SEPT. 28 
MOORE’S RURAL NEW-YORKER. 
IN MEMORY. 
[This poem, second to Shelly’s "Cloud” In beauty 1 
and sweetness of expression and rhythm, provoked I 
the remark from the Rifted and lament ed Prentice i 
that " One could almost wish to die, if he knew such | 
a beautiful tribute would be written to his memory.”] ( 
ON the bosom of a river, 
Where the sun unloosed Its quiver, 
And the starlight gleamed forever. 
Sailed a vessel light and free. 
Morning dew-dropa hung like manna 
On the bright folds of her banner, 
And the zephyrs rose to fan her 
Softly to the radiant sea. 
At her prow a pilot beaming 
In the flush of youth stood dreaming. 
And he was in glorious seeming 
Like an angel from above. 
Through his hair the soft breeze sported 
And ns on the wave he floated, 
Oft that pilot, angel throated. 
Warbled lays of hope and love. 
Through those leaves so brightly flowing 
Buds of laurel bloom were blowing. 
And his hands anon worn throwing 
Music from a lyre of gold. 
Swiftly down the stream he glided 
Soft the purple wave divided, 
And a rainbow’s arch abided 
On Its canvas’ snowy fold. 
Anxious hearts with fond devotion 
Watched him sailing to the ocean. 
Prayed that never wild commotion 
’Midst the elements would rise. 
And he seemed some young Apollo, 
Charming summer winds to follow. 
While the water flags’ carol 
Trembled on his music sighs. 
But those purplo waves euchnmed, 
Rolled beside u city haunted 
By an awful spell that daunted 
Every comer to the shore. 
Night-shade rank the air encumbered. 
And palo marble statues numbered 
Where the lotus-eaters slumbered. 
And awake to life no more. 
Then there rushed with lightning quickness 
O’er this face a mortal sickness. 
And the dew in tearful thickness, 
Gathered o’er his temple fair. 
And there swopt n dying murmur 
Through the lovely southern summer, 
As the beauteous pilot comer 
Perished at that city there. 
Still rolls od that radiant river, 
And the nun unbinds his quiver. 
And the starlight streams forever 
On tlio bosom as before. 
But that vessel’s rainbow banner 
Greets no more the gay savanna, 
And that pilot's lute dropB manna 
On the. purple waves no more. 
(§ur 
“WHERE’S THE HARM?” 
HARRY Ashton was all alone In the parlor. 
It was a half holiday, and his great friend, 
George Saunders, was to call for him to go 
cricketing on tbo green; but. it wasn’t Quite 
time yet, and HARRY lingered about, wishing 
very much he could llnd something to do for 
the quarter of an hour which must strike be¬ 
fore the clock struck three. 
His mother had gone out, taking the key to 
let herself in when she returned; so there was 
no one in the house but Harry, and the tabby 
cat, and the parrot, which shrieked “What’s 
a-clock?” most provoktngly. 
At last the boy’s restless eyes fell on a letter 
he knew the postman had brought that morn¬ 
ing ; indeed, he firmly believed it was that very 
letter which had taken hla mother out, and 
Ha rry wanted desperately to know what was In 
it. He bad already put the question, for letters 
were scarce there, and the postrnun’s corning 
was an event in the cottage, but his father bade 
him “hold his tongue," and his mother had 
looked reprovingly at him, and Harry had 
been feoling rather Ul-used in consequence all 
day. What was to hinder him reading the let¬ 
ter now V No one would know—no one would 
see. But something seemed to tell him It was 
wrong, mean, dishonorable, and the boy hesi¬ 
tated and took another lookout of the window 
for George SAITNDicrs. Then he returned to 
the mantel-shelf where the letter lay so tempt¬ 
ingly, looked at It, fingered It, and then saying, 
“Whore’s the harm of it?” road it through. 
It did not give him any pleasure, there wasn’t 
a word in all the sheet of paper concerning 
him, and Harry felt vexed with his own curi¬ 
osity and inclined to think it was his parents 
fault that he had touched It. “ They shouldn’t 
have made, such a mystery about it," he told 
himself; but just then George Saunders ap¬ 
peared, and the boys went off to their game, 
and Harry forgot all about the letter, except¬ 
ing a few twinges which hls conscience gave 
him, and no one was any the wiser—excepting 
God. But the habit of deceit was begun. 
Five years rolled away, and Harry Ashton 
was a tall, well-grown lad of eighteen. The 
cricketing and all the games were over now, 
for there was a living to be got and a way to be 
made In the world. He had a good situation 
under the best painter and plumber in the 
town, with a prospect of rising to some good 
position if he was steady and upright. But 
during those five years evil habits had grown 
with hia growth, and the lessons of hls child¬ 
hood, the earnest training of his mother and 
the example of his father did not appear to 
bear fruit. But that one dishonorable action 
of hls boyhood had borne its fruit! Trifling as 
it seemed, it was the first wilful turning aside 
from what he knew to be truthful and right; 
but, unfortunately, it was not the last. From 
one thing to another Ha rry went on Indulging 
in small deceits until the habit grow strong, 
and he would now exclaim, “ Where’s the harm 
of it?" in cases which once he would have felt 
to be positive sin. 
