Northanger Abbey — EN


The progress of Catherine’s unhap­pi­ness from the events of the evening was as fol­lows. It appeared first in a gen­er­al dis­sat­is­fac­tion with every­body about her, while she remained in the rooms, which speed­i­ly brought on con­sid­er­able weari­ness and a vio­lent desire to go home. This, on arriv­ing in Pul­teney Street, took the direc­tion of extra­or­di­nary hunger, and when that was appeased, changed into an earnest long­ing to be in bed; such was the extreme point of her dis­tress; for when there she imme­di­ate­ly fell into a sound sleep which last­ed nine hours, and from which she awoke per­fect­ly revived, in excel­lent spir­its, with fresh hopes and fresh schemes. The first wish of her heart was to improve her acquain­tance with Miss Tilney, and almost her first res­o­lu­tion, to seek her for that pur­pose, in the pump-room at noon. In the pump-room, one so new­ly arrived in Bath must be met with, and that build­ing she had already found so favourable for the dis­cov­ery of female excel­lence, and the com­ple­tion of female inti­ma­cy, so admirably adapt­ed for secret dis­cours­es and unlim­it­ed con­fi­dence, that she was most rea­son­ably encour­aged to expect anoth­er friend from with­in its walls. Her plan for the morn­ing thus set­tled, she sat qui­et­ly down to her book after break­fast, resolv­ing to remain in the same place and the same employ­ment till the clock struck one; and from habi­tude very lit­tle incom­mod­ed by the remarks and ejac­u­la­tions of Mrs. Allen, whose vacan­cy of mind and inca­pac­i­ty for think­ing were such, that as she nev­er talked a great deal, so she could nev­er be entire­ly silent; and, there­fore, while she sat at her work, if she lost her nee­dle or broke her thread, if she heard a car­riage in the street, or saw a speck upon her gown, she must observe it aloud, whether there were any­one at leisure to answer her or not. At about half past twelve, a remark­ably loud rap drew her in haste to the win­dow, and scarce­ly had she time to inform Cather­ine of there being two open car­riages at the door, in the first only a ser­vant, her broth­er dri­ving Miss Thor­pe in the sec­ond, before John Thor­pe came run­ning upstairs, call­ing out, “Well, Miss Mor­land, here I am. Have you been wait­ing long? We could not come before; the old dev­il of a coach­mak­er was such an eter­ni­ty find­ing out a thing fit to be got into, and now it is ten thou­sand to one but they break down before we are out of the street. How do you do, Mrs. Allen? A famous ball last night, was not it? Come, Miss Mor­land, be quick, for the oth­ers are in a con­found­ed hur­ry to be off. They want to get their tum­ble over.”

“What do you mean?” said Cather­ine. “Where are you all going to?”

“Going to? Why, you have not for­got our engage­ment! Did not we agree togeth­er to take a dri­ve this morn­ing? What a head you have! We are going up Claver­ton Down.”

“Some­thing was said about it, I remem­ber,” said Cather­ine, look­ing at Mrs. Allen for her opin­ion; “but real­ly I did not expect you.”

“Not expect me! That’s a good one! And what a dust you would have made, if I had not come.”

Catherine’s silent appeal to her friend, mean­while, was entire­ly thrown away, for Mrs. Allen, not being at all in the habit of con­vey­ing any expres­sion her­self by a look, was not aware of its being ever intend­ed by any­body else; and Cather­ine, whose desire of see­ing Miss Tilney again could at that moment bear a short delay in favour of a dri­ve, and who thought there could be no impro­pri­ety in her going with Mr. Thor­pe, as Isabel­la was going at the same time with James, was there­fore oblig­ed to speak plain­er. “Well, ma’am, what do you say to it? Can you spare me for an hour or two? Shall I go?”

“Do just as you please, my dear,” replied Mrs. Allen, with the most placid indif­fer­ence. Cather­ine took the advice, and ran off to get ready. In a very few min­utes she reap­peared, hav­ing scarce­ly allowed the two oth­ers time enough to get through a few short sen­tences in her praise, after Thor­pe had pro­cured Mrs. Allen’s admi­ra­tion of his gig; and then receiv­ing her friend’s part­ing good wish­es, they both hur­ried down­stairs. “My dear­est crea­ture,” cried Isabel­la, to whom the duty of friend­ship imme­di­ate­ly called her before she could get into the car­riage, “you have been at least three hours get­ting ready. I was afraid you were ill. What a delight­ful ball we had last night. I have a thou­sand things to say to you; but make haste and get in, for I long to be off.”

Cather­ine fol­lowed her orders and turned away, but not too soon to hear her friend exclaim aloud to James, “What a sweet girl she is! I quite dote on her.”

“You will not be fright­ened, Miss Mor­land,” said Thor­pe, as he hand­ed her in, “if my horse should dance about a lit­tle at first set­ting off. He will, most like­ly, give a plunge or two, and per­haps take the rest for a minute; but he will soon know his mas­ter. He is full of spir­its, play­ful as can be, but there is no vice in him.”

