The nights here are indeed delicious, calm and cool, with air as soft as velvet; during the day, for about two hours after meridian, owing to the absence of all shade without, one is compelled, although the sea-breeze does its best, to keep the house, or else get outside the bay of Boston, away from the land: this I was afforded frequent opportunities of doing, in a very pretty schooner-yacht called the Sylph, which Mr. F----s had down here. She was about eighty tons burthen, capitally appointed, and with rare qualities as a sea-boat; in her I had the happiness to pass many days, when the poor people on shore were pitiably grilled, cruising for codfish, and dishing them up into a sort of soup called chowder; this formed, in fact, the one great object of my present life, and I availed myself of every occasion to pursue it. One of my pleasantest cruises was made with Captain H----d, in an armed schooner called the Hamilton, attached to the United States' revenue service. We ran down the coast as far as Portsmouth, and on our return passed a night within the snugly enclosed harbour of Marblehead; into which a couple of our cruisers chased an American frigate during the last war, and threatened to fetch her out again, but thought better of it, after putting the natives to a great deal of inconvenience through their anxiety to provide a suitable welcome for the strangers. Here we landed, and looked about the place: the air was somewhat fishy, but, judging by the ruddy complexions of the people, must be exceedingly salubrious. It is not unlike some of the French fishing-towns on the coast of Normandy, and has an old look that pleased me much. The place is said to have been originally settled by a colony of fishers from Guernsey, whose descendants are found still to retain many of the customs of the islands, and some words of the _patois_ in use there. The population is famous for industry, and for the summary mode with which they dispense justice amongst themselves on points of local polity affecting the general weal. One instance was fresh enough in memory to be talked of still. A townsman, returning from the Banks with a cargo, passed a vessel in a sinking state, turning a blind eye to their repeated anxious signals. Contrary to all expectation, the crippled bark, after being given up as lost, reached the harbour, and the conduct of the hard-hearted skipper was made public. He was seized _instanter_, triced up, served out with a dozen or two well told, covered with tar, clothed in feathers, and in this plight was carted about the boundaries of the township, having a label hung about his neck that described his crime and sentence in good set rhymes, which ran as follows: "This here's old John Hort, That for his hard heart Is tar-ed and feather-ed, And carry-ed in this cart."