Sophist, that self-proclaimed universal genius, who could teach every art and every science, and answer every question that human ingenuity could propose; who could make the worse appear the better cause ;' could prove that nothing existed; that nothing was certain; that good and evil were fancies, and that all things were in a state of perpetual motion. What a pity that this useful being did not live in an age when he might have gained a substantial reward for this last discovery! "The Sophists of the early days of Socrates, taught that it was the duty, and in the power of their disciple, to make the same thing appear to the same person at one time just, at another unjust; to make the same things appear to the people in one speech good, in another evil. All was just and honourable which satisfied the necessities of nature; that was good which pleased the people,—that was evil which displeased them. Those persons who, without any self-command, could gain command over others, had a right to have their superior talents rewarded, by possessing more than others; for temperance, self-restraint, and dominion over the passions and desires, were set down by them as marks of dulness and stupidity, only calculated to excite mirth and derision. They concluded, therefore, that it was ridiculous in those who were above restraint, to lay a restraint on themselves; and they proclaimed in the most unqualified terms that luxury, intemperance and licentiousness were alone virtue and happiness, and that all other suppositions were mere specious pretences, -compacts contrary to nature-the triflings of men, who deserved no consideration.' (How like modern Socialism !) The sacred principles of justice were treated with a contempt equally daring. They often began with the bold definition-that justice itself was

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nothing but the interest of the strongest; that the masterpiece of injustice was to appear a man of virtue without being really one; and they proceeded to prove that on all occasions the just man came off worse than the unjust. The existence of a Deity was also denied and ridiculed, while every principle of right and wrong was either flatly denied, or so artfully sophisticated as utterly to bewilder the pupil.' Such is the masterly and spirited summary of the effect produced on public morals by those odious pests, the Sophists, given by the writer of the article on Schlegel's History of Literature, before quoted. (Quarterly Review, xlii.) A. F.

By one of those unwise family arrangements, which occurred more frequently in the olden time than in the present day, a union between Cuthbert Camden and his cousin Marion Clive was projected, while they were yet in their infancy. With their advancing years, a kind of affection grew between them. Cuthbert was pleased with the beauty and grace of his future wife, and Marion's vanity was flattered by the preference shown her by her youthful cousin, above the few companions of her sex and age, who sometimes sojourned at Brindsley Hall. For the space of some years, therefore, the 'course of true love did run smooth' indeed. It was never ruffled, save by the slight breezes of Marion's petulance; but while the surface of the stream was undisturbed, its waters waxed daily shallower and yet more shallow. Cuthbert began to look at the future with the eye and hope of manhood. The critical and interesting state of public affairs much occupied his mind, and drove from his memory the dream of a childish affection, whose frail foundation was but the wish of mutual friends. He had not a fickle mind, but he had a reflecting one, and from the time Mark Wentworth came to Laytonfield, Cuthbert found more content in one hour spent with his wise and godly friend, than in whole mornings

consumed by idle attendance upon his pretty cousin. Marion soon discovered why many of the days which he spent in Laytonfield were not passed at the Hall, and she conceived a dislike for Mark Wentworth, which, when Mr. Atterbury became Chaplain to Sir Humphrey, was increased and settled on a more orthodox footing than a mere lover's pique. Marion no longer 'approved Mr. Wentworth's system of faith and doctrine.' It was 'far too lax-too puritanical.' From this time she too found pursuits which engaged much of her attention. She had her favourite authorsstudies in which Lucy did not share, and she began to spend many hours in solitude, or in the society of her mother alone.

Still there was no open breach between the cousins. A marriage at some future but indefinite period was looked forward to by both rather as an event that must take place, than as a union that could bring an increase of happiness to either.

The Sabbath had passed wearily away at the Hall. Sir Humphrey no longer permitted any member of his family to attend the services of the parish-church, save on those four annual occasions, when his own presence there was necessary to screen him from censure. Monday morning came, and Lucy Camden sat alone. She did not lack occupation. Her embroidery was in her hand; her books lay on the table beside her; both failed to engage her attention. She had been told how nobly the minister of Laytonfield had contended in the cause of God; she had rejoiced that his faith could triumph over the fear of man, but her own was failingfast failing in a bitter conflict with dark forebodings. She could not work-she could not read. The tears began to flow down her cheeks. At last she relieved her

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aching heart by fervent prayer. Like Hannah of old, for a long time, 'she spoke in her heart, her lips moved, but her voice was not heard.' At length, as if a newa higher thought must utter its earnestness aloud, she said in audible tones, Yet be thy will done, oh Lord! and if shame and captivity, if torture and death be in the dregs of this bitter draught, yet suffer him not through weakness, or fear of pain, to desert thy holy cause.'

'God will hear thy prayer, and grant thy petition, my Lucy,' said a well-known voice. She started, and turning towards the door, she saw Mark Wentworth followed by her brother, at that moment entering it. Reality had forced Lucy Camden to her knees. Reality was about her-stern reality before her; and God was Lucy's God; her religion sanctified her affection, which was too deep, too holy to blush because her prayer had been accidentally overheard. She rose from her knees, and looking first towards Mark Wentworth, and then at her brother, seemed to expect from them a realization of her worst fears. Wentworth looked calm and resigned. Cuthbert appeared eager and excited. 'Be calm, Lucy,' said her brother. He is here free and unfettered. The hand of episcopal tyranny is not yet upon him. The wide ocean is free, Lucy, and free is the far-off land, whose shores the billows wash.'

'God will keep them in perfect peace, whose minds are stayed on him,' said Mark Wentworth, gently leading her back to her seat. 'As yet I am but suspended, Lucy. An order to that effect reached me this morning. But thou knowest that as the hearts of kings are in the hand of the Lord, so he can mould to his will the thoughts of those who will no longer suffer me to speak in his name.'