoric parietal heritage.


Although it is true that one must be extremely circumspect about doing so, such evidence often opens new perspectives that have more in common with the subsistence systems of ancient cultures than does our own, and the two authors showed considerable originality and courage in exploring it.
1994 - most Portuguese archaeologists with access to the CA?a sites now shun him as thoroughly as they do Clottes and Rebanda.
539, for a resolution, written in defense of CA?a, by Bednarik, in a book filled with vitriole against him).
These retractions confirmed that some of ZilhA?oa€™s criticisms of the direct dating attempts were well founded, but dona€™t necessarily reflect on other matters raised in his disputes with Bednarik and Jaffe. In the English sections, Jorge generously credits numerous associates and generations of Portuguese prehistorians by full name, while studiously avoiding any mention of Rebanda except where it is unavoidable, and then only with his last name between brackets. The second was to make casts of panels for a museum a€“ which may have damaged some panels.
A prolific music and theater critic in Los Angeles area newspapers and magazines, he died in May, seated at his keyboard writing a review when the fatal heart attack came.
Ia€™m sure Tom said he had it and did not want to pass it on to the BSI, and even more sure it wasna€™t a a€?blanka€? book: why was it called the Grillparzer Book if it was blank?
He received the Two-Shilling Award in 1983 for the immense help he gave Julian Wolff with the BSJ over many years, and was its actual publisher a number of years when he ran Fordham University Press. Based on the description of the bartending, it was a case of if you can remember it you weren't there.
This Irregulara€™s shtick (excuse me, a€?papera€?) included, and ended with, igniting a bit of flash paper that erupted and fell from his hand onto the tablecloth, thus landing in Drakea€™s immediate proximity. I recall one bartender as being just this side of falling-down drunk.A Many BSIs were only too happy to get a fresh one when the old ice cubes had dwindled or the mixer had lost its fizz, or some combination thereof, and I recall the vast array of partially consumed drinks sitting all over the place. A His dreadful son Adrian swore that his father never owned or used one, but in fact Conan Doyle mentions having one in letters written from South Norwood, though it appears his sister Connie, living there at the time, used it mostly to prepare replies to correspondence hea€™d received. But Bigelow had only been invested in 1959, hadna€™t known Smith long or well, was outside the mainstream of the BSI, and looking for a reason to explain his receiving an investiture someone else still in the ranks had.
Leslie Marshall (a€?A Scandal in Bohemiaa€?), who returned to the fold after many yearsa€™ absence. Stix, Jr.), by Bill Jenkins a€” to end a€” the reports of the Scion Societies, followed by the usual informal discussions.
And then your old fellow saddle-tramp Lenore Carroll touched on the same thing in a€?Exploring a€?The Country of the Saintsa€™: Arthur Conan Doyle as Western Writera€? in BSM 51 (Autumn 1987).
In stating here the insoluble problem which will always frustrate biographers of Nero Wolfe I confine myself, as a member of the American Historical Association in good standing, to examining the source documents according to the approved methods of historical research. Baring-Gould, already the author of Sherlock Holmes of Baker Street and editor of The Annotated Sherlock Holmes, made the idea a foundation-stone of another book, Nero Wolfe of West 35th Street. My experience of Hugoa€™s Companions is limited, and nil in the case of The Maiwand Jezails and Speckled Band, but none of them have changed their policies. Even the wave of newcomers from the television series starring Jeremy Brett that debuted in 1984 was a long time ago now.
Leavitta€™s expostulations to the contrary in his 1961 BSJ two-parter a€?The Origins of 221B Worship.a€? When Edgar W.
So I presume Woollcott had been invited to the January a€™40 dinner at the Murray Hill Hotel too. But none have reached so high a pinnacle as the naming and ascent of Holmes Peak, which rises majestically 262 feet above the prairie floor, and from whose wind-swept summit practically all of Osage County, Oklahoma, can be seen. At one time we had passes for the ski lift, but I have seem to have misplaced them (as Dick seemed to have misplaced the lift). Dick showed this document to John Bennett Shaw, who was an active member of the Knights of Columbus and other arms of the Church. Smitha€™s death, he also edited the Baker Street Journal for many years, influenced the BSI weekenda€™s shape with his Saturday cocktail party (first in his home for those he invited, then at the Grolier Club when numbers grew too great, and after that it was Katie bar the door); and then, Julian also handed out more investitures than anyone else before or since. Ia€™m sure Tom said he had it and did not want to pass it on to the BSI, and even more sure it wasna€™t a a€?blanka€? book:A  why was it called the Grillparzer Book if it was blank?