Cather­ine did not think the por­trait a very invit­ing one, but it was too late to retreat, and she was too young to own her­self fright­ened; so, resign­ing her­self to her fate, and trust­ing to the animal’s boast­ed knowl­edge of its own­er, she sat peace­ably down, and saw Thor­pe sit down by her. Every­thing being then arranged, the ser­vant who stood at the horse’s head was bid in an impor­tant voice “to let him go,” and off they went in the qui­etest man­ner imag­in­able, with­out a plunge or a caper, or any­thing like one. Cather­ine, delight­ed at so hap­py an escape, spoke her plea­sure aloud with grate­ful sur­prise; and her com­pan­ion imme­di­ate­ly made the mat­ter per­fect­ly sim­ple by assur­ing her that it was entire­ly owing to the pecu­liar­ly judi­cious man­ner in which he had then held the reins, and the sin­gu­lar dis­cern­ment and dex­ter­i­ty with which he had direct­ed his whip. Cather­ine, though she could not help won­der­ing that with such per­fect com­mand of his horse, he should think it nec­es­sary to alarm her with a rela­tion of its tricks, con­grat­u­lat­ed her­self sin­cere­ly on being under the care of so excel­lent a coach­man; and per­ceiv­ing that the ani­mal con­tin­ued to go on in the same qui­et man­ner, with­out show­ing the small­est propen­si­ty towards any unpleas­ant vivac­i­ty, and (con­sid­er­ing its inevitable pace was ten miles an hour) by no means alarm­ing­ly fast, gave her­self up to all the enjoy­ment of air and exer­cise of the most invig­o­rat­ing kind, in a fine mild day of Feb­ru­ary, with the con­scious­ness of safe­ty. A silence of sev­er­al min­utes suc­ceed­ed their first short dia­logue; it was bro­ken by Thorpe’s say­ing very abrupt­ly, “Old Allen is as rich as a Jew—is not he?” Cather­ine did not under­stand him—and he repeat­ed his ques­tion, adding in expla­na­tion, “Old Allen, the man you are with.”

“Oh! Mr. Allen, you mean. Yes, I believe, he is very rich.”

“And no chil­dren at all?”

“No—not any.”

“A famous thing for his next heirs. He is your god­fa­ther, is not he?”

“My god­fa­ther! No.”

“But you are always very much with them.”

“Yes, very much.”

Aye, that is what I meant. He seems a good kind of old fel­low enough, and has lived very well in his time, I dare say; he is not gouty for noth­ing. Does he drink his bot­tle a day now?”

“His bot­tle a day! No. Why should you think of such a thing? He is a very tem­per­ate man, and you could not fan­cy him in liquor last night?”

Lord help you! You women are always think­ing of men’s being in liquor. Why, you do not sup­pose a man is over­set by a bot­tle? I am sure of this—that if every­body was to drink their bot­tle a day, there would not be half the dis­or­ders in the world there are now. It would be a famous good thing for us all.”

“I can­not believe it.”

“Oh! Lord, it would be the sav­ing of thou­sands. There is not the hun­dredth part of the wine con­sumed in this king­dom that there ought to be. Our fog­gy cli­mate wants help.”

“And yet I have heard that there is a great deal of wine drunk in Oxford.”

“Oxford! There is no drink­ing at Oxford now, I assure you. Nobody drinks there. You would hard­ly meet with a man who goes beyond his four pints at the utmost. Now, for instance, it was reck­oned a remark­able thing, at the last par­ty in my rooms, that upon an aver­age we cleared about five pints a head. It was looked upon as some­thing out of the com­mon way. Mine is famous good stuff, to be sure. You would not often meet with any­thing like it in Oxford—and that may account for it. But this will just give you a notion of the gen­er­al rate of drink­ing there.”

“Yes, it does give a notion,” said Cather­ine warm­ly, “and that is, that you all drink a great deal more wine than I thought you did. How­ev­er, I am sure James does not drink so much.”

This dec­la­ra­tion brought on a loud and over­pow­er­ing reply, of which no part was very dis­tinct, except the fre­quent excla­ma­tions, amount­ing almost to oaths, which adorned it, and Cather­ine was left, when it end­ed, with rather a strength­ened belief of there being a great deal of wine drunk in Oxford, and the same hap­py con­vic­tion of her brother’s com­par­a­tive sobri­ety.

Thorpe’s ideas then all revert­ed to the mer­its of his own equipage, and she was called on to admire the spir­it and free­dom with which his horse moved along, and the ease which his paces, as well as the excel­lence of the springs, gave the motion of the car­riage. She fol­lowed him in all his admi­ra­tion as well as she could. To go before or beyond him was impos­si­ble. His knowl­edge and her igno­rance of the sub­ject, his rapid­i­ty of expres­sion, and her dif­fi­dence of her­self put that out of her pow­er; she could strike out noth­ing new in com­men­da­tion, but she read­i­ly echoed what­ev­er he chose to assert, and it was final­ly set­tled between them with­out any dif­fi­cul­ty that his equipage was alto­geth­er the most com­plete of its kind in Eng­land, his car­riage the neat­est, his horse the best goer, and him­self the best coach­man. “You do not real­ly think, Mr. Thor­pe,” said Cather­ine, ven­tur­ing after some time to con­sid­er the mat­ter as entire­ly decid­ed, and to offer some lit­tle vari­a­tion on the sub­ject, “that James’s gig will break down?”

