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For the poet Phillis Wheatley, who was brought to colonial New England as a slave in 1761, the formal literary code of eighteenth-century English was thrice removed: by the initial barrier of the unfamiliar English language, by the discrepancy between spoken and literary forms of English, and by the African tradition of oral rather than written verbal art. Wheatley transcended these barriers—she learned the English language and English literary forms so quickly and well that she was composing good poetry in English within a few years of her arrival in New England. Wheatley's experience exemplifies the meeting of oral and written literary cultures. The aesthetic principles of the African oral tradition were preserved in America by folk artists in work songs, dancing, field hollers, religious music, the use of the drum, and, after the drum was forbidden, in the perpetuation of drum effects in song. African languages and the functions of language in African societies not only contributed to the emergence of a distinctive Black English but also exerted demonstrable effects on the manner in which other Americans spoke English. Given her African heritage and her facility with English and the conventions of English poetry, Wheatley's work had the potential to apply the ideas of a written literature to an oral literary tradition in the creation of an African American literary language. But this was a potential that her poetry unfortunately did not exploit. The standards of eighteenth-century English poetry, which itself reflected little of the American language, led Wheatley to develop a notion of poetry as a closed system, derived from imitation of earlier written works. No place existed for the rough-and-ready Americanized English she heard in the streets, for the English spoken by Black people, or for Africanisms. The conventions of eighteenth-century neoclassical poetry ruled out casual talk; her voice and feelings had to be generalized according to rules of poetic diction and characterization; the particulars of her African past, if they were to be dealt with at all, had to be subordinated to the reigning conventions. African poetry did not count as poetry in her new situation, and African aesthetic canons were irrelevant to the new context because no linguistic or social framework existed to reinforce them. Wheatley adopted a foreign language and a foreign literary tradition; they were not extensions of her past experience, but replacements. Thus limited by the eighteenth-century English literary code, Wheatley's poetry contributed little to the development of a distinctive African American literary language. Yet by the standards of the literary conventions in which she chose to work, Wheatley's poetry is undeniably accomplished, and she is justly celebrated as the first Black American poet. | 199106_1-RC_1_1 | [
"Folk artists employed more principles of African oral tradition in their works than did Phillis Wheatley in her poetry.",
"Although Phillis Wheatley had to overcome significant barriers in learning English, she mastered the literary conventions of eighteenth-century English as well as African aesthetic canons.",
"Phillis Wheatley's poetry did not fulfill the potential inherent in her experience but did represent a significant accomplishment.",
"The evolution of a distinctive African American literary language can be traced from the creations of African American folk artists to the poetry of Phillis Wheatley.",
"Phillis Wheatley joined with African American folk artists in preserving the principles of the African oral tradition."
] | 2 | Which one of the following best expresses the main idea of the passage? |
For the poet Phillis Wheatley, who was brought to colonial New England as a slave in 1761, the formal literary code of eighteenth-century English was thrice removed: by the initial barrier of the unfamiliar English language, by the discrepancy between spoken and literary forms of English, and by the African tradition of oral rather than written verbal art. Wheatley transcended these barriers—she learned the English language and English literary forms so quickly and well that she was composing good poetry in English within a few years of her arrival in New England. Wheatley's experience exemplifies the meeting of oral and written literary cultures. The aesthetic principles of the African oral tradition were preserved in America by folk artists in work songs, dancing, field hollers, religious music, the use of the drum, and, after the drum was forbidden, in the perpetuation of drum effects in song. African languages and the functions of language in African societies not only contributed to the emergence of a distinctive Black English but also exerted demonstrable effects on the manner in which other Americans spoke English. Given her African heritage and her facility with English and the conventions of English poetry, Wheatley's work had the potential to apply the ideas of a written literature to an oral literary tradition in the creation of an African American literary language. But this was a potential that her poetry unfortunately did not exploit. The standards of eighteenth-century English poetry, which itself reflected little of the American language, led Wheatley to develop a notion of poetry as a closed system, derived from imitation of earlier written works. No place existed for the rough-and-ready Americanized English she heard in the streets, for the English spoken by Black people, or for Africanisms. The conventions of eighteenth-century neoclassical poetry ruled out casual talk; her voice and feelings had to be generalized according to rules of poetic diction and characterization; the particulars of her African past, if they were to be dealt with at all, had to be subordinated to the reigning conventions. African poetry did not count as poetry in her new situation, and African aesthetic canons were irrelevant to the new context because no linguistic or social framework existed to reinforce them. Wheatley adopted a foreign language and a foreign literary tradition; they were not extensions of her past experience, but replacements. Thus limited by the eighteenth-century English literary code, Wheatley's poetry contributed little to the development of a distinctive African American literary language. Yet by the standards of the literary conventions in which she chose to work, Wheatley's poetry is undeniably accomplished, and she is justly celebrated as the first Black American poet. | 199106_1-RC_1_2 | [
"translated Italian literary forms into the American idiom",
"combined Italian and American literary traditions into a new form of poetic expression",
"contributed to the development of a distinctive Italian American literary style",
"defined artistic expression in terms of eighteenth-century Italian poetic conventions",
"adopted the language and forms of modern American poetry"
] | 4 | The approach to poetry taken by a modern-day Italian immigrant in America would be most analogous to Phillis Wheatley's approach, as it is described in the passage, if the immigrant |
For the poet Phillis Wheatley, who was brought to colonial New England as a slave in 1761, the formal literary code of eighteenth-century English was thrice removed: by the initial barrier of the unfamiliar English language, by the discrepancy between spoken and literary forms of English, and by the African tradition of oral rather than written verbal art. Wheatley transcended these barriers—she learned the English language and English literary forms so quickly and well that she was composing good poetry in English within a few years of her arrival in New England. Wheatley's experience exemplifies the meeting of oral and written literary cultures. The aesthetic principles of the African oral tradition were preserved in America by folk artists in work songs, dancing, field hollers, religious music, the use of the drum, and, after the drum was forbidden, in the perpetuation of drum effects in song. African languages and the functions of language in African societies not only contributed to the emergence of a distinctive Black English but also exerted demonstrable effects on the manner in which other Americans spoke English. Given her African heritage and her facility with English and the conventions of English poetry, Wheatley's work had the potential to apply the ideas of a written literature to an oral literary tradition in the creation of an African American literary language. But this was a potential that her poetry unfortunately did not exploit. The standards of eighteenth-century English poetry, which itself reflected little of the American language, led Wheatley to develop a notion of poetry as a closed system, derived from imitation of earlier written works. No place existed for the rough-and-ready Americanized English she heard in the streets, for the English spoken by Black people, or for Africanisms. The conventions of eighteenth-century neoclassical poetry ruled out casual talk; her voice and feelings had to be generalized according to rules of poetic diction and characterization; the particulars of her African past, if they were to be dealt with at all, had to be subordinated to the reigning conventions. African poetry did not count as poetry in her new situation, and African aesthetic canons were irrelevant to the new context because no linguistic or social framework existed to reinforce them. Wheatley adopted a foreign language and a foreign literary tradition; they were not extensions of her past experience, but replacements. Thus limited by the eighteenth-century English literary code, Wheatley's poetry contributed little to the development of a distinctive African American literary language. Yet by the standards of the literary conventions in which she chose to work, Wheatley's poetry is undeniably accomplished, and she is justly celebrated as the first Black American poet. | 199106_1-RC_1_3 | [
"the religious music of colonists in New England",
"the folk art of colonists in New England",
"formal written English",
"American speech patterns",
"eighteenth-century aesthetic principles"
] | 3 | According to the passage, African languages had a notable influence on |
For the poet Phillis Wheatley, who was brought to colonial New England as a slave in 1761, the formal literary code of eighteenth-century English was thrice removed: by the initial barrier of the unfamiliar English language, by the discrepancy between spoken and literary forms of English, and by the African tradition of oral rather than written verbal art. Wheatley transcended these barriers—she learned the English language and English literary forms so quickly and well that she was composing good poetry in English within a few years of her arrival in New England. Wheatley's experience exemplifies the meeting of oral and written literary cultures. The aesthetic principles of the African oral tradition were preserved in America by folk artists in work songs, dancing, field hollers, religious music, the use of the drum, and, after the drum was forbidden, in the perpetuation of drum effects in song. African languages and the functions of language in African societies not only contributed to the emergence of a distinctive Black English but also exerted demonstrable effects on the manner in which other Americans spoke English. Given her African heritage and her facility with English and the conventions of English poetry, Wheatley's work had the potential to apply the ideas of a written literature to an oral literary tradition in the creation of an African American literary language. But this was a potential that her poetry unfortunately did not exploit. The standards of eighteenth-century English poetry, which itself reflected little of the American language, led Wheatley to develop a notion of poetry as a closed system, derived from imitation of earlier written works. No place existed for the rough-and-ready Americanized English she heard in the streets, for the English spoken by Black people, or for Africanisms. The conventions of eighteenth-century neoclassical poetry ruled out casual talk; her voice and feelings had to be generalized according to rules of poetic diction and characterization; the particulars of her African past, if they were to be dealt with at all, had to be subordinated to the reigning conventions. African poetry did not count as poetry in her new situation, and African aesthetic canons were irrelevant to the new context because no linguistic or social framework existed to reinforce them. Wheatley adopted a foreign language and a foreign literary tradition; they were not extensions of her past experience, but replacements. Thus limited by the eighteenth-century English literary code, Wheatley's poetry contributed little to the development of a distinctive African American literary language. Yet by the standards of the literary conventions in which she chose to work, Wheatley's poetry is undeniably accomplished, and she is justly celebrated as the first Black American poet. | 199106_1-RC_1_4 | [
"cannot be written by those who are not raised knowing its conventions",
"has little influence on the way language is actually spoken",
"substitutes its own conventions for the aesthetic principles of the past",
"does not admit the use of street language and casual talk",
"is ultimately rejected because its conventions leave little room for further development"
] | 3 | By a "closed system" of poetry (lines 34–35), the author most probably means poetry that |
For the poet Phillis Wheatley, who was brought to colonial New England as a slave in 1761, the formal literary code of eighteenth-century English was thrice removed: by the initial barrier of the unfamiliar English language, by the discrepancy between spoken and literary forms of English, and by the African tradition of oral rather than written verbal art. Wheatley transcended these barriers—she learned the English language and English literary forms so quickly and well that she was composing good poetry in English within a few years of her arrival in New England. Wheatley's experience exemplifies the meeting of oral and written literary cultures. The aesthetic principles of the African oral tradition were preserved in America by folk artists in work songs, dancing, field hollers, religious music, the use of the drum, and, after the drum was forbidden, in the perpetuation of drum effects in song. African languages and the functions of language in African societies not only contributed to the emergence of a distinctive Black English but also exerted demonstrable effects on the manner in which other Americans spoke English. Given her African heritage and her facility with English and the conventions of English poetry, Wheatley's work had the potential to apply the ideas of a written literature to an oral literary tradition in the creation of an African American literary language. But this was a potential that her poetry unfortunately did not exploit. The standards of eighteenth-century English poetry, which itself reflected little of the American language, led Wheatley to develop a notion of poetry as a closed system, derived from imitation of earlier written works. No place existed for the rough-and-ready Americanized English she heard in the streets, for the English spoken by Black people, or for Africanisms. The conventions of eighteenth-century neoclassical poetry ruled out casual talk; her voice and feelings had to be generalized according to rules of poetic diction and characterization; the particulars of her African past, if they were to be dealt with at all, had to be subordinated to the reigning conventions. African poetry did not count as poetry in her new situation, and African aesthetic canons were irrelevant to the new context because no linguistic or social framework existed to reinforce them. Wheatley adopted a foreign language and a foreign literary tradition; they were not extensions of her past experience, but replacements. Thus limited by the eighteenth-century English literary code, Wheatley's poetry contributed little to the development of a distinctive African American literary language. Yet by the standards of the literary conventions in which she chose to work, Wheatley's poetry is undeniably accomplished, and she is justly celebrated as the first Black American poet. | 199106_1-RC_1_5 | [
"generalized feelings",
"Americanized English",
"themes from folk art",
"casual talk",
"Black speech"
] | 0 | According to the passage, the standards of eighteenth-century English poetry permitted Wheatley to include which one of the following in her poetry? |
For the poet Phillis Wheatley, who was brought to colonial New England as a slave in 1761, the formal literary code of eighteenth-century English was thrice removed: by the initial barrier of the unfamiliar English language, by the discrepancy between spoken and literary forms of English, and by the African tradition of oral rather than written verbal art. Wheatley transcended these barriers—she learned the English language and English literary forms so quickly and well that she was composing good poetry in English within a few years of her arrival in New England. Wheatley's experience exemplifies the meeting of oral and written literary cultures. The aesthetic principles of the African oral tradition were preserved in America by folk artists in work songs, dancing, field hollers, religious music, the use of the drum, and, after the drum was forbidden, in the perpetuation of drum effects in song. African languages and the functions of language in African societies not only contributed to the emergence of a distinctive Black English but also exerted demonstrable effects on the manner in which other Americans spoke English. Given her African heritage and her facility with English and the conventions of English poetry, Wheatley's work had the potential to apply the ideas of a written literature to an oral literary tradition in the creation of an African American literary language. But this was a potential that her poetry unfortunately did not exploit. The standards of eighteenth-century English poetry, which itself reflected little of the American language, led Wheatley to develop a notion of poetry as a closed system, derived from imitation of earlier written works. No place existed for the rough-and-ready Americanized English she heard in the streets, for the English spoken by Black people, or for Africanisms. The conventions of eighteenth-century neoclassical poetry ruled out casual talk; her voice and feelings had to be generalized according to rules of poetic diction and characterization; the particulars of her African past, if they were to be dealt with at all, had to be subordinated to the reigning conventions. African poetry did not count as poetry in her new situation, and African aesthetic canons were irrelevant to the new context because no linguistic or social framework existed to reinforce them. Wheatley adopted a foreign language and a foreign literary tradition; they were not extensions of her past experience, but replacements. Thus limited by the eighteenth-century English literary code, Wheatley's poetry contributed little to the development of a distinctive African American literary language. Yet by the standards of the literary conventions in which she chose to work, Wheatley's poetry is undeniably accomplished, and she is justly celebrated as the first Black American poet. | 199106_1-RC_1_6 | [
"Wheatley's poetry was admired in England for its faithfulness to the conventions of neoclassical poetry.",
"Wheatley compiled a history in English of her family's experiences in Africa and America.",
"The language barriers that Wheatley overcame were eventually transcended by all who were brought from Africa as slaves.",
"Several modern African American poets acknowledge the importance of Wheatley's poetry to American literature.",
"Scholars trace themes and expressions in African American poetry back to the poetry of Wheatley."
