from lips that had not spoken in long years; and quaint lines from quaintest authors. Old books sifted out their piquancies into my lap, that I should pick them up and examine them over again, one at a time. My mind was, for the moment, converted into a crowded museum. Every thing was huddled together there; yet not so confusedly as that I could not lay my hand-so to say-on whatever I wanted. By some unknown association, the line of Banquo, in his questioning of Macbeth respecting the three witches, came to me; and I know not if I repeated it aloud to myself or not, in the state of reverie into which my mind was lapsing: "The earth has bubbles, as the water hath." At all events, the line kept running and spinning round in my brain-1 all the while trying to deduce some hidden meaning from it. I had it over and over again; and in time, my thoughts began to weave themselves together somewhat after this wise :-Bubbles? Yes-and a plenty of them, too! The baby blows them from the smooth bowl of a clay pipe; distending its little cheeks to their utmost, and staring at the gaudy tints that sail over their surfaces, with a delight that is almost uncontrollable. The youth blows them, when he looks out from one of the windows of his lofty air-castle; and his eye swims with the pleasant prospect he sees through the golden mist that hangs before him. The man of mature years blows them-big and round; but they are not always so gayly painted as those he inflated years ago. The colors are faded: they seem soiled: they are, in truth, wanting. Yet the bubbles are no less bubbles, albeit they look so vapory and dull. -And so, thought I, we all keep blowing bubbles, from early babyhood till we lean upon the staff. It is only when the silvery snows of old age lie thickly upon the temples, and the clear eye has altogether lost its crystal lustre, that we leave off the occupation. Early in life we call it a pleasant pastime; when we grow older, we make it a business. While we are children, we send the fragile creations up into the air; and we laugh and clap our hands, to see the winds play gently with them as with foot-balls. And when at last their thousand liquid threads snap in sunder, and only a glistening water-drop falls to the earth, cur faces for a moment forget their smiles, and then we straightway go to blowing more. We grow out of mere boyhood-that age of continual conflict betwixt pride and sense-that time wherein we experience more mortifications than during all the rest of our lives-and we feel the first flush of manhood on our brows. The limbs are lithe, and graceful, and strong. The senses take a secret pleasure at the very consciousness of their existence. The eye is quick, and clear, and farsighted. The ear catches the slightest sounds. A sense of strength, and so of confidence, settles down upon the whole being. There are no feats-whether physical or intellectual-for which we do not seem to have abundant capacity. And the hopes, too, are so high; and the ambition is so exalted; and the heart is so strong! -Oh, how much it would take of trial, to crush the strength out of the heart now! You are looking, with an eye full of hopeful expression, out upon the world's highway. Crowded as it is, you have no fears of there being no room for you. You are so full of self-reliance-to give it no harsher name that you even think the world will need your services-that it can ill do without them. -Immature fellow! You might die; and a thousand more of equal promise and hope, might die along with you; and yet your loss would never be felt by the world. There would be enough left to perform all you had in your heart resolved upon. You think, as you pass on, and as the days begin to lag and grow more tedious, that you will need the sympathy of another, from which, as from a neverfailing fountain, to feed your own. You sometimes, even now, have moments of weariness and exhaustion, although they are as fleeting as fleecy clouds; yet they suggest to you fears of weariness and exhaustion, in the battle of coming years-and you secretly resolve not to be taken unawares. At the first, this is but a thought of expediency; or of something that looks as much to safety as to any thing else. Then it slowly and gradually takes form. Then it thrusts its bursting grain-head above the heart-soil; and it instantly becomes an existence-a living reality. Then it shoots and germinates rapidly; drawing strongly on the life for sustenance; and sucking up almost all the invigorating juices from the heart. You are thrown off your guard by the most trifling cause-nay, by no causes at all. Your nerves become shattered, unstrung, and sadly out of tune. Your head swims with the slightest pretexts. Your eyes grow wild, and at times glassy, even to ghastliness. Your heart feels never so sad and so lonely; never so deeply in want of another's sympathy. You have brothers?-No-no. Sisters ?-Ah-but even that will not do. Something nearer even than brother or sister, is what this We get further on in years. We are sanguine, even to feverishness. We hope for every thing which our minds can conceive. We know no such chances as those of impossibility. Our blood is hot: it flies swiftly along our veins, and we do not know how to brook restraint. Life is all pleasure; or rather, a concentric series of pleasure-the outer circles seemingly quite as thickly crowded with hap-heart-hunger craves now. piness as those nearer the centre. We snatch quick glances at the future; and we see the years going round and round in these charmed circles, till our brain grows giddy. And then we give ourselves up to nothing but this single object and purpose PLEASURE. And all this time-silly fellow!