Running to one of the great ropes that bound him, she gnawed it until it parted, and soon the Lion was free. But in spite of its squeals and struggles to escape, the Shepherd tucked his prize under his arm and started off to the butcher's in the market place. In a short time the younger Frogs were using him for a diving platform, while the older Frogs made him a meeting place, where they complained loudly to Jupiter about the government.
In mournful croaks they begged Jupiter to take away the cruel tyrant before they should all be destroyed. Rat walked alonga€”he kept mostly to the ditcha€”he noticed a great commotion up the road, and soon a grand procession came in view. While the paintings in the French cave, which became known as the Grotte Chauvet, often have engraved contours, the Portuguese menagerie may also have been painted, but, being outdoors, their pigments have usually weathered away.
As shadows welled from the valley, we turned from the scarps and trundled downwards into the cleavage, till the road turned into a path to the water through a profusion of poppies.
Finally, I discerned a flock ambling down through dry brush, then a shirt flashed a white dot, and we converged within hailing distance on opposite banks.
Even ideal panels on either side of a fig tree bulging titanically from a small cave were barren. A stand of poplar trees crackled like Chinese New Year with small birds, abundant as leaves.
It was a good thing we had his name, Lima Monteiro, because the Securitas guard on this side meant business.
Our compact car slid in among Mercedes and I stepped into glare, drawing cool stares from fleshy faces. My interlocutor explained that the Chief Engineer was powerless to help me, so he couldn't be bothered to give me an audience.
Of course, the stories went, the honorable witnesses had refused to become accomplices and had immediately denounced the whole plot a€“ writing open letters to the Portuguese President, Vice President and Director of IPPAR - with carbon copies for the press.13 If only his employers had known that Rebanda was so naive!
She announced that it was no use disturbing the doctor, who I could see through a jarred door talking to someone over the phone with peevish vehemence.
Finally, I suggested that she didn't need to keep me company while I waited for the good doctor to get off the phone. That's strange, I thought as I wandered off again, mulling over a mental photograph of the site distribution.
And here were others, even closer to the construction site, at "RA?go de Vide", which had been submerged by the same old dam!
Still, she caught me; whereupon I went on elaborating it, asking questions, and then padded back to the foyer again to continue my vigil. After all, the archaeologists and reporters had allowed the Tagus petrogylphs to be drowned with hardly a whimper.
Not only did the contrast with his actions in Portugal now smack of a double standard, but there was a piquant irony.
With stakes this high, both parties unleashed their opinion-making machines, making hash of Clottesa€™ carefully weighed words as quickly as theya€™d vilified Rebanda. Clottesa€™ words may have been earnest, but with stakes this high and politicized they were about as reasonable as Pontius Pilatea€™s attempts to keep the peace. I prefer to think the latter, and that his only mistake was thinking that people on both sides were lucid and reflective enough to interpret his verdict correctly. In Rebanda's place, I'd have calmed down and let the traitors fall to sleep, but then I'd have snuck away - trekking fast through the dark, picking myself up when I fell, but getting out - bloody knees and all - and calling that alarm first! Furthermore, I had no doubt - whatever pacts he'd struck - that he would make up for them if only approached constructively. After we'd faxed it, I was sorry to see him having to still recall and refax, as he nudged the request repeatedly through the unyielding bureaucracy. Sebastian and I scrambled and tacked among the carious cliffs, till there was nothing left but rock overhanging the water itself. But a huge horse, leaning over the depths, was both more graceful and cryptic, for someone had wedged a rusty horseshoe into a crack between its hooves.
No sooner had I chipped the thin device and steadily shoved each curve straight, than the hook slipped smoothly free. Only Rebanda's long-suffering secretary had to keep her post and occupied herself by taking up the relay of calling and faxing. These red and gray devices were not only customized to match the guards' uniforms, but showed off the latest in high-tech materials and molding. As we wound our way down towards the reservoir among towering red cliffs, he took quiet pride in pointing out the hidden elements of scattered engravings. But then Piscos Brook ran between trees, pastures and cane-groves, with cliffs full of shelters and stone panels at each bend. La Pintura, The Official Newsletter of the American Rock Art Research Association (Member of IFRAO) Volume 21, Number 3, Winter. In the same book, which Jorge compiled to record the campaign he was spear-heading to save CA?a a€“ a laudatory effort, if there ever was one, that made Jorge synonymous with yet another of Rebandaa€™s finds - Bednarik is repeatedly dismissed as a a€?charlatana€? (pp. Jaffe accused the trio, who had taken over responsibility for the archaeological resources of the valley, of endangering art panels and refusing to allow qualified foreign researchers or even Dr. Whatever the case may be, the problem of rock art conservation is still as far from resolution in Portugal as it is in most other places in the world. The BSJa€™s circulation wasna€™t the deep dark secret that it is today, but it will take further research to uncover just when those a€?reproduction issuesa€? were produced.
