On July 3rd we arrived at Boston, and took up our quarters at Tremont House.

Boston is a very handsome, very large, and very clean town, apparently kept in admirable order : it has a pretty little park, called by the modest name of “the Common,” and a splendid State House, magnificently situated on Beacon Hill; this is a very imposing-looking structure, and crowns the height superbly. The town reminds me of an English one in many respects, but yet more of a Dutch one.

To-morrow they have a grand commemorative festival, in honour of their independence, and we, poor English, must make up our minds to hear them “Yankee-doodling,” and “Hail-Columbiaing,” all day long. I shall shut myself up pretty closely on the occasion to save my feelings of nationality, especially as I have no idea of seeing “the Crown of England” burnt in a fire-work and consumed to ashes, as it is announced in a pompous advertisement it is going to be, for the pleasing recreation of Brother Jonathan. I hope, I must confess, that just at that moment it will rain in torrents, and put out their very impertinent and presumptuous pyrotechnics without loss of time : the English crown thus may not be consumed to a cinder after all.