-your eyes are tightly shut. You see nothing. You are willing to grope your way thus in the dark. Yet if you would but exercise a little of the reason you have laid by as of no present service, in what a straight-forward way would you go at your purpose! The sight of a pale ribbon, flirting in the wind, | it.] You are wholly in the darkness. The soft south throws you in a panic. The faintest smile from ruby winds blow upon your temples, and refresh your noslips, makes you fairly go mad. The sudden glance trils with the fragrance they have rifled from gardens of a twinkling dark eye, only intoxicates you. How full of flowers. the hot blood rushes up to the eyes-and then slowly ebbs back upon the heart again! -Ah! if you could but catch the sweet music of her voice! Well-well; and that time at length comes along. You have waited patiently and long. You have wrestled valiantly with your bashfulness-and, at last, you are the victor. -If she could but feel this refreshing fragrance in her nostrils!— You behold many faces-and many strange ones, too. There are wild briars running all over the turf you are slowly treading on; but no roses on one of them; nothing but thorns. Your eye is glassy; and it runs round hurriedly on the ring of faces that are turned to your own. Your muscles are so very rigid You speak to her, whose image has so long been-you think your face is of marble. haunting you. She replies to you. Her voice is like the low tones of a lute. -Was there ever such joy? -Again. You just feel the slight weight of her hand upon your arm. Yet you think you cannot feel it, either. You wish she was heavier. You wish she was far more of a burden on your arm. There is a dark throng all around you. Circles of young girls-but not a smile on the face of one of them. Their eyes are cast down; and you fancy and your own tremble and shake in spite of you. their pale lips slightly quiver. You look closer; It The dull tramp of feet has ceased. There is no voice-no sound. The silence is unbroken. hangs over you-over those about you-over the whole dense throng, like a heavy pall. You would even put out your hand and raise it from before your eyes. You feel strange sensations, as of suffocation; The lace-frills on either side of her face are snowy white; but not near so white as her face itself. Nothing could be whiter than that. You look hurriedly at it, and you greatly wonder while you and you would fain speak aloud, to satisfy yourself fear. Lean more on me for support! you say. Thank you: I lean on you now all I can!— scarce heavier than a shadow. You try cheering words. You tell her how balmy airs always refresh your senses; and timidly ask her if she is not already refreshed herself. The blushing red rose that has ambitiously climbed over the wall, you pluck hastily for her-heedless of either thorns or pain. You offer it to her. She lays it upon her lips. Alas! how fearful the contrast with that blanched face. For the moment, yours is fully as white as her own. You speak of flowers; but your lip quivers. You know that the flower you support on your arm is too white for a rose; too pale by far for a lily; too fragile altogether for an earth-flower: and you cannot keep it out of your mind, that she must soon bloom in another soil. -Oh, God! How the rushing thoughts come now! All your ambition-that strong cord that bound you down to earth-is snapped like tow in a blaze! You could at once burn your books, and feel no regret; if by that means these cruel fears would that you still possess your senses. -How heavy!-how oppressive!-how appalling! By and by, a low, faint, scarce audible sound rises on the air. It is very near you, yet it seems as if it were a very great way off. Now louder-now higher-now nearer still to you. It is as if the air were filled with low wails! It is only a dirge for the dead. -How your flesh creeps, as the fearfully solemn in your veins--and yet the beaded drops of perspiratones fall on your ears. How icy cold is the blood tion stand upon your temples, and in your palms! How stoutly you struggle to feel that you still have your senses; and yet, in your strong agony, you fiercely bite your lip through and through, and know it not. Alas!-what wo!-what wo!-what untold wo! No heart now, from whose depths to draw refreshing sympathy. No open ear, into which to pour the torrent of your untold grief. You cannot move from your tracks. You would not move if you could. You would not speak-nor utter so much as a faint cry. You would for ever stand there, like a lifeless block of marble. You wonder if all the rest feel as you do; and you try to lift your eyes, to meet the gaze which you feel is upon you. Just then, another wail of song-and your dimmed release your heart from the clutch of their skinny eyes drop to the ground. They behold what has fingers! You would give up your whole life-time, day by day, and year by year-if, by this devotion, you could crush the life out of these cruel spectres! Then comes a long day: a dark day: a dismal day. No other such day could ever have been notched in the calendar. The sun is clear-but you do not see been spared you till now. They fall into a gaping grave! swimming of the brain; and a sickening of all the -And then comes blindness again; and a swift senses; and you fear for yourself, lest you may suddenly reel and pitch into the newly-dug grave. Oh, God!