Still time rolled on; the years which passed 
ond Ashton had opened the drawer and held 
the packet of papers In his hand, he under¬ 
stood qulto well that they were checks—some 
blank, some filled in; evidently going off by 
post to different persons with whom the lawyer 
had business. 
Clear! dear! how good it would be if one of 
the cheeks was for him! Couldn’t lie rig him¬ 
self out in now clothes, and couldn’t he make 
Bessie and the little onos comfortable! That 
was the thought, but it never crossed hls miml 
to steal one—that came afterward. 
“Where’s the Harm op It?” 
over hls head brought him troubles enough. 
It. grew to be a settled thing that no one be¬ 
lieved hls word; if any suspicion rested on 
any one it was always on Ashton, and at last 
his employers found so much reason to mis¬ 
trust him that he was dismissed from the place 
without a character, which nearly broke the 
heart ot his mother, who was getting to be an 
old woman then. 
At thirty years of age Harry Asiitiin, with 
a wife and two little children, found himself in 
London seeking employment in hls oid trade, 
and being a clever workman he was not long 
Idle. He had bidden farewell to his native 
village, for he said he should never do any good 
there; if a man wanted to got on, London was 
the place for him ; but he had not bidden fare¬ 
well to liis old habit of deceit. 
One day it happened that lie was employed 
at a job of work in a London lawyer’s office. 
It was but a small matter of an hour or so, bo 
that the lawyer went on with his writing. 
Whilst Ashton seemed busy with his work, he 
glanced around him every now and then, ob¬ 
serving the safes and drawers, and, with the 
old ouriosity of his boyhood, he thought how 
much he should like to soo into them and 
“ rummage ” among the lawyer’s fusty old 
papers. 
The secretary In the corner looked very 
tempting, too; many a secret, lay hid in those 
drawers, Harbv Ashton knew well; but the 
key was turned and taken away every time it 
had to be closed. There was no chance for 
prying eyes In that office certainly I 
But a chance was coming, and this was liow 
it happened: The lawyer had been seated at 
his desk, busy with his check book, writing 
rapidly, first on one slip of paper, then on an¬ 
other, as Ashton observed. Suddenly he was 
called away, and the message seemed to sur¬ 
prise and hurry him, for he crammed all the 
slips of papers and letters into one of the sec¬ 
retary drawers and hastened from the room, 
leaving the key hanging in the lock. 
Ashton felt as it he could not resist the 
temptation of looking. “He should uncom¬ 
monly like to see what all those slips of paper 
were about,” he said to himself; if only he was 
sure he wouldn’t be caught he’d have a look, 
that he would. “ Where was the harm of It ?” 
Curiosity proved stronger than fear. In a sec- 
He stood with a check in his hand, gazing at 
the firm handwriting which directed the sum 
of £10 10s. to be paid to “George Graham." 
As ho wondered who Gkorhk Graham was, 
and wished It was him self, ho heard a step out¬ 
side in the passage. To snatch up and hide the 
paper was the work of a moment, and when the 
door opened Harry Ashton was back at the 
window-ledge he was painting, looking as if he 
had never stirred an Inch from the spot. 
At first he chuckled inwardly at. the thought 
of how well ho had escaped; thou he began to 
wonder how he should replace the paper, and 
truly enough there was no chance to do so, for 
the lawyer sat in Hls chair as if he had boon 
glued to It long after Harry hud done Ids 
work and gone homo. 
That evening he seemed very absent and 
silent, and when he was alone lie got the check 
out and had another look at it. Well, he must 
burn It, and then it would be all right; he even 
stretched Ids hand out toward tlio grate, but 
temptation, had entered ids heart. How easy 
it would bo to make that £10 10s. his own ! He 
had only In sign the name “ GEORGE GRAHAM ’’ 
on the back (lie bad seen Ids old master do it 
many a time] and the money would be hla. 
Five minutes after the thing was dono, and 
Harry bad ruined himself. If lie had but re¬ 
membered the old, old words he had learned 
as a child, “ Be sure your sin will find you out," 
but he did not. Ho had done so many trifling 
deeds of dishonesty which no one had ever 
been the wiser for; told so many lies and 
nothlug appeared to come of them, that he had 
grown hardened. 
It was a case which has happened many a 
time before—of the forgery being found out, of 
a trial, of a severe sentence, of the heart¬ 
broken wife and deserted home. Then, too 
late, came Harry Ashton’s repentance; too 
late to save him from the consequences of ids 
sin In this world, but not too late for God to 
give lilm pardon. Then as lie sat in prison, 
solitary and sad, he traced back hls sin to ttie 
early faults of ids boyhood, and when he kissed 
bis wife and the crying children for the last 
time before he was sent far from Old England 
he whispered to little Harry, who looked up 
wouderingiy in hls face, “My boy, take a lesson 
from me and don’t begin to say, ‘ Where’s the 
harm of it ?' ’’ 
A HEART'S REWARD. 