] | 4 | Which one of the following, if true, would most weaken the author's argument concerning the role that Wheatley played in the evolution of an African American literary language? |
For the poet Phillis Wheatley, who was brought to colonial New England as a slave in 1761, the formal literary code of eighteenth-century English was thrice removed: by the initial barrier of the unfamiliar English language, by the discrepancy between spoken and literary forms of English, and by the African tradition of oral rather than written verbal art. Wheatley transcended these barriers—she learned the English language and English literary forms so quickly and well that she was composing good poetry in English within a few years of her arrival in New England. Wheatley's experience exemplifies the meeting of oral and written literary cultures. The aesthetic principles of the African oral tradition were preserved in America by folk artists in work songs, dancing, field hollers, religious music, the use of the drum, and, after the drum was forbidden, in the perpetuation of drum effects in song. African languages and the functions of language in African societies not only contributed to the emergence of a distinctive Black English but also exerted demonstrable effects on the manner in which other Americans spoke English. Given her African heritage and her facility with English and the conventions of English poetry, Wheatley's work had the potential to apply the ideas of a written literature to an oral literary tradition in the creation of an African American literary language. But this was a potential that her poetry unfortunately did not exploit. The standards of eighteenth-century English poetry, which itself reflected little of the American language, led Wheatley to develop a notion of poetry as a closed system, derived from imitation of earlier written works. No place existed for the rough-and-ready Americanized English she heard in the streets, for the English spoken by Black people, or for Africanisms. The conventions of eighteenth-century neoclassical poetry ruled out casual talk; her voice and feelings had to be generalized according to rules of poetic diction and characterization; the particulars of her African past, if they were to be dealt with at all, had to be subordinated to the reigning conventions. African poetry did not count as poetry in her new situation, and African aesthetic canons were irrelevant to the new context because no linguistic or social framework existed to reinforce them. Wheatley adopted a foreign language and a foreign literary tradition; they were not extensions of her past experience, but replacements. Thus limited by the eighteenth-century English literary code, Wheatley's poetry contributed little to the development of a distinctive African American literary language. Yet by the standards of the literary conventions in which she chose to work, Wheatley's poetry is undeniably accomplished, and she is justly celebrated as the first Black American poet. | 199106_1-RC_1_7 | [
"affected the manner in which slaves and freed Black people spoke English",
"defined African American artistic expression in terms of earlier works",
"adopted the standards of eighteenth-century English poetry",
"combined elements of the English literary tradition with those of the African oral tradition",
"focused on the barriers that written English literary forms presented to Black artists"
] | 3 | It can be inferred that the author of the passage would most probably have praised Phillis Wheatley's poetry more if it had |
For the poet Phillis Wheatley, who was brought to colonial New England as a slave in 1761, the formal literary code of eighteenth-century English was thrice removed: by the initial barrier of the unfamiliar English language, by the discrepancy between spoken and literary forms of English, and by the African tradition of oral rather than written verbal art. Wheatley transcended these barriers—she learned the English language and English literary forms so quickly and well that she was composing good poetry in English within a few years of her arrival in New England. Wheatley's experience exemplifies the meeting of oral and written literary cultures. The aesthetic principles of the African oral tradition were preserved in America by folk artists in work songs, dancing, field hollers, religious music, the use of the drum, and, after the drum was forbidden, in the perpetuation of drum effects in song. African languages and the functions of language in African societies not only contributed to the emergence of a distinctive Black English but also exerted demonstrable effects on the manner in which other Americans spoke English. Given her African heritage and her facility with English and the conventions of English poetry, Wheatley's work had the potential to apply the ideas of a written literature to an oral literary tradition in the creation of an African American literary language. But this was a potential that her poetry unfortunately did not exploit. The standards of eighteenth-century English poetry, which itself reflected little of the American language, led Wheatley to develop a notion of poetry as a closed system, derived from imitation of earlier written works. No place existed for the rough-and-ready Americanized English she heard in the streets, for the English spoken by Black people, or for Africanisms. The conventions of eighteenth-century neoclassical poetry ruled out casual talk; her voice and feelings had to be generalized according to rules of poetic diction and characterization; the particulars of her African past, if they were to be dealt with at all, had to be subordinated to the reigning conventions. African poetry did not count as poetry in her new situation, and African aesthetic canons were irrelevant to the new context because no linguistic or social framework existed to reinforce them. Wheatley adopted a foreign language and a foreign literary tradition; they were not extensions of her past experience, but replacements. Thus limited by the eighteenth-century English literary code, Wheatley's poetry contributed little to the development of a distinctive African American literary language. Yet by the standards of the literary conventions in which she chose to work, Wheatley's poetry is undeniably accomplished, and she is justly celebrated as the first Black American poet. | 199106_1-RC_1_8 | [
"enthusiastic advocacy",
"qualified admiration",
"dispassionate impartiality",
"detached ambivalence",
"perfunctory dismissal"
] | 1 | Which one of the following most accurately characterizes the author's attitude with respect to Phillis Wheatley's literary accomplishments? |
One scientific discipline, during its early stages of development, is often related to another as an antithesis to its thesis. The thesis discipline tends to concern itself with discovery and classification of phenomena, to offer holistic explanations emphasizing pattern and form, and to use existing theory to explain the widest possible range of phenomena. The paired or antidiscipline, on the other hand, can be characterized by a more focused approach, concentrating on the units of construction, and by a belief that the discipline can be reformulated in terms of the issues and explanations of the antidiscipline. The relationship of cytology (cell biology) to biochemistry in the late nineteenth century, when both disciplines were growing at a rapid pace, exemplifies such a pattern. Researchers in cell biology found mounting evidence of an intricate cell architecture. They also deduced the mysterious choreography of the chromosomes during cell division. Many biochemists, on the other hand, remained skeptical of the idea that so much structure existed, arguing that the chemical reactions that occur in cytological preparations might create the appearance of such structures. Also, they stood apart from the debate then raging over whether protoplasm, the complex of living material within a cell, is homogeneous, network-like, granular, or foamlike. Their interest lay in the more "fundamental" issues of the chemical nature of protoplasm, especially the newly formulated enzyme theory of life. In general, biochemists judged to be too ignorant of chemistry to grasp the basic processes, whereas cytologists considered the methods of biochemists inadequate to characterize the structures of the living cell. The renewal of Mendelian genetics and, later, progress in chromosome mapping did little at first to effect a synthesis. Both sides were essentially correct. Biochemistry has more than justified its extravagant early claims by explaining so much of the cellular machinery. But in achieving this feat (mostly since 1950) it has been partially transformed into the new discipline of molecular biology—biochemistry that deals with spatial arrangements and movements of large molecules. At the same time cytology has metamorphosed into modern cellular biology. Aided by electron microscopy, it has become more similar in language and outlook to molecular biology. The interaction of a discipline and its antidiscipline has moved both sciences toward a synthesis, namely molecular genetics. This interaction between paired disciplines can have important results. In the case of late nineteenth-century cell research, progress was fueled by competition among the various attitudes and issues derived from cell biology and biochemistry. Joseph Fruton, a biochemist, has suggested that such competition and the resulting tensions among researchers are a principal source of vitality and "are likely to lead to unexpected and exciting novelties in the future, as they have in the past." | 199106_1-RC_2_9 | [
"Antithetical scientific disciplines can both stimulate and hinder one another's research in complex ways.",
"Antithetical scientific disciplines often interact with one another in ways that can be highly useful.",
"As disciplines such as cytology and biochemistry advance, their interaction necessarily leads to a synthesis of their approaches.",
"Cell research in the late nineteenth century was plagued by disagreements between cytologists and biochemists.",
"In the late nineteenth century, cytologists and biochemists made many valuable discoveries that advanced scientific understanding of the cell."
] | 1 | Which one of the following best states the central idea of the passage? |
One scientific discipline, during its early stages of development, is often related to another as an antithesis to its thesis. The thesis discipline tends to concern itself with discovery and classification of phenomena, to offer holistic explanations emphasizing pattern and form, and to use existing theory to explain the widest possible range of phenomena. The paired or antidiscipline, on the other hand, can be characterized by a more focused approach, concentrating on the units of construction, and by a belief that the discipline can be reformulated in terms of the issues and explanations of the antidiscipline. The relationship of cytology (cell biology) to biochemistry in the late nineteenth century, when both disciplines were growing at a rapid pace, exemplifies such a pattern. Researchers in cell biology found mounting evidence of an intricate cell architecture. They also deduced the mysterious choreography of the chromosomes during cell division. Many biochemists, on the other hand, remained skeptical of the idea that so much structure existed, arguing that the chemical reactions that occur in cytological preparations might create the appearance of such structures. Also, they stood apart from the debate then raging over whether protoplasm, the complex of living material within a cell, is homogeneous, network-like, granular, or foamlike. Their interest lay in the more "fundamental" issues of the chemical nature of protoplasm, especially the newly formulated enzyme theory of life. In general, biochemists judged to be too ignorant of chemistry to grasp the basic processes, whereas cytologists considered the methods of biochemists inadequate to characterize the structures of the living cell. The renewal of Mendelian genetics and, later, progress in chromosome mapping did little at first to effect a synthesis. Both sides were essentially correct. Biochemistry has more than justified its extravagant early claims by explaining so much of the cellular machinery. But in achieving this feat (mostly since 1950) it has been partially transformed into the new discipline of molecular biology—biochemistry that deals with spatial arrangements and movements of large molecules. At the same time cytology has metamorphosed into modern cellular biology. Aided by electron microscopy, it has become more similar in language and outlook to molecular biology. The interaction of a discipline and its antidiscipline has moved both sciences toward a synthesis, namely molecular genetics. This interaction between paired disciplines can have important results. In the case of late nineteenth-century cell research, progress was fueled by competition among the various attitudes and issues derived from cell biology and biochemistry. Joseph Fruton, a biochemist, has suggested that such competition and the resulting tensions among researchers are a principal source of vitality and "are likely to lead to unexpected and exciting novelties in the future, as they have in the past." | 199106_1-RC_2_10 | [
"maps of chromosomes",
"chemical nature of protoplasm",
"spatial relationship of molecules within the cell",
"role of enzymes in biological processes",
"sequence of the movement of chromosomes during cell division"
] | 4 | The passage states that in the late nineteenth century cytologists deduced the |
One scientific discipline, during its early stages of development, is often related to another as an antithesis to its thesis. The thesis discipline tends to concern itself with discovery and classification of phenomena, to offer holistic explanations emphasizing pattern and form, and to use existing theory to explain the widest possible range of phenomena. The paired or antidiscipline, on the other hand, can be characterized by a more focused approach, concentrating on the units of construction, and by a belief that the discipline can be reformulated in terms of the issues and explanations of the antidiscipline. The relationship of cytology (cell biology) to biochemistry in the late nineteenth century, when both disciplines were growing at a rapid pace, exemplifies such a pattern. Researchers in cell biology found mounting evidence of an intricate cell architecture. They also deduced the mysterious choreography of the chromosomes during cell division. Many biochemists, on the other hand, remained skeptical of the idea that so much structure existed, arguing that the chemical reactions that occur in cytological preparations might create the appearance of such structures. Also, they stood apart from the debate then raging over whether protoplasm, the complex of living material within a cell, is homogeneous, network-like, granular, or foamlike. Their interest lay in the more "fundamental" issues of the chemical nature of protoplasm, especially the newly formulated enzyme theory of life. In general, biochemists judged to be too ignorant of chemistry to grasp the basic processes, whereas cytologists considered the methods of biochemists inadequate to characterize the structures of the living cell. The renewal of Mendelian genetics and, later, progress in chromosome mapping did little at first to effect a synthesis. Both sides were essentially correct. Biochemistry has more than justified its extravagant early claims by explaining so much of the cellular machinery. But in achieving this feat (mostly since 1950) it has been partially transformed into the new discipline of molecular biology—biochemistry that deals with spatial arrangements and movements of large molecules. At the same time cytology has metamorphosed into modern cellular biology. Aided by electron microscopy, it has become more similar in language and outlook to molecular biology. The interaction of a discipline and its antidiscipline has moved both sciences toward a synthesis, namely molecular genetics. This interaction between paired disciplines can have important results. In the case of late nineteenth-century cell research, progress was fueled by competition among the various attitudes and issues derived from cell biology and biochemistry. Joseph Fruton, a biochemist, has suggested that such competition and the resulting tensions among researchers are a principal source of vitality and "are likely to lead to unexpected and exciting novelties in the future, as they have in the past." | 199106_1-RC_2_11 | [
"among cytologists",
"among biochemists",
"between cytologists and biochemists",
"between cytologists and geneticists",
"between biochemists and geneticists"
] | 0 | It can be inferred from the passage that in the late nineteenth century the debate over the structural nature of protoplasm (lines 25–29) was most likely carried on |
One scientific discipline, during its early stages of development, is often related to another as an antithesis to its thesis. The thesis discipline tends to concern itself with discovery and classification of phenomena, to offer holistic explanations emphasizing pattern and form, and to use existing theory to explain the widest possible range of phenomena. The paired or antidiscipline, on the other hand, can be characterized by a more focused approach, concentrating on the units of construction, and by a belief that the discipline can be reformulated in terms of the issues and explanations of the antidiscipline. The relationship of cytology (cell biology) to biochemistry in the late nineteenth century, when both disciplines were growing at a rapid pace, exemplifies such a pattern. Researchers in cell biology found mounting evidence of an intricate cell architecture. They also deduced the mysterious choreography of the chromosomes during cell division. Many biochemists, on the other hand, remained skeptical of the idea that so much structure existed, arguing that the chemical reactions that occur in cytological preparations might create the appearance of such structures. Also, they stood apart from the debate then raging over whether protoplasm, the complex of living material within a cell, is homogeneous, network-like, granular, or foamlike. Their interest lay in the more "fundamental" issues of the chemical nature of protoplasm, especially the newly formulated enzyme theory of life. In general, biochemists judged to be too ignorant of chemistry to grasp the basic processes, whereas cytologists considered the methods of biochemists inadequate to characterize the structures of the living cell. The renewal of Mendelian genetics and, later, progress in chromosome mapping did little at first to effect a synthesis. Both sides were essentially correct. Biochemistry has more than justified its extravagant early claims by explaining so much of the cellular machinery. But in achieving this feat (mostly since 1950) it has been partially transformed into the new discipline of molecular biology—biochemistry that deals with spatial arrangements and movements of large molecules. At the same time cytology has metamorphosed into modern cellular biology. Aided by electron microscopy, it has become more similar in language and outlook to molecular biology. The interaction of a discipline and its antidiscipline has moved both sciences toward a synthesis, namely molecular genetics. This interaction between paired disciplines can have important results. In the case of late nineteenth-century cell research, progress was fueled by competition among the various attitudes and issues derived from cell biology and biochemistry. Joseph Fruton, a biochemist, has suggested that such competition and the resulting tensions among researchers are a principal source of vitality and "are likely to lead to unexpected and exciting novelties in the future, as they have in the past." | 199106_1-RC_2_12 | [
"the methods of biochemistry were inadequate to account for all of the chemical reactions that occurred in cytological preparations",
"the methods of biochemistry could not adequately discover and explain the structures of living cells",
"biochemists were not interested in the nature of protoplasm",
"biochemists were not interested in cell division",
"biochemists were too ignorant of cytology to understand the basic processes of the cell"
] | 1 | According to the passage, cytologists in the late nineteenth century were critical of the cell research of biochemists because cytologists believed that |
One scientific discipline, during its early stages of development, is often related to another as an antithesis to its thesis. The thesis discipline tends to concern itself with discovery and classification of phenomena, to offer holistic explanations emphasizing pattern and form, and to use existing theory to explain the widest possible range of phenomena. The paired or antidiscipline, on the other hand, can be characterized by a more focused approach, concentrating on the units of construction, and by a belief that the discipline can be reformulated in terms of the issues and explanations of the antidiscipline. The relationship of cytology (cell biology) to biochemistry in the late nineteenth century, when both disciplines were growing at a rapid pace, exemplifies such a pattern. Researchers in cell biology found mounting evidence of an intricate cell architecture. They also deduced the mysterious choreography of the chromosomes during cell division. Many biochemists, on the other hand, remained skeptical of the idea that so much structure existed, arguing that the chemical reactions that occur in cytological preparations might create the appearance of such structures. Also, they stood apart from the debate then raging over whether protoplasm, the complex of living material within a cell, is homogeneous, network-like, granular, or foamlike. Their interest lay in the more "fundamental" issues of the chemical nature of protoplasm, especially the newly formulated enzyme theory of life. In general, biochemists judged to be too ignorant of chemistry to grasp the basic processes, whereas cytologists considered the methods of biochemists inadequate to characterize the structures of the living cell. The renewal of Mendelian genetics and, later, progress in chromosome mapping did little at first to effect a synthesis. Both sides were essentially correct. Biochemistry has more than justified its extravagant early claims by explaining so much of the cellular machinery. But in achieving this feat (mostly since 1950) it has been partially transformed into the new discipline of molecular biology—biochemistry that deals with spatial arrangements and movements of large molecules. At the same time cytology has metamorphosed into modern cellular biology. Aided by electron microscopy, it has become more similar in language and outlook to molecular biology. The interaction of a discipline and its antidiscipline has moved both sciences toward a synthesis, namely molecular genetics. This interaction between paired disciplines can have important results. In the case of late nineteenth-century cell research, progress was fueled by competition among the various attitudes and issues derived from cell biology and biochemistry. Joseph Fruton, a biochemist, has suggested that such competition and the resulting tensions among researchers are a principal source of vitality and "are likely to lead to unexpected and exciting novelties in the future, as they have in the past." | 199106_1-RC_2_13 | [
"restate the author's own conclusions",
"provide new evidence about the relationship of cytology to biochemistry",
"summarize the position of the biochemists described in the passage",
"illustrate the difficulties encountered in the synthesis of disciplines",
"emphasize the ascendancy of the theories of biochemists over those of cytologists"
] | 0 | The author quotes Fruton (lines 62–64) primarily in order to |
One scientific discipline, during its early stages of development, is often related to another as an antithesis to its thesis. The thesis discipline tends to concern itself with discovery and classification of phenomena, to offer holistic explanations emphasizing pattern and form, and to use existing theory to explain the widest possible range of phenomena. The paired or antidiscipline, on the other hand, can be characterized by a more focused approach, concentrating on the units of construction, and by a belief that the discipline can be reformulated in terms of the issues and explanations of the antidiscipline. The relationship of cytology (cell biology) to biochemistry in the late nineteenth century, when both disciplines were growing at a rapid pace, exemplifies such a pattern. Researchers in cell biology found mounting evidence of an intricate cell architecture. They also deduced the mysterious choreography of the chromosomes during cell division. Many biochemists, on the other hand, remained skeptical of the idea that so much structure existed, arguing that the chemical reactions that occur in cytological preparations might create the appearance of such structures. Also, they stood apart from the debate then raging over whether protoplasm, the complex of living material within a cell, is homogeneous, network-like, granular, or foamlike. Their interest lay in the more "fundamental" issues of the chemical nature of protoplasm, especially the newly formulated enzyme theory of life. In general, biochemists judged to be too ignorant of chemistry to grasp the basic processes, whereas cytologists considered the methods of biochemists inadequate to characterize the structures of the living cell. The renewal of Mendelian genetics and, later, progress in chromosome mapping did little at first to effect a synthesis. Both sides were essentially correct. Biochemistry has more than justified its extravagant early claims by explaining so much of the cellular machinery. But in achieving this feat (mostly since 1950) it has been partially transformed into the new discipline of molecular biology—biochemistry that deals with spatial arrangements and movements of large molecules. At the same time cytology has metamorphosed into modern cellular biology. Aided by electron microscopy, it has become more similar in language and outlook to molecular biology. The interaction of a discipline and its antidiscipline has moved both sciences toward a synthesis, namely molecular genetics. This interaction between paired disciplines can have important results. In the case of late nineteenth-century cell research, progress was fueled by competition among the various attitudes and issues derived from cell biology and biochemistry. Joseph Fruton, a biochemist, has suggested that such competition and the resulting tensions among researchers are a principal source of vitality and "are likely to lead to unexpected and exciting novelties in the future, as they have in the past." | 199106_1-RC_2_14 | [
"The theory was formulated before the appearance of molecular biology.",
"The theory was formulated before the initial discovery of cell architecture.",
"The theory was formulated after the completion of chromosome mapping.",
"The theory was formulated after a synthesis of the ideas of cytologists and biochemists had occurred.",
"The theory was formulated at the same time as the beginning of the debate over the nature of protoplasm."
