"Don't you know our father, sir?" and the boy looked inquiringly up into the face of the rider. "Please tell us how far he is from here?” The horseman galloped on, and the little fellow was ready to cry as he saw that his mighty effort had been thrown away on the unheeding traveller. "It cannot be far now, Joseph, and father will be so glad to see us. Come, jump up, and let's go on. 66 Won't father come home to us any more, Mary?" I don't know, my dear; they have put him in the old dark prison.” "He can steal out and come back, can't he? I'm going to tell him to do it, and we'll bring him home with us." "They have locked him up and he cannot get out; the walls are so thick and strong, and the door is so heavy, father can't get through. But I hope they will let him out after awhile, and never put him in that ugly old jail again.” Her voice trembled, and the tears glistened in her darkened eyes; but she must not cry; for the little fellow's sake she must bear up. On, on, hand in hand, the two little wanderers go, weary but not discouraged; they are going to see their father. This buoys up.their little hearts, and soothes the pains of their aching limbs. The little boy prattles of the houses and the birds and the laborers in the fields by the way. He dreams not of danger; there is no fear in that guileless heart; the sister holds his hand in hers. Surely they are almost there. She has been once or twice before, but it was with her father, and his strong hand and kindly words made the way seem short. She asks a footman: "It's just before you, little girl; don't you see it yonder? "I see it! I see it, Mary! the houses, and the river, and everything. Oh, I'm so glad we are there. I'm going to tell father how tired I am, and how mother cried when brother came home;" and the little fellow bounded away from his sister and ran on, crying out, "Come on, Mary, come on, I'm going to see father.” "Will you please show us the way to the jail? I am lost and don't know where to go." "And what do you want to go to jail for, you little vagabond?" asked the fierce man, grumly. "We are going to see father; will you please tell us the way?” You could n't find it, if I was to. Who is your father?" "She trembled beneath the severity of his tone, but she drove back her tears and replied as well as she could: “Preacher Bunyan, sir! They put him in prison to-day because he would preach the gospel.” "You had better say because he would n't obey the laws of the land, the vile offender. He deserves his fate. But how are you going to find the jail? You can't see what you are about." + At any other time the sensitive child would have been overcome by such cruel language; but now she felt that she could endure anything, however hard, if she could but find her father. “Come along with me, and I'll show you where the jail is, where they put all such rebels as your father. Come along, will you? I have no time to wait." Mary pressed Joseph's hand in hers as if to crave protection and sympathy, and obeyed the stranger's bidding. Taking her along that street, and then turning to the right, he led her to a point from whence the bridge "whereon the jail stood" could be seen. Halting suddenly, and pointing with his coarse, rough hand toward the prison, he said: "See that bridge yonder, and that house on it? Well, that's the jail. Go there and knock at the first door you come to, and ask for the jailer. Maybe he'll let you in. Do you see say?" "I see it! I see it! I'll show Mary the way," said Joseph. Mary, we 'll find father now." "Come on, ́ ́With quickened step they passed along the street to the jail! They forgot their weariness in the joy they felt at so soon seeing their dear father and being clasped to his bosom. "Where is the door, Joseph?" "I don't see any; the man told us wrong, Mary. We can't find father now, and we will have to go back without him," and the poor little boy, whose heart had borne up so nobly under the fatigue of the great journey to him, was about to give up and sit down to cry, when a man made his appearance on the bridge in front of the jail. The children did not hear him until he stood before them. What do you want, children? You poor little shivering things, what are you doing here this cold day?" "If you please, sir, we want to go to the prison to see Preacher Bunyan,” replied Mary, almost overcome by the remembrance of the vulgar man whom she had last spoken to. "He is our father, sir, and we have come all the way from home to bring him something to eat. Mother said he was so hungry, and there was no one to give him any bread, and we have brought him some. Please, sir, let us see him;" and she turned upon him her rayless eyes, all eloquent with entreaty. 'You can't go into the prison; it is against the rules." 