“Break down! Oh! Lord! Did you ever see such a lit­tle tit­tup­py thing in your life? There is not a sound piece of iron about it. The wheels have been fair­ly worn out these ten years at least—and as for the body! Upon my soul, you might shake it to pieces your­self with a touch. It is the most dev­il­ish lit­tle rick­ety busi­ness I ever beheld! Thank God! we have got a bet­ter. I would not be bound to go two miles in it for fifty thou­sand pounds.”

Good heav­ens!” cried Cather­ine, quite fright­ened. “Then pray let us turn back; they will cer­tain­ly meet with an acci­dent if we go on. Do let us turn back, Mr. Thor­pe; stop and speak to my broth­er, and tell him how very unsafe it is.”

“Unsafe! Oh, lord! What is there in that? They will only get a roll if it does break down; and there is plen­ty of dirt; it will be excel­lent falling. Oh, curse it! The car­riage is safe enough, if a man knows how to dri­ve it; a thing of that sort in good hands will last above twen­ty years after it is fair­ly worn out. Lord bless you! I would under­take for five pounds to dri­ve it to York and back again, with­out los­ing a nail.”

Cather­ine lis­tened with aston­ish­ment; she knew not how to rec­on­cile two such very dif­fer­ent accounts of the same thing; for she had not been brought up to under­stand the propen­si­ties of a rat­tle, nor to know to how many idle asser­tions and impu­dent false­hoods the excess of van­i­ty will lead. Her own fam­i­ly were plain, mat­ter-of-fact peo­ple who sel­dom aimed at wit of any kind; her father, at the utmost, being con­tent­ed with a pun, and her moth­er with a proverb; they were not in the habit there­fore of telling lies to increase their impor­tance, or of assert­ing at one moment what they would con­tra­dict the next. She reflect­ed on the affair for some time in much per­plex­i­ty, and was more than once on the point of request­ing from Mr. Thor­pe a clear­er insight into his real opin­ion on the sub­ject; but she checked her­self, because it appeared to her that he did not excel in giv­ing those clear­er insights, in mak­ing those things plain which he had before made ambigu­ous; and, join­ing to this, the con­sid­er­a­tion that he would not real­ly suf­fer his sis­ter and his friend to be exposed to a dan­ger from which he might eas­i­ly pre­serve them, she con­clud­ed at last that he must know the car­riage to be in fact per­fect­ly safe, and there­fore would alarm her­self no longer. By him the whole mat­ter seemed entire­ly for­got­ten; and all the rest of his con­ver­sa­tion, or rather talk, began and end­ed with him­self and his own con­cerns. He told her of hors­es which he had bought for a tri­fle and sold for incred­i­ble sums; of rac­ing match­es, in which his judg­ment had infal­li­bly fore­told the win­ner; of shoot­ing par­ties, in which he had killed more birds (though with­out hav­ing one good shot) than all his com­pan­ions togeth­er; and described to her some famous day’s sport, with the fox-hounds, in which his fore­sight and skill in direct­ing the dogs had repaired the mis­takes of the most expe­ri­enced hunts­man, and in which the bold­ness of his rid­ing, though it had nev­er endan­gered his own life for a moment, had been con­stant­ly lead­ing oth­ers into dif­fi­cul­ties, which he calm­ly con­clud­ed had bro­ken the necks of many.

Lit­tle as Cather­ine was in the habit of judg­ing for her­self, and unfixed as were her gen­er­al notions of what men ought to be, she could not entire­ly repress a doubt, while she bore with the effu­sions of his end­less con­ceit, of his being alto­geth­er com­plete­ly agree­able. It was a bold sur­mise, for he was Isabella’s broth­er; and she had been assured by James that his man­ners would rec­om­mend him to all her sex; but in spite of this, the extreme weari­ness of his com­pa­ny, which crept over her before they had been out an hour, and which con­tin­ued unceas­ing­ly to increase till they stopped in Pul­teney Street again, induced her, in some small degree, to resist such high author­i­ty, and to dis­trust his pow­ers of giv­ing uni­ver­sal pleasure.