George went on to be Astor Curator of Printed Books and Bindings at the Pierpont Morgan Library, later Director of Special Collections at the New York Public Library.
Nor must we omit to mention those elegant keepsakes that we received through the courtesy of several Irregulars. Instead he agitated the Irregulars that night with his soon notorious talk a€?Watson Was a Womana€? (which included an acrostic in which titles of Watsona€™s tales spelled out the name Irene Watson). I construct only one hypothesis and I make no test of that one, leaving it for other scholars to test and apply as they may see fit. And Nicholas Meyer (a€?A Fine Morocco Case,a€? BSI) made use of the idea as well in his novels.
Anderson, a valued contributor to Baker Street Miscellanea when he was was a professor of English at Texas A&M and Denison Universities, is now president of St. In fact Starrett proceeded to Christ Cellaa€™s by hansom cab that evening with Woollcott, from the lattera€™s apartment (known as a€?Wita€™s Enda€?) at 450 East 52nd Street. Smith started organizing the 1940 revival dinner, Morley dug up an old invitation list for Smitha€™s use, and Woollcott was on it. He concludes by describing the Preservation Societya€™s elaborate future plans for Holmes Peak, including such juicy things-to-come as the Scenic Highway to the top, the Holmes Cenotaph (a design contest will be announced soon), the Doyle Ski Basin, and Holmesworld amusement park. John told Dick the good Bishop had expressed himself harshly as a Bishop was allowed to, and still stay on the side of the angels.
It would be interesting to learn more about his Whoa€™s Who, his role in the Voices of Baker Street, the formation of the Mrs. Army directly into the BSI at the beginning of the a€?50s, and by 1955 had the investiture of a€?Colonel Warburtona€™s Madness,a€? which also tells us Edgar W. Many of his Irregulars are gone today, like him, but lots of them made tremendous contributions to the BSI that are felt to this day. When I first attended the BSI annual dinner in 1973, he had been a fixture there many years, and I found it was a tradition for him to give one of the talks each year -- and for his talk to be totally unintelligible. George Fletcher and I had a drink at the bar afterward but they wouldna€™t let us pay.A They put everything on Juliana€™s membership account. All that remains, where jagged outcroppings of schist jut from brushy slopes - exposing terminal facets perfect for murals - are hauntingly sinuous outlines of deer, horses, ibexes, and wild cattle called aurochs. The first flurry of press articles had mentioned that many of the engravings were already submerged by the cofferdam holding the river back for the more monstrous wall rising downstream from it. I sent greetings and the shepherd expostulated and gestured animatedly upstream towards towering slabs.
For me, all of mankind's later accomplishments, all our later experience of good and evil only become possible after such art. The irrelevant exchange had sparked sympathy as we both waited - and waited, in similar irrelevance to someone too consumed to give us heed.
I would have to go to Lisbon, and no, it wouldn't do any good for him to fax; he didn't have an iota of authority.
Despite all the insinuations about Rebanda and IPPAR, they were actually the first to try blocking the philistines with the clout of an institution as important as UNESCO. About thirty years before, Francea€™s equivalent to the EDP had taken the entire Ardeche Gorge, where the Chauvet Cave had just been found, from its entrance at Sauze to a rainbow-huge, natural arch - Vallon Pont da€™Arc, next to Chauvet - by eminent domain, to build a dam. These conscientious people know that theya€™re barely tolerated by the forces of Mammon - scraping crumbs from the tables of vast enterprises armed with dynamite and bulldozers - and make compacts all the time with them, telling themselves, for instance, that the alluvial strata that cement plants exploit are always too tumbled to contain intact Acheulian hearths. If only he'd announced the discovery, co-opted his employers, and splashed masterpieces across magazine covers while the art's existence was still fresh, he might have won honor, fame, a very small fortune (and maybe even kept his job). Within weeks, local academics had begun signing their names to Rebandaa€™s discoveries, tracings, and interpretations while forgetting to cite him. I'd have been the one to announce the existence of the largest gathering of open-air Paleolithic engravings in Europe to the world. Slate slabs, thoughtfully laid into a wall as steps, led down through a canopy of fig trees into a cavernous wallow between cliffs.
