SAT-Critical-Reading 試験問題を無料オンラインアクセス
| 試験コード: | SAT-Critical-Reading |
| 試験名称: | Section One : Critical Reading |
| 認定資格: | SAT |
| 無料問題数: | 270 |
| 更新日: | 2025-08-29 |
In his politics, Aristotle characterizes Plato's support of collectivism as ______ and ______ the unity of the
city; not only would it be difficult to institute and enforce, but the absence of private property would lead to
bickering among the citizens.
Oliver Goldsmith (17301774) wrote criticism, plays, novels, biographies, travelogues, and nearly every
other conceivable kind of composition. This good-humored essay is from a series published in the Public
Ledger and then in book form as The Citizen of the World (1762).
Were we to estimate the learning of the English by the number of books that are every day published
among them, perhaps no country, not even China itself, could equal them in this particular. I have
reckoned not less than twenty-three new books published in one day, which, upon computation, makes
eight thousand three hundred and ninety-five in one year. Most of these are not confined to one single
science, but embrace the whole circle. History, politics, poetry, mathematics, metaphysics, and the
philosophy of nature, are all comprised in a manual no larger than that in which our children are taught the
letters. If then, we suppose the learned of England to read but an eighth part of the works which daily
come from the press and surely non can pretend to learning upon less easy terms), at this rate every
scholar will read a thousand books in one year. From such a calculation, you may conjecture what an
amazing fund of literature a man must be possessed of, who thus reads three new books every day, not
one of which but contains all the good things that ever were said or written.
And yet I know not how it happens, but the English are not, in reality so learned as would seem from this
calculation. We meet but few who know all arts and sciences to perfection; whether it is that the generality
are incapable of such extensive knowledge, or that the authors of those books are not adequate
instructors. In China, the Emperor himself takes cognizance of all the doctors in the kingdom who profess
authorship. In England, every man may be an author, that can write; for they have by law a liberty, not
only of saying what they please, but of being also as dull as they please. Yesterday, as I testified to my
surprise, to the man in black, where writers could be found in sufficient number to throw off the books I
saw daily crowding from the press. I at first imagined that their learned seminaries might take this method
of instructing the world. But, to obviate this objection, my companion assured me that the doctors of
colleges never wrote, and that some of them had actually forgot their reading. "But if you desire,"
continued he, "to see a collection of authors, I fancy I can introduce you to a club, which assembles every
Saturday at seven. . . ." I accepted his invitation; we walked together, and entered the house some time
before the usual hour for the company assembling. My friend took this opportunity of letting me into the
characters of the principal members of the club . .
.
"The first person," said he, "of our society is Doctor Nonentity, a metaphysician. Most people think him a
profound scholar, but, as he seldom speaks, I cannot be positive in that particular; he generally spreads
himself before the fire, sucks his pipe, talks little, drinks much, and is reckoned very good company. I'm
told he writes indexes to perfection: he makes essays on the origin of evil, philosophical inquiries upon
any subject, and draws up an answer to any book upon 24 hours' warning . . . ."
Goldsmith first assumes that English writers come from
In conclusion, it seized first the corpse of the daughter, and thrust it up the chimney, as it was found; then
that of the old lady, which it immediately hurled through the window headlong. As the ape approached the
casement with its mutilated burden, the sailor shrank aghast to the rod, and, rather gliding than
clambering down it, hurried at once home--dreading the consequences of the butchery, and gladly
abandoning, in his terror, all solicitude about the fate of the Ourang-Outang. The words heard by the party
upon the staircase were the Frenchman's exclamations of horror and affright, commingled with the
fiendish jabberings of the brute.
I have scarcely anything to add. The Ourang-Outang must have escaped from the chamber, by the rod,
just before the break of the door. It must have closed the window as it passed through it. It was
subsequently caught by the owner himself, who obtained for it a very large sum at the Jardin des Plantes.
