From Pope, she learnt to censure those who

“bear about the mockery of woe.”


From Gray, that

“Many a flower is born to blush unseen,
“And waste its fragrance on the desert air.”


From Thomson, that—

“It is a delightful task
“To teach the young idea how to shoot.”


And from Shakespeare she gained a great store of information—amongst
the rest, that—

“Trifles light as air,
“Are, to the jealous, confirmation strong,
“As proofs of Holy Writ.”


That

“The poor beetle, which we tread upon,
“In corporal sufferance feels a pang as great
“As when a giant dies.”


And that a young woman in love always looks—

“like Patience on a monument
“Smiling at Grief.”


So far her improvement was sufficient—and in many other points she came
on exceedingly well; for though she could not write sonnets, she
brought herself to read them; and though there seemed no chance of her
throwing a whole party into raptures by a prelude on the pianoforte, of
her own composition, she could listen to other people’s performance
with very little fatigue. Her greatest deficiency was in the pencil—she
had no notion of drawing—not enough even to attempt a sketch of her
lover’s profile, that she might be detected in the design. There she
fell miserably short of the true heroic height. At present she did not
know her own poverty, for she had no lover to portray. She had reached
the age of seventeen, without having seen one amiable youth who could
call forth her sensibility, without having inspired one real passion,
and without having excited even any admiration but what was very
moderate and very transient. This was strange indeed! but strange
things may be generally accounted for if their cause be fairly searched
out. There was not one lord in the neighbourhood; no—not even a
baronet. There was not one family among their acquaintance who had
reared and supported a boy accidentally found at their door—not one
young man whose origin was unknown. Her father had no ward, and the
squire of the parish no children. But when a young lady is to be a heroine, the perverseness of forty
surrounding families cannot prevent her. Something must and will happen
to throw a hero in her way. Mr. Allen, who owned the chief of the property about Fullerton, the
village in Wiltshire where the Morlands lived, was ordered to Bath for
the benefit of a gouty constitution—and his lady, a good-humoured
woman, fond of Miss Morland, and probably aware that if adventures will
not befall a young lady in her own village, she must seek them abroad,
invited her to go with them. Mr. and Mrs. Morland were all compliance,
and Catherine all happiness. CHAPTER 2


In addition to what has been already said of Catherine Morland’s
personal and mental endowments, when about to be launched into all the
difficulties and dangers of a six weeks’ residence in Bath, it may be
stated, for the reader’s more certain information, lest the following
pages should otherwise fail of giving any idea of what her character is
meant to be, that her heart was affectionate; her disposition cheerful
and open, without conceit or affectation of any kind—her manners just
removed from the awkwardness and shyness of a girl; her person
pleasing, and, when in good looks, pretty—and her mind about as
ignorant and uninformed as the female mind at seventeen usually is. When the hour of departure drew near, the maternal anxiety of Mrs.
Morland will be naturally supposed to be most severe. A thousand
alarming presentiments of evil to her beloved Catherine from this
terrific separation must oppress her heart with sadness, and drown her
in tears for the last day or two of their being together; and advice of
the most important and applicable nature must of course flow from her
wise lips in their parting conference in her closet. Cautions against
the violence of such noblemen and baronets as delight in forcing young
ladies away to some remote farm-house, must, at such a moment, relieve
the fulness of her heart. Who would not think so? But Mrs. Morland knew
so little of lords and baronets, that she entertained no notion of
their general mischievousness, and was wholly unsuspicious of danger to
her daughter from their machinations. Her cautions were confined to the
following points. “I beg, Catherine, you will always wrap yourself up
very warm about the throat, when you come from the Rooms at night; and
I wish you would try to keep some account of the money you spend; I
will give you this little book on purpose.”

Sally, or rather Sarah (for what young lady of common gentility will
reach the age of sixteen without altering her name as far as she can? ),
must from situation be at this time the intimate friend and confidante
of her sister. It is remarkable, however, that she neither insisted on
Catherine’s writing by every post, nor exacted her promise of
transmitting the character of every new acquaintance, nor a detail of
every interesting conversation that Bath might produce. Everything
indeed relative to this important journey was done, on the part of the
Morlands, with a degree of moderation and composure, which seemed
rather consistent with the common feelings of common life, than with
the refined susceptibilities, the tender emotions which the first
separation of a heroine from her family ought always to excite. Her
father, instead of giving her an unlimited order on his banker, or even
putting an hundred pounds bank-bill into her hands, gave her only ten
guineas, and promised her more when she wanted it. Under these unpromising auspices, the parting took place, and the
journey began. It was performed with suitable quietness and uneventful
safety. Neither robbers nor tempests befriended them, nor one lucky
overturn to introduce them to the hero. Nothing more alarming occurred
than a fear, on Mrs. Allen’s side, of having once left her clogs behind
her at an inn, and that fortunately proved to be groundless. They arrived at Bath. Catherine was all eager delight—her eyes were
here, there, everywhere, as they approached its fine and striking
environs, and afterwards drove through those streets which conducted
them to the hotel. She was come to be happy, and she felt happy
already. They were soon settled in comfortable lodgings in Pulteney Street. It is now expedient to give some description of Mrs. Allen, that the
reader may be able to judge in what manner her actions will hereafter
tend to promote the general distress of the work, and how she will,
probably, contribute to reduce poor Catherine to all the desperate
wretchedness of which a last volume is capable—whether by her
imprudence, vulgarity, or jealousy—whether by intercepting her letters,
ruining her character, or turning her out of doors. Mrs. Allen was one of that numerous class of females, whose society can
raise no other emotion than surprise at there being any men in the
world who could like them well enough to marry them. She had neither
beauty, genius, accomplishment, nor manner.