When they arrived at Mrs. Allen’s door, the aston­ish­ment of Isabel­la was hard­ly to be expressed, on find­ing that it was too late in the day for them to attend her friend into the house: “Past three o’clock!” It was incon­ceiv­able, incred­i­ble, impos­si­ble! And she would nei­ther believe her own watch, nor her brother’s, nor the servant’s; she would believe no assur­ance of it found­ed on rea­son or real­i­ty, till Mor­land pro­duced his watch, and ascer­tained the fact; to have doubt­ed a moment longer then would have been equal­ly incon­ceiv­able, incred­i­ble, and impos­si­ble; and she could only protest, over and over again, that no two hours and a half had ever gone off so swift­ly before, as Cather­ine was called on to con­firm; Cather­ine could not tell a false­hood even to please Isabel­la; but the lat­ter was spared the mis­ery of her friend’s dis­sent­ing voice, by not wait­ing for her answer. Her own feel­ings entire­ly engrossed her; her wretched­ness was most acute on find­ing her­self oblig­ed to go direct­ly home. It was ages since she had had a moment’s con­ver­sa­tion with her dear­est Cather­ine; and, though she had such thou­sands of things to say to her, it appeared as if they were nev­er to be togeth­er again; so, with snif­fles of most exquis­ite mis­ery, and the laugh­ing eye of utter despon­den­cy, she bade her friend adieu and went on.

Cather­ine found Mrs. Allen just returned from all the busy idle­ness of the morn­ing, and was imme­di­ate­ly greet­ed with, “Well, my dear, here you are,” a truth which she had no greater incli­na­tion than pow­er to dis­pute; “and I hope you have had a pleas­ant air­ing?”

“Yes, ma’am, I thank you; we could not have had a nicer day.”

“So Mrs. Thor­pe said; she was vast­ly pleased at your all going.”

“You have seen Mrs. Thor­pe, then?”

“Yes, I went to the pump-room as soon as you were gone, and there I met her, and we had a great deal of talk togeth­er. She says there was hard­ly any veal to be got at mar­ket this morn­ing, it is so uncom­mon­ly scarce.”

“Did you see any­body else of our acquaintance?”

“Yes; we agreed to take a turn in the Cres­cent, and there we met Mrs. Hugh­es, and Mr. and Miss Tilney walk­ing with her.”

“Did you indeed? And did they speak to you?”

“Yes, we walked along the Cres­cent togeth­er for half an hour. They seem very agree­able peo­ple. Miss Tilney was in a very pret­ty spot­ted muslin, and I fan­cy, by what I can learn, that she always dress­es very hand­some­ly. Mrs. Hugh­es talked to me a great deal about the family.”

“And what did she tell you of them?”

“Oh! A vast deal indeed; she hard­ly talked of any­thing else.”

“Did she tell you what part of Glouces­ter­shire they come from?”

“Yes, she did; but I can­not rec­ol­lect now. But they are very good kind of peo­ple, and very rich. Mrs. Tilney was a Miss Drum­mond, and she and Mrs. Hugh­es were schoolfel­lows; and Miss Drum­mond had a very large for­tune; and, when she mar­ried, her father gave her twen­ty thou­sand pounds, and five hun­dred to buy wed­ding-clothes. Mrs. Hugh­es saw all the clothes after they came from the ware­house.”

“And are Mr. and Mrs. Tilney in Bath?”

“Yes, I fan­cy they are, but I am not quite cer­tain. Upon rec­ol­lec­tion, how­ev­er, I have a notion they are both dead; at least the moth­er is; yes, I am sure Mrs. Tilney is dead, because Mrs. Hugh­es told me there was a very beau­ti­ful set of pearls that Mr. Drum­mond gave his daugh­ter on her wed­ding-day and that Miss Tilney has got now, for they were put by for her when her moth­er died.”

“And is Mr. Tilney, my part­ner, the only son?”

“I can­not be quite pos­i­tive about that, my dear; I have some idea he is; but, how­ev­er, he is a very fine young man, Mrs. Hugh­es says, and like­ly to do very well.”

Cather­ine inquired no fur­ther; she had heard enough to feel that Mrs. Allen had no real intel­li­gence to give, and that she was most par­tic­u­lar­ly unfor­tu­nate her­self in hav­ing missed such a meet­ing with both broth­er and sis­ter. Could she have fore­seen such a cir­cum­stance, noth­ing should have per­suad­ed her to go out with the oth­ers; and, as it was, she could only lament her ill luck, and think over what she had lost, till it was clear to her that the dri­ve had by no means been very pleas­ant and that John Thor­pe him­self was quite disagreeable.

weari­ness ˈwɪərɪnɪs n Tem­po­rary loss of strength and ener­gy result­ing from hard phys­i­cal or men­tal work: tired­ness, fatigue, lag

Pul­teney Street ⇒ A wide road in the City of Bath, Eng­land which leads direct­ly to the Hol­burne Muse­um of Art that was orig­i­nal­ly the Syd­ney Hotel where tea rooms, card rooms, a con­cert room and a ball­room were installed for the amuse­ment of Bath’s many visitors.

appease əˈpiːz v To bring peace, qui­et, or calm to: calm, soothe, assuage

earnest ˈɜːnɪst adj Show­ing deep sin­cer­i­ty or seriousness.

