She received us in the main room of the house, a kind of parlour and
hall, with great brown beams of timber across it, which Mr. Tibbets is
apt to point out with some exultation, observing, that they don't put
such timber in houses now-a-days. The furniture was old-fashioned,
strong, and highly polished; the walls were hung with coloured prints
of the story of the Prodigal Son, who was represented in a red coat
and leather breeches. Over the fire-place was a blunderbuss, and a
hard-favoured likeness of Ready-Money Jack, taken when he was a young
man, by the same artist that painted the tavern sign; his mother
having taken a notion that the Tibbets had as much right to have a
gallery of family portraits as the folks at the Hall.
The good dame pressed us very much to take some refreshment, and
tempted us with a variety of household dainties, so that we were glad
to compound by tasting some of her homemade wines. While we were
there, the son and heir-apparent came home; a good-looking young
fellow, and something of a rustic beau. He took us over the premises,
and showed us the whole establishment. An air of homely but
substantial plenty prevailed throughout; every thing was of the best
materials, and in the best condition.
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