Professional Documents
Culture Documents
ANSWER: d
REFERENCES: 28
LEARNING OBJECTIVES: SESE.ANDE.17.02.01 - Define culture.
TOPICS: Factual
OTHER: Modified
2. The complex system that includes a group’s beliefs, values, dress, and way of life is called
_____. a. counterculture
b. culture
c. social structure
d. culture complex
ANSWER: b
REFERENCES: 28
LEARNING OBJECTIVES: SESE.ANDE.17.02.01 - Define culture.
TOPICS: Factual
OTHER: PICKUP
ANSWER: d
REFERENCES: 28
LEARNING OBJECTIVES: SESE.ANDE.17.02.01 - Define culture.
TOPICS: Applied
OTHER: PICKUP
ANSWER: a
REFERENCES: 28
LEARNING OBJECTIVES: SESE.ANDE.17.02.01 - Define culture.
TOPICS: Factual
OTHER: Pickup
5. What is the relationship between other animals and humans, according to scientists?
a. Human biology determines mostof our behavior.
b. The natural environment is the biggest determinant of human behavior.
c. Other animals lack the elaborate symbol-based forms of knowing and communication that are
common in human societies.
d. Other animals and humans are identical with regard to behavior.
ANSWER: c
REFERENCES: 29
LEARNING OBJECTIVES: SESE.ANDE.17.02.01 - Define culture.
TOPICS: Conceptual
OTHER: Modified
ANSWER: b
REFERENCES: 30
LEARNING OBJECTIVES: SESE.ANDE.17.02.01 - Define culture.
TOPICS: Applied
OTHER: Modified
ANSWER: c
REFERENCES: 29
LEARNING OBJECTIVES: SESE.ANDE.17.02.01 - Define culture.
TOPICS: Conceptual
OTHER: Modified
ANSWER: c
REFERENCES: 29
LEARNING OBJECTIVES: SESE.ANDE.17.02.01 - Define culture.
OTHER: Modified
ANSWER: a
REFERENCES: 28
LEARNING OBJECTIVES: SESE.ANDE.17.02.01 - Define culture.
TOPICS: Conceptual
OTHER: Pickup
Hab’ich den Markt und die Strasse doch nicht so einsam gesehen
Were I to interpolate in a smooth passage of ‘Evangeline’ a verse from
the ‘Georgies’ or the ‘Æneid,’ would they go together?
Is the following a metrical sequence?
There is one line, one example of the smooth Virgilian verses, which
perhaps Mr. Longfellow would have allowed himself to use, and his readers
consented to accept, as a real hexameter.
Yet even this most exceptionable form, with its special aim at expressing,
by an adaptation of sound to sense, the
but
Ut belli signúm.
O dear! and can you, courteous and well-instructed reader, positively read
your ‘Georgics’ or ‘Æneid’ in that way? Do you, as a habit, scan as you go
along? Do you not feel it very awkward, must not the Romans also have felt
it rather awkward, to pass so continually and violently from the ordinary to
the sing-song accentuation? And if, as I think you must allow, there was
some awkwardness in it, why is it that Virgil, and the other good versifiers,
so constantly prefer that form of verse in which this awkwardness most
appears? Why is
where there is no such difficulty, a rare form, and ‘Ut bélli sígnum,’ where
there is, a common and favourite one? Do you know, I shall venture to
assert, that in the Latin language the system of accentuation was this, which
enjoined the awkwardness you complain of; the separation, in general, of
the colloquial and the metrical accent, the very opposite of that which we
observe, who, unless the two coincide, think the verse bad. Enough of this,
however.
Return, Alpheus, the dread voice is past—come back, my dear sir, we
will talk no more prosody—only just allow me to recite to you a few verses
of metaphrase, as they used to say, from the ‘Odyssey’; constructed as
nearly as may be upon the ancient principle; quantity, so far as, in our
forward-rushing, consonant-crushing, Anglo-savage enunciation—long and
short can in any kind be detected, quantity attended to in the first place, and
care also bestowed, in the second, to have the natural accents very
frequently laid upon syllables which the metrical reading depresses.
The aged Nestor, sitting among his sons at Pylos, is telling Telemachus,
who has come from Ithaca to ask tidings of his father, how, after the taking
of Troy, the insolence and violence of the Achæans called down upon them
the displeasure of the Father of the Gods and the stern blue-eyed virgin, his
daughter. Agamemnon and Meneläus, flushed with wine, quarrelled openly
in an assembly held at sunset, which broke up in disorder and tumult; the
leaders, some of them, staying behind to please Agamemnon; others,
drawing down their ships without delay and sailing off with Ulysses, came
as far as Tenedos, and then turned again back. But I, says Nestor—
Will this sort of thing please the modern ear? It is to be feared not. It is
too late a day in this nineteenth century to introduce a new principle,
however good, into modern European verse. We must be content, perhaps,
in this, as in other and higher matters, to take things as we find them, and
make the best we can of them. You, I dare say, my dear sir, though perhaps
no great lover of hexameters at all, will prefer to my laboured Homerics the
rough-and-ready Anglo-savage lines that follow. They render the prayer of
Achilles when he is sending out Patroclus with the Myrmidons to check the
victory of the Trojans.