long­ing ˈlɒŋɪŋ n Strong or per­sis­tent pro­longed unful­filled desire or need: wish­ful­ness, yearn­ing, hankering

dis­tress dɪsˈtrɛst n Acute anx­i­ety, pain, or sor­row: anguish, hard­ship, adversity

for fɔː conj Because; since.

revived rɪˈ­vaɪv v Restored to con­scious­ness or life or vigour: renewed, revi­talised, resur­gent, renascent

in excellent/high spir­its ⇒ Hap­py and upbeat, often due to some suc­cess or pos­i­tive occurrence.

res­o­lu­tion ˌrɛzəˈluːʃən n Firm deter­mi­na­tion: deci­sion, con­clu­sion, determination

pump-room ˈpʌm­pruːm n A room at a spa where med­i­c­i­nal water is dispensed.

admirably ˈæd­mərəbli adv In a deserv­ing admi­ra­tion man­ner: praise­worthi­ly, laudably

dis­course dɪsˈkɔːs n An extend­ed com­mu­ni­ca­tion deal­ing with some par­tic­u­lar top­ic: dis­cus­sion

resolve rɪˈzɒlv v To make a firm deci­sion about: decide

incom­mode ˌɪnkəˈməʊd v To cause incon­ve­nience for: put out, trou­ble, discomfort

ejac­u­la­tion ɪˌʤækjʊˈleɪʃən n A sud­den, short excla­ma­tion: inter­jec­tion

a great deal ⇒ A large amount.

car­riage ˈkærɪʤ n Char­ac­ter­is­tic way of bear­ing one’s body: bear­ing, posture

speck spɛk n A very small spot or piece.

gown gaʊn v A long, usu­al­ly for­mal woman’s dress.

at leisure ⇒ Not occupied.

rap ræp­­pt, pp rapt ræpt adj Quick, light blow or knock.

in haste ⇒ In a hur­ried or hasty manner.

scarce­ly ˈskeəs­li adv Not quite, almost not: bare­ly, hardly

to call out ⇒ Shout.

coach­mak­er ˈkəʊʧˌmeɪkə n A pro­duc­er of enclosed vehi­cles with four wheels which are pulled by horses.

to got into ⇒ To access or enter some place or thing

famous ˈfeɪməs adj An excellent.

ball bɔːl n A for­mal gath­er­ing for social dancing.

con­found­ed kənˈ­faʊndɪd adj Con­fused or per­plexed: bewil­dered, mixed up, befuddled

to be off ⇒ To go away, to go off, to depart, to leave.

to get over ⇒ Com­plete, have done with, espe­cial­ly some­thing unpleas­ant.; tum­ble ˈtʌm­bl n A state of confusion.

Claver­ton Down ⇒ A sub­urb on the south-east hill­top edge of Bath, Som­er­set, Eng­land. It is linked to the Bath­wick area of the city by Bath­wick Hill.

That’s a good one

dust dʌst n Quar­rel.

to throw away ⇒ Lose some­thing through fool­ish­ness, neglect, or one’s own act; waste.

at all ⇒ In any way; for any rea­son; to any extent; whatever.

bear beə v Put up with some­thing or some­body unpleas­ant: endure, tol­er­ate, stand, suffer

in favour of ⇒ To the advan­tage of.

impro­pri­ety ˌɪm­prəˈpraɪəti n An improp­er act or state­ment: inde­cen­cy, indecorum

ma’am mæm ⇒ Madam.

spare speə v To allow some­one to avoid expe­ri­enc­ing or doing something.

placid ˈplæsɪdli adj Calm or peace­ful and not excit­ed man­ner: tran­quil

to take the advice ⇒ To lis­ten to or pay atten­tion to one’s advice.

reap­pear ˌriːəˈpɪə n Appear again: come back, re-emerge, appear, return

to get through ⇒ Fin­ish, com­plete something.

pro­cure prəˈkjʊə v To come into pos­ses­sion of: get, obtain, acquire, secure

gig gɪg n Small, light, two-wheeled car­riage, pulled by one horse.

at least ⇒ If noth­ing else. Not less than.

ball bɔːl n A for­mal gath­er­ing for social dancing.

long ˈlɒŋ v (fol­lowed by for or an infini­tive) to have a strong desire: wish, yearn

exclaim ɪksˈk­leɪm v To cry out or speak sud­den­ly and vehe­ment­ly, as in sur­prise, strong emo­tion, or protest.

to dote on some­body ⇒ To show exces­sive love or fondness.

to hand some­body in ⇒ Help some­one in get­ting into a car­riage, etc.

to set off ⇒ To start on a jour­ney, a long walk, race, etc.

to give a plunge ⇒ A force­ful thrust or jerk forward.

to know one’s mas­ter ⇒ To sub­due, to become docile.

spir­it ˈspɪrɪt n Cheerfulness.

there is no vice in him ⇒ He is easy to ride; vice vaɪs n A spe­cif­ic form of evildoing.

own əʊn v Admit; acknowledge.

resign one­self to some­thing ⇒ To accept that one must do, under­take, or endure something.

