SAT閱讀練習題:Reading Comprehension Test 10 Passage 1

　　It begins the moment you set foot ashore, the moment　you step off the boats gangway. The heart suddenly, yet vaguely,　sinks. It is no lurch of fear. Quite the contrary. It is as if the life-urge failed, and the heart dimly sank. You trail past the　5 benevolent policeman and the inoffensive passport officials,　through the fussy and somehow foolish customs - we dont really　think it matters if somebody smuggles in two pairs of false-silk　stockings - and we get into the poky but inoffensive train, with　poky but utterly inoffensive people, and we have a cup of　10 inoffensive tea from a nice inoffensive boy, and we run through　small, poky but nice and inoffensive country, till we are landed　in the big but unexciting station of Victoria, when an inoffensive　porter puts us into an inoffensive taxi and we are riven through　the crowded yet strangely dull streets of London to the cosy yet　15 strangely poky and dull place where we are going to stay. And　the first half-hour in London, after some years abroad, is really a　plunge of misery. The strange, the grey and uncanny, almost　deathly sense of dullness is overwhelming. Of course, you get　over it after a while, and admit that you exaggerated. You get　20 into the rhythm of London again, and you tell yourself that it is　not dull. And yet you are haunted, all the time, sleeping or　waking, with the uncanny feeling: It is dull! It is all dull! This　life here is one vast complex of dullness! I am dull! I am being　dulled! My spirit is being dulled! My life is dulling down to　25 London dullness.

　　This is the nightmare that haunts you the first few weeks　of London. No doubt if you stay longer you get over it, and find　London as thrilling as Paris or Rome or New York. But the　climate is against me. I cannot stay long enough. With pinched　30 and wondering gaze, the morning of departure, I look out of the　taxi upon the strange dullness of Londons arousing; a sort of　death; and hope and life only return when I get my seat in the　boat-train, and hear all the Good-byes! Good-bye! Good-bye!

　　Thank God to say Good-bye!

　　Passage 2

　　35 On the banks of the Thames it is a tremendous chapter of　accidents - the London-lover has to confess to the existence of　miles upon miles of the dreariest, stodgiest commonness.

　　Thousands of acres are covered by low black houses, of the　cheapest construction, without ornament, without grace, without　40 character or even identity. In fact there are many, even in the best

　　quarters, in all the region of Mayfair and Belgravia, of so paltry　and inconvenient and above all of so diminutive a type, that you　wonder what peculiarly limited domestic need they were　constructed to meet. The great misfortune of London, to the eye　45 , is the　want of elevation. There is no architectural impression without a　certain degree of height, and the London street-vista has none of　that sort of pride.

　　All the same, if there be not the intention, there is at least the　50 accident, of style, which, if one looks at it in a friendly way,　appears to proceed from three sources. One of these is simply the　general greatness, and the manner in which that makes a　difference for the better in any particular spot, so that though you　may often perceive yourself to be in a shabby corner it never　55 occurs to you that this is the end of it. Another is the atmosphere,　with its magnificent mystifications, which flatters and　superfuses, makes everything brown, rich, dim, vague, magnifies　distances and minimises details, confirms the inference of　vastness by suggesting that, as the great city makes everything, it　60 makes its own system of weather and its own optical laws. The　last is the congregation of the parks, which constitute an　ornament not elsewhere to be matched and give the place a　superiority that none of its uglinesses overcome. They spread　themselves with such a luxury of space in the centre of the town　65 that they form a part of the impression of any walk, of almost any　view, and, with an audacity altogether their own, make a pastoral　landscape under the smoky sky. There is no mood of the rich　London climate that is not becoming to them - I have seen them　look delightfully romantic, like parks in novels, in the wettest　70 winter - and there is scarcely a mood of the appreciative resident　to which they have not something to say. The high things of　London, which here and there peep over them, only make the　spaces vaster by reminding you that you are after all not in Kent　or Yorkshire; and these things, whatever they be, rows of　75 eligible dwellings, towers of churches, domes of institutions,

　　take such an effective gray-blue tint that a clever watercolorist　would seem to have put them in for pictorial reasons.

　　The view from the bridge over the Serpentine has an　extraordinary nobleness, and it has often seemed to me that the　80 Londoner twitted with his low standard may point to it with　every onfidence. In all the town-scenery of Europe there can be　few things so fine; the only reproach it is open to is that it begs　the question by seeming - in spite of its being the pride of five　millions of people - not to belong to a town at all. The towers of　85 Notre Dame, as they rise, in Paris, from the island that divides　the Seine, present themselves no more impressively than those of　Westminster as you see them looking doubly far beyond the　shining stretch of Hyde Park water. Equally admirable is the　large, river-like manner in which the Serpentine opens away　90 between its wooded shores. Just after you have crossed the　bridge you enjoy on your left, through the gate of Kensington　Gardens, an altogether enchanting vista - a footpath over the　grass, which loses itself beneath the scattered oaks and elms　exactly as if the place were a chase. There could be nothing less　95 like London in general than this particular morsel, and yet it　takes London, of all cities, to give you such an impression of the　country.