Here, in a milder mood, the poet, for the conclusion of his first book,
describes the ‘easy living’ gods:—
P .
A PASSAGE UPON OXFORD STUDIES:
EXTRACTED FROM A REVIEW OF THE
OXFORD UNIVERSITY
COMMISSIONERS’ REPORT, 1852.
(Published in the ‘North American Review’ for April 1853,
Vol. lxxvi., No 159.)
‘I went to Oxford from the sixth form (the highest class) of a public
school. I had at that time read all Thucydides, except the sixth and seventh
books; the six first books of Herodotus; the early books of each author I had
done at least three times over. I had read five plays, I think, of Sophocles,
four of Æschylus—several of these two or three times over; four, perhaps,
or five, of Euripides; considerable portions of Aristophanes; nearly all the
“Odyssey”; only about a third of the “Iliad,” but that several times over; one
or two dialogues of Plato—the “Phædo,” I remember, was one; not quite all
Virgil; all Horace; a good deal of Livy and Tacitus; a considerable portion
of Aristotle’s “Rhetoric,” and two or three books of his “Ethics”; besides, of
course, other things. I mention these, because they have to do with Oxford.
I had been used to do my very best in translating in the class. We were not
marked; but expressions of approbation, graduated carefully, and invariably
given by the rule so formed, were quite sure to let every boy know how he
had done his part. The more diligent used to listen with eagerness for note
and comment; the idlest amongst us were considerably afraid of reprimand.
We were wont, moreover, to do three long original exercises every week,
out of school. These were looked over with us singly, and marked by a
regular scale. To fall below 26 I used to consider latterly a disgrace; to
attain 28, a very great piece of honour. I knew perfectly well when I did ill,
and when I did well.
‘No words, not even those of Mr. Lowe, can express the amount of the
change which I experienced on entering the lecture-rooms of my college—
though confessedly one of the very best in Oxford—and on embarking upon
the course of University study. Had I not read pretty nearly all the books?
Was I to go on, keeping up my Latin prose writers, for three years more?
Logic and Ethics had some little novelty; there was a little extra scholarship
to be obtained in some of the college lectures. But that was the utmost. I
should have wished to take to Mathematics, which I had hitherto rather
neglected; but Mathematics alone would not lead to a Fellowship, and I did
not feel any certainty that I could stand the strain of work for a “Double-
First.” I had been pretty well sated of distinctions and competitions at
school; I would gladly have dispensed with anything more of success in this
kind, always excepting the 200l. a year of the Fellowship. What I wanted
was to sit down to happy, unimpeded prosecution of some new subject or
subjects; surely, there was more in the domain of knowledge than that Latin
and Greek which I had been wandering about in for the last ten years.
Surely, there were other accomplishments to be mastered, besides the
composition of Iambics and Ciceronian prose. If there were, however, they
existed not for me. There were the daily lectures in the morning, which I did
not like to miss (and, indeed, could hardly have missed to any profitable
extent); nor yet, if I attended them, to neglect to prepare for them. The daily
lectures now, and the weary re-examination in classics three years ahead!
An infinite lassitude and impatience, which I saw reflected in the faces of
others, quickly began to infect me. Quousque Latin prose? Though we
should gain by it prizes and honours academical, beyond all academical
example, it would not the less certainly be a mere shame and waste of
strength to make the effort. I did go on, for duty’s sake, and for discipline
and docility, sadly doing Latin prose; but, except in docility, profiting but
little. Could I only have hoped to get through the whole business in a year
or a year and a half’s time, and then to be free to do what, before that is
over, one never does, study! Some pleasure, too, there would have been,
even in that old Greek and Latin, could one but have been free to pasture
freely, following a natural instinct, upon its fairly extensive field. But no; if
one did anything, one must “get up” the books for the schools, and they
were—three years ahead. Even the present alteration in the statute, by
which the suffering pilgrim is allowed to lay down a portion of his classical
burden at the feet of the examiners, at the end of the second year, appears to
me insufficient; ever so much classics and theology still remain behind, to
be carried on, as before, to the end of the third year. No proper
emancipation, no true admission to the rights of manly reading, is given,
until the moment when, for most, it comes too late.
‘The masters of the public schools have, it is true, been in fault; they
have pushed on their pupils too hastily; have prepared them prematurely for
the ultimate honours of the degree; have neglected the “Æneid” and the
“Iliad” for the sake of Aristophanes and the Ethics. Yet it is true,
nevertheless, that this very examination in Ethics, &c., used to be passed,
not so many years ago, by young men not a bit older than the boys at the
top of the public schools. Arnold took his First at nineteen, Peel his
“Double-First” at twenty. Surely, after the age of nineteen or twenty, it is
really time that this schoolboy love of racing, this empty competition,
should be checked. There is less, a great deal, at Oxford than at Cambridge;
but there is a great deal too much at Oxford. For the preliminary discipline
of boys, I grant it to be needful; to carry it forward into the very years of
legal manhood, appears to me a most foolish and ill-advised innovation.
