2.  “I am the mistress of the world,” she says, “and men are made happy by me.”—­I would like to see one of them.  I have seen many men to whom Madam Bubble had said that if they would be ruled by her she would make them great and happy.  But though I have seen not a few who have believed her and let themselves be ruled by her, I have never yet seen one happy man among them.—­The truth is, Madam Bubble is not able to make men happy even if she wished to do it.  She is not happy herself, and she cannot dispense to others what she does not possess.  And, yet, such are her sorceries that, while her old dupes die in thousands every day, new dupes are born to her every day in still greater numbers.  New dupes who run to the same excess of folly with her that their fathers ran; new dupes led in the same mad dance after Madam Bubble and her three daughters.  But, always, and to all men, what a bubble both the mother and all her daughters are!  How they all make promises like their lying mother, and how, like her, they all lead men, if not to the halter and to hell, as Greatheart said, yet to a life of vanity and to a death of disappointment and despair!  What bubbles of empty hopes both she and her three children blow up in the brains of men!  What pictures of untold happiness they paint in the imaginations of men!  What pleasures, what successes in life, what honours and what rewards she pledges herself to see bestowed!  “She has her times and open places of cheating,” said one who knew her and all her ways well.  And when men and women are still young and inexperienced, that is one of her great cheating times.  At some seasons of the year, and in some waters, to the fisherman’s surprise and confusion, the fish will sometimes take his bare hook; a bit of a red rag is a deadly bait.  And Madam Bubble’s poorest and most perfunctory busking is quite enough for the foolish fish she angles for.  And not in our salad days only, when we are still green in judgment, but even to grey hairs, this wicked witch continues to entrap us to our ruin.  Love, in all its phases and in all its mixtures, first deludes the very young; and then place, and power, and fame, and money are the bait she busks for the middle-aged and the old; and always with the same bubble end.  The whole truth is that without God, the living and ever-present God, in all ages of it and in all parts and experiences of it, our human life is one huge bubble.  A far-shining, high-soaring bubble; but sooner or later seen and tasted to be a bubble—­a deceit-filled, poison-filled bubble.—­Happy by her!  All men happy by her!  The impudent slut!