] | 0 | Which one of the following inferences about when the enzyme theory of life was formulated can be drawn from the passage? |
One scientific discipline, during its early stages of development, is often related to another as an antithesis to its thesis. The thesis discipline tends to concern itself with discovery and classification of phenomena, to offer holistic explanations emphasizing pattern and form, and to use existing theory to explain the widest possible range of phenomena. The paired or antidiscipline, on the other hand, can be characterized by a more focused approach, concentrating on the units of construction, and by a belief that the discipline can be reformulated in terms of the issues and explanations of the antidiscipline. The relationship of cytology (cell biology) to biochemistry in the late nineteenth century, when both disciplines were growing at a rapid pace, exemplifies such a pattern. Researchers in cell biology found mounting evidence of an intricate cell architecture. They also deduced the mysterious choreography of the chromosomes during cell division. Many biochemists, on the other hand, remained skeptical of the idea that so much structure existed, arguing that the chemical reactions that occur in cytological preparations might create the appearance of such structures. Also, they stood apart from the debate then raging over whether protoplasm, the complex of living material within a cell, is homogeneous, network-like, granular, or foamlike. Their interest lay in the more "fundamental" issues of the chemical nature of protoplasm, especially the newly formulated enzyme theory of life. In general, biochemists judged to be too ignorant of chemistry to grasp the basic processes, whereas cytologists considered the methods of biochemists inadequate to characterize the structures of the living cell. The renewal of Mendelian genetics and, later, progress in chromosome mapping did little at first to effect a synthesis. Both sides were essentially correct. Biochemistry has more than justified its extravagant early claims by explaining so much of the cellular machinery. But in achieving this feat (mostly since 1950) it has been partially transformed into the new discipline of molecular biology—biochemistry that deals with spatial arrangements and movements of large molecules. At the same time cytology has metamorphosed into modern cellular biology. Aided by electron microscopy, it has become more similar in language and outlook to molecular biology. The interaction of a discipline and its antidiscipline has moved both sciences toward a synthesis, namely molecular genetics. This interaction between paired disciplines can have important results. In the case of late nineteenth-century cell research, progress was fueled by competition among the various attitudes and issues derived from cell biology and biochemistry. Joseph Fruton, a biochemist, has suggested that such competition and the resulting tensions among researchers are a principal source of vitality and "are likely to lead to unexpected and exciting novelties in the future, as they have in the past." | 199106_1-RC_2_15 | [
"The secret of cell function resides in the structure of the cell.",
"Only by discovering the chemical composition of protoplasm can the processes of the cell be understood.",
"Scientific knowledge about the chemical composition of the cell can help to explain behavioral patterns in organisms.",
"The most important issue to be resolved with regard to the cell is determining the physical characteristics of protoplasm.",
"The methods of chemistry must be supplemented before a full account of the cell's structures can be made."
] | 1 | Which one of the following statements about cells is most compatible with the views of late nineteenth-century biochemists as those views are described in the passage? |
One scientific discipline, during its early stages of development, is often related to another as an antithesis to its thesis. The thesis discipline tends to concern itself with discovery and classification of phenomena, to offer holistic explanations emphasizing pattern and form, and to use existing theory to explain the widest possible range of phenomena. The paired or antidiscipline, on the other hand, can be characterized by a more focused approach, concentrating on the units of construction, and by a belief that the discipline can be reformulated in terms of the issues and explanations of the antidiscipline. The relationship of cytology (cell biology) to biochemistry in the late nineteenth century, when both disciplines were growing at a rapid pace, exemplifies such a pattern. Researchers in cell biology found mounting evidence of an intricate cell architecture. They also deduced the mysterious choreography of the chromosomes during cell division. Many biochemists, on the other hand, remained skeptical of the idea that so much structure existed, arguing that the chemical reactions that occur in cytological preparations might create the appearance of such structures. Also, they stood apart from the debate then raging over whether protoplasm, the complex of living material within a cell, is homogeneous, network-like, granular, or foamlike. Their interest lay in the more "fundamental" issues of the chemical nature of protoplasm, especially the newly formulated enzyme theory of life. In general, biochemists judged to be too ignorant of chemistry to grasp the basic processes, whereas cytologists considered the methods of biochemists inadequate to characterize the structures of the living cell. The renewal of Mendelian genetics and, later, progress in chromosome mapping did little at first to effect a synthesis. Both sides were essentially correct. Biochemistry has more than justified its extravagant early claims by explaining so much of the cellular machinery. But in achieving this feat (mostly since 1950) it has been partially transformed into the new discipline of molecular biology—biochemistry that deals with spatial arrangements and movements of large molecules. At the same time cytology has metamorphosed into modern cellular biology. Aided by electron microscopy, it has become more similar in language and outlook to molecular biology. The interaction of a discipline and its antidiscipline has moved both sciences toward a synthesis, namely molecular genetics. This interaction between paired disciplines can have important results. In the case of late nineteenth-century cell research, progress was fueled by competition among the various attitudes and issues derived from cell biology and biochemistry. Joseph Fruton, a biochemist, has suggested that such competition and the resulting tensions among researchers are a principal source of vitality and "are likely to lead to unexpected and exciting novelties in the future, as they have in the past." | 199106_1-RC_2_16 | [
"An account of a process is given, and then the reason for its occurrence is stated.",
"A set of examples is provided, and then a conclusion is drawn from them.",
"A general proposition is stated, and then an example is given.",
"A statement of principles is made, and then a rationale for them is debated.",
"A problem is analyzed, and then a possible solution is discussed."
] | 2 | Which one of the following best describes the organization of the material presented in the passage? |
There are two major systems of criminal procedure in the modern world—the adversarial and the inquisitorial. Both systems were historically preceded by the system of private vengeance in which the victim of a crime fashioned a remedy and administered it privately, either personally or through an agent. The modern adversarial system is only one historical step removed from the private vengeance system and still retains some of its characteristic features. For example, even though the right to initiate legal action against a criminal has now been extended to all members of society (as represented by the office of the public prosecutor), and even though the police department has effectively assumed the pretrial investigative functions on behalf of the prosecution, the adversarial system still leaves the defendant to conduct his or her own pretrial investigation. The trial is viewed as a forensic duel between two adversaries, presided over by a judge who, at the start, has no knowledge of the investigative background of the case. In the final analysis the adversarial system of criminal procedure symbolizes and regularizes punitive combat. By contrast, the inquisitorial system begins historically where the adversarial system stopped its development. It is two historical steps removed from the system of private vengeance. From the standpoint of legal anthropology, then, it is historically superior to the adversarial system. Under the inquisitorial system, the public prosecutor has the duty to investigate not just on behalf of society but also on behalf of the defendant. Additionally, the public prosecutor has the duty to present the court not only evidence that would convict the defendant, but also evidence that could prove the defendant's innocence. The system mandates that both parties permit full pretrial discovery of the evidence in their possession. Finally, an aspect of the system that makes the trial less like a duel between two adversarial parties is that the inquisitorial system mandates that the judge take an active part in the conduct of the trial, with a role that is both directive and protective. Fact-finding is at the heart of the inquisitorial system. This system operates on the philosophical premise that in a criminal action the crucial factor is the body of facts, not the legal rule (in contrast to the adversarial system), and the goal of the entire procedure is to attempt to recreate, in the mind of the court, the commission of the alleged crime. Because of the inquisitorial system's thoroughness in conducting its pretrial investigation, it can be concluded that, if given the choice, a defendant who is innocent would prefer to be tried under the inquisitorial system, whereas a defendant who is guilty would prefer to be tried under the adversarial system. | 199106_1-RC_3_17 | [
"rules of legality",
"dramatic reenactment of the crime",
"the search for relevant facts",
"the victim's personal pursuit of revenge",
"police testimony about the crime"
] | 0 | It can be inferred from the passage that the crucial factor in a trial under the adversarial system is |
There are two major systems of criminal procedure in the modern world—the adversarial and the inquisitorial. Both systems were historically preceded by the system of private vengeance in which the victim of a crime fashioned a remedy and administered it privately, either personally or through an agent. The modern adversarial system is only one historical step removed from the private vengeance system and still retains some of its characteristic features. For example, even though the right to initiate legal action against a criminal has now been extended to all members of society (as represented by the office of the public prosecutor), and even though the police department has effectively assumed the pretrial investigative functions on behalf of the prosecution, the adversarial system still leaves the defendant to conduct his or her own pretrial investigation. The trial is viewed as a forensic duel between two adversaries, presided over by a judge who, at the start, has no knowledge of the investigative background of the case. In the final analysis the adversarial system of criminal procedure symbolizes and regularizes punitive combat. By contrast, the inquisitorial system begins historically where the adversarial system stopped its development. It is two historical steps removed from the system of private vengeance. From the standpoint of legal anthropology, then, it is historically superior to the adversarial system. Under the inquisitorial system, the public prosecutor has the duty to investigate not just on behalf of society but also on behalf of the defendant. Additionally, the public prosecutor has the duty to present the court not only evidence that would convict the defendant, but also evidence that could prove the defendant's innocence. The system mandates that both parties permit full pretrial discovery of the evidence in their possession. Finally, an aspect of the system that makes the trial less like a duel between two adversarial parties is that the inquisitorial system mandates that the judge take an active part in the conduct of the trial, with a role that is both directive and protective. Fact-finding is at the heart of the inquisitorial system. This system operates on the philosophical premise that in a criminal action the crucial factor is the body of facts, not the legal rule (in contrast to the adversarial system), and the goal of the entire procedure is to attempt to recreate, in the mind of the court, the commission of the alleged crime. Because of the inquisitorial system's thoroughness in conducting its pretrial investigation, it can be concluded that, if given the choice, a defendant who is innocent would prefer to be tried under the inquisitorial system, whereas a defendant who is guilty would prefer to be tried under the adversarial system. | 199106_1-RC_3_18 | [
"passive observer",
"biased referee",
"uninvolved administrator",
"aggressive investigator",
"involved manager"
] | 4 | The author sees the judge's primary role in a trial under the inquisitorial system as that of |
There are two major systems of criminal procedure in the modern world—the adversarial and the inquisitorial. Both systems were historically preceded by the system of private vengeance in which the victim of a crime fashioned a remedy and administered it privately, either personally or through an agent. The modern adversarial system is only one historical step removed from the private vengeance system and still retains some of its characteristic features. For example, even though the right to initiate legal action against a criminal has now been extended to all members of society (as represented by the office of the public prosecutor), and even though the police department has effectively assumed the pretrial investigative functions on behalf of the prosecution, the adversarial system still leaves the defendant to conduct his or her own pretrial investigation. The trial is viewed as a forensic duel between two adversaries, presided over by a judge who, at the start, has no knowledge of the investigative background of the case. In the final analysis the adversarial system of criminal procedure symbolizes and regularizes punitive combat. By contrast, the inquisitorial system begins historically where the adversarial system stopped its development. It is two historical steps removed from the system of private vengeance. From the standpoint of legal anthropology, then, it is historically superior to the adversarial system. Under the inquisitorial system, the public prosecutor has the duty to investigate not just on behalf of society but also on behalf of the defendant. Additionally, the public prosecutor has the duty to present the court not only evidence that would convict the defendant, but also evidence that could prove the defendant's innocence. The system mandates that both parties permit full pretrial discovery of the evidence in their possession. Finally, an aspect of the system that makes the trial less like a duel between two adversarial parties is that the inquisitorial system mandates that the judge take an active part in the conduct of the trial, with a role that is both directive and protective. Fact-finding is at the heart of the inquisitorial system. This system operates on the philosophical premise that in a criminal action the crucial factor is the body of facts, not the legal rule (in contrast to the adversarial system), and the goal of the entire procedure is to attempt to recreate, in the mind of the court, the commission of the alleged crime. Because of the inquisitorial system's thoroughness in conducting its pretrial investigation, it can be concluded that, if given the choice, a defendant who is innocent would prefer to be tried under the inquisitorial system, whereas a defendant who is guilty would prefer to be tried under the adversarial system. | 199106_1-RC_3_19 | [
"defendant to the courts",
"victim to society",
"defendant to the prosecutor",
"courts to a law enforcement agency",
"victim to the judge"
] | 1 | According to the passage, a central distinction between the system of private vengeance and the two modern criminal procedure systems was the shift in responsibility for initiating legal action against a criminal from the |
There are two major systems of criminal procedure in the modern world—the adversarial and the inquisitorial. Both systems were historically preceded by the system of private vengeance in which the victim of a crime fashioned a remedy and administered it privately, either personally or through an agent. The modern adversarial system is only one historical step removed from the private vengeance system and still retains some of its characteristic features. For example, even though the right to initiate legal action against a criminal has now been extended to all members of society (as represented by the office of the public prosecutor), and even though the police department has effectively assumed the pretrial investigative functions on behalf of the prosecution, the adversarial system still leaves the defendant to conduct his or her own pretrial investigation. The trial is viewed as a forensic duel between two adversaries, presided over by a judge who, at the start, has no knowledge of the investigative background of the case. In the final analysis the adversarial system of criminal procedure symbolizes and regularizes punitive combat. By contrast, the inquisitorial system begins historically where the adversarial system stopped its development. It is two historical steps removed from the system of private vengeance. From the standpoint of legal anthropology, then, it is historically superior to the adversarial system. Under the inquisitorial system, the public prosecutor has the duty to investigate not just on behalf of society but also on behalf of the defendant. Additionally, the public prosecutor has the duty to present the court not only evidence that would convict the defendant, but also evidence that could prove the defendant's innocence. The system mandates that both parties permit full pretrial discovery of the evidence in their possession. Finally, an aspect of the system that makes the trial less like a duel between two adversarial parties is that the inquisitorial system mandates that the judge take an active part in the conduct of the trial, with a role that is both directive and protective. Fact-finding is at the heart of the inquisitorial system. This system operates on the philosophical premise that in a criminal action the crucial factor is the body of facts, not the legal rule (in contrast to the adversarial system), and the goal of the entire procedure is to attempt to recreate, in the mind of the court, the commission of the alleged crime. Because of the inquisitorial system's thoroughness in conducting its pretrial investigation, it can be concluded that, if given the choice, a defendant who is innocent would prefer to be tried under the inquisitorial system, whereas a defendant who is guilty would prefer to be tried under the adversarial system. | 199106_1-RC_3_20 | [
"It is based on cooperation rather than conflict.",
"It encourages full disclosure of evidence.",
"It requires that the judge play an active role in the conduct of the trial.",
"It places the defendant in charge of his or her defense.",
"It favors the innocent."
] | 3 | All of the following are characteristics of the inquisitorial system that the author cites EXCEPT: |
There are two major systems of criminal procedure in the modern world—the adversarial and the inquisitorial. Both systems were historically preceded by the system of private vengeance in which the victim of a crime fashioned a remedy and administered it privately, either personally or through an agent. The modern adversarial system is only one historical step removed from the private vengeance system and still retains some of its characteristic features. For example, even though the right to initiate legal action against a criminal has now been extended to all members of society (as represented by the office of the public prosecutor), and even though the police department has effectively assumed the pretrial investigative functions on behalf of the prosecution, the adversarial system still leaves the defendant to conduct his or her own pretrial investigation. The trial is viewed as a forensic duel between two adversaries, presided over by a judge who, at the start, has no knowledge of the investigative background of the case. In the final analysis the adversarial system of criminal procedure symbolizes and regularizes punitive combat. By contrast, the inquisitorial system begins historically where the adversarial system stopped its development. It is two historical steps removed from the system of private vengeance. From the standpoint of legal anthropology, then, it is historically superior to the adversarial system. Under the inquisitorial system, the public prosecutor has the duty to investigate not just on behalf of society but also on behalf of the defendant. Additionally, the public prosecutor has the duty to present the court not only evidence that would convict the defendant, but also evidence that could prove the defendant's innocence. The system mandates that both parties permit full pretrial discovery of the evidence in their possession. Finally, an aspect of the system that makes the trial less like a duel between two adversarial parties is that the inquisitorial system mandates that the judge take an active part in the conduct of the trial, with a role that is both directive and protective. Fact-finding is at the heart of the inquisitorial system. This system operates on the philosophical premise that in a criminal action the crucial factor is the body of facts, not the legal rule (in contrast to the adversarial system), and the goal of the entire procedure is to attempt to recreate, in the mind of the court, the commission of the alleged crime. Because of the inquisitorial system's thoroughness in conducting its pretrial investigation, it can be concluded that, if given the choice, a defendant who is innocent would prefer to be tried under the inquisitorial system, whereas a defendant who is guilty would prefer to be tried under the adversarial system. | 199106_1-RC_3_21 | [
"doubtful that its judges can be both directive and protective",
"satisfied that it has potential for uncovering the relevant facts in a case",
"optimistic that it will replace the adversarial system",
"wary about its down playing of legal rules",
"critical of its close relationship with the private vengeance system"
] | 1 | The author's attitude toward the inquisitorial system can best be described as |
Outside the medical profession, there are various efforts to cut medicine down to size: not only widespread malpractice litigation and massive governmental regulation, but also attempts by consumer groups and others to redefine medicine as a trade rather than as a profession, and the physician as merely a technician for hire under contract. Why should physicians (or indeed all sensible people) resist such efforts to give the practice of medicine a new meaning? We can gain some illumination from etymology. "Trade," from Germanic and Anglo-Saxon roots meaning "a course or pathway," has come to mean derivatively a habitual occupation and has been related to certain skills and crafts. On the other hand, while "profession" today also entails a habit of work, the word "profession" itself traces to an act of selfconscious and public—even confessional—speech. "To profess" preserves the meaning of its Latin source, "to declare publicly; to announce, affirm, avow." A profession is an activity or occupation to which its practitioner publicly professes, that is, confesses, devotion. But public announcement seems insufficient; publicly declaring devotion to plumbing or auto repair would not turn these trades into professions. Some believe that learning and knowledge are the diagnostic signs of a profession. For reasons probably linked to the medieval university, the term "profession" has been applied to the so-called learned professions—medicine, law, and theology—the practices of which are founded upon inquiry and knowledge rather than mere "know-how." Yet it is not only the pursuit and acquisition of knowledge that makes one a professional. The knowledge involved makes the profession one of the learned variety, but its professional quality is rooted in something else. Some mistakenly seek to locate that something else in the prestige and honor accorded professionals by society, evidenced in their special titles and the special deference and privileges they receive. But externalities do not constitute medicine a profession. Physicians are not professionals because they are honored; rather, they are honored because of their profession. Their titles and the respect they are shown superficially signify and acknowledge something deeper, that physicians are persons of the professional sort, knowingly and freely devoting themselves to a way of life worthy of such devotion. Just as lawyers devote themselves to rectifying injustices, looking up to what is lawful and right; just as teachers devote themselves to the education of the young, looking up to truth and wisdom; so physicians heal the sick, looking up to health and wholesomeness. Being a professional is thus rooted in our moral nature and in that which warrants and impels making a public confession to a way of life. Professing oneself a professional is an ethical act because it is not a silent and private act, but an articulated and public one; because it promises continuing devotion to a way of life, not merely announces a present preference or a way to a livelihood; because it is an activity in service to some high good that insists on devotion; because it is difficult and demanding. A profession engages one's character and heart, not merely one's mind and hands. | 199106_1-RC_4_22 | [
"significant prestige and a title",
"\"know-how\" in a particular field",
"a long and difficult educational endeavor",
"a commitment to political justice",
"a public confession of devotion to a way of life"
] | 4 | According to the author, which one of the following is required in order that one be a professional? |
Outside the medical profession, there are various efforts to cut medicine down to size: not only widespread malpractice litigation and massive governmental regulation, but also attempts by consumer groups and others to redefine medicine as a trade rather than as a profession, and the physician as merely a technician for hire under contract. Why should physicians (or indeed all sensible people) resist such efforts to give the practice of medicine a new meaning? We can gain some illumination from etymology. "Trade," from Germanic and Anglo-Saxon roots meaning "a course or pathway," has come to mean derivatively a habitual occupation and has been related to certain skills and crafts. On the other hand, while "profession" today also entails a habit of work, the word "profession" itself traces to an act of selfconscious and public—even confessional—speech. "To profess" preserves the meaning of its Latin source, "to declare publicly; to announce, affirm, avow." A profession is an activity or occupation to which its practitioner publicly professes, that is, confesses, devotion. But public announcement seems insufficient; publicly declaring devotion to plumbing or auto repair would not turn these trades into professions. Some believe that learning and knowledge are the diagnostic signs of a profession. For reasons probably linked to the medieval university, the term "profession" has been applied to the so-called learned professions—medicine, law, and theology—the practices of which are founded upon inquiry and knowledge rather than mere "know-how." Yet it is not only the pursuit and acquisition of knowledge that makes one a professional. The knowledge involved makes the profession one of the learned variety, but its professional quality is rooted in something else. Some mistakenly seek to locate that something else in the prestige and honor accorded professionals by society, evidenced in their special titles and the special deference and privileges they receive. But externalities do not constitute medicine a profession. Physicians are not professionals because they are honored; rather, they are honored because of their profession. Their titles and the respect they are shown superficially signify and acknowledge something deeper, that physicians are persons of the professional sort, knowingly and freely devoting themselves to a way of life worthy of such devotion. Just as lawyers devote themselves to rectifying injustices, looking up to what is lawful and right; just as teachers devote themselves to the education of the young, looking up to truth and wisdom; so physicians heal the sick, looking up to health and wholesomeness. Being a professional is thus rooted in our moral nature and in that which warrants and impels making a public confession to a way of life. Professing oneself a professional is an ethical act because it is not a silent and private act, but an articulated and public one; because it promises continuing devotion to a way of life, not merely announces a present preference or a way to a livelihood; because it is an activity in service to some high good that insists on devotion; because it is difficult and demanding. A profession engages one's character and heart, not merely one's mind and hands. | 199106_1-RC_4_23 | [
"Medicine is defined as a profession because of the etymology of the word \"profession.\"",
"It is a mistake to pay special honor to the knowledge and skills of physicians.",
"The work of physicians is under attack only because it is widely misunderstood.",
"The correct reason that physicians are professionals is that their work involves public commitment to a high good.",
"Physicians have been encouraged to think of themselves as technicians and need to reorient themselves toward ethical concerns."