boast bəʊst v To speak of with exces­sive pride.

peace­ably ˈpiːsəbli adv In a peace­able man­ner: pacif­i­cal­ly

caper ˈkeɪpə n A play­ful leap or hop.

pecu­liar­ly pɪˈkjuːliəli adv In an usu­al or strange manner.

judi­cious ʤu(ː)ˈdɪʃəs adj Marked by the exer­cise of good judg­ment or com­mon sense in prac­ti­cal mat­ters: pru­dent, wise

rein reɪn n pl A long, nar­row leather strap attached to each end of the horse’s head and used by a rid­er to con­trol the animal.

sin­gu­lar ˈsɪŋgjʊlə adj Beyond or devi­at­ing from the usu­al or expect­ed: bizarre, pecu­liar, strange, unusual

dis­cern­ment dɪˈsɜːn­mənt n Skill in per­ceiv­ing, dis­crim­i­nat­ing, or judg­ing: wit, acu­men, astute­ness, per­cep­tive­ness, sagac­i­ty, shrewdness

dex­ter­i­ty dɛk­sˈtɛrɪti n Skil­ful­ness in the use of the hands or body: skill, prowess, adroit­ness; quick­ness, nimbleness

whip wɪp n An instru­ment, either a flex­i­ble rod or a flex­i­ble lash attached to a han­dle, used for dri­ving animals.

sin­cere­ly sɪnˈsɪəli adv In a free of deceit, or false­ness man­ner: earnest­ly

coach­man ˈkəʊʧmən n A man who dri­ves a coach or carriage.

per­ceive pəˈsiːv v To become aware of some­thing direct­ly through any of the sens­es: see, behold, feel

to go on ⇒ To continue.

propen­si­ty prəˈpɛn­sɪti n An innate to do some­thing: ten­den­cy, inclination

vivac­i­ty vɪˈvæsɪti n Char­ac­ter­ized by high spir­its and ani­ma­tion: ani­ma­tion, bounce, live­li­ness, spirit

by no means ⇒ In no sense; cer­tain­ly not.

to give up ⇒ To yield or relin­quish something.

invig­o­rat­ing ɪnˈvɪgəreɪtɪŋ adj Impart­ing strength and vital­i­ty: reviv­ing, stim­u­lat­ing, brisk, animating

abrupt­ly əˈbrʌptli adv Quick­ly and with­out warn­ing: sud­den­ly, hasti­ly, hurriedly

heir n A per­son who by law receives wealth, prop­er­ty etc. when the own­er dies.

god­fa­ther ˈgɒdˌfɑːðə n A man who spon­sors a per­son at baptism.

aye int Yes.

in his time ⇒ In his youth.

gouty ˈgaʊti adj Suf­fer­ing from a gout, a dis­tur­bance of uric-acid metab­o­lism, char­ac­ter­ized by painful inflam­ma­tion of the joints, espe­cial­ly of the feet and hands, with arthrit­ic attacks.

for noth­ing ⇒ With­out reason.

tem­per­ate ˈtɛm­pərɪt adj Free from extremes: mild

to be in liquor ⇒ To be drunken.

Lord lɔːd n Chris­t­ian God; Jesus Christ.

in liquor ˈlɪkə ⇒ Drunk; intoxicated.

over­set ˌəʊvəˈsɛt v To throw into a con­fused or dis­turbed state: upset

pint paɪnt n A unit of vol­ume or capac­i­ty in the British Impe­r­i­al Sys­tem, used in dry and liq­uid mea­sure, equal to 0.568 liter, so four pints are 2.272 liters.

at the utmost ⇒ At the max­i­mum; utmost ˈʌt­məʊst n The great­est pos­si­ble amount, degree, or extent: max­i­mum

for instance ⇒ As an exam­ple; for example.

reck­on ˈrɛkən v To count or com­pute; to con­sid­er as being: fig­ure, cal­cu­late, approx­i­mate, con­sid­er, account

to look upon ⇒ To regard some­one or some­thing in a cer­tain way.

out of the com­mon way ⇒ Not ordinary.

to account for ⇒ To pro­vide an expla­na­tion or a justification.

notion ˈnəʊʃən n Some­thing believed or accept­ed as true by a per­son: idea, posi­tion, view, opinion

over­pow­er­ing ˌəʊvəˈ­paʊərɪŋ adj So strong as to be irre­sistible: resist­less, over­whelm­ing, irresistible

excla­ma­tion ˌɛk­skləˈmeɪʃən n Word, or phrase that is spo­ken sud­den­ly, or loud­ly and that express­es excite­ment, shock, or anger.

oath əʊθ n A solemn, for­mal dec­la­ra­tion or promise to ful­fill a pledge: sware word

adorn əˈdɔːn v To endow with beau­ty and ele­gance by way of a notable addi­tion: enhance, orna­ment

con­vic­tion ˈlɒʤɪŋ n An unshak­able belief in some­thing with­out need for proof or evidence. 

