Joe is a liberal-minded man, hates cant and humbug, and has no prejudices--hating the French he will not acknowledge is a prejudice, but considers the bounden duty of an Englishman; and, though fierce enough upon other subjects of taxation, thinks no price too high for drubbing them. He was once prevailed upon to attempt a journey to Paris; but having got to Calais, insisted upon returning by the next packet, swearing it was a shabby concern, and he had seen enough of it.
He takes in the _Gentleman's Magazine,_ because his father did it before him--but he never reads it; he takes pride in a corpulent dog, which is ever at his heels; he is afflicted with face-ache, and swears at any body who calls it _tic-douloureux._
When you go to dine with him, you are met at the door by a rosy-checked lass, with ribands in her cap, who smiles a hearty welcome, and assures you, though an utter stranger, of the character of the house and its owner. You are conducted to the drawing-room, a plain, substantial, _honest_-looking apartment; there you find the old couple, and are received with a warmth that gives assurance of the nearest approach to what is understood by _home_. The sons, released from business, arrive, shake you heartily by the hand, and are really glad to see you; of the daughters we say nothing, as there is nothing in _them_.
The other guests of the day come dropping in--all straightforward, business-like, free, frank-hearted fellows--aristocrats of wealth, the best, because the _unpretending_, of their class; they come, too, _before_ their time, for they know their man, and that Joe Stimpson keeps nobody waiting for nobody. When the clock--for here is no _gong_--strikes five, you descend to dinner; plain, plentiful, good, and well dressed; no tedious course, with long intervals between; no oppressive _set-out_ of superfluous plate, and what, perhaps, is not the least agreeable accessory, no piebald footmen hanging over your chair, whisking away your plate before you have done with it, and watching every bit you put into your mouth.
Your cherry-cheeked friend and another, both in the family from childhood, (another good sign of the house,) and looking as if they really were glad--and so they are--to have an opportunity of obliging you, do the servitorial offices of the table; you are sure of a glass of old sherry, and you may call for strong beer, or old port, with your cheese--or, if a Scotchman, for a dram--without any other remark than an invitation to "try it again, and make yourself comfortable."