快速查题-中学教师资格证试题

       “Museum” is a slippery word. It first meant (in Greek) anything consecrated to the Muses: a hill, a shrine, a garden, a

festival or even a textbook. Both Plato’s Academy and Aristotle’s Lyceum had a mouseion, a muses shrine. Although the

Greeks already collected detached works of art, many temples—notably that of Hera at Olympia (before which the Olympic

flame is still lit)—had collections of objects, some of which were works of art by well-known masters, while paintings and sculptures in the Alexandrian Museum were incidental to its main purpose.

        The Romans also collected and exhibited art from disbanded temples, as well as mineral specimens, exotic plants,

animals; and they plundered sculptures and paintings (mostly Greek) for exhibition. Meanwhile, the Greek word had slipped

into Latin by transliteration (though not to signify picture galleries, which were called pinacothecae) and museum still more or

less meant “Muses- shrine”.

       The inspirational collections of precious and semi-precious objects were kept in larger churches and monasteries—which

focused on the gold-enshrined, bejewelled relics of saints and martyrs. Princes, and later merchants, had similar collections,

which became the deposits of natural curiosities: large lumps of amber or coral, irregular pearls, unicorn horns, ostrich eggs,

fossil bones and so on. They also included coins and gems—often antique engraved ones—as well as, increasingly, paintings and sculptures. As they multiplied and expanded, to supplement them, the skill of the fakers grew increasingly refined.

      At the same time, visitors could admire the very grandest paintings and sculptures in the churches, palaces and castles;

they were not “collected” either, but “site-specific”, and were considered an integral part both of the fabric of the buildings and of the way of life which went on inside them—and most of the buildings were public ones. However, during the revival of

antiquity in the fifteenth century, fragments of antique sculpture were given higher status than the work of any contemporary,

so that displays of antiquities would inspire artists to imitation, or even better, to emulation; and so could be considered Muses- shrines in the former sense. The Medici garden near San Marco in Florence, the Belvedere and the Capitol in Rome were

the most famous of such early “inspirational” collections. Soon they multiplied, and, gradually, exemplary “modern” works were also added to such galleries.

     In the seventeenth century, scientific and prestige collecting became so widespread that three or four collectors independently published directories to museums all over the known world. But it was the age of revolutions and industry which produced the next sharp shift in the way the institution was perceived: the fury against royal and church monuments prompted antiquarians to shelter them in asylum-galleries, of which the Musee des Monuments Francais was the most famous. Then, in the first

half of the nineteenth century, museum funding took off, allied to the rise of new wealth: London acquired the National Gallery and the British Museum, the Louvre was organized, the Museum-Insel was begun in Berlin, and the Munich galleries were

built. In Vienna, the huge Kunsthistorisches and Naturhistorisches Museums took over much of the imperial treasure.

Meanwhile, the decline of craftsmanship (and of public taste with it) inspired the creation of “improving” collections. The

Victoria and Albert Museum in London was the most famous, as well as perhaps the largest of them.

      Campaigning on the Indian frontier is an experience by itself. Neither the landscape nor the people find their counterparts

in any other portion of the globe. Valley walls rise steeply five or six thousand feet on every side. The columns crawl through

a maze of giant corridors down which fierce snow-fed torrents foam under skies of brass. Amid these scenes of savage

brilliancy there dwells a race whose qualities seem to harmonize with their environment. Except at harvest time, when

self-preservation requires a temporary truce, the Pathan tribes are always engaged in private or public war. Every man is a

warrior, a politician and a theologian. Every large house is a real feudal fortress made, it is true, only of sun-baked clay, but

with battlements, turrets, loopholes, drawbridges, etc. complete. Every village has its defence. Every family cultivates its

vendetta; every clan, its feud. The numerous tribes and combinations of tribes all have their accounts to settle with one

another. Nothing is ever forgotten, and very few debts are left unpaid. For the purposes of social life, in addition to the

convention about harvest-time, a most elaborate code of honour has been established and is on the whole faithfully observed. A man who knew it and observed it faultlessly might pass unarmed from one end of the frontier to another. The slightest

technical slip would, however, be fatal. The life of the Pathan is thus full of interest; and his valleys, nourished alike by endless sunshine and abundant water, are fertile enough to yield with little labour the modest material requirements of a sparse

population.

       Into this happy world the nineteenth century brought two new facts: the rifle and the British Government. The first was an enormous luxury and blessing; the second, an unmitigated nuisance. The convenience of the rifle was nowhere more

appreciated than in the Indian highlands. A weapon which would kill with accuracy at fifteen hundred yards opened a whole

new vista of delights to every family or clan which could acquire it. One could actually remain in one’s own house and fire at

one’s neighbour nearly a mile away. One could lie in wait on some high crag, and at hitherto unheard of ranges hit a horseman far below. Even villages could fire at each other without the trouble of going far from home. Fabulous prices were therefore

offered for these glorious products of science. Rifle-thieves scoured all India to reinforce the efforts of the honest smuggler. A steady flow of the coveted weapons spread its genial influence throughout the frontier, and the respect which the Pathan tribesmen entertained for Christian civilization was vastly enhanced.

     The action of the British Government on the other hand was entirely unsatisfactory. The great organizing, advancing,

absorbing power to the southward seemed to be little better than a monstrous spoil-sport. If the Pathan made forays into the

plains, not only were they driven back (which after all was no more than fair),but a whole series of subsequent interferences

took place, followed at intervals by expeditions which toiled laboriously through the valleys, scolding the tribesmen and

exacting fines for any damage which they had done. No one would have minded these expeditions if they had simply come,

had a fight and then gone away again. In many cases this was their practice under what was called the “butcher and bolt

policy” to which the Government of India long adhered. But towards the end of the nineteenth century these intruders began to make roads through many of the valleys, and in particular the great road to Chitral. They sought to ensure the safety of these

roads by threats, by forts and by subsidies. There was no objection to the last method so far as it went. But the whole of this

tendency to road-making was regarded by the Pathans with profound distaste. All along the road people were expected to

keep quiet, not to shoot one another, and above all not to shoot at travellers along the road. It was too much to ask, and a

whole series of quarrels took their origin from this source.