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l4th Row—Lightest Green, Dc over the Dc stitches adding 4 more Dc stitches successively, 3 chain, Dc under the 1st chain of 3, 3 chain, Dc under next 3 chain," 3 chain, 3 long under next 3 chain, repeat from,* 7 times more, then 3 chain, Dc under next 3 chain, 3 chain, Dc under next 3 chain, 3 chain, Dc over the Dc stitches commencing on the 1st Green Dc stitch in the centre of the 7 Scarlet chain, repeat from beginning.

Then make 19 circles thus—take the 2nd lightest shade of Scarlet and 3 darker shades, make 11 tight chain stitches with the lightest shade, join the ends together and work 11 Dc stitches rather loosely.

2nd Row.—Work 1 long into every loop making 2 chain between each at the top. There should be 11 long stitches.

3rd Row.—Next shade, Dc under the 2 chain, 7 chain, repeat.

4th Row.—Next shade, Dc into the centre of the 7 chain, 7 chain, repeat.

5th Row.—Next shade, Dc into the centre of the 7 chain, 8 chain, repeat.

6th Row.—Next shade, Dc on Dc, 3 chain, 3 long under the 8 chain, 3 chain, repeat.

There should be 19 of these circles; but if the covering be worked too loosely it will require an extra circle, and on the contrary if worked too tight one less will be required, sew these circles round the Green row, joining them also at the sides with Wool the same color. Take 5 skeins of dark Green, and 5 skeins of dark Violet, cut the skeins once, then again in 3, take 10 threads of Green and tie them over the join in the circles, then 10 threads of Violet using the Green and Violet alternately, comb the Fringe and cut it even. If any difficulty is found in understanding this latter point, a reference to the engraving will be found to obviate it.

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In talking of this character—and we would that these Essays should be looked upon as merely introducing them to our readers—we pass over the first three acts of this play—The Winter's Tale, and proceed at once to the scene in which Perdita appears. There is, however, another personage in this Drama, who deserves our careful and loving attention—the patient and noble Hermione, so sweetly described in one line— whose nature is

tender as infancy and grace.

But we now reserve ourselves for the Shepherdess. And truly we know nothing more delightful in all Shakespere than his descriptions of pastoral life; he is always at home with his subject, but never, surely, more so than with the undisturbed beauty of nature. Florizel—the prince-lover in this play falls in love with Perdita at first sight. This is the favorite idea of the passion with Shakespere. He is no friend to long courtships. Othello's is perhaps the most deliberate, but on the first "hint, he spake." Benedict is perhaps an exception—he is truly worried into love, but generally it is at the first glance the electric fire is communicated—even his kings are rapid in their addresses; not kingly, but manly in their first interviews, dispensing with the delays of state, and all the cumbrous courts sies now attendant on royal marriages. Harry the Fifth, for instance, is a lover after our own heart, and fiery Hotspur, that king of gallant fellows, what an unpremeditated lover he makes! Florizel, when he first sees Perdita, and he may well

Bless the time
When his falcon made a flight across
Her father's ground

thinks her "some goddess"—

Flora peering in April's front.

She is dressed for the rustic holyday of Sheep-shearing, and from her beauty is the chosen queen of the festival. All nonor to these holydays! holydays of nature's own making, about which churches can never quarrel or parties disagree. All honor to these re-unions of love, these mirth-offerings of gratitude! we trust we shall never see them discontinued—the prayerful time of promise, child-like May: innocent and maidenly Whitsuntide, when the earth and earth's creatures dress themselves as if for heaven: the sunny field-fete in merry June with the traditional observance of that custom—about which nobody quarrels—for making the hay sweet: the glorious harvest-hallowing, when the red poppy and the golden corn-ear make a crown more kingly than the royallest in the world: the chesnut charming round the fruit heavy-tree: the jovial chorus about the cider press—or the hop-festivals of southern England— picturesque as any of the vintages of Europe, for where a quainter chaplet than the hop-garland? We desire no better holydays than these—holy, from the simplicity of the rites, the increase of health and the heart-robing in gladness: which mark these consecrated days of the year, when the rudest hind feels in the breath of the cheering breeze, or the fall of the gentle dew, or the sparkling of the bright rain, or in the equal burst of the free sunshine, the presence of the silent and efficient ministers of God.