] | 3 | Which one of the following best expresses the main point made by the author in the passage? |
Outside the medical profession, there are various efforts to cut medicine down to size: not only widespread malpractice litigation and massive governmental regulation, but also attempts by consumer groups and others to redefine medicine as a trade rather than as a profession, and the physician as merely a technician for hire under contract. Why should physicians (or indeed all sensible people) resist such efforts to give the practice of medicine a new meaning? We can gain some illumination from etymology. "Trade," from Germanic and Anglo-Saxon roots meaning "a course or pathway," has come to mean derivatively a habitual occupation and has been related to certain skills and crafts. On the other hand, while "profession" today also entails a habit of work, the word "profession" itself traces to an act of selfconscious and public—even confessional—speech. "To profess" preserves the meaning of its Latin source, "to declare publicly; to announce, affirm, avow." A profession is an activity or occupation to which its practitioner publicly professes, that is, confesses, devotion. But public announcement seems insufficient; publicly declaring devotion to plumbing or auto repair would not turn these trades into professions. Some believe that learning and knowledge are the diagnostic signs of a profession. For reasons probably linked to the medieval university, the term "profession" has been applied to the so-called learned professions—medicine, law, and theology—the practices of which are founded upon inquiry and knowledge rather than mere "know-how." Yet it is not only the pursuit and acquisition of knowledge that makes one a professional. The knowledge involved makes the profession one of the learned variety, but its professional quality is rooted in something else. Some mistakenly seek to locate that something else in the prestige and honor accorded professionals by society, evidenced in their special titles and the special deference and privileges they receive. But externalities do not constitute medicine a profession. Physicians are not professionals because they are honored; rather, they are honored because of their profession. Their titles and the respect they are shown superficially signify and acknowledge something deeper, that physicians are persons of the professional sort, knowingly and freely devoting themselves to a way of life worthy of such devotion. Just as lawyers devote themselves to rectifying injustices, looking up to what is lawful and right; just as teachers devote themselves to the education of the young, looking up to truth and wisdom; so physicians heal the sick, looking up to health and wholesomeness. Being a professional is thus rooted in our moral nature and in that which warrants and impels making a public confession to a way of life. Professing oneself a professional is an ethical act because it is not a silent and private act, but an articulated and public one; because it promises continuing devotion to a way of life, not merely announces a present preference or a way to a livelihood; because it is an activity in service to some high good that insists on devotion; because it is difficult and demanding. A profession engages one's character and heart, not merely one's mind and hands. | 199106_1-RC_4_24 | [
"the author's belief that it is futile to resist the trend toward defining the physician's work as a trade",
"the author's dislike of governmental regulation and consumer advocacy",
"the author's inquiry into the nature of the practice of medicine",
"the author's suggestions for rallying sensible people to a concentrated defense of physicians",
"the author's fascination with the origins of words"
] | 2 | The question posed by the author in lines 7–10 of the passage introduces which one of the following? |
Outside the medical profession, there are various efforts to cut medicine down to size: not only widespread malpractice litigation and massive governmental regulation, but also attempts by consumer groups and others to redefine medicine as a trade rather than as a profession, and the physician as merely a technician for hire under contract. Why should physicians (or indeed all sensible people) resist such efforts to give the practice of medicine a new meaning? We can gain some illumination from etymology. "Trade," from Germanic and Anglo-Saxon roots meaning "a course or pathway," has come to mean derivatively a habitual occupation and has been related to certain skills and crafts. On the other hand, while "profession" today also entails a habit of work, the word "profession" itself traces to an act of selfconscious and public—even confessional—speech. "To profess" preserves the meaning of its Latin source, "to declare publicly; to announce, affirm, avow." A profession is an activity or occupation to which its practitioner publicly professes, that is, confesses, devotion. But public announcement seems insufficient; publicly declaring devotion to plumbing or auto repair would not turn these trades into professions. Some believe that learning and knowledge are the diagnostic signs of a profession. For reasons probably linked to the medieval university, the term "profession" has been applied to the so-called learned professions—medicine, law, and theology—the practices of which are founded upon inquiry and knowledge rather than mere "know-how." Yet it is not only the pursuit and acquisition of knowledge that makes one a professional. The knowledge involved makes the profession one of the learned variety, but its professional quality is rooted in something else. Some mistakenly seek to locate that something else in the prestige and honor accorded professionals by society, evidenced in their special titles and the special deference and privileges they receive. But externalities do not constitute medicine a profession. Physicians are not professionals because they are honored; rather, they are honored because of their profession. Their titles and the respect they are shown superficially signify and acknowledge something deeper, that physicians are persons of the professional sort, knowingly and freely devoting themselves to a way of life worthy of such devotion. Just as lawyers devote themselves to rectifying injustices, looking up to what is lawful and right; just as teachers devote themselves to the education of the young, looking up to truth and wisdom; so physicians heal the sick, looking up to health and wholesomeness. Being a professional is thus rooted in our moral nature and in that which warrants and impels making a public confession to a way of life. Professing oneself a professional is an ethical act because it is not a silent and private act, but an articulated and public one; because it promises continuing devotion to a way of life, not merely announces a present preference or a way to a livelihood; because it is an activity in service to some high good that insists on devotion; because it is difficult and demanding. A profession engages one's character and heart, not merely one's mind and hands. | 199106_1-RC_4_25 | [
"how society generally treats physicians",
"that the practice of medicine is analogous to teaching",
"that being a professional is in part a public act",
"the specific knowledge on which trades are based",
"how a livelihood is different from a profession"
] | 3 | In the passage, the author mentions or suggests all of the following EXCEPT |
Outside the medical profession, there are various efforts to cut medicine down to size: not only widespread malpractice litigation and massive governmental regulation, but also attempts by consumer groups and others to redefine medicine as a trade rather than as a profession, and the physician as merely a technician for hire under contract. Why should physicians (or indeed all sensible people) resist such efforts to give the practice of medicine a new meaning? We can gain some illumination from etymology. "Trade," from Germanic and Anglo-Saxon roots meaning "a course or pathway," has come to mean derivatively a habitual occupation and has been related to certain skills and crafts. On the other hand, while "profession" today also entails a habit of work, the word "profession" itself traces to an act of selfconscious and public—even confessional—speech. "To profess" preserves the meaning of its Latin source, "to declare publicly; to announce, affirm, avow." A profession is an activity or occupation to which its practitioner publicly professes, that is, confesses, devotion. But public announcement seems insufficient; publicly declaring devotion to plumbing or auto repair would not turn these trades into professions. Some believe that learning and knowledge are the diagnostic signs of a profession. For reasons probably linked to the medieval university, the term "profession" has been applied to the so-called learned professions—medicine, law, and theology—the practices of which are founded upon inquiry and knowledge rather than mere "know-how." Yet it is not only the pursuit and acquisition of knowledge that makes one a professional. The knowledge involved makes the profession one of the learned variety, but its professional quality is rooted in something else. Some mistakenly seek to locate that something else in the prestige and honor accorded professionals by society, evidenced in their special titles and the special deference and privileges they receive. But externalities do not constitute medicine a profession. Physicians are not professionals because they are honored; rather, they are honored because of their profession. Their titles and the respect they are shown superficially signify and acknowledge something deeper, that physicians are persons of the professional sort, knowingly and freely devoting themselves to a way of life worthy of such devotion. Just as lawyers devote themselves to rectifying injustices, looking up to what is lawful and right; just as teachers devote themselves to the education of the young, looking up to truth and wisdom; so physicians heal the sick, looking up to health and wholesomeness. Being a professional is thus rooted in our moral nature and in that which warrants and impels making a public confession to a way of life. Professing oneself a professional is an ethical act because it is not a silent and private act, but an articulated and public one; because it promises continuing devotion to a way of life, not merely announces a present preference or a way to a livelihood; because it is an activity in service to some high good that insists on devotion; because it is difficult and demanding. A profession engages one's character and heart, not merely one's mind and hands. | 199106_1-RC_4_26 | [
"eager that the work of one group of professionals, physicians, be viewed from a new perspective",
"sympathetic toward professionals who have become demoralized by public opinion",
"surprised that professionals have been balked by governmental regulations and threats of litigation",
"dismayed that most professionals have come to be considered technicians",
"certain that professionals confess a commitment to ethical ideals"
] | 4 | The author's attitude towards professionals is best described as |
Outside the medical profession, there are various efforts to cut medicine down to size: not only widespread malpractice litigation and massive governmental regulation, but also attempts by consumer groups and others to redefine medicine as a trade rather than as a profession, and the physician as merely a technician for hire under contract. Why should physicians (or indeed all sensible people) resist such efforts to give the practice of medicine a new meaning? We can gain some illumination from etymology. "Trade," from Germanic and Anglo-Saxon roots meaning "a course or pathway," has come to mean derivatively a habitual occupation and has been related to certain skills and crafts. On the other hand, while "profession" today also entails a habit of work, the word "profession" itself traces to an act of selfconscious and public—even confessional—speech. "To profess" preserves the meaning of its Latin source, "to declare publicly; to announce, affirm, avow." A profession is an activity or occupation to which its practitioner publicly professes, that is, confesses, devotion. But public announcement seems insufficient; publicly declaring devotion to plumbing or auto repair would not turn these trades into professions. Some believe that learning and knowledge are the diagnostic signs of a profession. For reasons probably linked to the medieval university, the term "profession" has been applied to the so-called learned professions—medicine, law, and theology—the practices of which are founded upon inquiry and knowledge rather than mere "know-how." Yet it is not only the pursuit and acquisition of knowledge that makes one a professional. The knowledge involved makes the profession one of the learned variety, but its professional quality is rooted in something else. Some mistakenly seek to locate that something else in the prestige and honor accorded professionals by society, evidenced in their special titles and the special deference and privileges they receive. But externalities do not constitute medicine a profession. Physicians are not professionals because they are honored; rather, they are honored because of their profession. Their titles and the respect they are shown superficially signify and acknowledge something deeper, that physicians are persons of the professional sort, knowingly and freely devoting themselves to a way of life worthy of such devotion. Just as lawyers devote themselves to rectifying injustices, looking up to what is lawful and right; just as teachers devote themselves to the education of the young, looking up to truth and wisdom; so physicians heal the sick, looking up to health and wholesomeness. Being a professional is thus rooted in our moral nature and in that which warrants and impels making a public confession to a way of life. Professing oneself a professional is an ethical act because it is not a silent and private act, but an articulated and public one; because it promises continuing devotion to a way of life, not merely announces a present preference or a way to a livelihood; because it is an activity in service to some high good that insists on devotion; because it is difficult and demanding. A profession engages one's character and heart, not merely one's mind and hands. | 199106_1-RC_4_27 | [
"A skilled handicraft is a manual art acquired by habituation that enables tradespeople to tread regularly and reliably along the same path.",
"Critics might argue that being a doctor, for example, requires no ethical or public act; thus medicine, as such, is morally neutral, does not bind character, and can be used for good or ill.",
"Sometimes the pursuit of personal health competes with the pursuit of other goods, and it has always been the task of the community to order and define the competing ends.",
"Not least among the myriad confusions and uncertainties of our time are those attending efforts to discern and articulate the essential characteristics of the medical profession.",
"When, in contrast, we come to physicians of the whole body, we come tacitly acknowledging the meaning of illness and its potential threat to all that we hold dear."
] | 1 | Based on the information in the passage, it can be inferred that which one of the following would most logically begin a paragraph immediately following the passage? |
Outside the medical profession, there are various efforts to cut medicine down to size: not only widespread malpractice litigation and massive governmental regulation, but also attempts by consumer groups and others to redefine medicine as a trade rather than as a profession, and the physician as merely a technician for hire under contract. Why should physicians (or indeed all sensible people) resist such efforts to give the practice of medicine a new meaning? We can gain some illumination from etymology. "Trade," from Germanic and Anglo-Saxon roots meaning "a course or pathway," has come to mean derivatively a habitual occupation and has been related to certain skills and crafts. On the other hand, while "profession" today also entails a habit of work, the word "profession" itself traces to an act of selfconscious and public—even confessional—speech. "To profess" preserves the meaning of its Latin source, "to declare publicly; to announce, affirm, avow." A profession is an activity or occupation to which its practitioner publicly professes, that is, confesses, devotion. But public announcement seems insufficient; publicly declaring devotion to plumbing or auto repair would not turn these trades into professions. Some believe that learning and knowledge are the diagnostic signs of a profession. For reasons probably linked to the medieval university, the term "profession" has been applied to the so-called learned professions—medicine, law, and theology—the practices of which are founded upon inquiry and knowledge rather than mere "know-how." Yet it is not only the pursuit and acquisition of knowledge that makes one a professional. The knowledge involved makes the profession one of the learned variety, but its professional quality is rooted in something else. Some mistakenly seek to locate that something else in the prestige and honor accorded professionals by society, evidenced in their special titles and the special deference and privileges they receive. But externalities do not constitute medicine a profession. Physicians are not professionals because they are honored; rather, they are honored because of their profession. Their titles and the respect they are shown superficially signify and acknowledge something deeper, that physicians are persons of the professional sort, knowingly and freely devoting themselves to a way of life worthy of such devotion. Just as lawyers devote themselves to rectifying injustices, looking up to what is lawful and right; just as teachers devote themselves to the education of the young, looking up to truth and wisdom; so physicians heal the sick, looking up to health and wholesomeness. Being a professional is thus rooted in our moral nature and in that which warrants and impels making a public confession to a way of life. Professing oneself a professional is an ethical act because it is not a silent and private act, but an articulated and public one; because it promises continuing devotion to a way of life, not merely announces a present preference or a way to a livelihood; because it is an activity in service to some high good that insists on devotion; because it is difficult and demanding. A profession engages one's character and heart, not merely one's mind and hands. | 199106_1-RC_4_28 | [
"The author locates the \"something else\" that truly constitutes a profession.",
"The author dismisses efforts to redefine the meaning of the term \"profession.\"",
"The author considers, and largely criticizes, several definitions of what constitutes a profession.",
"The author clarifies the meaning of the term \"profession\" by advocating a return to its linguistic and historical roots.",
"The author distinguishes trades such as plumbing and auto repair from professions such as medicine, law, and theology."
