Northanger Abbey — EN

CHAPTER 7

Half a minute con­duct­ed them through the pump-yard to the arch­way, oppo­site Union Pas­sage; but here they were stopped. Every­body acquaint­ed with Bath may remem­ber the dif­fi­cul­ties of cross­ing Cheap Street at this point; it is indeed a street of so imper­ti­nent a nature, so unfor­tu­nate­ly con­nect­ed with the great Lon­don and Oxford roads, and the prin­ci­pal inn of the city, that a day nev­er pass­es in which par­ties of ladies, how­ev­er impor­tant their busi­ness, whether in quest of pas­try, millinery, or even (as in the present case) of young men, are not detained on one side or oth­er by car­riages, horse­men, or carts. This evil had been felt and lament­ed, at least three times a day, by Isabel­la since her res­i­dence in Bath; and she was now fat­ed to feel and lament it once more, for at the very moment of com­ing oppo­site to Union Pas­sage, and with­in view of the two gen­tle­men who were pro­ceed­ing through the crowds, and thread­ing the gut­ters of that inter­est­ing alley, they were pre­vent­ed cross­ing by the approach of a gig, dri­ven along on bad pave­ment by a most know­ing-look­ing coach­man with all the vehe­mence that could most fit­ly endan­ger the lives of him­self, his com­pan­ion, and his horse.

“Oh, these odi­ous gigs!” said Isabel­la, look­ing up. “How I detest them.” But this detes­ta­tion, though so just, was of short dura­tion, for she looked again and exclaimed, “Delight­ful! Mr. Mor­land and my brother!”

“Good heav­en! ‘Tis James!” was uttered at the same moment by Cather­ine; and, on catch­ing the young men’s eyes, the horse was imme­di­ate­ly checked with a vio­lence which almost threw him on his haunch­es, and the ser­vant hav­ing now scam­pered up, the gen­tle­men jumped out, and the equipage was deliv­ered to his care.

Cather­ine, by whom this meet­ing was whol­ly unex­pect­ed, received her broth­er with the liveli­est plea­sure; and he, being of a very ami­able dis­po­si­tion, and sin­cere­ly attached to her, gave every proof on his side of equal sat­is­fac­tion, which he could have leisure to do, while the bright eyes of Miss Thor­pe were inces­sant­ly chal­leng­ing his notice; and to her his devoirs were speed­i­ly paid, with a mix­ture of joy and embar­rass­ment which might have informed Cather­ine, had she been more expert in the devel­op­ment of oth­er people’s feel­ings, and less sim­ply engrossed by her own, that her broth­er thought her friend quite as pret­ty as she could do herself.

John Thor­pe, who in the mean­time had been giv­ing orders about the hors­es, soon joined them, and from him she direct­ly received the amends which were her due; for while he slight­ly and care­less­ly touched the hand of Isabel­la, on her he bestowed a whole scrape and half a short bow. He was a stout young man of mid­dling height, who, with a plain face and ungrace­ful form, seemed fear­ful of being too hand­some unless he wore the dress of a groom, and too much like a gen­tle­man unless he were easy where he ought to be civ­il, and impu­dent where he might be allowed to be easy. He took out his watch: “How long do you think we have been run­ning it from Tet­bury, Miss Morland?”

“I do not know the dis­tance.” Her broth­er told her that it was twen­ty-three miles.

“Three and twen­ty!” cried Thor­pe. “Five and twen­ty if it is an inch.” Mor­land remon­strat­ed, plead­ed the author­i­ty of road-books, innkeep­ers, and mile­stones; but his friend dis­re­gard­ed them all; he had a sur­er test of dis­tance. “I know it must be five and twen­ty,” said he, “by the time we have been doing it. It is now half after one; we drove out of the inn-yard at Tet­bury as the town clock struck eleven; and I defy any man in Eng­land to make my horse go less than ten miles an hour in har­ness; that makes it exact­ly twenty-five.”

“You have lost an hour,” said Mor­land; “it was only ten o’clock when we came from Tet­bury.”

“Ten o’clock! It was eleven, upon my soul! I count­ed every stroke. This broth­er of yours would per­suade me out of my sens­es, Miss Mor­land; do but look at my horse; did you ever see an ani­mal so made for speed in your life?” (The ser­vant had just mount­ed the car­riage and was dri­ving off.) “Such true blood! Three hours and and a half indeed com­ing only three and twen­ty miles! Look at that crea­ture, and sup­pose it pos­si­ble if you can.”

“He does look very hot, to be sure.”

