"Feb. 15, 1853. I think Dr. Hall [in his 'Life of Mary Ware'] does wrong when he attempts to encourage the use of the _needle_. It seems to me that the needle is the chain of woman, and has fettered her more than the laws of the country. "Once emancipate her from the 'stitch, stitch, stitch," the industry of which would be commendable if it served any purpose except the gratification of her vanity, and she would have time for studies which would engross as the needle never can. I would as soon put a girl alone into a closet to meditate as give her only the society of her needle. The art of sewing, so far as men learn it, is well enough; that is, to enable a person to _take the stitches_, and, if necessary, to make her own garments in a strong manner; but the dressmaker should no more be a universal character than the carpenter. Suppose every man should feel it is his duty to do his own mechanical work of _all_ kinds, would society be benefited? would the work be well done? Yet a woman is expected to know how to do all kinds of sewing, all kinds of cooking, all kinds of any _woman's_ work, and the consequence is that life is passed in learning these only, while the universe of truth beyond remains unentered. "May 11, 1853. I could not help thinking of Esther [a much-loved cousin who had recently died] a few evenings since when I was observing. A meteor flashed upon me suddenly, very bright, very short-lived; it seemed to me that it was sent for me especially, for it greeted me almost the first instant I looked up, and was gone in a second,--it was as fleeting and as beautiful as the smile upon Esther's face the last time I saw her. I thought when I talked with her about death that, though she could not come to me visibly, she might be able to influence my feelings; but it cannot be, for my faith has been weaker than ever since she died, and my fears have been greater." A few pages farther on in the diary appears this poem: "ESTHER "Living, the hearts of all around Sought hers as slaves a throne; Dying, the reason first we found-- The fulness of her own. "She gave unconsciously the while A wealth we all might share-- To me the memory of the smile That last I saw her wear. "Earth lost from out its meagre store A bright and precious stone; Heaven could not be so rich before, But it has richer grown." "Sept. 19, 1853. I am surprised to find the verse which I picked up somewhere and have always admired-- "'Oh, reader, had you in your mind Such stores as silent thought can bring, Oh, gentle reader, you would find A tale in everything'-- belonging to Wordsworth and to one of Wordsworth's simple, I am almost ready to say _silly_, poems. I am in doubt what to think of Wordsworth. I should be ashamed of some of his poems if I had written them myself, and yet there are points of great beauty, and lines which once in the mind will not leave it.