LONDON. Michaelmas term lately over, and the Lord Chancellor sitting in Lincoln’s Inn Hall. Implacable November weather. As much mud in the streets, as if the waters had but newly retired from the face of the earth, and it would not be wonderful to meet a Megalosaurus, forty feet long or so, waddling like an elephantine lizard up Holborn Hill. Smoke lowering down from chimney-pots, making a soft black drizzle with flakes of soot in it as big as full-grown snowflakes - gone into mourning, one might imagine, for the death of the sun. Dogs, undistinguishable in mire. Horses, scarcely better; splashed to their very blinkers. Foot passengers, jostling one another’s umbrellas, in a general infection of ill-temper, and losing their foot hold at street-corners, where tens of thousands of other foot passengers have been slipping and sliding since the day broke (if this day ever broke), adding new deposits to the crust upon crust of mud, sticking at those points tenaciously to the pavement, and accumulating at compound interest.
Are you able to visualize what is happening in this passage?
This is from Bleak House by Charles Dickens, if you are curious.
Yup, I was able to understand and visualize all of it. The only thing I didn’t know was what “Michaelmas” was, but I determined its salient meaning well enough from context (it’s a Christian festival celebrated on September 29, which is redundant information with the immediately following reference to “implacable November weather” which sets the approximate time of year just as well).
The passage can be summarized into two fundamental points of information:
Ah, thanks for the Michaelmas. I thought it was either a name of a politician or something I’m not British enough to understand. The rest of the text was fine.