car,
Madam, while I speak of him. You cannot? What is this? Let me see, I
pray you. As I live, it is his mother's apron-string. Ah! I fear, Madam,
that all your efforts cannot break that tie. In the years to come, it
will doubtless be frayed and worn; and, some day or other, he will bound
loose from his childhood's captivity; but long ere that he will have
other bonds thrown around him, some of which he can never break. He will
weave with his own hands the silken cord of love, coil it about him,
knot it with Gordian intricacy, net it with Vulcan strength, and then,
with blind simplicity, place it in Beauty's hand to lead him captive to
her capricious will. My dear Madam, did not Tommy's father do the same
foolish thing? And is he not grateful to the lovely Mrs. Asmodeus for
the gentleness with which she holds him in her power? Some of our bonds
are light to bear. We glory in them, and hold up our gyves to show them
to the world. Tommy may be a little shamefaced when his playmates jeer
at the maternal tie; but he will walk forth, glowing with pride and joy,
to parade his self-woven fetters ostentatiously in the sight of men.
When you had done some such foolish thing yourself, did not your young
mates gather round to view, with wondering and eager eyes, the result of
your own handiwork at the cordage of love? Were there not many
loquacious conclaves held to sit in secret judgment thereon? Were there
not many soft cheeks flushing, and bright eyes sparkling, and fresh
hearts beating, as you brought forth, with a pride you did not pretend
to hide, the rose-colored fabric you had woven? And did they not all
envy you, and wonder when their distaffs were to whirl to the tread of
their own ready feet?

But we are not always eager or proud to exhibit our bonds. Indeed, we
sedulously conceal them from every eye; we cover up the marks upon our
scarred hearts with such jealous care, that none, not even our bosom
friends, can ever see them. They hold us where the sweet herbage of life
has become dry and sere, where no shelter offers us a grateful retreat.
Vanitas can bear away with him his "lengthening chain" to his leafy
groves; but Scripsit is confined to the torrid regions of his scanty
garret. In vain he gazes afar, beyond the smoky haze of his stony
prison, upon the green slopes and shady hills. In vain he toils and
strains to burst the links that bind him. His soul is yearning for the
cooling freshness, the sweet fragrance, th