sobri­ety səʊˈbraɪəti n Absti­nence from con­sump­tion of alco­hol; absti­nence, temperance.

revert rɪˈvɜːt n To come back to a for­mer con­di­tion: return

equipage ˈɛk­wɪpɪʤ n A horse-drawn car­riage with atten­dants: car­riage, rig

to call on/upon ⇒ To make a demand or a series of demands on.

spring sprɪŋ n A met­al elas­tic device that returns to its shape or posi­tion when pushed or pulled or pressed: coil spring, spi­ral spring, bed­spring, leaf spring

dif­fi­dence ˈdɪfɪdəns n The qual­i­ty or state of being timid: shy­ness

out of one’s pow­er ⇒ Beyond one’s abality

to strike out ⇒ Think out, to device

com­men­da­tion ˌkɒmɛnˈdeɪʃən n An expres­sion of warm approval: praise

goer ˈgəʊə n (dat­ed) A horse, con­sid­ered in ref­er­ence to the dif­fer­ent ways in which it can move.

gig gɪg n Small, light, two-wheeled car­riage, pulled by one horse.

Oh, LordAn oath express­ing sur­prise, shock, frus­tra­tion, anger, or annoyance.

tit­tupy ˈtɪtəp adj Shaky; unsteady.

worn out ⇒ To make or become unus­able through long or heavy use.

as for ⇒ Concerning.

upon my soul ⇒ An expres­sion used to under­line that one is telling the truth

rick­ety ˈrɪkɪti adj Not phys­i­cal­ly steady or firm: unsta­ble, shaky

behold bɪˈhəʊld v (pp, pt beheld bɪˈhɛld) To appre­hend (images) by use of the eyes: see, per­ceive

to be bound to do some­thing ⇒ Apt or like­ly to do something.

Good heav­ens! ⇒ A mild oath of sur­prise, amaze­ment, annoy­ance, frus­tra­tion, or anger.

pray preɪ interj (archa­ic) I beg you; please:

turn back ⇒ To stop mov­ing for­ward and begin return­ing to one’s point of origin.

Oh, LordAn oath express­ing sur­prise, shock, frus­tra­tion, anger, or annoyance.

curse kɜːs v To use rude or offen­sive lan­guage, usu­al­ly because you are angry about something.

rec­on­cile ˈrɛkən­saɪl v To cause some­one to accept or be resigned to some­thing not desired: resign, sub­mit

account ɪkˈsɛs n A state­ment that makes some­thing com­pre­hen­si­ble by describ­ing the rel­e­vant struc­ture or oper­a­tion or cir­cum­stances etc.: state­ment, explanation

rat­tle ˈrætl n Idle chat­ter.

impu­dent ˈɪm­pjʊdənt adj Rude and dis­re­spect­ful: bold, inso­lent, imper­ti­nent, cheeky

false­hood ˈfɔːl­shʊd n An untrue state­ment; the prac­tice of lying: sto­ry, lie excess

excess ɪkˈsɛs n Some­thing in a larg­er amount than is need­ed, allowed, or usual.

van­i­ty ˈvænɪti n Feel­ings of exces­sive point­less pride in one’s appear­ance or accom­plish­ments: con­ceit

mat­ter-of-fact ˈmætərəvˈfækt adj Straight­for­ward or unemotional.

to aim at some­thing ⇒ To make an attempt at some­thing, (here) Try to be wit­ty; wit wɪt n The nat­ur­al abil­i­ty to per­ceive and under­stand: intel­li­gence

pun pʌn adj A play on words, as on dif­fer­ent sens­es of the same word or on the sim­i­lar sense or sound of dif­fer­ent words.

proverb ˈprɒvəb n A short pop­u­lar say­ing that express­es effec­tive­ly some com­mon­place truth or use­ful thought: expres­sion, saying

reflect on some­one or some­thing ⇒ To stand as evi­dence of someone’s or something’s qual­i­ties or merits.

per­plex­i­ty pəˈ­plɛk­sɪti adj A tan­gled, involved, or con­fused con­di­tion or sit­u­a­tion: quandary, maze, confusedness

to be on the point of ⇒ To be about to.

check ʧɛk v To cause to stop: cease, halt, stop, restraint

excel ɪkˈsɛl n To be greater or bet­ter than: pass, exceed, top, tran­scend, surpass

ambigu­ous æmˈbɪgjʊəs adj Hav­ing more than one mean­ing, of uncer­tain mean­ing: doubt­ful, uncer­tain, dubious

in fact ⇒ Actu­al­ly; in reality.

tri­fle ˈtraɪfl n Very small amount or sum, next to nothing.

infal­li­ble ɪnˈfæləbl adj Inca­pable of fail­ure or error: sure, cer­tain, reli­able, unerr­ing, unfailing

fore­tell fɔːˈtɛl v To tell of or indi­cate before­hand: pre­dict

fox­hound ˈfɒk­shaʊnd n A medi­um-sized short-haired hound, devel­oped for fox hunting.