—you pray-if this cup would but have passed from me! Four men stand near the dark cavity. Their feet are imbedded in the gravel that has been freshly thrown out, and it rattles back again into the grave, with an unearthly echo. The men each hold on upon a strap. They let it slip-you can distinctly hear it-through their hands. Down-down-down! The coffin has gone down beneath the edge of the grave. It grates, and rubs, and rumbles against the rough sides of its cell, and then sinks into the silence and darkness for ever. You hear sobs-quick, convulsive, heart-rending sobs. They are full to bursting with distress. They come from the lips of her mother-her sister-her brother. You cannot bear it yourself. Oh, for only a single tear! Oh, for but a single heaving of the breast! -But no-but no. No one to whom to carry all your griefs now. They must flow back upon your heart again. They must scorch it with their boiling Java. They press even now so hard upon you, that you feel fearfully self-possessed. It is almost impos sible to bear it all. Young girls step timidly up to the edge of the dark grave-snatch a look at the coffin that holds all your own heart-and cautiously throw roses down upon it. This time they pull harder at your arm, and call you by name. You look up-but you comprehend nothing. You hear your name spoken-but know not by whom. They warn you to come away. You move on reluctantly after them; but your last look is on that grave. And you think you will come back again, when night steals over the place; and watch by the side of it till she comes and sits down beside you; and then you will weave fresh roses again into garlands together. -You are back in your little office once more. You open a book-a huge book-and lay it out upon the table before you. The events of the day you desire to make into something more real; and you bring them into close proximity with your daily duties-with the very books you have handled so often, with the clear type on the page. Alas!-in only a moment-they become far too real to you. They roll rapidly over your brain, like yeasty waves over a drowning man. -No ambition now-no more hope-no high thoughts for the future. You care nothing for ap. plauding voices. They are but faint whispers, in the storm of your roaring and deafening trouble. You pace to and fro in your little room; but no The sight goes to your very heart. But no tears consolation. All your castles, that you had builded yet. What a relief would they not be? And now you clench your hands tightly together, and bite your lip in fresh agony. You spit blood already from your mouth. Only a prayer—a slow, solemn prayer from the reverend man of God-and all is over. The dense throng begin to turn away. They are nearly all gone: they wait for you only. Some one touches you gently on your arm; but you are senseless as stone. Your eyes are fixed on that remorseless grave-the greedy grave, that has in a moment swallowed up all your hopes of earthly happiness. You only wish you could lie down, and be buried there too! -Then you think of her again—of the time when she was in the flush of health and beauty. You remember well the very first look she gave you. It will never, you think, pass out of your memory. You call up her tender expressions; her genial thoughts; and her many arch and graceful sayings. You think how surpassingly beautiful she seemed to you, on a certain summer morning, when you were riding together along a road lined with ruddy appleblossoms, and vocal with the bewildering music of birds. You think, too, of the time when she gently dropped her head upon your manly shoulder, and you felt your soul full to the brim with happiness. And then to have the crushing thought fall again like a great weight upon you-that this is all that is left of her love; and that she is carefully laid away for the rioting worm! -Oh, for but a hot-a scalding tear! How you pray that this mighty grief will break its bounds and overflow! with such nice care, have crumbled to the ground. Alf the domestic bliss you had thought soon to enter upon, has suddenly become a blank. The homefires you had thought to kindle so brightly on your hearth, are all smothered and smouldering. Only dry ashes before you: no blaze; no warmth. A vacant chair stands beside your own. You seize your hat, and rush out to breathe out your still grief upon the winds-hoping, perchance, they may waft it to her ears. -And this is your first disappointment-your first great grief. Would to God-you say-it may be your last! -Bubbles-all bubbles, thought I, as the wind shrieked at the crevices of the Old Garret again. When do we stop blowing them?-and when do they stop bursting? Now, I thought I knew what Banquo meant, when he said that the earth, like the water, had bubbles; "And this is of them!