“Hot! He had not turned a hair till we came to Wal­cot Church; but look at his fore­hand; look at his loins; only see how he moves; that horse can­not go less than ten miles an hour: tie his legs and he will get on. What do you think of my gig, Miss Mor­land? A neat one, is not it? Well hung; town-built; I have not had it a month. It was built for a Christchurch man, a friend of mine, a very good sort of fel­low; he ran it a few weeks, till, I believe, it was con­ve­nient to have done with it. I hap­pened just then to be look­ing out for some light thing of the kind, though I had pret­ty well deter­mined on a cur­ri­cle too; but I chanced to meet him on Mag­dalen Bridge, as he was dri­ving into Oxford, last term: ‘Ah! Thor­pe,’ said he, ‘do you hap­pen to want such a lit­tle thing as this? It is a cap­i­tal one of the kind, but I am cursed tired of it.’ ‘Oh! D— ‚’ said I; ‘I am your man; what do you ask?’ And how much do you think he did, Miss Morland?”

“I am sure I can­not guess at all.”

“Cur­ri­cle-hung, you see; seat, trunk, sword-case, splash­ing-board, lamps, sil­ver mould­ing, all you see com­plete; the iron-work as good as new, or bet­ter. He asked fifty guineas; I closed with him direct­ly, threw down the mon­ey, and the car­riage was mine.”

“And I am sure,” said Cather­ine, “I know so lit­tle of such things that I can­not judge whether it was cheap or dear.”

“Nei­ther one nor t’other; I might have got it for less, I dare say; but I hate hag­gling, and poor Free­man want­ed cash.”

“That was very good-natured of you,” said Cather­ine, quite pleased.

“Oh! D— it, when one has the means of doing a kind thing by a friend, I hate to be piti­ful.”

An inquiry now took place into the intend­ed move­ments of the young ladies; and, on find­ing whith­er they were going, it was decid­ed that the gen­tle­men should accom­pa­ny them to Edgar’s Build­ings, and pay their respects to Mrs. Thor­pe. James and Isabel­la led the way; and so well sat­is­fied was the lat­ter with her lot, so con­tent­ed­ly was she endeav­our­ing to ensure a pleas­ant walk to him who brought the dou­ble rec­om­men­da­tion of being her brother’s friend, and her friend’s broth­er, so pure and unco­quet­tish were her feel­ings, that, though they over­took and passed the two offend­ing young men in Mil­som Street, she was so far from seek­ing to attract their notice, that she looked back at them only three times.

John Thor­pe kept of course with Cather­ine, and, after a few min­utes’ silence, renewed the con­ver­sa­tion about his gig. “You will find, how­ev­er, Miss Mor­land, it would be reck­oned a cheap thing by some peo­ple, for I might have sold it for ten guineas more the next day; Jack­son, of Oriel, bid me six­ty at once; Mor­land was with me at the time.”

“Yes,” said Mor­land, who over­heard this; “but you for­get that your horse was included.”

“My horse! Oh, d—it! I would not sell my horse for a hun­dred. Are you fond of an open car­riage, Miss Morland?”

“Yes, very; I have hard­ly ever an oppor­tu­ni­ty of being in one; but I am par­tic­u­lar­ly fond of it.”

“I am glad of it; I will dri­ve you out in mine every day.”

“Thank you,” said Cather­ine, in some dis­tress, from a doubt of the pro­pri­ety of accept­ing such an offer.

“I will dri­ve you up Lans­down Hill tomorrow.”

“Thank you; but will not your horse want rest?”

“Rest! He has only come three and twen­ty miles today; all non­sense; noth­ing ruins hors­es so much as rest; noth­ing knocks them up so soon. No, no; I shall exer­cise mine at the aver­age of four hours every day while I am here.”

“Shall you indeed!” said Cather­ine very seri­ous­ly. “That will be forty miles a day.”

“Forty! Aye, fifty, for what I care. Well, I will dri­ve you up Lans­down tomor­row; mind, I am engaged.”

“How delight­ful that will be!” cried Isabel­la, turn­ing round. “My dear­est Cather­ine, I quite envy you; but I am afraid, broth­er, you will not have room for a third.”

“A third indeed! No, no; I did not come to Bath to dri­ve my sis­ters about; that would be a good joke, faith! Mor­land must take care of you.”