] | 2 | Which one of the following best describes the author's purpose in lines 18–42 of the passage? |
There is substantial evidence that by 1926, with the publication of The Weary Blues, Langston Hughes had broken with two well-established traditions in African American literature. In The Weary Blues, Hughes chose to modify the traditions that decreed that African American literature must promote racial acceptance and integration, and that, in order to do so, it must reflect an understanding and mastery of Western European literary techniques and styles. Necessarily excluded by this decree, linguistically and thematically, was the vast amount of secular folk material in the oral tradition that had been created by Black people in the years of slavery and after. It might be pointed out that even the spirituals or "sorrow songs" of the slaves—as distinct from their secular songs and stories—had been Europeanized to make them acceptable within these African American traditions after the Civil War. In 1862 northern White writers had commented favorably on the unique and provocative melodies of these "sorrow songs" when they first heard them sung by slaves in the Carolina sea islands. But by 1916, ten years before the publication of The Weary Blues, Harry T. Burleigh, the Black baritone soloist at New York's ultrafashionable Saint George's Episcopal Church, had published Jubilee Songs of the United States, with every spiritual arranged so that a concert singer could sing it "in the manner of an art song." Clearly, the artistic work of Black people could be used to promote racial acceptance and integration only on the condition that it became Europeanized. Even more than his rebellion against this restrictive tradition in African American art, Hughes's expression of the vibrant folk culture of Black people established his writing as a landmark in the history of African American literature. Most of his folk poems have the distinctive marks of this folk culture's oral tradition: they contain many instances of naming and enumeration, considerable hyperbole and understatement, and a strong infusion of street-talk rhyming. There is a deceptive veil of artlessness in these poems. Hughes prided himself on being an impromptu and impressionistic writer of poetry. His, he insisted, was not an artfully constructed poetry. Yet an analysis of his dramatic monologues and other poems reveals that his poetry was carefully and artfully crafted. In his folk poetry we find features common to all folk literature, such as dramatic ellipsis, narrative compression, rhythmic repetition, and monosyllabic emphasis. The peculiar mixture of irony and humor we find in his writing is a distinguishing feature of his folk poetry. Together, these aspects of Hughes's writing helped to modify the previous restrictions on the techniques and subject matter of Black writers and consequently to broaden the linguistic and thematic range of African American literature. | 199110_1-RC_1_1 | [
"his exploitation of ambiguous and deceptive meanings",
"his care and craft in composing poems",
"his use of naming and enumeration",
"his use of first-person narrative",
"his strong religious beliefs"
] | 2 | The author mentions which one of the following as an example of the influence of Black folk culture on Hughes's poetry? |
There is substantial evidence that by 1926, with the publication of The Weary Blues, Langston Hughes had broken with two well-established traditions in African American literature. In The Weary Blues, Hughes chose to modify the traditions that decreed that African American literature must promote racial acceptance and integration, and that, in order to do so, it must reflect an understanding and mastery of Western European literary techniques and styles. Necessarily excluded by this decree, linguistically and thematically, was the vast amount of secular folk material in the oral tradition that had been created by Black people in the years of slavery and after. It might be pointed out that even the spirituals or "sorrow songs" of the slaves—as distinct from their secular songs and stories—had been Europeanized to make them acceptable within these African American traditions after the Civil War. In 1862 northern White writers had commented favorably on the unique and provocative melodies of these "sorrow songs" when they first heard them sung by slaves in the Carolina sea islands. But by 1916, ten years before the publication of The Weary Blues, Harry T. Burleigh, the Black baritone soloist at New York's ultrafashionable Saint George's Episcopal Church, had published Jubilee Songs of the United States, with every spiritual arranged so that a concert singer could sing it "in the manner of an art song." Clearly, the artistic work of Black people could be used to promote racial acceptance and integration only on the condition that it became Europeanized. Even more than his rebellion against this restrictive tradition in African American art, Hughes's expression of the vibrant folk culture of Black people established his writing as a landmark in the history of African American literature. Most of his folk poems have the distinctive marks of this folk culture's oral tradition: they contain many instances of naming and enumeration, considerable hyperbole and understatement, and a strong infusion of street-talk rhyming. There is a deceptive veil of artlessness in these poems. Hughes prided himself on being an impromptu and impressionistic writer of poetry. His, he insisted, was not an artfully constructed poetry. Yet an analysis of his dramatic monologues and other poems reveals that his poetry was carefully and artfully crafted. In his folk poetry we find features common to all folk literature, such as dramatic ellipsis, narrative compression, rhythmic repetition, and monosyllabic emphasis. The peculiar mixture of irony and humor we find in his writing is a distinguishing feature of his folk poetry. Together, these aspects of Hughes's writing helped to modify the previous restrictions on the techniques and subject matter of Black writers and consequently to broaden the linguistic and thematic range of African American literature. | 199110_1-RC_1_2 | [
"evidence of his use of oral techniques in his poetry",
"evidence of his thoughtful deliberation in composing his poems",
"his scrupulous concern for representative details in his poetry",
"his incorporation of Western European literary techniques in his poetry",
"his engagement with social and political issues rather than aesthetic ones"
] | 1 | The author suggests that the "deceptive veil" (line 42) in Hughes's poetry obscures |
There is substantial evidence that by 1926, with the publication of The Weary Blues, Langston Hughes had broken with two well-established traditions in African American literature. In The Weary Blues, Hughes chose to modify the traditions that decreed that African American literature must promote racial acceptance and integration, and that, in order to do so, it must reflect an understanding and mastery of Western European literary techniques and styles. Necessarily excluded by this decree, linguistically and thematically, was the vast amount of secular folk material in the oral tradition that had been created by Black people in the years of slavery and after. It might be pointed out that even the spirituals or "sorrow songs" of the slaves—as distinct from their secular songs and stories—had been Europeanized to make them acceptable within these African American traditions after the Civil War. In 1862 northern White writers had commented favorably on the unique and provocative melodies of these "sorrow songs" when they first heard them sung by slaves in the Carolina sea islands. But by 1916, ten years before the publication of The Weary Blues, Harry T. Burleigh, the Black baritone soloist at New York's ultrafashionable Saint George's Episcopal Church, had published Jubilee Songs of the United States, with every spiritual arranged so that a concert singer could sing it "in the manner of an art song." Clearly, the artistic work of Black people could be used to promote racial acceptance and integration only on the condition that it became Europeanized. Even more than his rebellion against this restrictive tradition in African American art, Hughes's expression of the vibrant folk culture of Black people established his writing as a landmark in the history of African American literature. Most of his folk poems have the distinctive marks of this folk culture's oral tradition: they contain many instances of naming and enumeration, considerable hyperbole and understatement, and a strong infusion of street-talk rhyming. There is a deceptive veil of artlessness in these poems. Hughes prided himself on being an impromptu and impressionistic writer of poetry. His, he insisted, was not an artfully constructed poetry. Yet an analysis of his dramatic monologues and other poems reveals that his poetry was carefully and artfully crafted. In his folk poetry we find features common to all folk literature, such as dramatic ellipsis, narrative compression, rhythmic repetition, and monosyllabic emphasis. The peculiar mixture of irony and humor we find in his writing is a distinguishing feature of his folk poetry. Together, these aspects of Hughes's writing helped to modify the previous restrictions on the techniques and subject matter of Black writers and consequently to broaden the linguistic and thematic range of African American literature. | 199110_1-RC_1_3 | [
"Its publication marked an advance in the intrinsic quality of African American art.",
"It paved the way for publication of Hughes's The Weary Blues by making African American art fashionable.",
"It was an authentic replication of African American spirituals and \"sorrow songs.\"",
"It demonstrated the extent to which spirituals were adapted in order to make them more broadly accepted.",
"It was to the spiritual what Hughes's The Weary Blues was to secular songs and stories."
] | 3 | With which one of the following statements regarding Jubilee Songs of the United States would the author be most likely to agree? |
There is substantial evidence that by 1926, with the publication of The Weary Blues, Langston Hughes had broken with two well-established traditions in African American literature. In The Weary Blues, Hughes chose to modify the traditions that decreed that African American literature must promote racial acceptance and integration, and that, in order to do so, it must reflect an understanding and mastery of Western European literary techniques and styles. Necessarily excluded by this decree, linguistically and thematically, was the vast amount of secular folk material in the oral tradition that had been created by Black people in the years of slavery and after. It might be pointed out that even the spirituals or "sorrow songs" of the slaves—as distinct from their secular songs and stories—had been Europeanized to make them acceptable within these African American traditions after the Civil War. In 1862 northern White writers had commented favorably on the unique and provocative melodies of these "sorrow songs" when they first heard them sung by slaves in the Carolina sea islands. But by 1916, ten years before the publication of The Weary Blues, Harry T. Burleigh, the Black baritone soloist at New York's ultrafashionable Saint George's Episcopal Church, had published Jubilee Songs of the United States, with every spiritual arranged so that a concert singer could sing it "in the manner of an art song." Clearly, the artistic work of Black people could be used to promote racial acceptance and integration only on the condition that it became Europeanized. Even more than his rebellion against this restrictive tradition in African American art, Hughes's expression of the vibrant folk culture of Black people established his writing as a landmark in the history of African American literature. Most of his folk poems have the distinctive marks of this folk culture's oral tradition: they contain many instances of naming and enumeration, considerable hyperbole and understatement, and a strong infusion of street-talk rhyming. There is a deceptive veil of artlessness in these poems. Hughes prided himself on being an impromptu and impressionistic writer of poetry. His, he insisted, was not an artfully constructed poetry. Yet an analysis of his dramatic monologues and other poems reveals that his poetry was carefully and artfully crafted. In his folk poetry we find features common to all folk literature, such as dramatic ellipsis, narrative compression, rhythmic repetition, and monosyllabic emphasis. The peculiar mixture of irony and humor we find in his writing is a distinguishing feature of his folk poetry. Together, these aspects of Hughes's writing helped to modify the previous restrictions on the techniques and subject matter of Black writers and consequently to broaden the linguistic and thematic range of African American literature. | 199110_1-RC_1_4 | [
"indicate that modes of expression acceptable in the context of slavery in the South were acceptable only to a small number of White writers in the North after the Civil War",
"contrast White writers' earlier appreciation of these songs with the growing tendency after the Civil War to regard Europeanized versions of the songs as more acceptable",
"show that the requirement that such songs be Europeanized was internal to the African American tradition and was unrelated to the literary standards or attitudes of White writers",
"demonstrate that such songs in their non-Europeanized form were more imaginative than Europeanized versions of the same songs",
"suggest that White writers benefited more from exposure to African American art forms than Black writers did from exposure to European art forms"
] | 1 | The author most probably mentions the reactions of northern White writers to non-Europeanized "sorrow songs" in order to |
There is substantial evidence that by 1926, with the publication of The Weary Blues, Langston Hughes had broken with two well-established traditions in African American literature. In The Weary Blues, Hughes chose to modify the traditions that decreed that African American literature must promote racial acceptance and integration, and that, in order to do so, it must reflect an understanding and mastery of Western European literary techniques and styles. Necessarily excluded by this decree, linguistically and thematically, was the vast amount of secular folk material in the oral tradition that had been created by Black people in the years of slavery and after. It might be pointed out that even the spirituals or "sorrow songs" of the slaves—as distinct from their secular songs and stories—had been Europeanized to make them acceptable within these African American traditions after the Civil War. In 1862 northern White writers had commented favorably on the unique and provocative melodies of these "sorrow songs" when they first heard them sung by slaves in the Carolina sea islands. But by 1916, ten years before the publication of The Weary Blues, Harry T. Burleigh, the Black baritone soloist at New York's ultrafashionable Saint George's Episcopal Church, had published Jubilee Songs of the United States, with every spiritual arranged so that a concert singer could sing it "in the manner of an art song." Clearly, the artistic work of Black people could be used to promote racial acceptance and integration only on the condition that it became Europeanized. Even more than his rebellion against this restrictive tradition in African American art, Hughes's expression of the vibrant folk culture of Black people established his writing as a landmark in the history of African American literature. Most of his folk poems have the distinctive marks of this folk culture's oral tradition: they contain many instances of naming and enumeration, considerable hyperbole and understatement, and a strong infusion of street-talk rhyming. There is a deceptive veil of artlessness in these poems. Hughes prided himself on being an impromptu and impressionistic writer of poetry. His, he insisted, was not an artfully constructed poetry. Yet an analysis of his dramatic monologues and other poems reveals that his poetry was carefully and artfully crafted. In his folk poetry we find features common to all folk literature, such as dramatic ellipsis, narrative compression, rhythmic repetition, and monosyllabic emphasis. The peculiar mixture of irony and humor we find in his writing is a distinguishing feature of his folk poetry. Together, these aspects of Hughes's writing helped to modify the previous restrictions on the techniques and subject matter of Black writers and consequently to broaden the linguistic and thematic range of African American literature. | 199110_1-RC_1_5 | [
"The requirement was imposed more for social than for aesthetic reasons.",
"The requirement was a relatively unimportant aspect of the African American tradition.",
"The requirement was the chief reason for Hughes's success as a writer.",
"The requirement was appropriate for some forms of expression but not for others.",
"The requirement was never as strong as it may have appeared to be."
] | 0 | The passage suggests that the author would be most likely to agree with which one of the following statements about the requirement that Black writers employ Western European literary techniques? |
There is substantial evidence that by 1926, with the publication of The Weary Blues, Langston Hughes had broken with two well-established traditions in African American literature. In The Weary Blues, Hughes chose to modify the traditions that decreed that African American literature must promote racial acceptance and integration, and that, in order to do so, it must reflect an understanding and mastery of Western European literary techniques and styles. Necessarily excluded by this decree, linguistically and thematically, was the vast amount of secular folk material in the oral tradition that had been created by Black people in the years of slavery and after. It might be pointed out that even the spirituals or "sorrow songs" of the slaves—as distinct from their secular songs and stories—had been Europeanized to make them acceptable within these African American traditions after the Civil War. In 1862 northern White writers had commented favorably on the unique and provocative melodies of these "sorrow songs" when they first heard them sung by slaves in the Carolina sea islands. But by 1916, ten years before the publication of The Weary Blues, Harry T. Burleigh, the Black baritone soloist at New York's ultrafashionable Saint George's Episcopal Church, had published Jubilee Songs of the United States, with every spiritual arranged so that a concert singer could sing it "in the manner of an art song." Clearly, the artistic work of Black people could be used to promote racial acceptance and integration only on the condition that it became Europeanized. Even more than his rebellion against this restrictive tradition in African American art, Hughes's expression of the vibrant folk culture of Black people established his writing as a landmark in the history of African American literature. Most of his folk poems have the distinctive marks of this folk culture's oral tradition: they contain many instances of naming and enumeration, considerable hyperbole and understatement, and a strong infusion of street-talk rhyming. There is a deceptive veil of artlessness in these poems. Hughes prided himself on being an impromptu and impressionistic writer of poetry. His, he insisted, was not an artfully constructed poetry. Yet an analysis of his dramatic monologues and other poems reveals that his poetry was carefully and artfully crafted. In his folk poetry we find features common to all folk literature, such as dramatic ellipsis, narrative compression, rhythmic repetition, and monosyllabic emphasis. The peculiar mixture of irony and humor we find in his writing is a distinguishing feature of his folk poetry. Together, these aspects of Hughes's writing helped to modify the previous restrictions on the techniques and subject matter of Black writers and consequently to broaden the linguistic and thematic range of African American literature. | 199110_1-RC_1_6 | [
"its novelty compared to other works of African American literature",
"its subtle understatement compared to that of other kinds of folk literature",
"its virtuosity in adapting musical forms to language",
"its expression of the folk culture of Black people",
"its universality of appeal achieved through the adoption of colloquial expressions"
] | 3 | Which one of the following aspects of Hughes's poetry does the author appear to value most highly? |
Historians generally agree that, of the great modern innovations, the railroad had the most far-reaching impact on major events in the United States in the nineteenth and early twentieth centuries, particularly on the Industrial Revolution. There is, however, considerable disagreement among cultural historians regarding public attitudes toward the railroad, both at its inception in the 1830s and during the half century between 1880 and 1930, when the national rail system was completed and reached the zenith of its popularity in the United States. In a recent book, John Stilgoe has addressed this issue by arguing that the "romantic-era distrust" of the railroad that he claims was present during the 1830s vanished in the decades after 1880. But the argument he provides in support of this position is unconvincing. What Stilgoe calls "romantic-era distrust" was in fact the reaction of a minority of writers, artists, and intellectuals who distrusted the railroad not so much for what it was as for what it signified. Thoreau and Hawthorne appreciated, even admired, an improved means of moving things and people from one place to another. What these writers and others were concerned about was not the new machinery as such, but the new kind of economy, social order, and culture that it prefigured. In addition, Stilgoe is wrong to imply that the critical attitude of these writers was typical of the period; their distrust was largely a reaction against the prevailing attitude in the 1830s that the railroad was an unqualified improvement. Stilgoe's assertion that the ambivalence toward the railroad exhibited by writers like Hawthorne and Thoreau disappeared after the 1880s is also misleading. In support of this thesis, Stilgoe has unearthed an impressive volume of material, the work of hitherto unknown illustrators, journalists, and novelists, all devotees of the railroad; but it is not clear what this new material proves except perhaps that the works of popular culture greatly expanded at the time. The volume of the material proves nothing if Stilgoe's point is that the earlier distrust of a minority of intellectuals did not endure beyond the 1880s, and, oddly, much of Stilgoe's other evidence indicates that it did. When he glances at the treatment of railroads by writers like Henry James, Sinclair Lewis, or F. Scott Fitzgerald, what comes through in spite of Stilgoe's analysis is remarkably like Thoreau's feeling of contrariety and ambivalence. (Had he looked at the work of Frank Norris, Eugene O'Neill, or Henry Adams, Stilgoe's case would have been much stronger.) The point is that the sharp contrast between the enthusiastic supporters of the railroad in the 1830s and the minority of intellectual dissenters during that period extended into the 1880s and beyond. | 199110_1-RC_2_7 | [
"During what period did the railroad reach the zenith of its popularity in the United States?",
"How extensive was the impact of the railroad on the Industrial Revolution in the United States, relative to that of other modern innovations?",
"Who are some of the writers of the 1830s who expressed ambivalence toward the railroad?",
"In what way could Stilgoe have strengthened his argument regarding intellectuals' attitudes toward the railroad in the years after the 1880s?",
"What arguments did the writers after the 1880s, as cited by Stilgoe, offer to justify their support for the railroad?"