　　SAT閱讀練習題:Reading Comprehension Test 10 Passage 1

　　It begins the moment you set foot ashore, the moment　you step off the boats gangway. The heart suddenly, yet vaguely,　sinks. It is no lurch of fear. Quite the contrary. It is as if the life-urge failed, and the heart dimly sank. You trail past the　5 benevolent policeman and the inoffensive passport officials,　through the fussy and somehow foolish customs - we dont really　think it matters if somebody smuggles in two pairs of false-silk　stockings - and we get into the poky but inoffensive train, with　poky but utterly inoffensive people, and we have a cup of　10 inoffensive tea from a nice inoffensive boy, and we run through　small, poky but nice and inoffensive country, till we are landed　in the big but unexciting station of Victoria, when an inoffensive　porter puts us into an inoffensive taxi and we are riven through　the crowded yet strangely dull streets of London to the cosy yet　15 strangely poky and dull place where we are going to stay. And　the first half-hour in London, after some years abroad, is really a　plunge of misery. The strange, the grey and uncanny, almost　deathly sense of dullness is overwhelming. Of course, you get　over it after a while, and admit that you exaggerated. You get　20 into the rhythm of London again, and you tell yourself that it is　not dull. And yet you are haunted, all the time, sleeping or　waking, with the uncanny feeling: It is dull! It is all dull! This　life here is one vast complex of dullness! I am dull! I am being　dulled! My spirit is being dulled! My life is dulling down to　25 London dullness.

　　This is the nightmare that haunts you the first few weeks　of London. No doubt if you stay longer you get over it, and find　London as thrilling as Paris or Rome or New York. But the　climate is against me. I cannot stay long enough. With pinched　30 and wondering gaze, the morning of departure, I look out of the　taxi upon the strange dullness of Londons arousing; a sort of　death; and hope and life only return when I get my seat in the　boat-train, and hear all the Good-byes! Good-bye! Good-bye!

　　Thank God to say Good-bye!

　　Passage 2

　　35 On the banks of the Thames it is a tremendous chapter of　accidents - the London-lover has to confess to the existence of　miles upon miles of the dreariest, stodgiest commonness.

　　Thousands of acres are covered by low black houses, of the　cheapest construction, without ornament, without grace, without　40 character or even identity. In fact there are many, even in the best

　　quarters, in all the region of Mayfair and Belgravia, of so paltry　and inconvenient and above all of so diminutive a type, that you　wonder what peculiarly limited domestic need they were　constructed to meet. The great misfortune of London, to the eye　45 , is the　want of elevation. There is no architectural impression without a　certain degree of height, and the London street-vista has none of　that sort of pride.

　　All the same, if there be not the intention, there is at least the　50 accident, of style, which, if one looks at it in a friendly way,　appears to proceed from three sources. One of these is simply the　general greatness, and the manner in which that makes a　difference for the better in any particular spot, so that though you　may often perceive yourself to be in a shabby corner it never　55 occurs to you that this is the end of it. Another is the atmosphere,　with its magnificent mystifications, which flatters and　superfuses, makes everything brown, rich, dim, vague, magnifies　distances and minimises details, confirms the inference of　vastness by suggesting that, as the great city makes everything, it　60 makes its own system of weather and its own optical laws. The　last is the congregation of the parks, which constitute an　ornament not elsewhere to be matched and give the place a　superiority that none of its uglinesses overcome. They spread　themselves with such a luxury of space in the centre of the town　65 that they form a part of the impression of any walk, of almost any　view, and, with an audacity altogether their own, make a pastoral　landscape under the smoky sky. There is no mood of the rich　London climate that is not becoming to them - I have seen them　look delightfully romantic, like parks in novels, in the wettest　70 winter - and there is scarcely a mood of the appreciative resident　to which they have not something to say. The high things of　London, which here and there peep over them, only make the　spaces vaster by reminding you that you are after all not in Kent　or Yorkshire; and these things, whatever they be, rows of　75 eligible dwellings, towers of churches, domes of institutions,

　　take such an effective gray-blue tint that a clever watercolorist　would seem to have put them in for pictorial reasons.

　　The view from the bridge over the Serpentine has an　extraordinary nobleness, and it has often seemed to me that the　80 Londoner twitted with his low standard may point to it with　every onfidence. In all the town-scenery of Europe there can be　few things so fine; the only reproach it is open to is that it begs　the question by seeming - in spite of its being the pride of five　millions of people - not to belong to a town at all. The towers of　85 Notre Dame, as they rise, in Paris, from the island that divides　the Seine, present themselves no more impressively than those of　Westminster as you see them looking doubly far beyond the　shining stretch of Hyde Park water. Equally admirable is the　large, river-like manner in which the Serpentine opens away　90 between its wooded shores. Just after you have crossed the　bridge you enjoy on your left, through the gate of Kensington　Gardens, an altogether enchanting vista - a footpath over the　grass, which loses itself beneath the scattered oaks and elms　exactly as if the place were a chase. There could be nothing less　95 like London in general than this particular morsel, and yet it　takes London, of all cities, to give you such an impression of the　country.