This brought on a dia­logue of civil­i­ties between the oth­er two; but Cather­ine heard nei­ther the par­tic­u­lars nor the result. Her companion’s dis­course now sunk from its hith­er­to ani­mat­ed pitch to noth­ing more than a short deci­sive sen­tence of praise or con­dem­na­tion on the face of every woman they met; and Cather­ine, after lis­ten­ing and agree­ing as long as she could, with all the civil­i­ty and def­er­ence of the youth­ful female mind, fear­ful of haz­ard­ing an opin­ion of its own in oppo­si­tion to that of a self-assured man, espe­cial­ly where the beau­ty of her own sex is con­cerned, ven­tured at length to vary the sub­ject by a ques­tion which had been long upper­most in her thoughts; it was, “Have you ever read Udolpho, Mr. Thorpe?”

“Udolpho! Oh, Lord! Not I; I nev­er read nov­els; I have some­thing else to do.”

Cather­ine, hum­bled and ashamed, was going to apol­o­gize for her ques­tion, but he pre­vent­ed her by say­ing, “Nov­els are all so full of non­sense and stuff; there has not been a tol­er­a­bly decent one come out since Tom Jones, except The Monk; I read that t’other day; but as for all the oth­ers, they are the stu­pid­est things in creation.”

“I think you must like Udolpho, if you were to read it; it is so very interesting.”

“Not I, faith! No, if I read any, it shall be Mrs. Radcliffe’s; her nov­els are amus­ing enough; they are worth read­ing; some fun and nature in them.”

“Udolpho was writ­ten by Mrs. Rad­cliffe,” said Cather­ine, with some hes­i­ta­tion, from the fear of mor­ti­fy­ing him.

“No sure; was it? Aye, I remem­ber, so it was; I was think­ing of that oth­er stu­pid book, writ­ten by that woman they make such a fuss about, she who mar­ried the French emigrant.”

“I sup­pose you mean Camil­la?”

“Yes, that’s the book; such unnat­ur­al stuff! An old man play­ing at see-saw, I took up the first vol­ume once and looked it over, but I soon found it would not do; indeed I guessed what sort of stuff it must be before I saw it: as soon as I heard she had mar­ried an emi­grant, I was sure I should nev­er be able to get through it.”

“I have nev­er read it.”

“You had no loss, I assure you; it is the hor­ridest non­sense you can imag­ine; there is noth­ing in the world in it but an old man’s play­ing at see-saw and learn­ing Latin; upon my soul there is not.”

This cri­tique, the just­ness of which was unfor­tu­nate­ly lost on poor Cather­ine, brought them to the door of Mrs. Thorpe’s lodg­ings, and the feel­ings of the dis­cern­ing and unprej­u­diced read­er of Camil­la gave way to the feel­ings of the duti­ful and affec­tion­ate son, as they met Mrs. Thor­pe, who had descried them from above, in the pas­sage. “Ah, Moth­er! How do you do?” said he, giv­ing her a hearty shake of the hand. “Where did you get that quiz of a hat? It makes you look like an old witch. Here is Mor­land and I come to stay a few days with you, so you must look out for a cou­ple of good beds some­where near.” And this address seemed to sat­is­fy all the fond­est wish­es of the mother’s heart, for she received him with the most delight­ed and exult­ing affec­tion. On his two younger sis­ters he then bestowed an equal por­tion of his fra­ter­nal ten­der­ness, for he asked each of them how they did, and observed that they both looked very ugly.

These man­ners did not please Cather­ine; but he was James’s friend and Isabella’s broth­er; and her judg­ment was fur­ther bought off by Isabella’s assur­ing her, when they with­drew to see the new hat, that John thought her the most charm­ing girl in the world, and by John’s engag­ing her before they part­ed to dance with him that evening. Had she been old­er or vain­er, such attacks might have done lit­tle; but, where youth and dif­fi­dence are unit­ed, it requires uncom­mon steadi­ness of rea­son to resist the attrac­tion of being called the most charm­ing girl in the world, and of being so very ear­ly engaged as a part­ner; and the con­se­quence was that, when the two Mor­lands, after sit­ting an hour with the Thor­pes, set off to walk togeth­er to Mr. Allen’s, and James, as the door was closed on them, said, “Well, Cather­ine, how do you like my friend Thor­pe?” instead of answer­ing, as she prob­a­bly would have done, had there been no friend­ship and no flat­tery in the case, “I do not like him at all,” she direct­ly replied, “I like him very much; he seems very agreeable.”

“He is as good-natured a fel­low as ever lived; a lit­tle of a rat­tle; but that will rec­om­mend him to your sex, I believe: and how do you like the rest of the family?”

“Very, very much indeed: Isabel­la particularly.”

“I am very glad to hear you say so; she is just the kind of young woman I could wish to see you attached to; she has so much good sense, and is so thor­ough­ly unaf­fect­ed and ami­able; I always want­ed you to know her; and she seems very fond of you. She said the high­est things in your praise that could pos­si­bly be; and the praise of such a girl as Miss Thor­pe even you, Cather­ine,” tak­ing her hand with affec­tion, “may be proud of.”

“Indeed I am,” she replied; “I love her exceed­ing­ly, and am delight­ed to find that you like her too. You hard­ly men­tioned any­thing of her when you wrote to me after your vis­it there.”

“Because I thought I should soon see you myself. I hope you will be a great deal togeth­er while you are in Bath. She is a most ami­able girl; such a supe­ri­or under­stand­ing! How fond all the fam­i­ly are of her; she is evi­dent­ly the gen­er­al favourite; and how much she must be admired in such a place as this—is not she?”

“Yes, very much indeed, I fan­cy; Mr. Allen thinks her the pret­ti­est girl in Bath.”

“I dare say he does; and I do not know any man who is a bet­ter judge of beau­ty than Mr. Allen. I need not ask you whether you are hap­py here, my dear Cather­ine; with such a com­pan­ion and friend as Isabel­la Thor­pe, it would be impos­si­ble for you to be oth­er­wise; and the Allens, I am sure, are very kind to you?”

“Yes, very kind; I nev­er was so hap­py before; and now you are come it will be more delight­ful than ever; how good it is of you to come so far on pur­pose to see me.”

James accept­ed this trib­ute of grat­i­tude, and qual­i­fied his con­science for accept­ing it too, by say­ing with per­fect sin­cer­i­ty, “Indeed, Cather­ine, I love you dearly.”

Inquiries and com­mu­ni­ca­tions con­cern­ing broth­ers and sis­ters, the sit­u­a­tion of some, the growth of the rest, and oth­er fam­i­ly mat­ters now passed between them, and con­tin­ued, with only one small digres­sion on James’s part, in praise of Miss Thor­pe, till they reached Pul­teney Street, where he was wel­comed with great kind­ness by Mr. and Mrs. Allen, invit­ed by the for­mer to dine with them, and sum­moned by the lat­ter to guess the price and weigh the mer­its of a new muff and tip­pet. A pre-engage­ment in Edgar’s Build­ings pre­vent­ed his accept­ing the invi­ta­tion of one friend, and oblig­ed him to hur­ry away as soon as he had sat­is­fied the demands of the oth­er. The time of the two par­ties unit­ing in the Octa­gon Room being cor­rect­ly adjust­ed, Cather­ine was then left to the lux­u­ry of a raised, rest­less, and fright­ened imag­i­na­tion over the pages of Udolpho, lost from all world­ly con­cerns of dress­ing and din­ner, inca­pable of sooth­ing Mrs. Allen’s fears on the delay of an expect­ed dress­mak­er, and hav­ing only one minute in six­ty to bestow even on the reflec­tion of her own felic­i­ty, in being already engaged for the evening.

The arch­way ⇒ An arch­way in Bath, lead­ing between shops from the Abbey Church­yard, or Pump-yard, oppo­site Union Pas­sage; arch­way ˈɑːʧweɪ n A pas­sage­way under an arch. 

Union Pas­sage ⇒ An inter­est­ing pas­sage­way in the cen­tre of Bath, con­nect­ing the Pump Room with Edgar’s Buildings.

Cheap Street ⇒ Union Street was not con­struct­ed until 1807, so to reach Edgar’s Build­ings from the Pump Room, Cather­ine and Isabel­la had to use Union Passage—now for pedes­tri­ans only

imper­ti­nent ɪmˈpɜːtɪnənt adj Not show­ing prop­er respect or exceed­ing the lim­its of pro­pri­ety or good man­ners: rude, irrel­e­vant

in quest of ⇒ In search of.

pas­try ˈpeɪstri n Baked sweet foods.

millinery ˈmɪlɪnəri n Arti­cles, espe­cial­ly women’s hats, sold by a milliner.

detain dɪˈteɪn v To main­tain restrain­ing con­trol and pos­ses­sion of: hold, hold up

car­riage ˈkærɪʤ n Usu­al­ly a four-wheeled vehi­cle drawn by one or more hors­es, often of an ele­gant design: equipage, rig

cart kɑːt n A two-wheeled vehi­cle used for trans­port­ing goods.

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

at least ⇒ If noth­ing else. Not less than.

to be fat­ed ⇒ To be destined.

thread θrɛd n To make one’s way cau­tious­ly through, as past or around obsta­cles or through a passage.

gut­ter ˈgʌtə n A chan­nel for car­ry­ing off water.

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

pave­ment ˈpeɪvmənt n Any area or sur­face cov­ered with flat stones or bricks: paved path

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

vehe­mence ˈviːɪməns n The state of being extreme in degree, strength, or effect: inten­si­ty, vig­or, zeal

fit­ly ˈfɪtli adj In a prop­er man­ner or place or at a prop­er time.

odi­ous ˈəʊdiəs adj Arous­ing strong dis­like, aver­sion, or intense dis­plea­sure: hor­rid, abominable

detest dɪˈtɛst v To dis­like intense­ly: abhor

detes­ta­tion ˌdiːtɛsˈteɪʃən n Intense hatred: abhor­rence, exe­cra­tion, loathing

just ʤʌst adj Suit­able or prop­er in nature.

for fɔː conj Because; since.

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

‘Tis ⇒ It is.

utter ˈʌtə v To pro­nounce or speak.

to catch someone’s eye ⇒ Attract somebody’s attention.

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

haunch hɔːnʧ n The loin and leg of an ani­mal espe­cial­ly a mam­mal hav­ing four limbs.

scam­per ˈskæm­pə v To run or go quick­ly and lightly.

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

ami­able ˈeɪmiəb(ə)l adj Pleas­ant and friend­ly: cor­dial, good-natured

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

attached əˈtæʧt adj To be bound to by affec­tions: com­mit­ted

leisure ˈlɛʒə n Unhur­ried ease.

inces­sant­ly ɪnˈsɛs­ntli adv With­out inter­rup­tion: con­stant­ly, con­tin­u­ous­ly, end­less­ly, ever­last­ing, perpetually

chal­lenge ˈʧælɪnʤ v To sum­mon to action: dare, defy, fight

devoirs ˈdɛvwɑːz n pl Respects, compliments.

embar­rass­ment ɪmˈbærəs­mənt n The state of feel­ing uncom­fort­able or ashamed: con­fu­sion, chagrin

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

amends əˈmɛndz n pl Rec­om­pense for griev­ance or injury: com­pen­sa­tion

bestow bɪˈstəʊ v To give for­mal­ly or offi­cial­ly: present, grant

scrape skreɪp n Archa­ic An act show­ing respect, espe­cial­ly a bow or curtsy.

stout staʊt adj Bulky and over­weight in fig­ure: cor­pu­lent; fat, hulking

groom grʊm n A man or boy employed to take care of horses.

easy ˈiːzi adj Uncon­strained by rigid stan­dards: casu­al, infor­mal, easy­go­ing, relaxed

civ­il ˈsɪvl adj Not rude; marked by sat­is­fac­to­ry adher­ence to social usages and con­sid­er­a­tion for other.

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

Tet­bury ⇒ A his­toric mar­ket town in the heart of the Cotswolds, fea­tur­ing a 17th-cen­tu­ry mar­ket hall and some love­ly Jacobean and Eliz­a­bethan buildings.

remon­strate rɪˈmɒn­streɪt v To express oppo­si­tion by argu­ment: object, protest

mile­stone ˈmaɪl­stəʊn n A stone set up beside a road to mark the dis­tance in miles to a par­tic­u­lar place.

dis­re­gard ˌdɪs­rɪˈgɑːd v To pay no atten­tion to: ignore, snub, cut

du duː v Infor­mal To trav­el a spec­i­fied distance.

defy dɪˈ­faɪ v To chal­lenge or dare some­one to do some­thing: beard, brave, chal­lenge, dare, face, front

har­ness ˈhɑːnɪs n All the leather and met­al-work by which a horse is con­troled and fas­tened to the cart.

upon my soul ⇒ To be telling the truth.

stroke strəʊk n The hour reg­is­tered by the strik­ing of a clock

to be out of one’s sens­es ⇒ To be mad.

do but look at ⇒ Just look at.

mount maʊnt n To place one­self upon; get up on.

not turn a hair ⇒ Remain appar­ent­ly unmoved or unaffected.

Wal­cot ⇒ A sub­urb of the city of Bath.

fore­hand ˈfɔːhænd n The part of a horse in front of the rider.

loin lɔɪn n pl The region of the hips, groin, and low­er abdomen.

to get on ⇒ To man­age with rea­son­able success.

well hung ⇒ Hav­ing good devices (such as springs) sup­port­ing the upper part of a vehi­cle on the axles.

Christchurch ˈkraɪs(t)tʃɜːrtʃ A town in Dorset on the south coast of England.

have done with some­one or some­thing ⇒ To be fin­ished with some­one or something.

of the kind ⇒ Of this kind.

cur­ri­cle ˈkʌrɪkl n A light, open, two-wheeled car­riage, drawn by two hors­es abreast.

