CHAPTER X.
In my next chapter I shall present Squire Hazeldean in patriarchal state,--not exactly under the fig-tree he has planted, but before the stocks he has reconstructed,--Squire Hazeldean and his family on the village green! The canvas is all ready for the colours.
But in this chapter I must so far afford a glimpse into antecedents as to let the reader know that there is one member of the family whom he is not likely to meet at present, if ever, on the village green at Hazeldean.
Our squire lost his father two years after his birth; his mother was very handsome--and so was her jointure; she married again at the expiration of her year of mourning; the object of her second choice was Colonel Egerton.
In every generation of Englishmen (at least since the lively reign of Charles II.) there are a few whom some elegant Genius skims off from the milk of human nature, and reserves for the cream of society.

Colonel Egerton was one of these terque quaterque beati, and dwelt apart on a top shelf in that delicate porcelain dish--not bestowed upon vulgar buttermilk--which persons of fashion call The Great World.

Mighty was the marvel of Pall Mall, and profound was the pity of Park Lane, when this supereminent personage condescended to lower himself into a husband.

But Colonel Egerton was not a mere gaudy butterfly; he had the provident instincts ascribed to the bee.

Youth had passed from him, and carried off much solid property in its flight; he saw that a time was fast coming when a home, with a partner who could help to maintain it, would be conducive to his comforts, and an occasional hum-drum evening by the fireside beneficial to his health.