The weary heart may mourn
O'er the wither'd hopes of youth,
But the flowers so rudely shorn
Still leave the seeds of truth.
J.W.D. Moodie.
And years glided on. The trials of school, and all its joyous pastimes
and short-lived sorrows, were over, and the cousins returned to spend
the long-looked for and happy vacation at home. The curly-headed
rosy-cheeked boys had expanded into fine tall lads of sixteen; blithe
of heart, and strong of limb, full of the eager hopes and
never-to-be-realized dreams of youth. With what delight they were
welcomed by the Colonel! With what pride he turned them round and round,
and examined the improvement in form and stature of the noble
boys--wondering at first which was Anthony, and which his own dear
mischievous rogue! They were so marvellously alike, that, seen at a
distance, he scarcely knew which to call his son. And then how
delightedly he listened to their laughing details of tricks and hoaxes,
served off upon cross masters and tyrannical ushers, laughing more
loudly than they, and suggesting improvements in mischievous pranks
already too mischievous! Poor Algernon! in spite of the increasing
infirmities of age, and the pressure of cares which his reckless
extravagance could not fail to produce, he was perfectly happy in the
company of these dear boys, and once more a boy himself.
He never inquired what progress they had made in their studies. He had
put them to school, and paid for their schooling, and if they had not
profited by their opportunities, it was no fault of his. Had he examined
them upon this important subject, he would, indeed, have been surprised
at the difference between them. Anthony, naturally studious, had made
the most of his time, while master Godfrey had wasted his, and brought
with him a small stock of literary acquirements, and many vices.
"What will my uncle say, when he finds how little you have learned
during the last half year?" said Anthony to his cousin, while they were
dressing for dinner.
"He'll never trouble his head about it, without you, Mr. Anthony, put
him up to it, to show off your superior powers of drudgery. But mark me,
Tony, if you dare to say one word about it, you and I shall quarrel."
"But what are we to do about Mr. Cunningham's letter? You know he gave
me one to give to your father; and I much fear that it contains some
remarks not very creditable to you."
"Did you give it to papa?"
"Not yet. Here it is."
"Let me look at the old fellow's autograph. What a bad hand for a
schoolmaster! I will spare my dear lazy father the trouble of
deciphering these villainous pot-hooks. Ha! ha! my good, industrious,
quiet, plodding cousin Anthony, heir of Oak Hall, in the county of
Wilts, there lies your amiable despatch;" and he spurned the torn
document with his foot. "That's the way that I mean to serve all those
who dare to criticise my actions."
"But, dear Godfrey, it is yourself that you injure by this awful waste
of your time and talents."
"Talents!--Fiddlesticks! What care I for talents, without it were those
shining substantial talents spoken of in the Scriptures--talents of gold
and silver. Give me these talents, my boy, and you may profit by all the
rest. Wasting of time! How can we waste that which we can neither
overtake, nor detain when ours, and which when past is lost for ever?
Miser of moments! in another school than thine, Godfrey Hurdlestone will
learn to improve the present."
"But those wasted moments, Godfrey, how will the recollection of them
embitter the future! Remember, my dear cousin, what our good chaplain
often told us--'Time is but the ante-chamber to Eternity!'"
"What, turned preacher! A prudent move that, Tony. I've heard that old
Ironsides has no less than five rich livings in his gift. Now, by Jove!
I'd turn parson to-morrow, if I thought my uncle would be dutiful enough
to bestow one or two of them upon me. How would the 'Rev. Godfrey
Hurdlestone' look upon a visiting card?"
He wrote upon a card, and held it up to Anthony. "See the address of the
Right Worshipful Rector of Ashton. Behold him riding upon a fine
cob--living in a fine house--surrounded by sleek, well-fed, obsequious
servants--his table served like a prince--his wine the best in the
country--his parties the most brilliant--his friends the most obliging
in the world--his curate does all the work for some paltry sixty pounds
a-year, and the rich incumbent lives at his ease. Ah, Tony, what a
prospect! What rare times we would have of it! To-morrow, when my father
asks me to make choice of a profession, hang me if I do not say the
Church."
"You are not fit for so sacred a calling, Godfrey; indeed you are not,"
said Anthony, fearful that his burlesquing cousin for once in his life
was in earnest.
