standards of a long life to be suddenly reversed by a prodigal son?

To get back to Austen. On St. Valentine's Day of that year when, to tell
the truth, he was seated in his office scribbling certain descriptions of
nature suggested by the valentines in Mr. Hayman's stationery store, the
postman brought in a letter from young Tom Gaylord. Austen laughed as he
read it. "The Honourable Galusha Hammer is well named," young Tom wrote,
"but the conviction has been gaining ground with me that a hammer is
about as much use as a shovel would be at the present time. It is not the
proper instrument." "But the 'old man'" (it was thus young Tom was wont
to designate his parent) "is pig-headed when he gets to fighting, and
won't listen to reason. If he believes he can lick the Northeastern with
a Hammer, he is durned badly mistaken, and I told him so. I have been
giving him sage advice in little drops--after meals. I tell him there is
only one man in the State who has sense enough even to shake the
Northeastern, and that's you. He thinks this a pretty good joke. Of
course I realize where your old man is planted, and that you might have
some natural delicacy and wish to refrain from giving him a jar. But come
down for an hour and let me talk to you, anyway. The new statesman from
Leith is cutting a wide swath. Not a day passes but his voice is heard
roaring in the Forum; he has visited all the State institutions, dined
and wined the governor and his staff and all the ex-governors he can lay
his hands on, and he has that hard-headed and caustic journalist, Mr.
Peter Pardriff, of the State Tribune, hypnotized. He has some swells up
at his house to hear his speech on national affairs, among them old
Flint's daughter, who is a ripper to look at, although I never got nearer
to her than across the street. As you may guess, it is something of a
card for Crewe to have Flint's daughter here."

Austen sat for a long time after reading this letter, idly watching the