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DISCIPLINE

by

MARY BRUNTON




CONTENTS


  Chapter I             1
  Chapter II           11
  Chapter III          19
  Chapter IV           32
  Chapter V            41
  Chapter VI           51
  Chapter VII          61
  Chapter VIII         73
  Chapter IX           83
  Chapter X           101
  Chapter XI          114
  Chapter XII         124
  Chapter XIII        143
  Chapter XIV         156
  Chapter XV          165
  Chapter XVI         178
  Chapter XVII        193
  Chapter XVIII       210
  Chapter XIX         217
  Chapter XX          231
  Chapter XXI         244
  Chapter XXII        257
  Chapter XXIII       269
  Chapter XXIV        286
  Chapter XXV         301
  Chapter XXVI        313
  Chapter XXVII       327
  Chapter XXVIII      340
  Chapter XXIX        351
  Chapter XXX         367




CHAPTER I

    _--I was wayward, bold, and wild;
    A self-willed imp; a grandame's child;
    But, half a plague and half a jest,
    Was still endured, beloved, carest._

                                             Walter Scott


I have heard it remarked, that he who writes his own history ought to
possess Irish humour, Scotch prudence, and English sincerity;--the
first, that his work may be read; the second that it may be read without
injury to himself; the third, that the perusal of it may be profitable
to others. I might, perhaps, with truth declare, that I possess only the
last of these qualifications. But, besides that my readers will probably
take the liberty of estimating for themselves my merits as a narrator, I
suspect, that professions of humility may possibly deceive the professor
himself; and that, while I am honestly confessing my disqualifications,
I may be secretly indemnifying my pride, by glorying in the candour of
my confession.

Any expression of self-abasement might, indeed, appear peculiarly
misplaced as a preface to whole volumes of egotism; the world being
generally uncharitable enough to believe, that vanity may somewhat
influence him who chooses himself for his theme. Nor can I be certain
that this charge is wholly inapplicable to me; since it is notorious to
common observation, that, rather than forego their darling subject, the
vain will expatiate even on their errors. A better motive, however,
mingles with those which impel me to relate my story. It is no unworthy
feeling which leads such as are indebted beyond return, to tell of the
benefits they have received; or which prompts one who has escaped from
eminent peril, to warn others of the danger of their way.

It is, I believe, usual with those who undertake to be their own
biographers, to begin with tracing their illustrious descent. I fear
this portion of my history must be compiled from very scanty materials;
for my father, the only one of the race who was ever known to me, never
mentioned his family, except to preface a philippic against all
dignities in church and state. Against these he objected, as fostering
'that aristocratical contumely, which flesh and blood cannot endure'; a
vice which I have heard him declare to be, above all others, the object
of his special antipathy. For this selection, which will probably obtain
sympathy only from the base-born, my father was not without reason; for,
to the pride of birth it was doubtless owing that my grandfather, a
cadet of an ancient family, was doomed to starve upon a curacy, in
revenge for his contaminating the blood of the Percys by an unequal
alliance; and, when disappointment and privation had brought him to an
early grave, it was probably the same sentiment which induced his
relations to prolong his punishment in the person of his widow and
infants, who, with all possible dignity and unconcern, were left to
their fate. My father, therefore, began the world with very slender
advantages; an accident of which he was so far from being ashamed, that
he often triumphantly recorded it, ascribing his subsequent affluence to
his own skill and diligence alone.

He was, as I first recollect him, a muscular dark-complexioned man, with
a keen black eye, cased in an extraordinary perplexity of wrinkle, and
shaded by a heavy beetling eyebrow. The peculiarity of his face was a
certain arching near the corner of his upper lip, to which it was
probably owing that a smile did not improve his countenance; but this
was of the less consequence, as he did not often smile. He had, indeed,
arrived at that age when gravity is at least excusable; although no
trace of infirmity appeared in his portly figure and strong-sounding
tread.

His whole appearance and demeanour were an apt contrast to those of my
mother, in whose youthful form and features symmetry gained a charm from
that character of fragility which presages untimely decay, and that air
of melancholy which seems to welcome decline. I have her figure now
before me. I recollect the tender brightness of her eyes, as laying her
hand upon my head, she raised them silently to heaven. I love to
remember the fine flush that was called to her cheek by the fervour of
the half-uttered