Self-control: A Novel

by Mary Brunton

SELF-CONTROL

A Novel by

MARY BRUNTON

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 Cowper

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TO
MISS JOANNA BAILLIE

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.