"I know that better than you can tell me, Tony, but 'tis such an easy
way to get a living; I could enjoy such glorious indolence; could fish,
and hunt, and shoot, and play the fiddle, and attend feasts and
merry-makings, with such a happy consciousness of being found in the
path of duty, that it would give a double zest to enjoyment. Now don't
be envious, my dear demure cousin, and forestall me in my project. I am
sure to gain my father's consent. It will save him so much trouble for
the future."
Here the conversation was interrupted by the entrance of Algernon.
"Come, boys, dinner is waiting. My dear Anthony, after that important
business is dispatched, I want to talk to you in the library upon a
matter of serious importance, which I have, I fear, neglected too long.
Nay, don't look alarmed; it is not to administer a scolding, or to
question you in Greek or Latin; or to ask you how you have improved your
time at school, for I take it for granted that you have both done your
best, or I should have heard from Mr. Cunningham, who, they say, is the
strictest disciplinarian in the kingdom."
Now, Anthony could not eat his dinner for thinking what his uncle had to
say to him; but he had to wait patiently until that gentleman had
discussed his bottle of wine; and it was not without a certain sinking
of the heart that he rose to follow him to the library. Godfrey's
curiosity was aroused; he fancied that it was to make some private
inquiries as to his conduct at school, that his father wanted to speak
alone with his cousin.
"May I come?"
"No, my boy. What I have to say to Anthony is for him alone."
"Humph!" said Godfrey; then whispering to Anthony as he passed, "No
tales out of school, Tony," he sauntered into the garden.
"What ails you, Anthony?" said the good-natured uncle, as he took a seat
by the table.
"I don't know," returned the lad; "I felt afraid"--he hesitated--
"Afraid of what?"
"That you were tired of me--wished me to leave you."
"I should much sooner be tired of myself. Don't you know, perverse boy,
how dearly I love you;" and he put his arm round the stripling and drew
him to his breast. "Godfrey himself is not more dear, son of my murdered
Elinor--son of my heart."
There was a long pause; at length the Colonel said, "It was of your
father that I wished to speak. We have let eight years pass away without
holding the least intercourse with him; in this, I think we have been to
blame. The first year you came to me I wrote to him twice, informing him
how you were, and suggesting your future mode of education. To my first
letter I received the following answer:--
'_To Algernon Hurdlestone, Esq._
'In adopting my son you pleased yourself. Had he remained with me I
should have provided for him. As matters at present stand, I
neither wish to be troubled with letters from him nor from you.
When you next write I would thank you to pay the _post_.
Yours, &c.,
'Marcus Hurdlestone.'
"Now, Tony, I was somewhat discouraged by this ungracious answer;
however as I knew the man, I wrote to him again and did pay the post; I
took no notice of the tenor of his letter, but merely informed him that
I had put you to school, and that you were growing a fine clever lad.
Here is his reply:--
'_To Algernon Hurdlestone, Esq._
'Next to receiving impertinent letters, I detest the trouble of
answering them. I have no money to fling away upon fools and
foolscap.
'Marcus Hurdlestone.'
"Now, my dear boy, although so far my applications to him on your behalf
have been unsuccessful, I think it only right and prudent in you to
write to him yourself, and remind this affectionate father that you are
still in the land of the living."
"And that you wish him," said Godfrey, popping his head in at the door,
where he had been an attentive listener for the last five minutes, "well
out of it."
Without heeding his cousin's nonsense, Anthony answered his uncle with
great simplicity, "Dear uncle, what can I say to him?"
"Faith, my dear boy, that's more than I can tell you; just anything, the
best you can. Tell him that you wish to see him, that you are grown
nearly into a man; that you wish him to name what profession he wishes
you to pursue, as you are about to go to college. But mark me, Tony say
not one word about love, filial affection, and so forth; he'll not
believe you. The more you attempt to court or conciliate such spirits as
his--spirits, did I say? the man's all earth, hard unyielding clay--the
more they suspect you of sinister motives. The honest bluntness of
indignant truth is more likely to succeed."
"I believe you, uncle, and without exercising any great mental
ingenuity, my letter, I fear, will be a sad hypocritical affair."
"Doubtless," said Godfrey, roaring with laughter, "I wish, Tony, we
could change fathers."
A reproachful look from Algernon, and a flash from the calm dark eyes of
Anthony, checked the immoral levity of his cousin, who, stepping briskly
up to the table, continued--
"Give me a pen, and I will give you a few hints on the subject."