-" I piled fresh logs upon my fire. I felt chilled, as with a searching wind. My eyes wandered out at the window. The sick sun no longer lay across the floor. It had gone down behind the distant hills. The swart shadows were at the casement, and were slowly creeping in. -They had come-thought I-to throw their dark shroud about the Fancies that were brooding here. And I gladly welcomed them, too. I buried my face in my hands; and a secret joy stole into my heart, that the Night had finally come. THE MINISTER'S WIFE. BY ELLA RODMAN. THE Rev. Sydney Saybrook preached his first sermon to an admiring congregation. The people of L- -were astonished; old men dwelt with delight on the excellent home-truths introduced, as it were, amid a bed of flowers-young men admired the eloquence and frank bearing of the speaker and young ladies, ah! that was the thing. They, disdaining the matter-of-fact admiration of the rougher sex, looked forward into futurity, and, as the young minister was reported free of encumbrances, they thought of putting an end to his season of bliss by providing him with one as soon as possible. This, however, is in strict confidence-they would not have acknowledged it for the world, and yet many of the brains pertaining to those attentive faces were busily at work within the pretty parsonage, altering, remodeling, arranging things to their own particular tastes. One would have that rose-vine taken away-it obscured the view; another would not only leave the rose, but would add a honeysuckle, too—it looked pretty and romantic; while a third had re-carpeted the stairs to the last flight by the time that Mr. Saybrook arrived at "thirteenthly." Milly Ellsworth was a very pretty girl, and, therefore, what might perhaps have been vanity in one more plain, was with her only a pleasant consciousness of her own charms; as, in apparent forgetfulness of the saying that it takes two to make a bargain, she exclaimed: me hear your ideas on the subject, Milly-I wish to know what you consider 'just the thing.' "Why," continued Milly, warming with her subject, "her dress, in the first place, should be scrupulously plain-not an article of jewelry-a simple straw hat, perhaps, tied down with a single ribbonand a white dress, with no ornament but natural flowers." "Very good," said Mrs. S, "as far as it goes; but the beauty of this very simple straw-hat' is, of course, to consist in its shape and style, and country villages are not proverbial for taste in this respect. It would never do for a minister's wife to spend her time in searching for a tasty bonnet, and with a limited purse this is no light labor. Then, too, she is obliged to encourage the manufactures of the town in which she resides. If you could have seen some of the hats I had to wear!" Milly shuddered; she could have borne reverses of fortune, could even have stood at the stake unflinchingly, supported by the glories of martyrdom; but an unbecoming bonnet is one of those petty trials for which one gains no credit but that of bad taste. "As to the white dress," continued Mrs. S―, "you must intend it to be made of some material from which dirt will glance harmlessly off on one side. Or perhaps you have one already-a legacy from one of those everlastingly white-robed heroines in the old novels. Those must assuredly have been Say-spectre woods that they wandered in, for in our days brambles and under-wood leave their marks. I was obliged to give up white dresses." "I have made up my mind to captivate Mr. brook-it must be so beautiful to be a minister's wife." The last remark was intended as a sort of compliment to their visitor, who enjoyed that enviable distinction, but Mrs. Smerely smiled as Milly's earnest face was raised toward her. Milly looked thoughtful. "Oh, well," said she, after a short pause, "dress is very little, after all. I should like the idea of being a minister's wife; you are so looked-up to by the con"Only think of it," continued the young en-gregation; and then they bring you presents and thusiast. "I do think of it," replied Mrs. S-, quietly; "but the thought to me brings up some scenes that are any thing but agreeable. If I cannot tell "tales that would freeze your very blood," I can relate some that would freeze a little of that enthusiasm. A minister's wife! You little know what is comprised in that title." "Of course," replied Milly, with a demure face, "it is a station of great responsibility, and has its peculiar duties. A minister's wife, too, is a sort of pattern, and should be a-a-in short, just the thing." "Exactly," returned Mrs. S―, smiling at this very satisfactory explanation, "but for 'pattern' read 'mirror'-a reflection of everybody's own particular ideas; in which, of course, no two agree. But let think so much of you." "Yes," replied Mrs. S-, "there is something in that; I had seven thimbles given to me once." "Well, that must have been pleasant, I am sure." "It would have done very well had they not expected me to use the whole seven at once. Don't look so frightened, Milly-I do n't mean in a literal sense; but I was certainly expected to accomplish as much work as would have kept the seven well employed. This, with my household affairs, was somewhat impossible." Milly sighed; she was not fond of work, and had vague visions of meals of fruit and milk, and interminable seams accomplishing themselves with neatness and dispatch. "Now, that you look rather more rational," said Mrs. S with a smile, "I will give you a little of my own experience, that you may not walk into | by no means ill-natured, willingly left the turnpikethese responsibilities with your eyes half-shut, as I cakes, and I was soon plunged up to the elbows in did. My ideas upon the subject of minister's wives my labor of love. I had very mistaken ideas though were very much like your own, and when I left my upon the subject of bread, and its capabilities of father's house in the city to accompany Mr. S-to rising; I supposed that a very minute piece of dough his home in