In the opening scene between the two lovers in this play, the frankness of Florizel and, the timid, but full return, of his love by Perdita are admirably contrasted; when she fears that his rank will make their contract an unhappy one, he tells her of the transformations of the gods themselves for the mere love of beauty, whilst he—he goes on to say wooes her—for herself— in all honor. He discards at once all thought of birth or position—

I cannot be

Mine own, nor anything to any, if

I be not thine.

Reassured, she welcomes him to her father's house, where she is chidden for forgetting the assumption of her duties as "mistress of the feast" by the remembrance of her mother's housewifery—a close and capital portrait in some six lines— finished as Gerard Dow, life-like as Wilkie—

Fie, daughter, when my old wife liv'd upon
This day, she was both pantler, butler, cook,
Both dame and servant, welcom'd all: served all;
Would sing her song and dance her turn; now here,
At upper end o' the table, now in the middle;
On his shoulder, and his: her face o' fire
With labour; and the thing she took to quench it,
She would to each one sip.

Perdita, in obedience to an old custom—and many of these customs are very beautiful—presents flowers to the guests. How many things God says to us in flowers! the child, when he gathers them, although he looks lovingly at their starlike eyes, into which the sun peers so brightly, little thinks that in his old age, when he is a child again, they will garland his grave—his life's moral: his love's epitaph : and—for their death is the life to come—his hope's best symbol.

Perdita offers them

The fairest flowers of the season: carnations, and streak'd gillyflowers,

Hot lavender, mints, savory, marjoram;
The marigold, that goes to bed with the sun
And with him rises weeping.

She regrets that she has not " some flowers of spring" for her "fairest friend" that she cannot give him.

The daffodils
That come before the swallow dares and take
The winds of March with beauty—violets, dim,
But sweeter than the lids of Juno's eyes,
Or Cytherea's breath; pale primroses,

bold ox lips and

The crown imperial: lilies of all kinds,
The flower-de-luce being one.

Are they not beautifully grouped? the subtle contrast of form and color betrays the eye of a great artist—and if he had chosen art as his medium for thought, the greatest artist in the world— but we do not like to interrupt the course of this scene by comment. Perdita fears she is too bold.

Come, take your flowers,
Methinks I play as I have seen them
In Whitsun pastorals: sure this robe of mine
Does change my disposition.

Florizel replies. Truthful of all beauty which the mind shines through, is his description of her grace.

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What you do
Still betters what is done. When you speak, sweet,
I'd have you do it ever: when you sing,
I'd have you buy and sell so; so give alms;
Pray so; and for the ordering your affairs,
To sing them too. When you dance, I wish you
A wave of the sea, that you might ever do
Nothing but that: move still, still so, and own
No other function. Each your doing,
So singular in each particular,
Crowns what you are doing in the present deeds,
That all your acts are queens.

Perdita, addressing him, by his pastoral sobriquet—

O Doricles,
Your praises are too large, but that your youth,
And the true blood, which fairly peeps through it,
Do plainly give you out an unstain'd shepherd,
With wisdom I might fear, my Doricles,
You wooed me the false way.


I think you have
As little skill to fear as I have purpose
To put you to't. But come, our dance I pray,
Your hand my Perdita: so turtles pair
That never mean to part.


I'll swear for 'em.

How delightful the gushing artlessness of the confident girl— but every part of this pastoral portrait is beautiful; she is, in truth

the prettiest low-bor n lass that ever

Ran on the green sward

And what freshness of complexion, must the maiden have had to warrant the homely, but happy praise of the old courtier,

The queen of curds and cream.

Then how delightful the expression, pithy, full, earnest: which describes the reciprocation of their love.

• Not half a kiss to choose

Who loves the other best.

The young prince, her disguised Doricles, is too proud of his love not to proclaim it to the world; he would fain make, not man, but all nature, witness the sincerity of his devotions—

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