Le Don was instantly released, upon our narration of the circumstances (with some comments from Dupin)
at the bureau of the Prefect of Police. This functionary, however well disposed to my friend, could not
altogether conceal his chagrin at the turn which affairs had taken, and was fain to indulge in a sarcasm or
two, about the propriety of every person minding his own business.
Which selection best rephrases "I have scarcely anything to add" starting of 2nd paragraph?
But the Dust-Bin was going down then, and your father took but little, excepting from a liquid point of view.
Your mother's object in those visits was of a house-keeping character, and you was set on to whistle your
father out. Sometimes he came out, but generally not. Come or not come, however, all that part of his
existence which was unconnected with open Waitering was kept a close secret, and was acknowledged
by your mother to be a close secret, and you and your mother flitted about the court, close secrets both of
you, and would scarcely have confessed under torture that you know your father, or that your father had
any name than Dick (which wasn't his name, though he was never known by any other), or that he had
kith or kin or chick or child.
Perhaps the attraction of this mystery, combined with your father's having a damp compartment, to
himself, behind a leaky cistern, at the Dust Bin, a sort of a cellar compartment, with a sink in it, and a smell,
and a plate-rack, and a bottle-rack, and three windows that didn't match each other or anything else, and
no daylight, caused your young mind to feel convinced that you must grow up to be a Waiter too; but you
did feel convinced of it, and so did all your brothers, down to your sister. Every one of you felt convinced
that you was born to the Waitering.
At this stage of your career, what was your feelings one day when your father came home to your mother
in open broad daylight, of itself an act of Madness on the part of a Waiter, and took to his bed (leastwise,
your mother and family's bed), with the statement that his eyes were devilled kidneys. Physicians being in
vain, your father expired, after repeating at intervals for a day and a night, when gleams of reason and old
business fitfully illuminated his being, "Two and two is five. And three is sixpence." Interred in the
parochial department of the neighbouring churchyard, and accompanied to the grave by as many Waiters
of long standing as could spare the morning time from their soiled glasses (namely, one), your bereaved
form was attired in a white neckankecher [sic], and you was took on from motives of benevolence at The
George and Gridiron, theatrical and supper. Here, supporting nature on what you found in the
plates(which was as it happened, and but too often thoughtlessly, immersed in mustard), and on what you
found in the glasses (which rarely went beyond driblets and lemon), by night you dropped asleep standing,
till you was cuffed awake, and by day was set to polishing every individual article in the coffee-room. Your
couch being sawdust; your counterpane being ashes of cigars. Here, frequently hiding a heavy heart
under the smart tie of your white neck ankecher (or correctly speaking lower down and more to the left),
you picked up the rudiments of knowledge from an extra, by the name of Bishops, and by calling plate-
washer, and gradually elevating your mind with chalk on the back of the corner-box partition, until such
time as you used the inkstand when it was out of hand, attained to manhood, and to be the Waiter that
you find yourself.
I could wish here to offer a few respectful words on behalf of the calling so long the calling of myself and
family, and the public interest in which is but too often very limited. We are not generally understood. No,
we are not. Allowance enough is not made for us. For, say that we ever show a little drooping listlessness
of spirits, or what might be termed indifference or apathy. Put it to yourself what would your own state of
mind be, if you was one of an enormous family every member of which except you was always greedy,
and in a hurry. Put it to yourself that you was regularly replete with animal food at the slack hours of one in
the day and again at nine p.m., and that the repleter [sic] you was, the more voracious all your
fellow-creatures came in. Put it to yourself that it was your business, when your digestion was well on, to
take a personal interest and sympathy in a hundred gentlemen fresh and fresh (say, for the sake of
argument, only a hundred), whose imaginations was given up to grease and fat and gravy and melted
butter, and abandoned to questioning you about cuts of this, and dishes of that, each of 'em going on as if
him and you and the bill of fare was alone in the world.
All of the following may indicate why the author states the father coming home is an "act of Madness" in
2 nd paragraph EXCEPT: