Self-control: A Novel. Mary Brunton
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Self-control: A Novel
His warfare is within. – There unfatigued
His fervent spirit labours. – There he fights,
And there obtains fresh triumphs o'er himself,
And never-withering wreaths, compared with which
The laurels that a Caesar reaps are weeds
Madam,
You would smile to hear the insect of a day pay the tribute of its praise to the lasting oak which aided its first feeble soaring – Smile then; – for a person whom nature, fortune, and inclination, alike, have marked for obscurity, one whose very name may never reach your ear, offers this tribute of respect to the author of Plays on the Passions.
The pleasure of expressing heart-felt admiration is not, however, my only motive for inscribing this tale to you. Unknown to the world both as an individual and as an author, I own myself desirous of giving a pledge of spotless intention in my work, by adorning it with the name of one whose writings force every unvitiated heart to glow with a warmer love of virtue. On one solitary point I claim equality with you: – In purity of intention I yield not even to Joanna Baillie.
May I venture to avow another feeling which has prompted this intrusion? What point so small that vanity cannot build on it a resting-place! Will you believe that this trifle claims affinity with the Plays on the Passions? – Your portraitures of the progress and of the consequences of passion, – portraitures whose exquisite truth gives them the force of living examples, – are powerful warnings to watch the first risings of the insidious rebel. No guard but one is equal to the task. The regulation of the passions is the province, it is the triumph of Religion. In the character of Laura Montreville the religious principle is exhibited as rejecting the bribes of ambition; bestowing fortitude in want and sorrow; as restraining just displeasure; overcoming constitutional timidity; conquering misplaced affection; and triumphing over the fear of death and of disgrace.
This little tale was begun at first merely for my own amusement. It is published that I may reconcile my conscience to the time which it has employed, by making it in some degree useful. Let not the term so implied provoke a smile! If my book is read, its uses to the author are obvious. Nor is a work of fiction necessarily unprofitable to the readers. When the vitiated appetite refuses its proper food, the alternative may be administered in a sweetmeat. It may be imprudent to confess the presence of the medicine, lest the sickly palate, thus warned, turn from it in loathing. But I rely in this instance on the world of the philosopher, who avers that 'young ladies never read prefaces'; and I am not without hope, that with you, and with all who form exceptions to this rule, the avowal of a useful purpose may be an inducement to tolerate what otherwise might be thought unworthy of regard.
Perhaps in an age whose lax morality, declining the glorious toils of virtue, is poorly 'content to dwell in decencies for ever', emulation may be repressed by the eminence which the character of Laura claims over the ordinary standard of the times. A virtue which, though essentially Christian, is certainly not very popular in this Christian country, may be stigmatized as romantic; a chilling term of reproach, which has blighted many a fair blossom of goodness ere it ripened into fruit. Perhaps some of my fair countrywomen, finding it difficult to trace in the delineation of Self-Control any striking feature of their own minds, may pronounce my picture unnatural. It might be enough to reply, that I do not ascribe any of the virtues of Laura to nature, and, least of all, the one whose office is to regulate and control nature. But if my principal figure want the air, and vivacity of life, the blame lies in the painter, not in the subject. Laura is indebted to fancy for her drapery and attitudes alone. I have had the happiness of witnessing, in real life, a self-command operating with as much force, permanence, and uniformity, as that which is depicted in the following volumes. To you, Madam, I should perhaps further apologize for having left in my model some traces of human imperfection; while, for the generality of my readers, I breathe a fervent wish, that these pages may assist in enabling their own hearts to furnish proof that the character of Laura, however unnatural, is yet not unattainable.
CHAPTER I
It was on a still evening in June, that Laura Montreville left her father's cottage, in the little village of Glenalbert, to begin a solitary ramble. Her countenance was mournful, and her step languid; for her health had suffered from long confinement, and her spirits were exhausted by long attendance on the deathbed of her mother. That labour of duty had been lessened by no extrinsic circumstance; for Lady Harriet Montreville was a peevish and refractory patient; her disorder had been tedious as well as hopeless; and the humble establishment of a half-pay officer furnished no one who could lighten to Laura the burden of constant attendance. But Laura had in herself that which softens all difficulty, and beguiles all fatigue – an active mind, a strong sense of duty, and the habit of meeting and of overcoming adverse circumstances.
Captain Montreville was of a family ancient and respectable, but so far from affluent, that, at the death of his father, he found his wealth, as a younger son, to consist only of £500, besides the emoluments arising from a lieutenancy in a regiment of foot. Nature had given him a fine person and a pleasing address; and to the national opinions of a Scotish mother, he was indebted for an education, of which the liberality suited better with his birth than with his fortunes. He was in London negotiating for the purchase of a company, when he accidentally met with Lady Harriet Bircham. Her person was shewy, and her manners had the glare, even more than the polish of high life. She had a lively imagination, and some wit; had read a little, and knew how to shew that little to advantage. The fine person of Montreville soon awakened the only sort of sensibility of which Lady Harriet was possessed; and her preference was sufficiently visible in every step of its progress. To be distinguished by a lady of such rank and attractions, raised in Montreville all the vanity of three-and-twenty; and, seen through that medium, Lady Harriet's charms were magnified to perfections. Montreville soon was, or fancied himself, desperately in love. He sued, and was accepted with a frankness, to which some stiff advocates for female decorum might give the harsh name of forwardness. Montreville was in love, and he was pleased to call it the candour of a noble mind.
As his regiment was at this time under orders for the West Indies, Lady Harriet prevailed on him to exchange to half-pay; and her fortune being no more than £5000, economy, no less than the fondness for solitude natural in young men in love, induced him to retire to the country with his bride, who had reasons of her own for wishing to quit London. He had been educated in Scotland, and he remembered its wild scenery with the enthusiasm of a man of taste, and a painter. He settled therefore in the village of Glenalbert, near Perth; and to relieve his conscience from the load of utter idleness at twenty-three, began the superintendence of a little farm. Here the ease and vivacity of Lady Harriet made her for a while the delight of her new acquaintance. She understood all the arts of courtesy; and, happy herself, was for a while content to practise them. The store of anecdote, which she had accumulated in her intercourse with the great, passed with her country neighbours for knowledge of the world. To Scotish ears, the accent of the higher ranks of English conveys an idea of smartness, as well as of gentility; and Lady Harriet became an universal favourite.
Those who succeed best in amusing strangers, are not, it has been remarked, the most pleasing in domestic life: they are not even always the most entertaining. Lady Harriet's spirits had ebbs, which commonly took place during her tête-à-têtes with Captain Montreville. Outward attractions, real or imaginary, are the natural food of passion: but sound principles must win confidence, and kindness of heart engage affection. Poor Montreville soon gave a mournful assent to these truths; for Lady Harriet had no principles, and her heart was a mere 'pulsation on the left side.' Her passion for her husband soon declined; and her more permanent appetite for admiration finding but scanty food in a solitary village, her days passed in secret discontent or open murmurings. The narrowness of their finances made her feel the necessity of economy, though it could not immediately instruct her in the art of it; and Montreville, driven from domestic habits by the