] | 4 | The passage provides information to answer all of the following questions EXCEPT: |
Historians generally agree that, of the great modern innovations, the railroad had the most far-reaching impact on major events in the United States in the nineteenth and early twentieth centuries, particularly on the Industrial Revolution. There is, however, considerable disagreement among cultural historians regarding public attitudes toward the railroad, both at its inception in the 1830s and during the half century between 1880 and 1930, when the national rail system was completed and reached the zenith of its popularity in the United States. In a recent book, John Stilgoe has addressed this issue by arguing that the "romantic-era distrust" of the railroad that he claims was present during the 1830s vanished in the decades after 1880. But the argument he provides in support of this position is unconvincing. What Stilgoe calls "romantic-era distrust" was in fact the reaction of a minority of writers, artists, and intellectuals who distrusted the railroad not so much for what it was as for what it signified. Thoreau and Hawthorne appreciated, even admired, an improved means of moving things and people from one place to another. What these writers and others were concerned about was not the new machinery as such, but the new kind of economy, social order, and culture that it prefigured. In addition, Stilgoe is wrong to imply that the critical attitude of these writers was typical of the period; their distrust was largely a reaction against the prevailing attitude in the 1830s that the railroad was an unqualified improvement. Stilgoe's assertion that the ambivalence toward the railroad exhibited by writers like Hawthorne and Thoreau disappeared after the 1880s is also misleading. In support of this thesis, Stilgoe has unearthed an impressive volume of material, the work of hitherto unknown illustrators, journalists, and novelists, all devotees of the railroad; but it is not clear what this new material proves except perhaps that the works of popular culture greatly expanded at the time. The volume of the material proves nothing if Stilgoe's point is that the earlier distrust of a minority of intellectuals did not endure beyond the 1880s, and, oddly, much of Stilgoe's other evidence indicates that it did. When he glances at the treatment of railroads by writers like Henry James, Sinclair Lewis, or F. Scott Fitzgerald, what comes through in spite of Stilgoe's analysis is remarkably like Thoreau's feeling of contrariety and ambivalence. (Had he looked at the work of Frank Norris, Eugene O'Neill, or Henry Adams, Stilgoe's case would have been much stronger.) The point is that the sharp contrast between the enthusiastic supporters of the railroad in the 1830s and the minority of intellectual dissenters during that period extended into the 1880s and beyond. | 199110_1-RC_2_8 | [
"the attitude of a minority of intellectuals toward technological innovation that began after 1830",
"a commonly held attitude toward the railroad during the 1830s",
"an ambivalent view of the railroad expressed by many poets and novelists between 1880 and 1930",
"a critique of social and economic developments during the 1830s by a minority of intellectuals",
"an attitude toward the railroad that was disseminated by works of popular culture after 1880"
] | 1 | According to the author of the passage, Stilgoe uses the phrase "romantic-era distrust" (line 13) to imply that the view he is referring to was |
Historians generally agree that, of the great modern innovations, the railroad had the most far-reaching impact on major events in the United States in the nineteenth and early twentieth centuries, particularly on the Industrial Revolution. There is, however, considerable disagreement among cultural historians regarding public attitudes toward the railroad, both at its inception in the 1830s and during the half century between 1880 and 1930, when the national rail system was completed and reached the zenith of its popularity in the United States. In a recent book, John Stilgoe has addressed this issue by arguing that the "romantic-era distrust" of the railroad that he claims was present during the 1830s vanished in the decades after 1880. But the argument he provides in support of this position is unconvincing. What Stilgoe calls "romantic-era distrust" was in fact the reaction of a minority of writers, artists, and intellectuals who distrusted the railroad not so much for what it was as for what it signified. Thoreau and Hawthorne appreciated, even admired, an improved means of moving things and people from one place to another. What these writers and others were concerned about was not the new machinery as such, but the new kind of economy, social order, and culture that it prefigured. In addition, Stilgoe is wrong to imply that the critical attitude of these writers was typical of the period; their distrust was largely a reaction against the prevailing attitude in the 1830s that the railroad was an unqualified improvement. Stilgoe's assertion that the ambivalence toward the railroad exhibited by writers like Hawthorne and Thoreau disappeared after the 1880s is also misleading. In support of this thesis, Stilgoe has unearthed an impressive volume of material, the work of hitherto unknown illustrators, journalists, and novelists, all devotees of the railroad; but it is not clear what this new material proves except perhaps that the works of popular culture greatly expanded at the time. The volume of the material proves nothing if Stilgoe's point is that the earlier distrust of a minority of intellectuals did not endure beyond the 1880s, and, oddly, much of Stilgoe's other evidence indicates that it did. When he glances at the treatment of railroads by writers like Henry James, Sinclair Lewis, or F. Scott Fitzgerald, what comes through in spite of Stilgoe's analysis is remarkably like Thoreau's feeling of contrariety and ambivalence. (Had he looked at the work of Frank Norris, Eugene O'Neill, or Henry Adams, Stilgoe's case would have been much stronger.) The point is that the sharp contrast between the enthusiastic supporters of the railroad in the 1830s and the minority of intellectual dissenters during that period extended into the 1880s and beyond. | 199110_1-RC_2_9 | [
"influenced by the writings of Frank Norris, Eugene O'Neill, and Henry Adams",
"similar to that of the minority of writers who had expressed ambivalence toward the railroad prior to the 1880s",
"consistent with the public attitudes toward the railroad that were reflected in works of popular culture after the 1880s",
"largely a reaction to the works of writers who had been severely critical of the railroad in the 1830s",
"consistent with the prevailing attitude toward the railroad during the 1830s"
] | 1 | According to the author, the attitude toward the railroad that was reflected in writings of Henry James, Sinclair Lewis, and F. Scott Fitzgerald was |
Historians generally agree that, of the great modern innovations, the railroad had the most far-reaching impact on major events in the United States in the nineteenth and early twentieth centuries, particularly on the Industrial Revolution. There is, however, considerable disagreement among cultural historians regarding public attitudes toward the railroad, both at its inception in the 1830s and during the half century between 1880 and 1930, when the national rail system was completed and reached the zenith of its popularity in the United States. In a recent book, John Stilgoe has addressed this issue by arguing that the "romantic-era distrust" of the railroad that he claims was present during the 1830s vanished in the decades after 1880. But the argument he provides in support of this position is unconvincing. What Stilgoe calls "romantic-era distrust" was in fact the reaction of a minority of writers, artists, and intellectuals who distrusted the railroad not so much for what it was as for what it signified. Thoreau and Hawthorne appreciated, even admired, an improved means of moving things and people from one place to another. What these writers and others were concerned about was not the new machinery as such, but the new kind of economy, social order, and culture that it prefigured. In addition, Stilgoe is wrong to imply that the critical attitude of these writers was typical of the period; their distrust was largely a reaction against the prevailing attitude in the 1830s that the railroad was an unqualified improvement. Stilgoe's assertion that the ambivalence toward the railroad exhibited by writers like Hawthorne and Thoreau disappeared after the 1880s is also misleading. In support of this thesis, Stilgoe has unearthed an impressive volume of material, the work of hitherto unknown illustrators, journalists, and novelists, all devotees of the railroad; but it is not clear what this new material proves except perhaps that the works of popular culture greatly expanded at the time. The volume of the material proves nothing if Stilgoe's point is that the earlier distrust of a minority of intellectuals did not endure beyond the 1880s, and, oddly, much of Stilgoe's other evidence indicates that it did. When he glances at the treatment of railroads by writers like Henry James, Sinclair Lewis, or F. Scott Fitzgerald, what comes through in spite of Stilgoe's analysis is remarkably like Thoreau's feeling of contrariety and ambivalence. (Had he looked at the work of Frank Norris, Eugene O'Neill, or Henry Adams, Stilgoe's case would have been much stronger.) The point is that the sharp contrast between the enthusiastic supporters of the railroad in the 1830s and the minority of intellectual dissenters during that period extended into the 1880s and beyond. | 199110_1-RC_2_10 | [
"work of a large group of writers that was published between 1880 and 1930 and that in Stilgoe's view was highly critical of the railroad",
"work of writers who were heavily influenced by Hawthorne and Thoreau",
"large volume of writing produced by Henry Adams, Sinclair Lewis, and Eugene O'Neill",
"work of journalists, novelists, and illustrators who were responsible for creating enthusiasm for the railroad during the 1830s",
"work of journalists, novelists, and illustrators that was published after 1880 and that has received little attention from scholars other than Stilgoe"
] | 4 | It can be inferred from the passage that the author uses the phrase "works of popular culture" (line 41) primarily to refer to the |
Historians generally agree that, of the great modern innovations, the railroad had the most far-reaching impact on major events in the United States in the nineteenth and early twentieth centuries, particularly on the Industrial Revolution. There is, however, considerable disagreement among cultural historians regarding public attitudes toward the railroad, both at its inception in the 1830s and during the half century between 1880 and 1930, when the national rail system was completed and reached the zenith of its popularity in the United States. In a recent book, John Stilgoe has addressed this issue by arguing that the "romantic-era distrust" of the railroad that he claims was present during the 1830s vanished in the decades after 1880. But the argument he provides in support of this position is unconvincing. What Stilgoe calls "romantic-era distrust" was in fact the reaction of a minority of writers, artists, and intellectuals who distrusted the railroad not so much for what it was as for what it signified. Thoreau and Hawthorne appreciated, even admired, an improved means of moving things and people from one place to another. What these writers and others were concerned about was not the new machinery as such, but the new kind of economy, social order, and culture that it prefigured. In addition, Stilgoe is wrong to imply that the critical attitude of these writers was typical of the period; their distrust was largely a reaction against the prevailing attitude in the 1830s that the railroad was an unqualified improvement. Stilgoe's assertion that the ambivalence toward the railroad exhibited by writers like Hawthorne and Thoreau disappeared after the 1880s is also misleading. In support of this thesis, Stilgoe has unearthed an impressive volume of material, the work of hitherto unknown illustrators, journalists, and novelists, all devotees of the railroad; but it is not clear what this new material proves except perhaps that the works of popular culture greatly expanded at the time. The volume of the material proves nothing if Stilgoe's point is that the earlier distrust of a minority of intellectuals did not endure beyond the 1880s, and, oddly, much of Stilgoe's other evidence indicates that it did. When he glances at the treatment of railroads by writers like Henry James, Sinclair Lewis, or F. Scott Fitzgerald, what comes through in spite of Stilgoe's analysis is remarkably like Thoreau's feeling of contrariety and ambivalence. (Had he looked at the work of Frank Norris, Eugene O'Neill, or Henry Adams, Stilgoe's case would have been much stronger.) The point is that the sharp contrast between the enthusiastic supporters of the railroad in the 1830s and the minority of intellectual dissenters during that period extended into the 1880s and beyond. | 199110_1-RC_2_11 | [
"Their work never achieved broad popular appeal.",
"Their ideas were disseminated to a large audience by the popular culture of the early 1800s.",
"Their work expressed a more positive attitude toward the railroad than did that of Henry James, Sinclair Lewis, and F. Scott Fitzgerald.",
"Although they were primarily novelists, some of their work could be classified as journalism.",
"Although they were influenced by Thoreau, their attitude toward the railroad was significantly different from his."
] | 2 | Which one of the following can be inferred from the passage regarding the work of Frank Norris, Eugene O'Neill, and Henry Adams? |
Historians generally agree that, of the great modern innovations, the railroad had the most far-reaching impact on major events in the United States in the nineteenth and early twentieth centuries, particularly on the Industrial Revolution. There is, however, considerable disagreement among cultural historians regarding public attitudes toward the railroad, both at its inception in the 1830s and during the half century between 1880 and 1930, when the national rail system was completed and reached the zenith of its popularity in the United States. In a recent book, John Stilgoe has addressed this issue by arguing that the "romantic-era distrust" of the railroad that he claims was present during the 1830s vanished in the decades after 1880. But the argument he provides in support of this position is unconvincing. What Stilgoe calls "romantic-era distrust" was in fact the reaction of a minority of writers, artists, and intellectuals who distrusted the railroad not so much for what it was as for what it signified. Thoreau and Hawthorne appreciated, even admired, an improved means of moving things and people from one place to another. What these writers and others were concerned about was not the new machinery as such, but the new kind of economy, social order, and culture that it prefigured. In addition, Stilgoe is wrong to imply that the critical attitude of these writers was typical of the period; their distrust was largely a reaction against the prevailing attitude in the 1830s that the railroad was an unqualified improvement. Stilgoe's assertion that the ambivalence toward the railroad exhibited by writers like Hawthorne and Thoreau disappeared after the 1880s is also misleading. In support of this thesis, Stilgoe has unearthed an impressive volume of material, the work of hitherto unknown illustrators, journalists, and novelists, all devotees of the railroad; but it is not clear what this new material proves except perhaps that the works of popular culture greatly expanded at the time. The volume of the material proves nothing if Stilgoe's point is that the earlier distrust of a minority of intellectuals did not endure beyond the 1880s, and, oddly, much of Stilgoe's other evidence indicates that it did. When he glances at the treatment of railroads by writers like Henry James, Sinclair Lewis, or F. Scott Fitzgerald, what comes through in spite of Stilgoe's analysis is remarkably like Thoreau's feeling of contrariety and ambivalence. (Had he looked at the work of Frank Norris, Eugene O'Neill, or Henry Adams, Stilgoe's case would have been much stronger.) The point is that the sharp contrast between the enthusiastic supporters of the railroad in the 1830s and the minority of intellectual dissenters during that period extended into the 1880s and beyond. | 199110_1-RC_2_12 | [
"It is impossible to know exactly what period historians are referring to when they use the term \"romantic era.\"",
"The writing of intellectuals often anticipates ideas and movements that are later embraced by popular culture.",
"Writers who were not popular in their own time tell us little about the age in which they lived.",
"The works of popular culture can serve as a reliable indicator of public attitudes toward modern innovations like the railroad.",
"The best source of information concerning the impact of an event as large as the Industrial Revolution is the private letters and journals of individuals."