The existing change I cannot account sufficient; every one, as before, must
do his literæ humaniores. Still, if four substantial departments were once
really and fairly established for the third year, I am happy in the belief that
no one would think so very much of high honours in any one of them.
Examinations are useful things, and the stricter they are the better; and the
results, I suppose, can hardly be made public without some honour
attending them. But by the great principle, “divide et impera,” we shall, I
hope, over-power much of this pernicious distinction. We shall be able to
prove to young men whether they really know what they think they know,
without declaring them (dî meliora!), to themselves and all the world, to be
the cleverest men in Oxford. Examinations, I repeat, are essential; but no
examinations will do much good unless there be, independent and
irrespective of them, a real inward taste, and liking, and passion, shall I say,
not for competitive effort and distinction, but for study, and the subjects
themselves of study. Examinations are sadly apt to impair this spring of
happy spontaneity; honos, indeed, alít artes, but not that honour which
attends the success of the race-horse; which testifies to a mere personal and
comparative superiority. Far more grateful and of far higher value than any
such popular plaudit, is to the faithful student, the strictly plain and severely
true ascertainment, not of whom he has beat, but of what he has done: the
real desideratum for him is the exact and well-considered verdict of an
accomplished judge of details; to details and separate branches, therefore—
not to aggregates of studies, but to distinct studies—should examinations be
applied. Quot homines, tot studia; quot studia, tot examinationes: Have as
many as you please; the more they are in number, the less imposing they are
singly; multiply them indefinitely. Only, of all Senior Wranglers,
Medallists, and even “Double-First,” let us be fairly and finally rid.’
EXTRACTS FROM A REVIEW OF A WORK
ENTITLED
‘CONSIDERATIONS ON SOME RECENT
SOCIAL THEORIES.’
(Published in the ‘North American Review’ for July 1853,
Vol. lxxvii., No. 160.)
Our author begins with the vague declamations, rather than positions,
which have lately been current in Europe—‘Liberty, Equality, and
Fraternity,’ ‘God and the People,’ ‘Direct Popular Government,’ ‘The
Universal Republic,’ and the like. Several of these he sums up in the old
formula, Vox populi vox Dei, and devotes his first chapter to the question of
its correctness. The high doctrine proclaimed by the fervid Italian leader, of
the supreme ‘authority of the people as the collective perpetual interpreter
of the will of God,’ finds but little favour with him. Who and what, he asks,
is this ‘Royal priesthood,’ this ‘Peculiar people’?
We cannot, indeed, any more than our author, soar to the high modern
Mazzinian acceptation of the ancient maxim. Those who use it should, at
any rate, we think, temper it in application by the rule,
There are many, surely, who, looking back into their past lives, feel most
thankful for those acts which came least from their own mere natural
volition—can see that what did them most good was what they themselves
would least have chosen; that things which, in fact, they were forced to,
were, after all, the best things that ever happened to them. There are some,
surely, who have had reason to bless a wholesome compulsion; there are
some who prefer doing right under a master to doing nothing but enjoy
themselves as their own masters; who, rather than be left to their own
unaided feebleness, hesitation, and indolence, would voluntarily, for their
own and the common good, enter a condition of what thenceforth would be
‘involuntary servitude.’ The mature freewill of the grown man looks back,
undoubtedly, with some little regret, but also with no little scorn, upon the
bygone puerile spontaneities of the time when he did as he liked.
There are periods, it is true, in the life of the individual human being,
and perhaps of the collective human race, when expansion is the first of
necessities. Such, it is possible, may be the present. But because we would
be rid of existing restrictions, it does not follow that restriction of all kinds
is an evil; because our present house is too small for us, it is not to be
inferred that we shall live henceforth in the open air.
As a general rule of life and conduct, we see as yet no reason to believe
that liberty, if this be its meaning, is better than service. It does not seem to
be established that the system on which the things we live amongst were
arranged, is that of spontaneous development, rather than of coercion met
by a mixture of resistance and submission. The latter hypothesis seems
intrinsically as much more elevating as the other does more agreeable.
Meantime, as a matter of language, we should be inclined to reject
altogether this modern sense of our old-established word Liberty. If the new
theory wants a name, let it find a new one. It will but perplex and cheat us
by claiming one already otherwise appropriated. When we hear people
demanding liberty, we shall consider them to express their desire, not for
the golden age, but either for release from some particular form of
restriction, or, it may be, for a less degree of restriction in general. Liberty
for us will mean either more liberty—just as, in the Black Hole of Calcutta,
‘air’ meant ‘more air’—or distinct emancipation, for example, from
personal slavery, or from foreign rule. Liberty in itself is but the power of
doing what we please; a power which, for all human beings, has its natural
limits. We may easily, indeed, have too much or too little of it; we can only
have it in degree, but without some degree of it we cannot exist.