The good people of the town of Newport sought their rest at an early hour.
They were remarkable for that temperance and discretion which, even to
this day, distinguish the manners of the inhabitants of New-England. By
ten, the door of every house in the place was closed for the night; and it
is quite probable, that, before another hour had passed, scarcely an eye
was open, among all those which, throughout the day, had been sufficiently
alert, not only to superintend the interests of their proper-owners, but
to spare some wholesome glances at the concerns of the rest of the
neighbourhood.

The landlord of the "Foul Anchor," as the inn, where Fid and Nightingale
had so nearly come to blows, was called, scrupulously closed his doors at
eight; a sort of expiation, by which he endeavoured to atone, while he
slept, for any moral peccadillos that he might have committed during the
day. Indeed it was to be observed as a rule, that those who had the most
difficulty in maintaining their good name, on the score of temperance and
moderation, were the most rigid in withdrawing, in season, from the daily
cares of the world. The Admiral's widow had given no little scandal, in
her time, because lights were so often seen burning in her house long
after the hour prescribed by custom for their extinction. Indeed, there
were several other little particulars in which this good lady had rendered
herself obnoxious to the whispered remarks of some of her female
visitants. An Episcopalian herself, she was always observed to be employed
with her needle on the evenings of Saturdays, though by no means
distinguished for her ordinary industry. It was, however, a sort of manner
the good lady had of exhibiting her adherence to the belief that the night
of Sunday was the orthodox evening of the Sabbath. On this subject there
was, in truth, a species of silent warfare between herself and the wife of
the principal clergyman of the town. It resulted, happily, in no very
striking marks of hostility. The latter was content to retaliate by