] | 3 | It can be inferred from the passage that Stilgoe would be most likely to agree with which one of the following statements regarding the study of cultural history? |
Historians generally agree that, of the great modern innovations, the railroad had the most far-reaching impact on major events in the United States in the nineteenth and early twentieth centuries, particularly on the Industrial Revolution. There is, however, considerable disagreement among cultural historians regarding public attitudes toward the railroad, both at its inception in the 1830s and during the half century between 1880 and 1930, when the national rail system was completed and reached the zenith of its popularity in the United States. In a recent book, John Stilgoe has addressed this issue by arguing that the "romantic-era distrust" of the railroad that he claims was present during the 1830s vanished in the decades after 1880. But the argument he provides in support of this position is unconvincing. What Stilgoe calls "romantic-era distrust" was in fact the reaction of a minority of writers, artists, and intellectuals who distrusted the railroad not so much for what it was as for what it signified. Thoreau and Hawthorne appreciated, even admired, an improved means of moving things and people from one place to another. What these writers and others were concerned about was not the new machinery as such, but the new kind of economy, social order, and culture that it prefigured. In addition, Stilgoe is wrong to imply that the critical attitude of these writers was typical of the period; their distrust was largely a reaction against the prevailing attitude in the 1830s that the railroad was an unqualified improvement. Stilgoe's assertion that the ambivalence toward the railroad exhibited by writers like Hawthorne and Thoreau disappeared after the 1880s is also misleading. In support of this thesis, Stilgoe has unearthed an impressive volume of material, the work of hitherto unknown illustrators, journalists, and novelists, all devotees of the railroad; but it is not clear what this new material proves except perhaps that the works of popular culture greatly expanded at the time. The volume of the material proves nothing if Stilgoe's point is that the earlier distrust of a minority of intellectuals did not endure beyond the 1880s, and, oddly, much of Stilgoe's other evidence indicates that it did. When he glances at the treatment of railroads by writers like Henry James, Sinclair Lewis, or F. Scott Fitzgerald, what comes through in spite of Stilgoe's analysis is remarkably like Thoreau's feeling of contrariety and ambivalence. (Had he looked at the work of Frank Norris, Eugene O'Neill, or Henry Adams, Stilgoe's case would have been much stronger.) The point is that the sharp contrast between the enthusiastic supporters of the railroad in the 1830s and the minority of intellectual dissenters during that period extended into the 1880s and beyond. | 199110_1-RC_2_13 | [
"evaluate one scholar's view of public attitudes toward the railroad in the United States from the early nineteenth to the early twentieth century",
"review the treatment of the railroad in American literature of the nineteenth and twentieth centuries",
"survey the views of cultural historians regarding the railroad's impact on major events in United States history",
"explore the origins of the public support for the railroad that existed after the completion of a national rail system in the United States",
"define what historians mean when they refer to the \"romantic-era distrust\" of the railroad"
] | 0 | The primary purpose of the passage is to |
Three basic adaptive responses—regulatory, acclimatory, and developmental—may occur in organisms as they react to changing environmental conditions. In all three, adjustment of biological features (morphological adjustment) or of their use (functional adjustment) may occur. Regulatory responses involve rapid changes in the organism's use of its physiological apparatus—increasing or decreasing the rates of various processes, for example. Acclimation involves morphological change—thickening of fur or red blood cell proliferation—which alters physiology itself. Such structural changes require more time than regulatory response changes. Regulatory and acclimatory responses are both reversible. Developmental responses, however, are usually permanent and irreversible; they become fixed in the course of the individual's development in response to environmental conditions at the time the response occurs. One such response occurs in many kinds of water bugs. Most water-bug species inhabiting small lakes and ponds have two generations per year. The first hatches during the spring, reproduces during the summer, then dies. The eggs laid in the summer hatch and develop into adults in late summer. They live over the winter before breeding in early spring. Individuals in the second (overwintering) generation have fully developed wings and leave the water in autumn to overwinter in forests, returning in spring to small bodies of water to lay eggs. Their wings are absolutely necessary for this seasonal dispersal. The summer (early) generation, in contrast, is usually dimorphic—some individuals have normal functional (macropterous) wings; others have much-reduced (micropterous) wings of no use for flight. The summer generation's dimorphism is a compromise strategy, for these individuals usually do not leave the ponds and thus generally have no use for fully developed wings. But small ponds occasionally dry up during the summer, forcing the water bugs to search for new habitats, an eventuality that macropterous individuals are well adapted to meet. The dimorphism of micropterous and macropterous individuals in the summer generation expresses developmental flexibility; it is not genetically determined. The individual's wing form is environmentally determined by the temperature to which developing eggs are exposed prior to their being laid. Eggs maintained in a warm environment always produce bugs with normal wings, but exposure to cold produces micropterous individuals. Eggs producing the overwintering brood are all formed during the late summer's warm temperatures. Hence, all individuals in the overwintering brood have normal wings. Eggs laid by the overwintering adults in the spring, which develop into the summer generation of adults, are formed in early autumn and early spring. Those eggs formed in autumn are exposed to cold winter temperatures, and thus produce micropterous adults in the summer generation. Those formed during the spring are never exposed to cold temperatures, and thus yield individuals with normal wings. Adult water bugs of the overwintering generation, brought into the laboratory during the cold months and kept warm, produce only macropterous offspring. | 199110_1-RC_3_14 | [
"illustrate an organism's functional adaptive response to changing environmental conditions",
"prove that organisms can exhibit three basic adaptive responses to changing environmental conditions",
"explain the differences in form and function between micropterous and macropterous water bugs and analyze the effect of environmental changes on each",
"discuss three different types of adaptive responses and provide an example that explains how one of those types of responses works",
"contrast acclimatory responses with developmental responses and suggest an explanation for the evolutionary purposes of these two responses to changing environmental conditions"
] | 3 | The primary purpose of the passage is to |
Three basic adaptive responses—regulatory, acclimatory, and developmental—may occur in organisms as they react to changing environmental conditions. In all three, adjustment of biological features (morphological adjustment) or of their use (functional adjustment) may occur. Regulatory responses involve rapid changes in the organism's use of its physiological apparatus—increasing or decreasing the rates of various processes, for example. Acclimation involves morphological change—thickening of fur or red blood cell proliferation—which alters physiology itself. Such structural changes require more time than regulatory response changes. Regulatory and acclimatory responses are both reversible. Developmental responses, however, are usually permanent and irreversible; they become fixed in the course of the individual's development in response to environmental conditions at the time the response occurs. One such response occurs in many kinds of water bugs. Most water-bug species inhabiting small lakes and ponds have two generations per year. The first hatches during the spring, reproduces during the summer, then dies. The eggs laid in the summer hatch and develop into adults in late summer. They live over the winter before breeding in early spring. Individuals in the second (overwintering) generation have fully developed wings and leave the water in autumn to overwinter in forests, returning in spring to small bodies of water to lay eggs. Their wings are absolutely necessary for this seasonal dispersal. The summer (early) generation, in contrast, is usually dimorphic—some individuals have normal functional (macropterous) wings; others have much-reduced (micropterous) wings of no use for flight. The summer generation's dimorphism is a compromise strategy, for these individuals usually do not leave the ponds and thus generally have no use for fully developed wings. But small ponds occasionally dry up during the summer, forcing the water bugs to search for new habitats, an eventuality that macropterous individuals are well adapted to meet. The dimorphism of micropterous and macropterous individuals in the summer generation expresses developmental flexibility; it is not genetically determined. The individual's wing form is environmentally determined by the temperature to which developing eggs are exposed prior to their being laid. Eggs maintained in a warm environment always produce bugs with normal wings, but exposure to cold produces micropterous individuals. Eggs producing the overwintering brood are all formed during the late summer's warm temperatures. Hence, all individuals in the overwintering brood have normal wings. Eggs laid by the overwintering adults in the spring, which develop into the summer generation of adults, are formed in early autumn and early spring. Those eggs formed in autumn are exposed to cold winter temperatures, and thus produce micropterous adults in the summer generation. Those formed during the spring are never exposed to cold temperatures, and thus yield individuals with normal wings. Adult water bugs of the overwintering generation, brought into the laboratory during the cold months and kept warm, produce only macropterous offspring. | 199110_1-RC_3_15 | [
"The number of developmental responses among the water-bug population would decrease.",
"Both micropterous and macropterous water bugs would show an acclimatory response.",
"The generation of water bugs to be hatched during the subsequent spring would contain an unusually large number of macropterous individuals.",
"The dimorphism of the summer generation would enable some individuals to survive.",
"The dimorphism of the summer generation would be genetically transferred to the next spring generation."
] | 3 | The passage supplies information to suggest that which one of the following would happen if a pond inhabited by water bugs were to dry up in June? |
Three basic adaptive responses—regulatory, acclimatory, and developmental—may occur in organisms as they react to changing environmental conditions. In all three, adjustment of biological features (morphological adjustment) or of their use (functional adjustment) may occur. Regulatory responses involve rapid changes in the organism's use of its physiological apparatus—increasing or decreasing the rates of various processes, for example. Acclimation involves morphological change—thickening of fur or red blood cell proliferation—which alters physiology itself. Such structural changes require more time than regulatory response changes. Regulatory and acclimatory responses are both reversible. Developmental responses, however, are usually permanent and irreversible; they become fixed in the course of the individual's development in response to environmental conditions at the time the response occurs. One such response occurs in many kinds of water bugs. Most water-bug species inhabiting small lakes and ponds have two generations per year. The first hatches during the spring, reproduces during the summer, then dies. The eggs laid in the summer hatch and develop into adults in late summer. They live over the winter before breeding in early spring. Individuals in the second (overwintering) generation have fully developed wings and leave the water in autumn to overwinter in forests, returning in spring to small bodies of water to lay eggs. Their wings are absolutely necessary for this seasonal dispersal. The summer (early) generation, in contrast, is usually dimorphic—some individuals have normal functional (macropterous) wings; others have much-reduced (micropterous) wings of no use for flight. The summer generation's dimorphism is a compromise strategy, for these individuals usually do not leave the ponds and thus generally have no use for fully developed wings. But small ponds occasionally dry up during the summer, forcing the water bugs to search for new habitats, an eventuality that macropterous individuals are well adapted to meet. The dimorphism of micropterous and macropterous individuals in the summer generation expresses developmental flexibility; it is not genetically determined. The individual's wing form is environmentally determined by the temperature to which developing eggs are exposed prior to their being laid. Eggs maintained in a warm environment always produce bugs with normal wings, but exposure to cold produces micropterous individuals. Eggs producing the overwintering brood are all formed during the late summer's warm temperatures. Hence, all individuals in the overwintering brood have normal wings. Eggs laid by the overwintering adults in the spring, which develop into the summer generation of adults, are formed in early autumn and early spring. Those eggs formed in autumn are exposed to cold winter temperatures, and thus produce micropterous adults in the summer generation. Those formed during the spring are never exposed to cold temperatures, and thus yield individuals with normal wings. Adult water bugs of the overwintering generation, brought into the laboratory during the cold months and kept warm, produce only macropterous offspring. | 199110_1-RC_3_16 | [
"eggs formed by water bugs in the autumn would probably produce a higher than usual proportion of macropterous individuals",
"eggs formed by water bugs in the autumn would probably produce an entire summer generation of water bugs with smaller than normal wings",
"eggs of the overwintering generation formed in the autumn would not be affected by this temperature change",
"overwintering generation would not leave the ponds for the forest during the winter",
"overwintering generation of water bugs would most likely form fewer eggs in the autumn and more in the spring"
] | 0 | It can be inferred from the passage that if the winter months of a particular year were unusually warm, the |
Three basic adaptive responses—regulatory, acclimatory, and developmental—may occur in organisms as they react to changing environmental conditions. In all three, adjustment of biological features (morphological adjustment) or of their use (functional adjustment) may occur. Regulatory responses involve rapid changes in the organism's use of its physiological apparatus—increasing or decreasing the rates of various processes, for example. Acclimation involves morphological change—thickening of fur or red blood cell proliferation—which alters physiology itself. Such structural changes require more time than regulatory response changes. Regulatory and acclimatory responses are both reversible. Developmental responses, however, are usually permanent and irreversible; they become fixed in the course of the individual's development in response to environmental conditions at the time the response occurs. One such response occurs in many kinds of water bugs. Most water-bug species inhabiting small lakes and ponds have two generations per year. The first hatches during the spring, reproduces during the summer, then dies. The eggs laid in the summer hatch and develop into adults in late summer. They live over the winter before breeding in early spring. Individuals in the second (overwintering) generation have fully developed wings and leave the water in autumn to overwinter in forests, returning in spring to small bodies of water to lay eggs. Their wings are absolutely necessary for this seasonal dispersal. The summer (early) generation, in contrast, is usually dimorphic—some individuals have normal functional (macropterous) wings; others have much-reduced (micropterous) wings of no use for flight. The summer generation's dimorphism is a compromise strategy, for these individuals usually do not leave the ponds and thus generally have no use for fully developed wings. But small ponds occasionally dry up during the summer, forcing the water bugs to search for new habitats, an eventuality that macropterous individuals are well adapted to meet. The dimorphism of micropterous and macropterous individuals in the summer generation expresses developmental flexibility; it is not genetically determined. The individual's wing form is environmentally determined by the temperature to which developing eggs are exposed prior to their being laid. Eggs maintained in a warm environment always produce bugs with normal wings, but exposure to cold produces micropterous individuals. Eggs producing the overwintering brood are all formed during the late summer's warm temperatures. Hence, all individuals in the overwintering brood have normal wings. Eggs laid by the overwintering adults in the spring, which develop into the summer generation of adults, are formed in early autumn and early spring. Those eggs formed in autumn are exposed to cold winter temperatures, and thus produce micropterous adults in the summer generation. Those formed during the spring are never exposed to cold temperatures, and thus yield individuals with normal wings. Adult water bugs of the overwintering generation, brought into the laboratory during the cold months and kept warm, produce only macropterous offspring. | 199110_1-RC_3_17 | [
"the overwintering generation forms two sets of eggs, one exposed to the colder temperatures of winter and one exposed only to the warmer temperatures of spring",
"the eggs that produce micropterous and macropterous adults are morphologically different",
"water bugs respond to seasonal changes by making an acclimatory functional adjustment in the wings",
"water bugs hatching in the spring live out their life spans in ponds and never need to fly",
"the overwintering generation, which produces eggs developing into the dimorphic generation, spends the winter in the forest and the spring in small ponds"
] | 0 | According to the passage, the dimorphic wing structure of the summer generation of water bugs occurs because |
Three basic adaptive responses—regulatory, acclimatory, and developmental—may occur in organisms as they react to changing environmental conditions. In all three, adjustment of biological features (morphological adjustment) or of their use (functional adjustment) may occur. Regulatory responses involve rapid changes in the organism's use of its physiological apparatus—increasing or decreasing the rates of various processes, for example. Acclimation involves morphological change—thickening of fur or red blood cell proliferation—which alters physiology itself. Such structural changes require more time than regulatory response changes. Regulatory and acclimatory responses are both reversible. Developmental responses, however, are usually permanent and irreversible; they become fixed in the course of the individual's development in response to environmental conditions at the time the response occurs. One such response occurs in many kinds of water bugs. Most water-bug species inhabiting small lakes and ponds have two generations per year. The first hatches during the spring, reproduces during the summer, then dies. The eggs laid in the summer hatch and develop into adults in late summer. They live over the winter before breeding in early spring. Individuals in the second (overwintering) generation have fully developed wings and leave the water in autumn to overwinter in forests, returning in spring to small bodies of water to lay eggs. Their wings are absolutely necessary for this seasonal dispersal. The summer (early) generation, in contrast, is usually dimorphic—some individuals have normal functional (macropterous) wings; others have much-reduced (micropterous) wings of no use for flight. The summer generation's dimorphism is a compromise strategy, for these individuals usually do not leave the ponds and thus generally have no use for fully developed wings. But small ponds occasionally dry up during the summer, forcing the water bugs to search for new habitats, an eventuality that macropterous individuals are well adapted to meet. The dimorphism of micropterous and macropterous individuals in the summer generation expresses developmental flexibility; it is not genetically determined. The individual's wing form is environmentally determined by the temperature to which developing eggs are exposed prior to their being laid. Eggs maintained in a warm environment always produce bugs with normal wings, but exposure to cold produces micropterous individuals. Eggs producing the overwintering brood are all formed during the late summer's warm temperatures. Hence, all individuals in the overwintering brood have normal wings. Eggs laid by the overwintering adults in the spring, which develop into the summer generation of adults, are formed in early autumn and early spring. Those eggs formed in autumn are exposed to cold winter temperatures, and thus produce micropterous adults in the summer generation. Those formed during the spring are never exposed to cold temperatures, and thus yield individuals with normal wings. Adult water bugs of the overwintering generation, brought into the laboratory during the cold months and kept warm, produce only macropterous offspring. | 199110_1-RC_3_18 | [
"thickening of the plumage of some birds in the autumn",
"increase in pulse rate during vigorous exercise",
"gradual darkening of the skin after exposure to sunlight",
"gradual enlargement of muscles as a result of weight lifting",
"development of a heavy fat layer in bears before hibernation"
] | 1 | It can be inferred from the passage that which one of the following is an example of a regulatory response? |
Three basic adaptive responses—regulatory, acclimatory, and developmental—may occur in organisms as they react to changing environmental conditions. In all three, adjustment of biological features (morphological adjustment) or of their use (functional adjustment) may occur. Regulatory responses involve rapid changes in the organism's use of its physiological apparatus—increasing or decreasing the rates of various processes, for example. Acclimation involves morphological change—thickening of fur or red blood cell proliferation—which alters physiology itself. Such structural changes require more time than regulatory response changes. Regulatory and acclimatory responses are both reversible. Developmental responses, however, are usually permanent and irreversible; they become fixed in the course of the individual's development in response to environmental conditions at the time the response occurs. One such response occurs in many kinds of water bugs. Most water-bug species inhabiting small lakes and ponds have two generations per year. The first hatches during the spring, reproduces during the summer, then dies. The eggs laid in the summer hatch and develop into adults in late summer. They live over the winter before breeding in early spring. Individuals in the second (overwintering) generation have fully developed wings and leave the water in autumn to overwinter in forests, returning in spring to small bodies of water to lay eggs. Their wings are absolutely necessary for this seasonal dispersal. The summer (early) generation, in contrast, is usually dimorphic—some individuals have normal functional (macropterous) wings; others have much-reduced (micropterous) wings of no use for flight. The summer generation's dimorphism is a compromise strategy, for these individuals usually do not leave the ponds and thus generally have no use for fully developed wings. But small ponds occasionally dry up during the summer, forcing the water bugs to search for new habitats, an eventuality that macropterous individuals are well adapted to meet. The dimorphism of micropterous and macropterous individuals in the summer generation expresses developmental flexibility; it is not genetically determined. The individual's wing form is environmentally determined by the temperature to which developing eggs are exposed prior to their being laid. Eggs maintained in a warm environment always produce bugs with normal wings, but exposure to cold produces micropterous individuals. Eggs producing the overwintering brood are all formed during the late summer's warm temperatures. Hence, all individuals in the overwintering brood have normal wings. Eggs laid by the overwintering adults in the spring, which develop into the summer generation of adults, are formed in early autumn and early spring. Those eggs formed in autumn are exposed to cold winter temperatures, and thus produce micropterous adults in the summer generation. Those formed during the spring are never exposed to cold temperatures, and thus yield individuals with normal wings. Adult water bugs of the overwintering generation, brought into the laboratory during the cold months and kept warm, produce only macropterous offspring. | 199110_1-RC_3_19 | [
"be made up of equal numbers of macropterous and micropterous individuals",
"lay its eggs during the winter in order to expose them to cold",
"show a marked inability to fly from one pond to another",
"exhibit genetically determined differences in wing form from the early spring-hatched generation",
"contain a much greater proportion of macropterous water bugs than the early spring-hatched generation"
] | 4 | According to the passage, the generation of water bugs hatching during the summer is likely to |
Three basic adaptive responses—regulatory, acclimatory, and developmental—may occur in organisms as they react to changing environmental conditions. In all three, adjustment of biological features (morphological adjustment) or of their use (functional adjustment) may occur. Regulatory responses involve rapid changes in the organism's use of its physiological apparatus—increasing or decreasing the rates of various processes, for example. Acclimation involves morphological change—thickening of fur or red blood cell proliferation—which alters physiology itself. Such structural changes require more time than regulatory response changes. Regulatory and acclimatory responses are both reversible. Developmental responses, however, are usually permanent and irreversible; they become fixed in the course of the individual's development in response to environmental conditions at the time the response occurs. One such response occurs in many kinds of water bugs. Most water-bug species inhabiting small lakes and ponds have two generations per year. The first hatches during the spring, reproduces during the summer, then dies. The eggs laid in the summer hatch and develop into adults in late summer. They live over the winter before breeding in early spring. Individuals in the second (overwintering) generation have fully developed wings and leave the water in autumn to overwinter in forests, returning in spring to small bodies of water to lay eggs. Their wings are absolutely necessary for this seasonal dispersal. The summer (early) generation, in contrast, is usually dimorphic—some individuals have normal functional (macropterous) wings; others have much-reduced (micropterous) wings of no use for flight. The summer generation's dimorphism is a compromise strategy, for these individuals usually do not leave the ponds and thus generally have no use for fully developed wings. But small ponds occasionally dry up during the summer, forcing the water bugs to search for new habitats, an eventuality that macropterous individuals are well adapted to meet. The dimorphism of micropterous and macropterous individuals in the summer generation expresses developmental flexibility; it is not genetically determined. The individual's wing form is environmentally determined by the temperature to which developing eggs are exposed prior to their being laid. Eggs maintained in a warm environment always produce bugs with normal wings, but exposure to cold produces micropterous individuals. Eggs producing the overwintering brood are all formed during the late summer's warm temperatures. Hence, all individuals in the overwintering brood have normal wings. Eggs laid by the overwintering adults in the spring, which develop into the summer generation of adults, are formed in early autumn and early spring. Those eggs formed in autumn are exposed to cold winter temperatures, and thus produce micropterous adults in the summer generation. Those formed during the spring are never exposed to cold temperatures, and thus yield individuals with normal wings. Adult water bugs of the overwintering generation, brought into the laboratory during the cold months and kept warm, produce only macropterous offspring. | 199110_1-RC_3_20 | [
"the function of the summer generation's dimorphism",
"the irreversibility of most developmental adaptive responses in water bugs",
"the effect of temperature on developing water-bug eggs",
"the morphological difference between the summer generation and the overwintering generation of water bugs",
"the functional adjustment of water bugs in response to seasonal temperature variation"
] | 2 | The author mentions laboratory experiments with adult water bugs (lines 63–66) in order to illustrate which one of the following? |
Three basic adaptive responses—regulatory, acclimatory, and developmental—may occur in organisms as they react to changing environmental conditions. In all three, adjustment of biological features (morphological adjustment) or of their use (functional adjustment) may occur. Regulatory responses involve rapid changes in the organism's use of its physiological apparatus—increasing or decreasing the rates of various processes, for example. Acclimation involves morphological change—thickening of fur or red blood cell proliferation—which alters physiology itself. Such structural changes require more time than regulatory response changes. Regulatory and acclimatory responses are both reversible. Developmental responses, however, are usually permanent and irreversible; they become fixed in the course of the individual's development in response to environmental conditions at the time the response occurs. One such response occurs in many kinds of water bugs. Most water-bug species inhabiting small lakes and ponds have two generations per year. The first hatches during the spring, reproduces during the summer, then dies. The eggs laid in the summer hatch and develop into adults in late summer. They live over the winter before breeding in early spring. Individuals in the second (overwintering) generation have fully developed wings and leave the water in autumn to overwinter in forests, returning in spring to small bodies of water to lay eggs. Their wings are absolutely necessary for this seasonal dispersal. The summer (early) generation, in contrast, is usually dimorphic—some individuals have normal functional (macropterous) wings; others have much-reduced (micropterous) wings of no use for flight. The summer generation's dimorphism is a compromise strategy, for these individuals usually do not leave the ponds and thus generally have no use for fully developed wings. But small ponds occasionally dry up during the summer, forcing the water bugs to search for new habitats, an eventuality that macropterous individuals are well adapted to meet. The dimorphism of micropterous and macropterous individuals in the summer generation expresses developmental flexibility; it is not genetically determined. The individual's wing form is environmentally determined by the temperature to which developing eggs are exposed prior to their being laid. Eggs maintained in a warm environment always produce bugs with normal wings, but exposure to cold produces micropterous individuals. Eggs producing the overwintering brood are all formed during the late summer's warm temperatures. Hence, all individuals in the overwintering brood have normal wings. Eggs laid by the overwintering adults in the spring, which develop into the summer generation of adults, are formed in early autumn and early spring. Those eggs formed in autumn are exposed to cold winter temperatures, and thus produce micropterous adults in the summer generation. Those formed during the spring are never exposed to cold temperatures, and thus yield individuals with normal wings. Adult water bugs of the overwintering generation, brought into the laboratory during the cold months and kept warm, produce only macropterous offspring. | 199110_1-RC_3_21 | [
"Biological phenomena are presented, examples of their occurrence are compared and contrasted, and one particular example is illustrated in detail.",
"A description of related biological phenomena is stated, and two of those phenomena are explained in detail with illustrated examples.",
"Three related biological phenomena are described, a hypothesis explaining their relationship is presented, and supporting evidence is produced.",
"Three complementary biological phenomena are explained, their causes are examined, and one of them is described by contrasting its causes with the other two.",
"A new way of describing biological phenomena is suggested, its applications are presented, and one specific example is examined in detail."
