e west wind, to their fishing, do show their white
sails in the offing. How I wish I had skill to paint the picture of all
this for my English friends! My heart is pained, as I look upon it,
with the thought that after a few days I shall never see it more.

June 18.

To-morrow we embark for home. Wrote a long letter to my dear brother
and sister, and one to my cousins at York. Mr. Richardson hath just
left us, having come all the way from Newbury to the wedding. The
excellent Governor Broadstreet hath this morning sent to Lady Hale a
handsome copy of his first wife's book, entitled "Several Poems by a
Gentlewoman of New England," with these words on the blank page thereof,
from Proverbs xxxi. 30, "A woman that feareth the Lord, she shall be
praised," written in the Governor's own hand. All the great folks
hereabout have not failed to visit my cousin since her marriage; but I
do think she is better pleased with some visits she hath had from poor
widows and others who have been in times past relieved and comforted by
her charities and kindness, the gratitude of these people affecting her
unto tears. Truly it may be said of her, as of Job: "When the ear heard
her then it blessed her, and when the eye saw her it gave witness to
her: because she delivered the poor that cried, and the fatherless, and
him that had none to help him. The blessing of him that was ready to
perish came upon her; and she caused the widow's heart to sing for joy."

(Here the diary ends somewhat abruptly. It appears as if some of the
last pages have been lost. Appended to the manuscript I find a note, in
another handwriting, signed "R. G.," dated at Malton Rectory, 1747. One
Rawson Grindall, M. A., was curate of Malton at this date, and the
initials are undoubtedly his. The sad sequel to the history of the fair
Rebecca Rawson is confirmed by papers now on file in the State-House at
Boston, in which she is spoken of as "one of the most beautiful, polite,
and accomplished young ladies in Boston."--Editor.)

"These papers of my honored and pious grandmother, Margaret Smith, who,
soon after her return from New England, married her cousin, Oliver
Grindall, Esq., of Hilton Grange, Crowell, in Oxfordshire (both of whom
have within the last ten years departed this life, greatly lamented by
all who knew them), having cone into my possession, I have thought it
not amiss to add to them a narrative of what happened to her friend and
cousin, as