'Oh, if you please, sir, let us see father;" and the tears ran down the imploring cheeks. "We won't take him away with us; let me and Mary see him. We want to give him this bread we have brought all the way for his supper." "I cannot break the rules. You cannot go into the prison." "Oh, can't we see father, sir?" and the child, no longer able to contain herself, burst into loud sobs. Just, if you please, let him come out, that we may speak to him, and we will go away and not trouble* you any more. Please, sir, let him come." The jailer's heart was touched. "You may talk to him, but you cannot go where he is;" and, unlocking the huge front door, he admitted them into the court-yard, where he left them standing while he went within. He unlocked the prisoner's cell. "Two little children want to see you in the court-yard, one of them a little blind girl. You can come out and see them for a minute." “Their mother has sent them, bless the dear woman!" and he arose from his seat and followed the jailer to the grated door. "You can come no farther now. You may talk to them through the grate." So saying, he passed into the court and locked the door after him. Bunyan's great heart was melted. He who had stood before the judges and received the sentence of imprisonment without dismay, but rather with blessing the Lord," and had gone to the gloomy cell with God's comfort in his soul, now wept as his eye rested on the shivering forms of his half-clothed children, and he realized that their love for him had nerved their little timid hearts to brave the dangers of an unknown way to spare him the pangs of hunger. Oh, how he longed to press them to his heart and kiss their cold pinched cheeks; but iron grates intervene, and he must be content with words. // Joseph sees his father, and stretches up his little hands to reach him, and Mary puts forth hers. They strike against the cold dull iron. Shudderingly she withdraws them, while an expression of horror passes over her raised face. The father sees it and sighs - not for himself-no; he can endure all things for his Master's sake,—but for the effect upon the guiltless heart of his innocent child. D “God bless you, my poor little ones, I cannot reach you," he said as soon as he could find utterance. "You have had a long, weary way of it to find Did your mother send you?" me. "No, father; mother's sick," answered little Joseph quietly. "We come to bring you some supper. Here it is." And he lifted Mary's covering and took from her the roll of bread and meat and handed it to his father. "God bless you, my little boy; I cannot take it; the man will give it to me when he comes. So your mother's sick, my daughter?' "She took it so hard when Thomas told her of you, father, that she had to go to bed," "My poor wife!" sighs Bunyan; you leave her by herself, my child?" the Lord keep her from danger. Did "No, father; Aunt Harrow was with her. She made mother go to bed, and she tried to comfort her." Father, won't you go home with us to see mother? She's so sick." "I cannot go, my little Joseph; I cannot get through these great iron bars." "Won't the man unlock the door, father, and let you go home to see mother? Oh, you don't know how sick she is.” "No, my boy; you must take care of your mother; I can't come now.” "When will you go home, father?" and the tears rolled down from the clear blue eyes as he felt that his father could not go. “When they let me out of this dark prison, then I'll come home to see you all." "Can't I stay with you, father?" and the little fellow put up his hands beseechingly. "No, Joseph, you must go home with Mary. Who would take care of her?” These children must leave, and you must go back to your cell," said the Jailer, gruffly, appearing in the narrow court. A word of farewell and blessing, and the little ones are driven through the door to find their way home alone and unprotected, a distance of more than three miles, in the gathering darkness of a November evening. The Omnipotent Eye watches every step of the weary way; the Omnipotent Hand protects them from every danger. Bunyan trusts, as seeing “Him who is invisible," and goes back to the cell to pray. A MISS ALLIE TORBETT. MONG our young writers, there is none more worthy of mention than Miss Allie Torbett, a young girl of seventeen, whose contributions to the Press, though few in number, display so marked an ability as to promise for her a very brilliant future. Miss Torbett was born in Shelbyville, Ky., and losing both parents during her early childhood, was adopted by her mother's sister, Mrs. Vassie R, who, being a lady of wealth, refinement, and very decided literary tastes, devoted herself assiduously to the intellectual culture of her niece, whose active mind and keen thirst for knowledge amply repaid the care expended upon her. There is in her writings a similarity to the earlier productions of Mrs. Browning. The same cast of mind is perceptible in both; though experience and severe study, added to the peculiar circumstances of her life, developed Mrs. Browning to an extent that could never have been reached by any unassisted genius. Miss Torbett's "Parthenope" is among her best poems. It has been widely copied, and received unqualified commendation. PARTHENOPE. She moaned within her sea-grot cool and deep, Of Tartarus that haunts a sea of fire. Athwart the morn the murky clouds drive fast, Her song that once could change the fate of braves And thrill the night with joy, and once could cause The rosy waves to dance with ecstasy So sweet that she herself would faint with love |