Mag­dalen Bridge ˈmɔːdlɪn ⇒ A bridge that spans the divid­ed stream of the Riv­er Cher­well just to the east of the City of Oxford, Eng­land, and next to Mag­dalen Col­lege, whence it gets its name and pronunciation.

term tɜːm n Edu­ca­tion Any of the divi­sions of the aca­d­e­m­ic year dur­ing which a school, col­lege, etc, is in session.

hap­pen + inf. ⇒ Occa­sion­al­ly, by chance.

cap­i­tal ˈkæpɪtl adj First-rate: excel­lent

to be cursed tired of some­thing ⇒ To be very annoyed at something.

D— ⇒ Damn it.

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

trunk trʌŋk n Com­part­ment in a vehi­cle that car­ries lug­gage or shop­ping or tools: lug­gage compartment

splash-board ˈsplæʃbɔːd n A struc­ture that pro­tects the upper part of a vehi­cle from splash­es of mud: mud-guard

mold­ing ˈməʊldɪŋ n A dec­o­ra­tive strip used for orna­men­ta­tion or finishing.

guinea ˈgɪni n A for­mer British gold coin worth 21 shillings.

to close with ⇒ To agree.

t’other ⇒ The other.

hag­gle ˈhægl v To bar­gain, as over the price of some­thing: dick­er

good-natured ˈgʊdˈneɪʧəd adj Of a tol­er­ant and kind­ly dis­po­si­tion: ami­able, kind, friend­ly, gen­er­ous, help­ful, tol­er­ant, agreeable

D— it ⇒ Damn it.

piti­ful ˈpɪtɪfʊl adj Deserv­ing or caus­ing feel­ings of pity or sym­pa­thy: pathet­ic, pitiable

to take place ⇒ To be held, to hap­pen, to occur.

whith­er ˈwɪðə conj To which spec­i­fied place or position

Edgar’s Build­ings ⇒ Edgar’s Build­ings (a ter­race of hous­es on the north side of George Street where the Thor­pes lodged.

pay your respects to some­body ⇒ (for­mal) Show respect for some­body by vis­it­ing them, attend­ing their funer­al, etc.

to lead the way ⇒ To go in front as leader.

lot lɒt n Your over­all cir­cum­stances or con­di­tion in life: fate, for­tune, destiny

endeav­our ɪnˈdɛvə v To attempt: essay, try, assay, seek

unco­quet­tish ˌʌnkɒˈkɛtɪʃ adj Not flirtatious.

over­take ˌəʊvəˈteɪk v To catch up with in trav­el­ing or pur­suit; draw even with.

Mil­som Street ⇒ The fash­ion­able shop­ping street in Bath.

to keep (up) with ⇒ To con­tin­ue at the same lev­el or pace.

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

Oriel ⇒ A square and a srteet in Oxford.

bid bɪd v (pt bade beɪd, pp bid, bid­den ˈbɪdn) to make an offer of: offer

over­hear ˌəʊvəˈhɪə v Hear, usu­al­ly with­out the knowl­edge of the speakers

to be fond of ⇒ To have a strong lik­ing, incli­na­tion, or affection.

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

pro­pri­ety prəˈpraɪəti n Cor­rect or appro­pri­ate behavior.

Lans­down ⇒ Lans­down is a sub­urb of Bath, that extends north­wards from the city cen­tre up a hill of the same name. Its most dis­tinc­tive archi­tec­tur­al fea­ture is Lans­down Crescent.

to knock up ⇒ To wear out: exhaust

aye eɪ int Yes.

for what I care ⇒ I do not care.

envy ˈɛn­vi n resent­ful or painful desire for another’s advan­tages: jeal­ousy

room ruːm n A space that is or may be occupied.

faith feɪθ interj Archa­ic Indeed; really.

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

sink sɪŋk v (pt sank sæŋk, pp sunk sʌŋk) v To go down or become low­er slowly.

hith­er­to ˈhɪðəˈ­tuː adv Until this time.

pitch pɪʧ n A lev­el or degree, as of intensity.

deci­sive dɪˈsaɪsɪv adj Deter­min­ing or hav­ing the pow­er to deter­mine an out­come: con­clu­sive, fate­ful, determining

con­dem­na­tion ˌkɒndɛmˈneɪʃən n An expres­sion of strong dis­ap­proval; pro­nounc­ing as wrong or moral­ly cul­pa­ble: dis­ap­proval

as long as ⇒ On the con­di­tion that.