"This is too serious a business for mirth, Godfrey," said Anthony,
gravely. "I did not love him once--I was a child. He was harsh and cold,
and I was ignorant of the sacred nature of those ties that bound us
together. Time has wrought a great change in me; perhaps it may have
done the same in him. I am anxious to feel for him a deeper interest--to
pity his unfortunate malady, and cherish in my heart the duty and
affection of a son."
"Ah! Tony, Tony, you begin to know the value of the shiners, to tremble
lest old skinflint Pike should cut you out of daddy's will. But come,
let me write the dutiful letter that is to reinstate you in the miser's
good graces. Shall it be in verse or prose? What, silent yet? Well then,
here goes." And with an air of mock gravity he took up a pen, and
commenced reading every line aloud as he went on--
"Dear stingy dad, I long to share
The keeping of your hoarded treasure;
You, I know, have lots to spare,
And I, your hopeful son and heir,
Would spend it with the greatest pleasure.
Oh, thou most devoted father
Fill your chest--hide well the key
Countless wealth for me you gather,
And I selfishly would rather
You should starve and save than me.
Must I--must I, still dependent,
On another's bounty live--"
"What do you mean by that, sir?" cried Algernon in sudden anger,
although hitherto much amused by his son's rattling nonsense. He saw the
blush of shame burn on the cheeks of Anthony, and the tears of wounded
pride fill his eyes.
"I meant no offence," said Godfrey, abashed by the unusual severity of
the Colonel's look and tone. "What I said was only intended to make you
both laugh."
"I forgive him," murmured the indignant heart-humbled lad. "He has given
me another motive to write to my father."
"My dear Tony, never mind his folly." But Anthony was already in the
solitude of his own chamber.
How often had he borne that taunt from Godfrey! How often had he been
told before boys whom he esteemed and loved at school, and whose good
opinion he was desirous to retain, that he was dependent upon the bounty
of Colonel Hurdlestone, though the only son and heir of the rich miser;
and that he was as selfish and mean-spirited as his father to submit to
such degradation! And he had marked the sarcastic smile, the lifted
shoulder, and the meaning glance that passed from boy to boy, and the
galling chain of dependence had entered into his soul.
He became thoughtful and reserved, and applied more intensely to his
studies, to shut out what he considered the ungracious, ungrateful
conviction that he was a beggar in the house of his good uncle. Godfrey
had already calculated the expense of his board and education, for he
had more than once hinted to him, that when he came in for his miserly
father's wealth, in common justice he ought to repay to him what his
romantically generous uncle had expended upon him. Anthony had solemnly
averred that such should indeed be the case, and again had been
tauntingly answered--"Wait until it is yours; you will then tell a
different tale." But now he had dared to reproach him in his uncle's
presence; and it was more than the high-spirited youth could bear.
"Father, cruel, unnatural father!" he exclaimed, as he raised his head
from between his hands; "why have you subjected your unfortunate son to
insults like these?"
"Who insults you, my dear Anthony?" said the Colonel, who had followed
him unobserved, and who now stood beside him. "A rash, impetuous,
thoughtless boy, who never reflects upon what he says; and who, in spite
of all his faults, loves you."
"When you speak, uncle, I am silent. I am sorry that you witnessed this
burst of discontent. When I think upon all that I owe to you, my heart
is bankrupt in thanks; I never can repay your kindness, and the
thought--the consciousness of such overwhelming obligations makes me
unhappy."
"I read your heart, Anthony," said the Colonel seating himself beside
him. "I know all that you would say, and cannot utter; and I, instead of
you become the debtor."
"Your goodness, uncle, makes me feel ashamed of being angry with my
cousin. I wish I could forget the unfortunate circumstances in which I
am placed; that you were my father instead of him who has disowned
me--that my whole heart and soul could cling to you."
He rose hastily and flung himself into the Colonel's arms. His head was
buried in his bosom, and by the convulsive heaving of the young heart
against his own, Algernon knew that the lad was weeping. His own eyes
became moist,--he pressed him warmly against his manly breast.
"You are my son, Anthony--the son of her who received my early vows--of
her who ought to have been my wife. Her heart was mine; and though
another claims your earthly part, you are the son of my soul--of my
adoption. Henceforth let no sense of obligation exist between us."
"I take you at your word, beloved father, and if love can repay love, in
my poor heart you have no rival."
"I know it, Anthony; but since you talk of wishing to be out of my debt,
there is a way in which you can more than repay me."
He paused; Anthony raised his earnest eyes to his face. "Not only by
forgiving my dear petulant Godfrey, but by continuing his friend. I know
that I have spoilt him--that he has many faults, but I think his heart
is sound. As he grows older, he will know better how to value your
character. Promise me, Anthony, that, when I am dust, your love for me
may survive for my son."
"Uncle!" said the lad, dropping upon his knees by his side, and holding
up his clasped hands, "I swear by the God who made us, by the Saviour
who bled for us--by our common hopes of salvation through His blood,
that, whatever fortune I inherit from my father, Godfrey shall have an
equal part."
"This is too much to ask of you, Anthony, all I wish you to promise is,
simply to continue his friend, under every provocation to become
otherwise."
Anthony pressed his uncle's hand reverentially to his lips, as he said,
in a low voice, "I will endeavor to comply with your request."
They parted: Algernon to counsel his wayward boy, and Anthony to write
to his father.
"Father,"
(He began,) "How gladly would I call you dear. Oh, that you would
allow me to love you--to feel for you the duty and respect which
the poorest child feels for his parent. What have I done, my
father, that you deny me your presence, and hold no communion with
me? Will you not permit me to see you? You are growing old and need
some friend to be near you, to soothe the growing infirmities of
age. Who could better fill this place than your son? Who could feel
such an interest in your welfare, or be so firm a friend to you, as
your son--your only son? You will perhaps tell me that it is your
wealth, and not your love, I seek. I care not for your money. It
has never conduced to your own happiness; how do I know that it
will ever conduce to mine? I hate it, for it has shut up your heart
against me, and made me an orphan and an outcast.
"Father, pity me? Pity the circumstances in which I am placed:
dependent upon the charity of my good uncle, I feel, kind though he
be to me, that I am a burden--that it is not just that I should
live upon him. I have finished my school education, and can show
you the most honorable testimonials from my masters. I have
acquired some knowledge, but I long for more. My uncle talks of
sending me to college with his son. For what profession do you wish
me to study? Let me know your wishes in this respect, and they
shall be strictly obeyed. I shall feel greatly honored by your
answer, and remain
"Your dutiful son,
"Anthony Marcus Hurdlestone."
Anthony did not show his uncle this letter. He knew that he would
object to the part relative to himself. He duly sealed it and paid the
post, and for several days he awaited the reply in a state of feverish
excitement. At length it came, and ran thus:
"Son Anthony,
"Your letter pleased me. I believe it to be sincere. You have been
so long a stranger, that I do not feel any wish to see you; but,
hereafter, if you wait with patience, you will not be forgotten.
You are a Hurdlestone. I respect the old family and the old name
too much to leave it without an heir.
"I am glad that you have had sense enough to improve your time.
Time is money. As to a profession, the uncle who took you from my
protection had best choose one for his adopted son. There are
several livings in my gift. If you should make choice of the
Church, they shall be yours. This would make property which has
hitherto been of little value pay a good interest. As to being
dependent upon your uncle, the thought amused me. If he feels you a
burden, it is self-inflicted, and he must be content to bear it.
You need not look to me for pecuniary assistance; I shall yield you
none. An industrious young man can always free himself from a
galling yoke.
"Your father and friend,
Marcus Hurdlestone."
Upon the whole, Anthony was pleased with his father's letter. It
displayed more of human feeling than he expected; besides, he had not
rejected his claims as a son. He had acknowledged him to be his heir. It
is true, he had forbidden him his presence, and flung back his
proffered affection; but he had spoken of him with respect, and his son
was grateful even for this stinted courtesy. He would one day be able to
repay his uncle's kindness in a more substantial manner than words; and
he flew to Algernon's study with a beating heart and flushed cheeks.
"What news, my boy?" said the Colonel, looking up from the artificial
fly he was making. "Have you caught a trout or a salmon?"
"Better still. I have got a letter from my father!"
"No!" said the Colonel, letting go his fishing-tackle. "Is that
possible?"
"Here it is; read for yourself." And he put the letter into Algernon's
hand.