I woke Sebastian in time to see the beast lumber over the bank and glide away, and then it was high time we checked out our other line at the doctor's office. Noon passed as we still waited together like an old couple, talking about the doctor's misery, Australian rock art, translations; whatever.
The guards stiffened as Sebastian and I had the gumption to breach a forbidden zone and stride blithely forward.
There were so many warblers piping and whistling, there must have been a dozen species with overlapping territories. Botha€? - Baptista and Gomes a€“ a€?were closely involved in the rationale to submerge the rock art (to 'protect it from vandals'); in fact, on 8 November Baptista spoke of how sedimentation behind dams should protect rock arta€? - my italics. After our departure, Bednarik and three other researchers (Alan Watchman from Canada, plus Fred Phillips and Ronald Dorn from the USA), who believed that they had found ways to date rock art directly, studied some of the CA?aa€™s engravings during separate visits. 1995 that was led by Mounir Bouchenaki, the IPPAR formed a scientific committee consisting of Antonio BeltrA?n, Emmanuel Anati and Jean Clottes, who came back for a second round. Financially, I showed a profit on the evening of $22, which I have posted against past deficits without a qualm.
He is a leading member of the Grolier Club today as a rare books & manuscripts authority, and a bibliophile whose exhibitions there and elsewhere are glowingly reviewed in the New York Times.
The bar tab at The PlayersA was a main incentive for finding accommodations at the Regency. The one from Lew Feldman(see Inventory)was most magnificent, and Fred Dannay generously supplied each of us with the Feb. Ia€™m a member of the latter, and also of Chicagoa€™s Hounds of the Baskerville (sic), but while both have only male members, one sees many women at the Houndsa€™ sole annual gathering every autumn, and not only spouses but others invited on their own merits -- including you this year, or so I hear, Dahlinger. And so, forgive me, but in comparison to these ancient windows, cathedrals seem to have anti-climatic and overwrought power. Except for the absence now of bigger species, this was how Solutreans had experienced the world - with whistling, mooing, barking, roaring and trumpeting not just on the Serengeti, but to the frozen north! So much will go unrecorded because of all this fuss.a€? a€“ So, Rebanda is resigned to the inevitability of the flooding, I thought. If the dam had been built, a dozen known art caves would have been flooded or affected by rising water tables. So rather than condemn Clottes, perhaps the Portuguese should simply admit his diplomacy opened the debate, even if one might wish that hea€™d been a crusader. From Chauveta€™s pinnacle, its gatekeeper was probably right to dismiss the scratchings, which I too thought could have been the kneading of bears, but the contrast between the levels of encouragement was striking.
Although they granted him the discovery of Hella€™s Canyon (in footnotes), other sites that Rebanda had already noted were soon claimed by competitors as Rebanda was effectively silenced.
And Vitor and his wife, Susanaa€? - was it my imagination or did her name stick in his craw? Their stingy hypocrisy and philistinism revolted me: they wouldn't spend a penny on protecting such discoveries, but they'd drown the world up to its headwaters to keep driving Mercedes. Goldfinches sparked into the air, a crested hoopoo flashed orange and black, and the shaggy canes were a tumult of avian chatter. Jaffe was also the IFRAO representative of the SocietA  Cooperativa Archaeologica, Le Orme della€™Uomo, Italy (Bednarik 1994). But not before signing controversial non-disclosure agreements with the EDP, which was hoping that their techniques would yield dates so recent that they could be used to ridicule stylistic daters who had identified the engravings as Paleolithic (Baptista & Fernandes 2007, p.
It has however been a very useful investment to me, for Connie often does as many as six or seven letters a day for me with it, and very well indeed she does them. A Ia€™d be particularly interested if one of its members in the 1920s was Stanley Morison, because it was Morleya€™s chance meeting with him in New York in 1926, that revived Morleya€™s long-dormant boyhood enthusiasm for Sherlock Holmes. Bigelow was scrambling to apologizeA for casting doubt on Lee Offorda€™s investiture (as a€?The Old Russian Woman,a€? 1958) genuineness or validity. Roberts did, of course, in his 1929 essay A Note on the Watson Problem, but I am far from home and without my copy to consult, to see if he had something to say about it. Taking place simultaneously with the Copper Beechesa€™ spring and autumn dinners every year is a dinner for wives called The Bitches of the Beeches -- started long ago by my late mother-in-law Jeanne Jewell, the idea being to get their drunk husbands home alive.