fore­sight ˈfɔːsaɪt n Per­cep­tion of the sig­nif­i­cance and nature of events before they have occurred: pru­dence

hunts­man ˈhʌntsmən n Some­one who hunts game: hunter

notion ˈnəʊʃən n Some­thing believed or accept­ed as true by a per­son: idea, posi­tion, view, opinion

repress rɪˈprɛs v To keep down or sup­press any­thing objec­tion­able: sup­press, muf­fle, stifle

to bear with some­one or some­thing ⇒ To remain patient and atten­tive, espe­cial­ly dur­ing a lengthy or prob­lem­at­ic sit­u­a­tion that may cause one to want to quit or leave prematurely.

effu­sion ɪˈfjuːʒən n An unre­strained expres­sion of feel­ing, as in speech or writing.

con­ceit kənˈsiːt n A favourable and espe­cial­ly undu­ly high opin­ion of one’s own abil­i­ties or worth; an impul­sive, illog­i­cal turn of mind: pride, van­i­ty, ego­tism fan­cy, freak, whim

sur­mise sɜːˈ­maɪz n A judg­ment, esti­mate, or opin­ion arrived at by guess­ing: guess, con­jec­ture

in spite of ⇒ With­out wor­ry­ing about; although.

to creep over ⇒ (for a feel­ing) To grad­u­al­ly take con­trol over.

attend əˈtɛnd n To accom­pa­ny as a cir­cum­stance or fol­low as a result.

incon­ceiv­able ˌɪnkənˈsiːvəbl adj Not able to be imag­ined or believed: incred­i­ble, improb­a­ble, unimag­in­able, preposterous

found­ed on rea­son or real­i­ty ⇒ Rea­son­able and objective

pro­duce ˈprɒd­juːs v To cause some­thing to appear or be seen: show

ascer­tain ˌæsəˈteɪn v Find out (in order to be cer­tain about).

dis­sent dɪˈsɛnt v To be of dif­fer­ent opin­ion: dif­fer, disagree

engross ɪnˈ­grəʊs v To make busy; occu­py the full atten­tion of: engage, absorb, preoccupy

wretched­ness ˈrɛʧɪd­nəs n Unhap­pi­ness.

snif­fle snif­fle n pl Noisy breathing.

exquis­ite ˈɛk­skwɪzɪt adj Of such taste­ful beau­ty as to elic­it admi­ra­tion: ele­gant, graceful

utter ˈʌtə adj Com­plete and absolute.

despon­den­cy dɪsˈpɒndən­si n A feel­ing of dis­mal­ly low spir­its: depres­sion, sadness

adieu əˈd­juː int Said to wish a final farewell: good­bye

incli­na­tion ˌɪn­klɪˈneɪʃən n A ten­den­cy toward a cer­tain con­di­tion or char­ac­ter: dis­po­si­tion, tendency

air­ing ruːd n A short walk or ride in the open air: excur­sion, jaunt, expe­di­tion, out­ing, plea­sure trip

as soon as ⇒ Imme­di­ate­ly, right after.

veal viːl n The meat of a calf as a food.

scarce skeəs adj Not enough to meet a demand or require­ment: short, insuf­fi­cient, scanty

to take a turn ⇒ To walk.

The Roy­al Cres­cent ⇒ One of Bath’s most icon­ic land­mark, built between 1767 and 1775. This impres­sive land­mark is arranged around a per­fect lawn over­look­ing Roy­al Vic­to­ria Park and forms a sweep­ing cres­cent of 30 ter­race hous­es; cres­cent ˈkrɛs­nt n The shape of the vis­i­ble part of the moon when it is less than half full: half-moon, sick­le-shape

muslin ˈmʌ­zlɪn n A stur­dy cot­ton fab­ric of plain weave.

Glouces­ter­shire ˈglɒstəʃə A coun­ty in South West England.

rec­ol­lect ˌriːkəˈlɛkt v To renew an image or thought in the mind: recall, remem­ber, bethink

schoolfel­low ˈskuːlˌfɛləʊ n A school­mate.

ware­house ˈweəhaʊs n A place in which goods or mer­chan­dise are stored: store­house

rec­ol­lec­tion ˌrɛkəˈlɛkʃən n The abil­i­ty to recall past occur­rences: reten­tion, remembrance

notion ˈnəʊʃən n Some­thing believed or accept­ed as true by a per­son: idea, posi­tion, view, opinion

to put by ⇒ Save for future use.

be pos­i­tive about some­thing ⇒ Be sure about something

intel­li­gence ɪnˈtɛlɪʤəns n News, infor­ma­tion.

fore­see fɔːˈsiː pp fore­saw fɔːˈsɔː, pt fore­seen fɔːˈsiːn v To know or see in advance: antic­i­pate, envision

lament ləˈmɛnt v To feel, show, or express grief: suf­fer, mourn, grieve, sorrow

ill luck ⇒ Bad for­tune; adver­si­ty, unluckiness.

by no means ⇒ In no sense; cer­tain­ly not.