def­er­ence ˈdɛfərəns Cour­te­ous regard for people’s feel­ings: respect, respect­ful­ness

haz­ard ˈhæzəd v Put for­ward, of a guess, in spite of pos­si­ble refu­ta­tion: guess, ven­ture, pretend

an opin­ion of its own ⇒ Inde­pen­dent opinion.

ven­ture ˈvɛnʧə v To express at the risk of denial, crit­i­cism, or cen­sure: pre­sume, dare

at length ⇒ Even­tu­al­ly; final­ly, at last.

vary ˈveəri v To make or become dif­fer­ent: change, alter

upper­most ˈʌpəməʊst adj In the most promi­nent posi­tion, as in the mind: pre­dom­i­nant, dom­i­nant, supreme, principal

Udolpho ⇒ The quin­tes­sen­tial Goth­ic romance The Mys­ter­ies of Udolpho by Ann Ward Rad­cliffe, replete with inci­dents of phys­i­cal and psy­cho­log­i­cal ter­ror, like remote crum­bling cas­tles, seem­ing­ly super­nat­ur­al events, a brood­ing, schem­ing vil­lain and a per­se­cut­ed heroine.

Oh, Lord ⇒ An oath express­ing sur­prise, shock, frus­tra­tion, anger, or annoyance.

hum­ble ˈhʌm­bl adj Sub­dued or brought low in con­di­tion or status.

ashamed əˈʃeɪmd adj Feel­ing shame, guilt, embar­rass­ment or remorse.

tol­er­a­bly ˈtɒlərəbli adv Of mod­er­ate­ly good qual­i­ty but less than excel­lent: sat­is­fac­to­ri­ly, accept­ably, decently

The His­to­ry of Tom Jones, a Foundling (1749) ⇒ A com­ic nov­el by Eng­lish play­wright and nov­el­ist Hen­ry Fielding.

The Monk ⇒ A Goth­ic nov­el by Matthew Gre­go­ry Lewis, pub­lished in 1796. Its con­vo­lut­ed and scan­dalous plot has made it one of the most impor­tant Goth­ic nov­els of its time, often imi­tat­ed and adapt­ed for the stage and the screen; monk mʌŋk n A man who is a mem­ber of a broth­er­hood liv­ing in a monastery and devot­ed to a dis­ci­pline pre­scribed by his order.

t’other ⇒ The other.

as for ⇒ Concerning.

Mrs. Rad­cliffe, Ann Ward (1764–1823) ⇒ British writer of Goth­ic nov­els, includ­ing The Mys­ter­ies of Udolpho.

mor­ti­fy ˈmɔːtɪ­faɪ v To cause a per­son to be self-con­scious­ly dis­tressed: embar­rass, abash, discomfort

to make fuss about some­thing ⇒ вдигам шум около kещо.

141 Camil­la ⇒ Sub­ti­tled A Pic­ture of Youth, is a nov­el by Frances Bur­ney, first pub­lished in 1796. Camil­la deals with the mat­ri­mo­ni­al con­cerns of a group of young peo­ple. Camil­la Tyrold and her sis­ters, the sweet tem­pered Lavinia and the deformed, and extreme­ly kind, Euge­nia, and their cousin, the beau­ti­ful Indi­ana Lynmere—and in par­tic­u­lar, with the love affair between Camil­la her­self and her eli­gi­ble suit­or, Edgar Man­dle­bert. They have many hard­ships, how­ev­er, caused by mis­un­der­stand­ings and mis­takes, in the path of true love.

An enor­mous­ly pop­u­lar eigh­teenth-cen­tu­ry nov­el, Camil­la is touched at many points by the advanc­ing spir­it of roman­ti­cism. As in Eveli­na, Bur­ney weaves into her nov­el shafts of light and dark, com­ic episodes and goth­ic shud­ders, and cre­ates many social, emo­tion­al, and men­tal dilem­mas that illu­mi­nate the gap between generations.

see-saw siː-sɔː n A long flat piece of wood bal­anced on a cen­tral point so that with a per­son rid­ing on each end, one end goes up as the oth­er goes down.

to look some­thing over ⇒ Inspect, exam­ine, scru­ti­nize something.

it/that won’t do ⇒ It/that is total­ly unac­cept­able or unsatisfactory.

as soon as ⇒ Imme­di­ate­ly, right after.

to get through ⇒ To arrive at the end of; fin­ish or complete.

you had no loss ⇒ You hadn’t lost anything.