Ma nKii Clifton sat before one of the windows 
of her father’s magnificent mansion. A servant 
stood in waiting. 
She was making out a list of articles wanted * 
for the next day. Coming footsteps arrested 
her attention. She raised her eyes and looked 
out. Tlio crimson flush deepened on horbright 
young fnoe, us “Oh! " In a tone of deep regret 
escaped her lips. 
She turned round after an instant of thought 
and said; 
“John, I am not just ready to finish this list, 
and shall not send it for an hour yet. If you 
have anything to attend to in the meantime 
you can do it..” 
Mr. Clifton had been reading in a distant part 
of the room. Hearing the door close after 
John's departure, he said: 
“ You have not, forgotten to send for these 
wines 1 spoke of, my dear? ” 
“He has not gone yet, papa." 
“ Ah, well, do not make It late. They will be 
very busy to-night," her father said, turning 
again to his paper. 
“Papa." 
“ Well?" 
“A boon, papa. Promise to grant me this 
last day of I,ho year, my boon ! ” 
“ What is it, my love?" 
“ Promise to grant, It first.” 
“Not in ignorance, my child.” 
“Trust me, father.” 
She had an eager, earnest, noble look In hor 
eyes that her father did trust in, and he prom¬ 
ised her. 
“ Well, you shall have your way." 
“Father, let ua abstain from using wines to 
morrow." 
“ What I no, no ; I cannot grunt you that. No 
wines 1 Why child, have you gone crazy? For 
twenty-five years I have offered iny friends 
wine on New Year’s day, and novor have felt 
that I was doing anything wrong. What has 
come over you?” 
“Oh, father, 1 have never felt Just right when 
offering men wine, and just now as I was mak¬ 
ing out the order Tor John, 1 chanced to raise 
my eyes Just as Edgar Livingston was passing. 
It needed but a glance to see he was very ranch 
under the Influence of liquor, father, ids 
mother is a widow; he is her only child, and all 
her earthly hopes center in him. Will they not 
be wrecked, think you, if lie Indulges in the 
wine oup ? To-morrow ho will make many calls. 
Beautiful women will offer him wine. Ho will 
not have the courage, possibly, to wish to 
decline. To-morrow night, most likely, ho will 
return home to fill his mother's heart with sor¬ 
row. I don’t wish to contribute one drop of 
that bitter cup," 
“My dear, whether we have wines or not, 
with him It will be all the same, as you say ho 
will make many calls.” 
“Father, if you had a son, would you not. talk 
differently? Think how many young mon of the 
brightest future have failed, nay, worse, won 
disgrace and early graves from love of wine, I 
feel as if Edgar Livingston stood upon the brink 
of a fearful precipice. Father, stretch forth 
your strong arm to draw him—if only step by 
step. If wo do not save him. It will be a com¬ 
fort to think that we urged hiru not forward on 
his fatal Course.” 
“ Mabel, you are very much interested In this 
young man. Am I to conclude-” 
“Nothing more than for hls own and his 
mother’s sake, I would endeavor to save him, 
or any other young man in hia danger, father. 
Here will be one of his first calls. Possibly I 
can detain hint long enough to prevent him 
from visiting many places where he would be 
exposed to great temptation. Oh, father, please 
grant me this?” 
“ Iteally, dear, I feel disposed to grant it, but 
so many will be disappointed. Besides, 1 have 
not tlio courage to make this great change, and 
set five hundred tongues to work, speculating 
about the cause of it. Some will declare I am 
about to fail, others that l have grown penu¬ 
rious. Ah ! what is it John? ’’ 
Just then a servant entered and handed him 
an envelope saying. 
“ A telegram, sir.” 
Mr. Clifton tore it.quickly open, read it and 
exclaimed : 
“ Really, this is too bad, but I must go, John. 
Hero-” 
And hastily writing a few words for a return 
dispatch, he handed it to the servant, and turn¬ 
ing to Mabel, said: 
“My old friend, Harwell, is dying, and begs 
1 that I will hasten to him. I cannot deny him. 
8o you will have to entertain my friends to-mor¬ 
row and explain to them tho reason of my fail¬ 
ing to see them this first time for so many years. 
“And—well, dear, you can do as you choose 
about the bill of fare. As I shall not be at home 
’ the people will not bold me responsible for 
, what happened in my absence." 
> “ Oh, thank you, papa, for permission to do 
i as I ehoose. I will willingly taka all unkindre- 
, mark6 any one feels like making. But I feel 
, confident that ail who have sons will give me 
> their kindest wlahos for withholding temptation 
l from their boys. Ami to the young men I shall 
; try to make myself agreeable, and have ourcook 
l make the coffee so very fine that they will go 
> away qulto as well pleased, and with their 
i brains a good deal clearer, than if I had enter- 
j talned them with wine.” 
An hour after, Mr. Clifton was on his way to 
