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SAT Section One : Critical Reading Sample Questions:

1. Each year I am reminded of our blessings as I view the ______ of food abundant at our table.

A) mixture
B) plethora
C) decadence
D) bounty
E) gluttony

2. Alston was impressed by the philosopher's lecture, but Mario thought the lecture was better characterized
as ______ than as erudite.

A) recondite
B) translucent
C) impeccable
D) fictitious
E) specious

3. Mathew ascended three flights of stairs--passed half-way down a long arched gallery--and knocked at
another old-fashioned oak door. This time the signal was answered. A low, clear, sweet voice, inside the
room, inquired who was waiting without? In a few hasty words Mathew told his errand. Before he had
done speaking the door was quietly and quickly opened, and Sarah Leeson confronted him on the
threshold, with her candle in her hand.
Not tall, not handsome, not in her first youth--shy and irresolute in manner--simple in dress to the utmost
limits of plainness--the lady's-maid, in spite of all these disadvantages, was a woman whom it was
impossible to look at without a feeling of curiosity, if not of interest. Few men, at first sight of her, could
have resisted the desire to find out who she was; few would have been satisfied with receiving for answer,
She is Mrs. Treverton's maid; few would have refrained from the attempt to extract some secret
information for themselves from her face and manner; and none, not even the most patient and practiced
of observers, could have succeeded in discovering more than that she must have passed through the
ordeal of some great suffering at some former period of her life. Much in her manner, and more in her face,
said plainly and sadly: I am the wreck of something that you might once have liked to see; a wreck that
can never be repaired--that must drift on through life unnoticed, unguided, unpitied--drift till the fatal shore
is touched, and the waves of Time have swallowed up these broken relics of me forever.
This was the story that was told in Sarah Leeson's face--this, and no more. No two men interpreting that
story for themselves, would probably have agreed on the nature of the suffering which this woman had
undergone. It was hard to say, at the outset, whether the past pain that had set its ineffaceable mark on
her had been pain of the body or pain of the mind. But whatever the nature of the affliction she had
suffered, the traces it had left were deeply and strikingly visible in every part of her face.
Her cheeks had lost their roundness and their natural color; her lips, singularly flexible in movement and
delicate in form, had faded to an unhealthy paleness; her eyes, large and black and overshadowed by
unusually thick lashes, had contracted an anxious startled look, which never left them and which piteously
expressed the painful acuteness of her sensibility, the inherent timidity of her disposition. So far, the
marks which sorrow or sickness had set on her were the marks common to most victims of mental or
physical suffering. The one extraordinary personal deterioration which she had undergone consisted in
the unnatural change that had passed over the color of her hair.
It was as thick and soft, it grew as gracefully, as the hair of a young girl; but it was as gray as the hair of an
old woman. It seemed to contradict, in the most startling manner, every personal assertion of youth that
still existed in her face. With all its haggardness and paleness, no one could have looked at it and
supposed for a moment that it was the face of an elderly woman. Wan as they might be, there was not a
wrinkle in her cheeks. Her eyes, viewed apart from their prevailing expression of uneasiness and timidity,
still preserved that bright, clear moisture which is never seen in the eyes of the old. The skin about her
temples was as delicately smooth as the skin of a child. These and other physical signs which never
mislead, showed that she was still, as to years, in the very prime of her life.
Sickly and sorrow-stricken as she was, she looked, from the eyes downward, a woman who had barely
reached thirty years of age. From the eyes upward, the effect of her abundant gray hair, seen in
connection with her face, was not simply incongruous--it was absolutely startling; so startling as to make it
no paradox to say that she would have looked most natural, most like herself if her hair had been dyed. In
her case, Art would have seemed to be the truth, because Nature looked like falsehood.
What shock had stricken her hair, in the very maturity of its luxuriance, with the hue of an unnatural old
age? Was it a serious illness, or a dreadful grief that had turned her gray in the prime of her womanhood?
That question had often been agitated among her fellow-servants, who were all struck by the peculiarities
of her personal appearance, and rendered a little suspicious of her, as well, by an inveterate habit that
she had of talking to herself. Inquire as they might, however, their curiosity was always baffled. Nothing
more could be discovered than that Sarah Leeson was, in the common phrase, touchy on the subject of
her gray hair and her habit of talking to herself, and that Sarah Leeson's mistress had long since forbidden
every one, from her husband downward, to ruffle her maid's tranquility by inquisitive questions.
What does the author mean with the statement "In her case, Art would have seemed to be the truth,
because Nature looked like falsehood"?

A) Usually women would have been presented in Art as natural as possible but in the case of Sarah, Art
would have made improvements to Nature.
B) Artists would not have used Sarah for a pose unless it was from the eyes downward.
C) Normally Art is perceptibly copying that which is natural (Nature), and this is reversed in the case of
Sarah.
D) Nature made Sarah look like a falsehood rather like Art.
E) Artists would have had to modify Nature by painting her hair a different color than gray.

4. For the last hour I have been watching President Lincoln and General McClellan as they sat together in
earnest conversation on the deck of a steamer closer to us. I am thankful, I am happy, that the President
has come--has sprung across the dreadful intervening Washington, and come to see and hear and judge
for his own wise and noble self. While we were at dinner someone said, "Why, there's the President!" and
he proved to be just arriving on the Ariel, at the end of the wharf. I stationed myself at once to watch for
the coming of McClellan. The President stood on deck with a glass, with which, after a time, he inspected
our boat, waving his handkerchief to us. My eyes and soul were in the direction of the general
headquarters, over which the great balloon was slowly descending.
As used in the passage, the word glass means

A) a goblet
B) a window
C) a mirror
D) a telescope
E) bifocals

5. 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