quire is one
of the full-blown blossoms of another summer. He is flaunting in the
sunshine of a state of wealth and luxury, which we, as our fathers in
their days did, fancy can by no possibility be carried many degrees
farther, and yet we see it every day making some new and extraordinary
advance.

It is obvious that there are many intervening stages of society, among
our country gentry, between the old squire and the young, as there are
intermediate degrees of age. The old squires are those of the completely
last generation, who have outlived their contemporaries, and have made a
dead halt on the ground of their old habits, sympathies, and opinions,
and are resolved to quit none of them for what they call the follies and
new-fangled notions of a younger, and, of course, more degenerate race.
They are continually crying, "Oh, it never was so in my day!" They point
to tea, and stoves in churches, and the universal use of umbrellas,
parasols, cork-soled shoes, warming-pans, and carriages, as
incontestible proofs of the rapidly-increasing effeminacy of mankind.
But between these old veterans and their children, there are the men of
the middle ages, who have, more or less, become corrupted with modern
ways and indulgences; have, more or less, introduced modern furniture,
modern hours, modern education, and tastes, and books; and have, more or
less, fallen into the modern custom of spending a certain part of the
year in London. With these we have nothing whatever to do. The old
squire is the landmark of the ancient state of things, and his son Tom
is the epitome of the new; all between is a mere transition and
evanescent condition.

Tom Chesselton was duly sent by his father to Eton as a boy, where he
became a most accomplished scholar in cricket, boxing, horses, and dogs,
and made the acquaintance of several lords, who taught him the way of
letting his father's money slip easily through his fingers without
burning them, and engrafted him besides with a fine stock of truly
aristocratic tastes, which will last him his whole life. From Eton he
was duly transferred to Oxford, where he wore his gown and trencher-cap
with a peculiar grace, and gave a classic finish to his taste in horses,
in driving, and in ladies. Having completed his education with great
_eclat_, he was destined by his father to a few years' soldiership in
the militia, as being devoid of all danger, and moreover, giving
opportunities for seeing a great deal