"Clown. Look ye, the worm is not to be trusted but in the keeping of wise people; for, indeed, there's no goodness in the worm.

Cleop. Take thou no care; it shall be heeded.

"Clown. Very good. Give it nothing, I pray you, for it isn't worth the feeding.

Cleop. Will it eat me?

"Clown. You mustn't think I am so simple, but I know the devil himself will not eat a woman. I know that a woman is a dish for the gods, if the devil dress her not. But truly, these same whoreson devils do the gods great harm in their women; for in every ten that they make, the devils mar five. "Cleop. Well, get thee gone; farewell.

"Clown. Yes, forsooth. I wish you joy of the worm!"

Constant occasions occur of Shakespeare's natural piety, and of his unaffected reverence for holy rites and observances. During the reign of Augustus Cæsar the Messiah came into the world. Historians and poets have signalised that epoch as being divinely accompanied by a universal peace among the civilised nations of the earth. Milton, in his young and noble poem on the "Nativity," says

"No war, or battle-sound

Was heard the world around:

The idle spear and shield were high up-hung;
The hook'd chariot stood

Unstain'd with hostile blood:

The trumpet spake not to the armed throng;
And kings sat still with awful eye,

As if they surely knew their sovran Lord were by."

And Guthrie, in his "Universal History," makes this simply pathetic record of the event-" Peace now reigned over the

whole earth, and Jesus Christ came into it."

: Shakespeare, availing himself of the same impressive circumstance, causes Octavius to proclaim, as in an involuntary prophecy, "The time of universal peace is near."

X.

All's Well that Ends Well.

X.

ALL'S WELL THAT ENDS WELL.

THE story or plot of "All's Well that Ends Well" is one of the most interesting of Shakespeare's comedies. The main incident, which turns upon the circumstance of a young maiden becoming the wooing party, and claiming the royal prerogative to bestow upon her the hand of the man she is in love with, as a reward for the service she has rendered to her sovereign in administering to him a prescription hereditary in her family, and thereby restoring him from a painful distemper that the faculty had considered incurable; the circumstance, again, of the youth to whom she had attached herself being the son of the lady who had afforded her protection in her orphanhood, and who was her superior in point of rank; his yielding to the power of the king, and, although he wedded her, resolving never to fulfil the duties of a husband; his quitting her to follow the Florentine war; her tracing him in the disguise of a pilgrim, and succeeding in winning the confidence and friendly offices of the young maiden, Diana, whom he has attempted to seduce, and who is the sole means of causing him to render justice to his discarded wife, is all brought about with a force of ingenuity, and delicacy of feeling, that are perfectly admirable.

The character of the heroine, Helena, is one of rare sweetness, blended with high romantic fervour. She is placed in the singularly critical position of courting her husband, both as a maiden and a wife; and the glorious testimony to the transparent beauty of virtue is fully borne out, and a triumph achieved, by her not committing one single violation of the laws of the most scrupulous modesty.

I must take leave to say a few words in behalf, and, I hope, in justification of Helena, whose principle of action appears to have been wonderfully mistaken, and whose mental structure to have been-I will not say, unappreciated, but not even recognised by the general reader. Of all Shakespeare's heroines, it strikes me that Helena is the one that is most philosophical, both in temperament and in speech and conduct. When I say "philosophical in temperament," I do not mean that she is either stoical or resigned. She is the very reverse of either. But she is reflective, she is observant, and she is essentially remedial. An apparently hopeless passion has taught her reflection, introspection, and humility of spirit. It has taught her to think conscientiously, to reason justly, to weigh her own and others' claims carefully. She has discernment, and she has warmth of heart: the first teaching her to perceive accurately, the latter impelling her to decide generously. She, therefore, estimates herself and her own value at modest rate, while to Bertram she awards all the superiority that loving worship takes delight in imputing to its chosen idol. But at the same time that Helena's affection prompts her to overrate the man she loves, and to underrate herself, her disposition will not let her sink beneath the sense of disparity. Her own character will not let her do this; for, besides its diffidence of self, it possesses uncommon selfreliance and moral courage,-a combination less rare than is generally believed. Womanly gentleness and modesty, together with womanly firmness and fortitude, are far from