"Well, Tony, lad, this is indeed better than I expected," he said,
grasping his nephew warmly by the hand. "But stay; what does this
paragraph mean? Have you found my love, Anthony, such a galling yoke?"
"My father has misunderstood me," replied the lad, his cheeks glowing
with crimson. "I told him that it was not just for me to be dependent on
your bounty."
"'Tis a crabbed old sinner," said the Colonel, laughing, "I am more
astonished at his letter than anything that has happened to me since he
robbed me of your mother."
Anthony looked inquiringly at his uncle.
"Come, nephew, sit down by me, and I will relate to you a page out of my
own history, which will not only show you what manner of man this father
of yours is, but explain to you the position in which we are both placed
regarding him; clearing up what must have appeared to you very
mysterious."
With intense interest the amiable son of this most execrable father
listened to the tale already told of his mother's wrongs. How often did
the crimes of the parent dye the cheeks of the child with honest
indignation, or pale them with fear? How did his love for his generous
uncle increase in a tenfold degree, when he revealed the treachery that
had been practised against him! How often did he ask himself--"Is it
possible that he can love the son of this cruel brother?" But then he
was also the son of the woman he had loved so tenderly for years, whose
memory he held in the deepest veneration; was like him in person, and,
with sounder judgment and better abilities, resembled him in mind also.
Satisfied that his father would do him justice in spite of his cold,
unfeeling neglect, and bequeath to him the wealth to obtain which he had
sacrificed every human feeling and domestic comfort, Anthony no longer
suffered the humiliating sense of obligation to weigh upon his heart and
depress his spirits, and he cheerfully accepted his uncle's offer to
send him to college to study for the Church.
"Five livings," Godfrey declared, were four too many for any incumbent,
and he would charitably relieve Anthony from some of them, and study for
the same profession. His cousin was grieved at this choice, so unfitted
to the tastes and pursuits of his gay companion; but finding all
remonstrance vain, he ceased to importune him on the subject, hoping that
as time advanced, he would, of his own accord, abandon the idea.
To college, therefore, the lads went; and here the same dissimilarity
marked their conduct as at school. Anthony applied intensely to his
studies, and made rapid progress in mental and moral improvement.
Serious without affectation, and pious without cant, he daily became
more attached to the profession he had chosen, hoping to find through it
a medium by which he could one day restore to the world the talents
which for half a century his father had buried in the dust. Godfrey's
career, on the other hand, was one of folly, dissipation and crime. He
wasted his father's property in the most lavish expenditure, and lost at
the gaming table sums that would have settled him well in life.
Anthony remonstrated with him on his want of principle, and pointed out
the ruin which must follow such profligacy. This Godfrey took in very
bad part, and tauntingly accused his cousin of being a spy. He told him
that it sounded well from a dependent on his father's bounty to preach
up abstinence to him. These circumstances threw Anthony into a deep
melancholy. He did not like to write to his uncle to inform him in what
a disgraceful manner his son was spending his time and money; and he
constantly reproached himself with a want of faithfulness in keeping
such an important matter a secret.
Disgusted with his cousin and his dissipated associates, Anthony
withdrew entirely from their society, and shut himself up in his own
apartments, rarely leaving his books to mingle in scenes in which he
could not sympathize, and in which, from his secluded habits, he was not
formed to shine. He became a dreamer. He formed a world for himself, and
peopled it with beings whose imaginary perfections had no counterpart on
earth. He went forth to mingle with his kind, and found them so unlike
the creatures in his moral Utopia, that he determined to relinquish
society and spiritualise his own nature, the better to fit him for his
high calling as a minister of the gospel of Christ.
"How much better it would be to die young," he would exclaim, "than live
to be old and wicked, or to watch over the decay of the warm affections
and enthusiastic feelings of youth; to see the beautiful fade from the
heart, and the worldly and common-place fill up the blighting void! Oh!
Godfrey, Godfrey! how can you enjoy the miserable and sensual pleasures
for which you are forfeiting self-respect and peace of mind for ever!"
"But Godfrey is happier than you, with all your refined feelings and
cultivated tastes," whispered the tempter to his soul.
"It cannot be," returned the youth, as he communed with his own heart.
"The pleasures of sin may blind the mental vision, and blunt the senses,
for a while; but when the terrible truth makes all things plain--and the
reaction comes--and come it assuredly will--and the mind, like a
polluted stream, can no longer flow back to its own bright source, and
renovate its poisoned waters; who shall then say that the madness of the
sensualist can satisfy the heart?"
