Chapter 1

No one who had ever seen Catherine Morland in her infancy would

have supposed her born to be an heroine. Her situation in life, the character of her father and m other, her own person and disposition, were all equally against her. Her father was a clergy m an, without being neglected, or poor, and a very respectable m an, though his nam e was Richard... and he had never been handsom e. He had a considerable independence besides two good livings – and he was not in the least addicted to locking up his daughters. Her m other was a wom an of useful plain sense, with a good tem per, and, what is m ore rem arkable, with a good constitution. She had three sons before Catherine was born; and instead of dy ing in bringing the latter into the world, as any body m ight expect, she still lived on – lived to have six children m ore – to see them growing up around her, and to enj oy excellent health herself. A fam ily of ten children will be alway s called a fine fam ily, where there are heads and arm s and legs enough for the num ber; but the Morlands had little other right to the word, for they were in general very plain, and Catherine, for m any y ears of her life, as plain as any. She had a thin awkward figure, a sallow skin without colour, dark lank hair, and strong features – so m uch for her person; and not less unpropitious for heroism seem ed her m ind. She was fond of all boy ’s play s, and greatly preferred cricket not m erely to dolls, but to the m ore heroic enj oy m ents of infancy, nursing a dorm ouse, feeding a canary -bird, or watering a rose-bush. Indeed she had no taste for a garden; and if she gathered flowers at all, it was chiefly for the pleasure of m ischief – at least so it was conj ectured from her alway s preferring those which she was forbidden to take. Such were her propensities – her abilities were quite as extraordinary. She never could learn or understand any thing before she was taught; and som etim es not even then, for she was often inattentive, and occasionally stupid. Her m other was three m onths in teaching her only to repeat the “Beggar’s Petition”; and after all, her next sister, Sally, could say it better than she did. Not that Catherine was alway s stupid – by no m eans; she learnt the fable of “The Hare and Many Friends” as quickly as any girl in England. Her m other wished her to learn m usic; and Catherine was sure she should like it, for she was very fond of tinkling the key s of the old forlorn spinnet; so, at eight y ears old she began. She learnt a y ear, and could not bear it; and Mrs. Morland, who did not insist on her daughters being accom plished in spite of incapacity or distaste, allowed her to leave off. The day which dism issed the m usic-m aster was one of the happiest of Catherine’s life. Her taste for drawing was not superior; though whenever she could obtain the outside of a letter from her m other or seize upon any other odd piece of paper, she did what she could in that way, by drawing houses and trees, hens and chickens, all very m uch like one another. Writing and accounts she was taught by her father; French by her m other: her proficiency in either was not rem arkable, and she shirked her lessons in both whenever she could. What a strange, unaccountable character! – for with all these sy m ptom s of profligacy at ten y ears old, she had neither a bad heart nor a bad tem per, was seldom stubborn, scarcely ever quarrelsom e, and very kind to the little ones, with few interruptions of ty ranny ; she was m oreover noisy and wild, hated confinem ent and cleanliness, and loved nothing so well in the world as rolling down the green slope at the back of the house.

Such was Catherine Morland at ten. At fifteen, appearances were

m ending; she began to curl her hair and long for balls; her com plexion im proved, her features were softened by plum pness and colour, her ey es gained m ore anim ation, and her figure m ore consequence. Her love of dirt gave way to an inclination for finery, and she grew clean as she grew sm art; she had now the pleasure of som etim es hearing her father and m other rem ark on her personal im provem ent. “Catherine grows quite a good-looking girl – she is alm ost pretty today,” were words which caught her ears now and then; and how welcom e were the sounds! To look alm ost pretty is an acquisition of higher delight to a girl who has been looking plain the first fifteen y ears of her life than a beauty from her cradle can ever receive.

Mrs. Morland was a very good wom an, and wished to see her children

every thing they ought to be; but her tim e was so m uch occupied in ly ing-in and teaching the little ones, that her elder daughters were inevitably left to shift for them selves; and it was not very wonderful that Catherine, who had by nature nothing heroic about her, should prefer cricket, baseball, riding on horseback, and running about the country at the age of fourteen, to books – or at least books of inform ation – for, provided that nothing like useful knowledge could be gained from them , provided they were all story and no reflection, she had never any obj ection to books at all. But from fifteen to seventeen she was in training for a heroine; she read all such works as heroines m ust read to supply their m em ories with those quota-tions which are so serviceable and so soothing in the vicissitudes of their eventful lives.

From Pope, she learnt to censure those who

“bear about the m ockery of woe.”

From Gray, that

“Many a flower is born to blush unseen,

“And waste its fragrance on the desert air.”

From Thom pson, that

“It is a delightful task

To teach the y oung idea how to shoot.”

And from Shakespeare she gained a great store of inform ation – am ongst the rest, that

“Trifles light as air,

Are, to the j ealous, confirm ation 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 y oung wom an in love alway s looks, “like Patience on a m onum ent

Sm iling at Grief.”

So far her im provem ent was sufficient, and in m any other points she

cam e on exceedingly well; for though she could not write sonnets, she brought herself to read them ; and though there seem ed no chance of her throwing a whole party into raptures by a prelude on the pianoforte, of her own com position, she could listen to other people’s perform ance with very little fatigue. Her greatest deficiency was in the pencil – she had no notion of drawing – not enough even to attem pt a sketch of her lover’s profile, that she m ight be detected in the design. There she fell m iserably 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 am iable y outh who could call forth her sensibility, without having inspired one real passion, and without having excited even any adm iration but what was very m oderate and very transient. This was strange indeed! But strange things m ay 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 fam ily am ong their acquaintance who had reared and supported a boy accidentally found at their door – not one y oung m an whose origin was unknown. Her father had no ward, and the squire of the parish no children.

But when a y oung lady is to be a heroine, the perverseness of forty

surround-ing fam ilies cannot prevent her. Som ething m ust 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-hum oured wom an, fond of Miss Morland, and probably aware that if adventures will not befall a y oung lady in her own village, she m ust seek them abroad, invited her to go with them . Mr. and Mrs. Morland were all com pliance, and Catherine all happiness.