A slip, and both horse and rider would roll to a hideous fate, But Sir Rupert, with set white features, rode to the headland straight. They heard him now, and the woman rose from her knees and moaned, And the man gave a sudden shudder and opened his eyes and groaned. Sir Rupert reined up so fiercely that the mare on the precipice reared, And the woman sprang back with horror, in the jaws of the death she feared. For a moment she seemed to totter, and then with a piercing cry Went over that awful headland that seems to touch the sky. For a second no sound was uttered, only the billows roared, While up from its nest a sea-gull, startled and shrieking, soared; Then, shouting for help, Sir Rupert clutched at the snow-clad turf, And glanced with a look of horror down at the boiling surf. And as he lay there peering, right at the farthest edge, Something his eyes detected-a heap on a narrow ledge; It was thirty feet between them, but he knew 'twas his wretched wife, And he vowed, though his own paid forfeit, he would save her guilty life. He could see there were tiny jettings where his foot might find a hold, And the man he had quite forgotten was worth his weight -in gold. The booby was bruised and shaken, and fancied that he should die, But Sir Rupert bade him help him, or he'd shoot him by-and-by. Then the white-faced coward whimpered and lifted his jeweled hands, And Sir Rupert set him tearing his mantle in narrow bands. Then the strips were twined together and tied to a rough stone seat, And over went brave Sir Rupert, clinging with hands and feet. The waves in their winter fury shrieked for a human life, But down and down crept Rupert till he swung by his senseless wife, Stooping, he clasped her firmly, one hand on the doubtful rope, Pressed his lips on her marble forehead, and whispered her," Darling-hope!" Then breathing a prayer to Heaven to save them both that night, He toiled with his heavy burden up the face of the frowning height. A fall of the soft red sandstone, a slip of his bleeding hand, And their bodies had lain together, crushed on the cruel strand. Safe! safe at last on the summit! safe on the firm hard road! There where the moonbeams glittered, he glanced at his senseless load. Her face was bruised and battered, and the warm blood welled and gushed; And he saw that his wife was injured, and her tender bones were crushed. No trace of the lady's gallant; he'd limped to a horse and flown: Sir Rupert and "Polly Peachum" were there on the heights alone. He leaped on the gallant hunter; took his wife in his brawny arms, And galloped across the country to one of his tenant's farms. For six long months my lady hovered 'twixt death and life 'Twas a surgeon who came from London that saved Sir Rupert's wife And when she was out of danger it was known she was marked and maimed, A battered, misshapen cripple, distorted and scarred and lamed. But Sir Rupert clung closer to her; they travelled from place to place, And he never winced or shuddered at the sight of her injured face. It was he who carried the cripple, who nursed her with tenderest care: And never in knightly story such gallant had lady fair. For many a year she lingered-'twas up at the Hall she died, And here in the village churchyard they're sleeping side by side. She died in his arms confessing the worth of his noble love, And in less than a year he sought her in the mansions of God above. There stands the great bluff headland-there swells the sea below And the story I've told you happened nigh a hundred years ago, Yet there isn't a soul that visits those towering crags of red But thinks of the love and daring that hallowed "Sir Rupert's Head." GEORGE R. SIMS. LEAD THE WAY. A CANNON ball rolling loosely in the cannon's mouth is simply a piece of harmless metal, but with a charge of powder behind it has the breathless speed and irresistible power of the thunderbolt. Truth and character are not enough in life; both must have back of them the force of a concentrated personality, a will on fire with zeal and energy. Any study of the men and women we know brings out not so much the differences of gifts among them as the differences of impulse and motivity. Some of the most richly endowed effect little because their capital is largely unused; some of the most ordinary in natural ability do wonders because of the concentration and intensity of purpose and zeal which dominate them. Many lives are true, but hidden because their fires have never been lighted; others are luminous, even resplendent, because the flame of purpose turns everything into heat and light. St. Paul was one of these torch-bearers, and the light that was in him was the dawn of a new day for half a world. Doubtless other men of his time saw the truth clearly, and accepted it frankly, but none of them put behind it such a magnificent force of personality, none of them gave it such an irresistible impulse. Wherever he moved, the stagnant air of a dying civilization was stirred by a current that was the breath of the morning after the close and murky night. It was nothing to him that Asia and Europe lay in darkness; he needed no light from them on his long and painful path; it was his joy to let the truth aflame in his own soul stream out along the coasts of the Mediterranean, a solitary traveler, and yet more powerful than emperors. Such a life reveals the irresistible might of truth when it has set a soul on fire with purpose and enthusiasm. The world to-day is full of good men and women who are missing this sublime possibility of giving themselves in light, heat, and force; they have the truth, and they are anxious to do their duty by it, but they are not luminous; they set no new currents of earnest living in motion through the sluggish air of the world. Instead of impressing themselves upon society, they are impressed by it; instead of leading the march, they follow in the ranks. They need to let the truth take possession of them, to lose themselves and all consciousness of their own limitations and weaknesses in devotion to the great ideal of noble living. The world is not so much antagonistic to truth as indifferent to it; it protests against being disturbed, but once aroused it is ready to follow. The fire of a strong soul, deeply moved and in dead earnest, is contagious; it has more than once set a whole race aflame, and sent its influences to the very ends of the earth. LYMAN ABBOTT. SOMETHING GREAT. THE trial was ended-the vigil past; So from the palace he rode away; There was trouble and need in the town that day; A child had strayed from his mother's side Into the woodland dark and wide. 66 Help!" cried the mother with sorrow wild- He shook her hand from his bridle-rein: |