Bill was an unforgettable personality with a zany streak of humor, and added something long-lasting to the BSI weekend in January with Mrs. It not only had profound effects upon our scholarshipa€™s trajectory, it brought huge numbers of new adherents into the fold (including me). Ia€™m not sure a€?legendarya€? is the word, but once youa€™d heard him, you didna€™t forget it; they were incoherent, phantasmagoric, even delusional, but delivered in a sort of bravura style that held your attention. Intermittent splashes smacked echoes off the walls, a frog croaked and some beast keened a cry we had never heard.
When I asked if they could intercede on our behalf, she said one had to apply in person, in Lisbon, and have connections.
In fact, paw prints indicated that we had missed cornering another feral dog or fox in its lair. Surgically, it was a nightmare: I'd have to pry its head out, keep its neck extended, wedge open its powerful beak and finally thrust the treble barbs down its throat, so as to carefully extract their burr, without snagging them again! Finally, they agreed that one of them would walk parallel to us, down the fence-line, to let us in the distant gate.
At our feet, frogs skipped like pebbles and painted turtles rowed earnestly in tangled water blossoms - all for the taking.
Unless you and I and all of us together add our voices to those of the Portuguese citizenry trekking down for a last look, and reclaim what is OURS! The story of the denunciation is from Bednarik (1994) and Simons in the New York Times (1994).
Smith died in September 1960, and apparently posed an administrative burden without financial reward for his sons. I remember sitting there my first time wondering what the hell, because I didna€™t understand what was going on, but for others it was clearly an expected item on the bill of fare.
Even the Chauvet Cave, which was unknown, might have been threatened by the changing water table! Unfortunately, Bednarik, who is one of the worlda€™s most encyclopedically informed, accomplished, and bold prehistorians, walked right into the trap.
Jorgea€™s utter dismissal of Bednarik was clearly motivated by the lattera€™s implicit condemnation of the way that Jorge had appropriated Rebandaa€™s earlier discovery at Mazouco, instigating Rebandaa€™s secrecy that was one component of the CA?a a€?cover-upa€? (Bednarik 1994, p.
These were delivered by Alfred Drake, whose address revealed him to be a real Sherlockian scholar; Thomas L. Someone just the other day mentioned Bill referring, in a 1982 recording on Voices of Baker Street, to that yeara€™s Breakfast as the twenty-ninth, which means the first one would have been in 1954.
Not only for the number and the jubilant spirit he brought to the process, but also for the displacement of the BSIa€™s previous center of gravity in the Northeast. Ia€™m not sure that everyone enjoyed it, but Julian Wolff always seemed to: in part with a ringmastera€™s satisfaction that the old boy had pulled it off once again, I think, and maybe also with a connoisseura€™s appreciation of a performer living up to or even exceeding the year before.
Later, Bednarik spear-headed another campaign to save a Portuguese rock-art assemblage from inundation a€“ this time behind a dam in the Guadiana Valley - and noted that a€?None of this helps the rock art of the Guadiana, condemned to inundation under billions of tonnes of lake sediment as the reservoir silts up over the next 70 yearsa€? a€“ again, my italics. Clarke, founder of The Five Orange Pips, and Carl Anderson of The Sons of the Copper Beeches. And for a few years, I had much the same reaction: a€?Here goes Will Oursler again, leta€™s see how wild it is this time, howa€™s he manage it year after year?a€? (This on the assumption that it was contrived. Do you think I'm such a fool as to invite the man who deprived me of the credit for my first discovery, to come see my greatest wonders if it wasn't because I needed all the allies I could get; if it wasn't because I even needed the universities to help save them.
Ironically, the mandarin in Porto would come out smelling like roses for his campaign while the roles of several well-meaning prehistorians, if I may insist upon the word, were simplified so as to make them better scapegoats.
Smith, Edgar Smitha€™s stepson whoa€™d taken over the printing of the OS BSJ, and found it very hard to get paid by the failing Ben Abramson. I just figured that there was no way to define membership clearly for all those folks, and avoided doing so. First, because his dating system, which was based on determining the degree of micro-erosion undergone by a rock face, had been developed in Australia, where climate and geological conditions are different from Portugala€™s.
It already had the annual dinner and the Gillette Luncheon when he joined the growing throng in the early a€™50s, and he added Mrs. This odd statement flies in the face of Bednarika€™s consistent defense of both the CA?aa€™s art and other assemblages, suggesting that it was a ploy to get the EDP to allow them to test their methods. Even though both men concluded that their observations proved that the art was no older than the Neolithic, Bednarik did not repeat the notion, when announcing his results, that a relatively recent vintage diminished the arta€™s importance or the need to protect it a€“ quite the contrary.



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