a distant country-village, it was with the would bake into a pretty loaf, and was extremely impression that I was to become a sort of queen- surprised when I beheld only an extensive tea-cake. over a small territory, it is true, but filled with ador- Mr. S laughed good-naturedly at my baking, and ing subjects. Mr. S is not very communicative, pronounced it very well, what there was of it. and as he did not pull down my castles-in-the-air Anxious to distinguish myself in his eyes as a good with any description of realities, I was rather disap- housekeeper, I toiled over pies, cake, and every thing pointed to find no roses or honeysuckles; but a very eatable that I could think of; but, alas! the meed of substantial-looking house, with an immense corn-field praise always fell short of my expectations. He dison one side and a kitchen-garden on the other. I patched the pies with a mournful air, as he assured could scarcely repress my tears; but Mr. S—, who me that he never expected to taste any equal to his had been accustomed to the prospect all his life, mother's;' and after trying in vain to reach this welcomed me to my future home as though it were standard of perfection, I gave it up in despair. This, all that could be desired. I have since found, is merely a delusion peculiar to men, to be classed in the same scale with the fancy that sermons were longer and winters merrier in childhood than they are now. "The congregation soon flocked, not 'to pay their respects,' but to take an inventory of my person and manners. I was quite young and naturally lively, and old people shook their heads disapprovingly at the minister's choice, while grave spinsters, disappointed ones perhaps, tossed theirs at the idea of such a chit.' The very rigid ones black-balled me from their community as unworthy to enter, while the gay ones regarded me as a sort of amphibious animal, neither one thing nor the other. "Before long, the gifts of which you speak thronged in. I was pleased at the attention-not dreaming, in my innocence, that twice as much would be required of me in return. My ignorance on a great many subjects excited the contempt, and often indignation of my country neighbors; they made not the least allowance for my city education. "I was standing in the kitchen one day, with a delusive notion of making cake-for my attempts in the cookery line always placed me in a state of delightful uncertainty as to the end, it was quite a puzzle what things would turn out-when a middleaged woman made her appearance, and, without being invited, seated herself near me. A basket accompanied her; and after remarking that 'it was awful hot!' she asked me if I wouldn't like some turnpike-cakes?' "Previous unpalatable messes had been sent in to the table, and afraid that I might be drawn in to taste some nauseous compound, I replied rather hesitatingly-No, I thank you-I do not think that I am very fond of them.' My experience of ministers has convinced me that, with respect to worldly matters, they are an extremely thoughtless, improvident race; and the machinery of work, indispensable to the producing of comforts, always contrives to get on 'the blind side' of them. Mr. S seemed to imagine that shining shirt-bosoms and spotless cravats grew on trees, or were fished-up, unharmed, from the depths of the sea, for every week his astonishment at Biddy's failures was indescribable. "Anxious to put an end to this perpetual state of surprise, I went into the kitchen to oversee the girl's performances-knowing about as much of the matter as she did. Her request, 'and would ye plaze, ma'am, to be afther showin' me,' just meant to do it myself. The sensations that Mr. S experienced on finding me thus employed were almost too deep to vent themselves in words, but he positively forbade my doing it again; so, whenever I knew that he was off on some lengthy visit, I continued my mysterious occupation unsuspected; while he rejoiced at Biddy's improvement, and in the innocence of his heart exclaimed: "Don't tell me, my dear, that these Irish cannot be taught-look at Biddy!' "I did look at her, and encountered so hopelessly vacant a visage that I laughed to myself at his credulity. "I was invited, rather commanded, to join 'The Dorcas Society for the Relief of Indigent Females,' which met every week, and where the members always sewed on unbleached muslin and sixpenny calico; they made me president, and in consequence "Mrs. Badger, for that was my visitor's name, placed a hand on each hip, and looking me full in the face, burst forth into a laugh that would have done credit to a backwood's-man. I trembled, and felt myself coloring to the tips of my ears. To this day II was expected, at each meeting, to take home the have a vivid recollection of the impression made upon me by that woman's contempt. "Well, wherever was you broughten up,' said my visitor, at length, 'to 'spose that turnpike-cakes was meant to eat! Why, bless your heart, child! they're to make bread with!' unfinished work and do it up during the week. I was collector for the poor-and in my rounds some gave me sixpence, some nothing, and some impudence. I was superintendent of the Sunday-school, besides teacher of a Bible-class of middle-aged young ladies who were not quite grown up. I was "I caught eagerly at the idea; Mr. S- was member of a 'Society for the Diffusion of Useful partial to home-made bread-Mrs. Badger, who was | Reading,' which also met every week; and where, |