Thus did these two young men live together: one endeavoring by the aid
of religion, and by studying the wisdom of the past, to exalt and purify
his fallen nature; the other by grovelling in the dust, and mingling
with beings yet more sinful and degraded, rapidly debased his mind to a
more degenerate and fallen state.
Godfrey Hurdlestone had always been covetous of his cousin's anticipated
wealth, but now he envied his good name, and the respect which his
talents and good conduct entitled him to receive from his superiors, and
he hated him accordingly. He could not bear to see him courted and
caressed by his worldly companions because he was the son of the rich
miser, and himself thrown into the background, although in personal
endowments he far surpassed his studious and retiring companion. His own
father, though reputed to be rich, was known to be in embarrassed
circumstances, which the extravagance of his son was not likely to
decrease. Godfrey had no mental resource but in the society of persons
whom Anthony despised; and he was daily annoyed by disparaging
comparisons which the very worldlings he courted were constantly drawing
between them. "Oh envy!" well has it been said by the wisest of mankind,
"who can stand before envy?"
Of all human passions, the meanest in its operations, the most fatal in
its results, foul parent of the most revolting crimes. If the heart is
guarded against this passion, the path to heaven becomes easy of access,
and the broad and dangerous way loses half its attractions.
Godfrey had forfeited his own self-respect, and he hated his cousin for
possessing a jewel which he had cast away. This aversion was
strengthened by the anxious solicitude that Anthony expressed for his
welfare, and the earnest appeals which he daily made to his conscience,
to induce him to renounce his present destructive course, if not for his
own, for his father's sake.
Their studies were nearly completed, when the immense sums that Godfrey
had squandered in dissipation and gambling obliged the Colonel to recall
them home.
Algernon, although not a little displeased with his heartless selfish
son, received the young men with his usual kindness, but there was a
shade of care upon his broad open brow, which told to Anthony a tale of
anxiety and suffering, that caused him the deepest pain. As two whole
years must necessarily elapse before Anthony could enter into holy
orders, he determined to prosecute his studies in the country with their
worthy curate, Mr. Grant, a gentleman of great learning, piety, and
worth.
This arrangement was greatly to the satisfaction of his uncle, though
Godfrey shook his shoulders, and muttered that it would be "Confounded
dull work."
"I must introduce you, boys, to our new neighbors," said the Colonel,
next morning, at breakfast. "But mind that you don't pull caps for Miss
Whitmore, our charming young heiress."
"Who the deuce is she?" asked Godfrey.
"You knew that our poor old friend Henderson, of Hazelwood Lodge, was
dead?"
"Dead! Why when did he die?" said Godfrey. "You never wrote us a word
about it."
"Well, I thought I had. He died two months ago, and his property fell to
a very distant relation. A captain in the navy. A man of small family
and substantial means, who keeps a fine stud, a capital table, and a
cross old maid, his sister, to superintend his household and take care
of his daughter."
"And the young lady?"
"Is a beautiful simple-hearted girl; rather romantic, and the very
reverse of the old maid. Aunt Dorothy is all ginger and vinegar. Niece
Juliet, like fine Burgundy, sparkling with life and animation."
"By Jove! Anthony, good news for us. I give you warning, mister parson,
that I mean to pass away the time in this dull place by making love to
Miss Whitmore. So don't attempt to poach on my manor."
"That's hardly fair, Godfrey. You ought to allow your cousin an equal
chance."
"The young lady will herself make the chances equal," said Anthony, with
a quiet smile. "For my own part, I feel little interest in the subject,
and never yet saw the woman with whom I would wish to pass my life. To
me the passion of love is unknown. Godfrey, on the contrary, professes
to be in love with every pretty girl he sees."
"There's no doubt that I shall win the lady," cried Godfrey. "Women are
not so fond of quiet, sentimental, learned young gentlemen, like
Anthony; his heart partakes too much of the cold tough nature of his
father's to make a good lover. While he talks sense to the maiden aunt,
I shall be pouring nonsense into the young lady's ears--nursing her
lap-dog, caressing her pony, writing amatory verses in her scrap-book,"
(albums were not then in fashion,) "and losing no opportunity of
insinuating myself into her good graces."