hor­rid ˈhɒrɪd adj Caus­ing hor­ror: dread­ful, horrifying

cri­tique krɪˈtiːk n A seri­ous exam­i­na­tion and judg­ment of some­thing: crit­i­cism

lodg­ing ˈlɒʤɪŋ n A place to live, dwellings in gen­er­al: shel­ter, housing

dis­cern­ing dɪˈsɜːnɪŋ adj Hav­ing or reveal­ing keen insight and good judg­ment: dis­crim­i­nat­ing, clear-eyed, clear-sighted

unprej­u­diced ʌnˈprɛʤʊdɪst adj Free from bias in judge­ment: fair, lib­er­al, objec­tive, just, impar­tial, fair-minded

to give way ⇒ Be replaced by.

duti­ful ˈdjuːtɪfʊl adj Will­ing­ly obe­di­ent out of a sense of duty and respect: duteous, obe­di­ent

affec­tion­ate əˈfɛkʃnɪt adj Hav­ing fond feel­ings: fond, lov­ing, tender

descry dɪsˈkraɪ v Catch sight of: espy, spy, sight, spot

hearty ˈhɑːti adj Show­ing warm and heart­felt friend­li­ness: warm

quiz kwɪz n Archa­ic An eccen­tric per­son or thing.

witch wɪʧ n An ugly, fright­en­ing old woman: crone, drab, hag

to look out for ⇒ To search.

address əˈdrɛs n Archa­ic Man­ner or style of speak­ing or conversation.

fond fɒnd adj Hav­ing or dis­play­ing warmth or affec­tion: lov­ing, ten­der, affec­tion­ate, love­some, warm

exult­ing ɪgˈzʌltɪŋ adj Joy­ful and proud espe­cial­ly because of tri­umph or success.

fra­ter­nal frəˈtɜːnl adj Like or char­ac­ter­is­tic of or befit­ting a broth­er: broth­er­like, brotherly

to buy off ⇒ Free one­self, etc., exempt oneself.

vain veɪn adj Char­ac­ter­is­tic of false pride; hav­ing an exag­ger­at­ed sense of self-impor­tance: ego­tis­tic, proud, con­ceit­ed, ego­tis­ti­cal, swollen-head­ed, self-conceited

dif­fi­dence ˈdɪfɪdəns n Lack of self-con­fi­dence: hes­i­tance, timid­i­ty, self-dis­trust, hes­i­tan­cy, self-doubt

to set off ⇒ To start on a jour­ney: depart

flat­tery ˈflætəri n Exces­sive or insin­cere praise: com­pli­ment, puffery blar­ney, adu­la­tion sweet talk

a lit­tle of a rat­tle ⇒ A bit sil­ly chat­ter­er; rat­tle ˈrætl n A baby’s toy that makes per­cus­sive nois­es when shaken.

high haɪ adj Stand­ing above oth­ers in qual­i­ty or position.

a great deal ⇒ A large amount.

on pur­pose ⇒ Inten­tion­al­ly; deliberately.

trib­ute ˈtrɪb­juːt n Evi­dence attest­ing to some praise­wor­thy qual­i­ty or char­ac­ter­is­tic: praise, esteem, applause, tes­ti­mo­ni­al, com­men­da­tion, approval

sin­cer­i­ty sɪnˈsɛrɪti n the qual­i­ty of being open and truth­ful; not deceit­ful or hyp­o­crit­i­cal: truth­ful­ness, earnestness

digres­sion daɪˈ­grɛʃən n The act of wan­der­ing from the point, or form the main sub­ject in speak­ing or writing.

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.

sum­mon ˈsʌmən v To call upon to do some­thing spec­i­fied: invite

weigh weɪ v To bal­ance in the mind in order to make a choice: pon­der, eval­u­ate, estimate

muff mʌf n A small cylin­dri­cal fur or cloth cov­er, open at both ends, in which the hands are placed for warmth.

tip­pet ˈtɪpɪt n A woman’s fur shoul­der cape with hang­ing ends; often con­sist­ing of the whole fur of a fox or marten: cape, man­tle

to hur­ry away ⇒ Depart in haste.

the Octa­gon Room ⇒ The cen­tral room of the Upper Rooms, link­ing the oth­er three rooms named the Ball­room, the Tea or Con­cert Room, and the Card Room.

rest­less ˈrɛstlɪs adj Afford­ing no qui­et, repose, or rest: uneasy, unset­tled

world­ly ˈrɛstlɪs adj Char­ac­ter­is­tic of or devot­ed to the tem­po­ral world as opposed to the spir­i­tu­al world: earth­ly, mun­dane mate­ri­al­is­tic, pro­fane, material

sooth­ing ˈsuːðɪŋ v Afford­ing phys­i­cal relief: allay­ing, comforting­

felic­i­ty fiˈlɪsɪti n A source of hap­pi­ness, pros­per­i­ty: bliss