Trust And Civilization (August/september 1981 | Volume: 32, Issue: 5)

Trust And Civilization

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Authors: T. H. Watkins

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August/september 1981 | Volume 32, Issue 5

America has been many civilizations in its history, from the ,Stone Age to the age of genetic tinkering. And as each of perhaps a dozen civilizations was washed over by another, it left behind fragments of itself like pebbles scattered upon a beach—a cliff dwelling in the Southwest built by the vanished Anasazi, a crumbling ante-bellum plantation house in Mississippi, a railroad depot in a town where the train no longer stops. …

Such fragments have always presented us with a paradox. The notion that change is, somehow, progress has been endemic to American life for more than two centuries now, and one of the most persistent results of change has too often been the destruction of those very bits and pieces of the past. At the same time, there have always been those among us who cherished them, who fought for their protection and preservation as a link between the time that was and the time that is. We look back even as we move forward.

So it was that in 1796 Benjamin Latrobe lamented the inevitable destruction of Green Spring in James City County, Virginia: “In it the oldest inhabited house in North America will disappear.…” So it was that in 1813 a group of Philadelphia citizens blocked the sale and destruction of the city’s Old State House; we know it today as Independence Hall. So it was that in 1856 Miss Ann Pamela Cunningham of South Carolina organized the Mount Vernon Ladies’ Association for the purchase, preservation, and restoration of George Washington’s Virginia home. So it was that in 1926 the Reverend William Goodwin persuaded John D. Rockefeller, Jr., to spend millions of dollars on the restoration and recreation of Colonial Williamsburg; and if the result was itself a paradox—as Walter Karp suggests elsewhere in this issue—the instinct that created it was indisputably in the American grain.

Whether our present civilization has produced anything that the Miss Cunninghams and Reverend Goodwins of two hundred years from now will feel compelled to cherish and preserve is moot; what is not moot is the fact that in spite of the wrecker’s balls and bulldozers around us, we have compiled a pretty fair record over the past generation in keeping intact many of those fragments that judiciously remind us that this civilization did not spring full-grown from the brow of Zeus.

As this column has pointed out from time to time, much of the impetus for what has been dubbed the “preservation movement” has come from individual citizens and isolated organizations, small groups that have zeroed in on local projects dear to their hearts—a church here, a lighthouse there. But on a national scale, a great deal of the impetus has come from an institution that is itself only a little more than a generation old, one that has learned, like many another special-interest group, that to have influence it must have power; to have power, it must have money; to have