] | 0 | Which one of the following best describes the organization of the passage? |
The Constitution of the United States does not explicitly define the extent of the President's authority to involve United States troops in conflicts with other nations in the absence of a declaration of war. Instead, the question of the President's authority in this matter falls in the hazy area of concurrent power, where authority is not expressly allocated to either the President or the Congress. The Constitution gives Congress the basic power to declare war, as well as the authority to raise and support armies and a navy, enact regulations for the control of the military, and provide for the common defense. The President, on the other hand, in addition to being obligated to execute the laws of the land, including commitments negotiated by defense treaties, is named commander in chief of the armed forces and is empowered to appoint envoys and make treaties with the consent of the Senate. Although this allocation of powers does not expressly address the use of armed forces short of a declared war, the spirit of the Constitution at least requires that Congress should be involved in the decision to deploy troops, and in passing the War Powers Resolution of 1973, Congress has at last reclaimed a role in such decisions. Historically, United States Presidents have not waited for the approval of Congress before involving United States troops in conflicts in which a state of war was not declared. One scholar has identified 199 military engagements that occurred without the consent of Congress, ranging from Jefferson's conflict with the Barbary pirates to Nixon's invasion of Cambodia during the Vietnam conflict, which President Nixon argued was justified because his role as commander in chief allowed him almost unlimited discretion over the deployment of troops. However, the Vietnam conflict, never a declared war, represented a turning point in Congress's tolerance of presidential discretion in the deployment of troops in undeclared wars. Galvanized by the human and monetary cost of those hostilities and showing a new determination to fulfill its proper role, Congress enacted the War Powers Resolution of 1973, a statute designed to ensure that the collective judgment of both Congress and the President would be applied to the involvement of United States troops in foreign conflicts. The resolution required the President, in the absence of a declaration of war, to consult with Congress "in every possible instance" before introducing forces and to report to Congress within 48 hours after the forces have actually been deployed. Most important, the resolution allows Congress to veto the involvement once it begins, and requires the President, in most cases, to end the involvement within 60 days unless Congress specifically authorizes the military operation to continue. In its final section, by declaring that the resolution is not intended to alter the constitutional authority of either Congress or the President, the resolution asserts that congressional involvement in decisions to use armed force is in accord with the intent and spirit of the Constitution. | 199110_1-RC_4_22 | [
"showing how the Vietnam conflict led to a new interpretation of the Constitution's provisions for use of the military",
"arguing that the War Powers Resolution of 1973 is an attempt to reclaim a share of constitutionally concurrent power that had been usurped by the President",
"outlining the history of the struggle between the President and Congress for control of the military",
"providing examples of conflicts inherent in the Constitution's approach to a balance of powers",
"explaining how the War Powers Resolution of 1973 alters the Constitution to eliminate an overlap of authority"
] | 1 | In the passage, the author is primarily concerned with |
The Constitution of the United States does not explicitly define the extent of the President's authority to involve United States troops in conflicts with other nations in the absence of a declaration of war. Instead, the question of the President's authority in this matter falls in the hazy area of concurrent power, where authority is not expressly allocated to either the President or the Congress. The Constitution gives Congress the basic power to declare war, as well as the authority to raise and support armies and a navy, enact regulations for the control of the military, and provide for the common defense. The President, on the other hand, in addition to being obligated to execute the laws of the land, including commitments negotiated by defense treaties, is named commander in chief of the armed forces and is empowered to appoint envoys and make treaties with the consent of the Senate. Although this allocation of powers does not expressly address the use of armed forces short of a declared war, the spirit of the Constitution at least requires that Congress should be involved in the decision to deploy troops, and in passing the War Powers Resolution of 1973, Congress has at last reclaimed a role in such decisions. Historically, United States Presidents have not waited for the approval of Congress before involving United States troops in conflicts in which a state of war was not declared. One scholar has identified 199 military engagements that occurred without the consent of Congress, ranging from Jefferson's conflict with the Barbary pirates to Nixon's invasion of Cambodia during the Vietnam conflict, which President Nixon argued was justified because his role as commander in chief allowed him almost unlimited discretion over the deployment of troops. However, the Vietnam conflict, never a declared war, represented a turning point in Congress's tolerance of presidential discretion in the deployment of troops in undeclared wars. Galvanized by the human and monetary cost of those hostilities and showing a new determination to fulfill its proper role, Congress enacted the War Powers Resolution of 1973, a statute designed to ensure that the collective judgment of both Congress and the President would be applied to the involvement of United States troops in foreign conflicts. The resolution required the President, in the absence of a declaration of war, to consult with Congress "in every possible instance" before introducing forces and to report to Congress within 48 hours after the forces have actually been deployed. Most important, the resolution allows Congress to veto the involvement once it begins, and requires the President, in most cases, to end the involvement within 60 days unless Congress specifically authorizes the military operation to continue. In its final section, by declaring that the resolution is not intended to alter the constitutional authority of either Congress or the President, the resolution asserts that congressional involvement in decisions to use armed force is in accord with the intent and spirit of the Constitution. | 199110_1-RC_4_23 | [
"assumes that the President and Congress will agree on whether troops should be used",
"provides a clear-cut division of authority between the President and Congress in the decision to use troops",
"assigns a greater role to the Congress than to the President in deciding whether troops should be used",
"grants final authority to the President to decide whether to use troops",
"intends that both the President and Congress should be involved in the decision to use troops"
] | 4 | With regard to the use of United States troops in a foreign conflict without a formal declaration of war by the United States, the author believes that the United States Constitution does which one of the following? |
The Constitution of the United States does not explicitly define the extent of the President's authority to involve United States troops in conflicts with other nations in the absence of a declaration of war. Instead, the question of the President's authority in this matter falls in the hazy area of concurrent power, where authority is not expressly allocated to either the President or the Congress. The Constitution gives Congress the basic power to declare war, as well as the authority to raise and support armies and a navy, enact regulations for the control of the military, and provide for the common defense. The President, on the other hand, in addition to being obligated to execute the laws of the land, including commitments negotiated by defense treaties, is named commander in chief of the armed forces and is empowered to appoint envoys and make treaties with the consent of the Senate. Although this allocation of powers does not expressly address the use of armed forces short of a declared war, the spirit of the Constitution at least requires that Congress should be involved in the decision to deploy troops, and in passing the War Powers Resolution of 1973, Congress has at last reclaimed a role in such decisions. Historically, United States Presidents have not waited for the approval of Congress before involving United States troops in conflicts in which a state of war was not declared. One scholar has identified 199 military engagements that occurred without the consent of Congress, ranging from Jefferson's conflict with the Barbary pirates to Nixon's invasion of Cambodia during the Vietnam conflict, which President Nixon argued was justified because his role as commander in chief allowed him almost unlimited discretion over the deployment of troops. However, the Vietnam conflict, never a declared war, represented a turning point in Congress's tolerance of presidential discretion in the deployment of troops in undeclared wars. Galvanized by the human and monetary cost of those hostilities and showing a new determination to fulfill its proper role, Congress enacted the War Powers Resolution of 1973, a statute designed to ensure that the collective judgment of both Congress and the President would be applied to the involvement of United States troops in foreign conflicts. The resolution required the President, in the absence of a declaration of war, to consult with Congress "in every possible instance" before introducing forces and to report to Congress within 48 hours after the forces have actually been deployed. Most important, the resolution allows Congress to veto the involvement once it begins, and requires the President, in most cases, to end the involvement within 60 days unless Congress specifically authorizes the military operation to continue. In its final section, by declaring that the resolution is not intended to alter the constitutional authority of either Congress or the President, the resolution asserts that congressional involvement in decisions to use armed force is in accord with the intent and spirit of the Constitution. | 199110_1-RC_4_24 | [
"a change in the attitude in Congress toward exercising its role in the use of armed forces",
"the failure of Presidents to uphold commitments specified in defense treaties",
"Congress's desire to be consulted concerning United States military actions instigated by the President",
"the amount of money spent on recent conflicts waged without a declaration of war",
"the number of lives lost in Vietnam"
] | 1 | The passage suggests that each of the following contributed to Congress's enacting the War Powers Resolution of 1973 EXCEPT |
The Constitution of the United States does not explicitly define the extent of the President's authority to involve United States troops in conflicts with other nations in the absence of a declaration of war. Instead, the question of the President's authority in this matter falls in the hazy area of concurrent power, where authority is not expressly allocated to either the President or the Congress. The Constitution gives Congress the basic power to declare war, as well as the authority to raise and support armies and a navy, enact regulations for the control of the military, and provide for the common defense. The President, on the other hand, in addition to being obligated to execute the laws of the land, including commitments negotiated by defense treaties, is named commander in chief of the armed forces and is empowered to appoint envoys and make treaties with the consent of the Senate. Although this allocation of powers does not expressly address the use of armed forces short of a declared war, the spirit of the Constitution at least requires that Congress should be involved in the decision to deploy troops, and in passing the War Powers Resolution of 1973, Congress has at last reclaimed a role in such decisions. Historically, United States Presidents have not waited for the approval of Congress before involving United States troops in conflicts in which a state of war was not declared. One scholar has identified 199 military engagements that occurred without the consent of Congress, ranging from Jefferson's conflict with the Barbary pirates to Nixon's invasion of Cambodia during the Vietnam conflict, which President Nixon argued was justified because his role as commander in chief allowed him almost unlimited discretion over the deployment of troops. However, the Vietnam conflict, never a declared war, represented a turning point in Congress's tolerance of presidential discretion in the deployment of troops in undeclared wars. Galvanized by the human and monetary cost of those hostilities and showing a new determination to fulfill its proper role, Congress enacted the War Powers Resolution of 1973, a statute designed to ensure that the collective judgment of both Congress and the President would be applied to the involvement of United States troops in foreign conflicts. The resolution required the President, in the absence of a declaration of war, to consult with Congress "in every possible instance" before introducing forces and to report to Congress within 48 hours after the forces have actually been deployed. Most important, the resolution allows Congress to veto the involvement once it begins, and requires the President, in most cases, to end the involvement within 60 days unless Congress specifically authorizes the military operation to continue. In its final section, by declaring that the resolution is not intended to alter the constitutional authority of either Congress or the President, the resolution asserts that congressional involvement in decisions to use armed force is in accord with the intent and spirit of the Constitution. | 199110_1-RC_4_25 | [
"Congress has enacted other laws that already set out presidential requirements for situations in which war has been declared",
"by virtue of declaring war, Congress already implicitly participates in the decision to deploy troops",
"the President generally receives broad public support during wars that have been formally declared by Congress",
"Congress felt that the President should be allowed unlimited discretion in cases in which war has been declared",
"the United States Constitution already explicitly defines the reporting and consulting requirements of the President in cases in which war has been declared"
] | 1 | It can be inferred from the passage that the War Powers Resolution of 1973 is applicable only in "the absence of a declaration of war" (lines 48–49) because |
The Constitution of the United States does not explicitly define the extent of the President's authority to involve United States troops in conflicts with other nations in the absence of a declaration of war. Instead, the question of the President's authority in this matter falls in the hazy area of concurrent power, where authority is not expressly allocated to either the President or the Congress. The Constitution gives Congress the basic power to declare war, as well as the authority to raise and support armies and a navy, enact regulations for the control of the military, and provide for the common defense. The President, on the other hand, in addition to being obligated to execute the laws of the land, including commitments negotiated by defense treaties, is named commander in chief of the armed forces and is empowered to appoint envoys and make treaties with the consent of the Senate. Although this allocation of powers does not expressly address the use of armed forces short of a declared war, the spirit of the Constitution at least requires that Congress should be involved in the decision to deploy troops, and in passing the War Powers Resolution of 1973, Congress has at last reclaimed a role in such decisions. Historically, United States Presidents have not waited for the approval of Congress before involving United States troops in conflicts in which a state of war was not declared. One scholar has identified 199 military engagements that occurred without the consent of Congress, ranging from Jefferson's conflict with the Barbary pirates to Nixon's invasion of Cambodia during the Vietnam conflict, which President Nixon argued was justified because his role as commander in chief allowed him almost unlimited discretion over the deployment of troops. However, the Vietnam conflict, never a declared war, represented a turning point in Congress's tolerance of presidential discretion in the deployment of troops in undeclared wars. Galvanized by the human and monetary cost of those hostilities and showing a new determination to fulfill its proper role, Congress enacted the War Powers Resolution of 1973, a statute designed to ensure that the collective judgment of both Congress and the President would be applied to the involvement of United States troops in foreign conflicts. The resolution required the President, in the absence of a declaration of war, to consult with Congress "in every possible instance" before introducing forces and to report to Congress within 48 hours after the forces have actually been deployed. Most important, the resolution allows Congress to veto the involvement once it begins, and requires the President, in most cases, to end the involvement within 60 days unless Congress specifically authorizes the military operation to continue. In its final section, by declaring that the resolution is not intended to alter the constitutional authority of either Congress or the President, the resolution asserts that congressional involvement in decisions to use armed force is in accord with the intent and spirit of the Constitution. | 199110_1-RC_4_26 | [
"is not in accord with the explicit roles of the President and Congress as defined in the Constitution",
"interferes with the role of the President as commander in chief of the armed forces",
"signals Congress's commitment to fulfill a role intended for it by the Constitution",
"fails explicitly to address the use of armed forces in the absence of a declaration of war",
"confirms the role historically assumed by Presidents"
] | 2 | It can be inferred from the passage that the author believes that the War Powers Resolution of 1973 |
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