apprehend the corroding teeth of envy may endeavour to suap at me for my presumption, (as the serpent in the fable, I hope wasted his useless venom on the file, yet my ambition to mount the wheel of prosperous Fortune, when you shall be borne on the pinions of Love to the altar of Hymen, as the precious jewel of my bosom, makes me believe you will not balance to second these honourable proposals, should they have the weight which is necessary to give them action, and move your generous heart to sentiments of matrimonial consideration. I know, that from your striking figure, your musical voice, and regular deportment, you are justly denominated the belle of this fashionable age. But to me, who am not to be allured by the external pendants of the sex, you shall be the same, whether you appear in the modest cap of rural diffidence, or glitter in brilliancy of the gorgeous diamond; and notwithstanding the report of my intended connexion with miss B——, which those who would oppose my alliance with you, have sedulously given out, I now propose an union with your amiable person, which I trust will be the vital spring of our future felicity. To conclude, should those preliminaries meet the seal of your approbation, I shall wind up my wishes in the circle of a few words, which I here pronounce in the solemn sincerity of my heart: May the hallowed chain which links us together, be tempered with the fire of social sympathy, and polished by the fingers of smiling prosperity. May the avenues of our hearts be not impervious to the keys of reciprocal affection, pending the fleeting hours of mortal life, where vice and vanity go hand in hand, and until the divine Maker shall cease to watch over and regulate the movements of this nether world-when the pivots of time shall be worn out, and the ponderous works of Eternity demonstrate a perpetual motion.

I have the honor to be, Madam,

Your unerring, and most constant admirer,
Bartholomew Wheeler.

HYMENEAL AND OBITUARY.

MARRIED.]-In Lynn, Mr. William H. Hubbard, merchant of Richmond, Virg. to Miss Ann Phillips. In Marshfield, Mr. John Smith of Duxbury, to Miss Mercy Tilden, of M. In Gloucester, Mr. Frederic G. Low, to Miss Rebecca Burrows Tufts of Medford. In Salem, Mr. John Beckford to Miss Sally Brown Capt. Benjamin Sillaber, jun. to Miss Sarah Hathorne.

DIED.]-In this town, Mrs. Mary Ruggles, aged 74: Lucretia Bullard, daughter of Mr. Henry Bass, aged 8 years: Abner Loring, son of Mr. John Baker, aged 9 months: Benjamin Abrahams, aged 15 months, son of Mr. Benjamin Abrahams: John Carlile, son of Mr. Samuel S. Newman, aged 3 years, and 6 months: Mrs. Mary Thacher, aged 76, widow of Capt. Elisha T. of Barnstable: Mr. Wm. Breed, aged 67: Mrs. Hannah Bell, aged 85: Mr. N. E. W. Lothrop, cordwainer, aged about 45: He was under some pecuniary embarrassments, and was within the prison limits: He was found suspended on Monday morning in the upper part of the Old State House. He has left a wife and children. The Coroner's Inquest, we learn, was insanity. In Charlestown, Elizabeth Carter, aged 46.

POETRY.

THE REAPER'S SONG.

YE verdant hills, ye smiling fields,
Thou earth, whose breast spontaneous yields

To man a rich supply;

Echo, whose mimic notes prolong

The melting strain, and bear along,
O'er distant glades and caves among,
The mountain shepherd's artless song
Soft swelling to the sky-

Attend the reaper's joyful lays,

And bear the tribute of their praise
To nature's bounteous King;
Whose voice, loud sounding from the pole,
In thunder oft is heard to roll,

And oft has melted down the soul,
When murmuring along it stole

The zephyr's silken wing!

With bread, the heart of man to cheer,
See, bending low, the ripen'd ear

Bow its luxuriant head!

In vain, ye swains, had been your care,
Had not He caus'd the blight to spare

The promise of the summer fair,
And bade the sun, the rain, the air,
Their gracious influence shed.

He bade the soft refreshing gale
Blow gently down the teeming vale,
Nor hurt the peeping grain;

But when the ear began to rise,
To Him we rais'd our anxious eyes;

Oft from the cisterns of the skies
He sent, in mercy, rich supplies,
Early and latter rain.

And now His hand hath crown'd our toil,
We joy, like those that share the spoil,
The harvest home to bear!
With shouts the laughing pastures ring-
With grateful hearts, ye reapers, snig
The praise of Heav'n's eternal King,
Through whose paternal care ye bring
The produce of the year.

EXTRACT FROM A SERMON, ON THE AUTUMN. And Isaac went out to meditate in the field, at the even-tide. Gen.24.63. THERE is an " even-tide" in the day-an hour when the sun retires, and the shadows fall, and when nature assumes the appearance of soberness and silence. It is an hour from which every where the thoughtless fly, as peopled only, in their imagination, with images of gloom; it is the hour, on the other hand, which in every age, the wise has loved, as bringing with it sentiments and affections more valuable then all the splendors of the day.

Its first impression is to still all the turbulence of thought or passion, which the day may have brought forth. We follow with our eye the descending sun; we listen to the decaying sounds of labor and of toil-and, when all the fields are silent around us, we feel a kindred stillness to breathe upon our souls, and to calm them from the agitations of society. From this first impression, there is a second, which naturally follows it: In the day we are living with men in the "even-tide" we begin to live with nature; -we see the world withdrawn from us— -the shades of night darken over the habitations of men, and we feel ourselves alone. It is an hour, fitted, as it would seem, by Him who made us, to still, but with gentle hand, the throb of every unruly passion, and the ardor of every impure desire; and, while it veils for a time the world that misleads us, to awaken in our hearts those legitimate affections which the heat of the day may have dissolved, there is yet a farther scene it presents to us. While the world withdraws from us, and while the shades of evening, da ken upon our dwellings, the splendors of the firmament come forward to our view. In the moments when earth is overshadowed, heaven opens to our eyes the radiance of a sublimer being; our hearts follow the successive splendors of the scene; and while we forget, for a time,

the obscurity of earthly concerns, we feel that there are greater things than these."

There is, in the second place, an “even-tide" in the year-a season when the sun withdraws his propitious light; when the winds arise, and the leaves fall, and nature around us seems to sink into decay. It is said, in general, to be the season of melancholy: and if, by this word be meant that it is the time of solemn and of serious thought, it is undoubtedly the season of melancholy: yet, it is a melancholy so soothing, so gentle in its approach, and so prophetic in its influence, that they who have known it, feel, as instinctively, that it is the doing of God, and that the heart of man is not thus finely touched, but to fine issues.

When we go out into the fields in the evening of the year, a different voice approaches us. We regard, even in spite of ourselves, the still but steady advances of time. A few days ago, and the summer of the year was grateful, and every element was filled with life, and the sun of Heaven seemed to glory in his ascendant. He is now enfeebled in his power; the desert no more "blossoms like the rose," the song of joy is no more heard among the branches; and the earth is strewed with that foliage which once bespoke the magnificence of summer. Whatever may be the passions which society has awakened, we pause amid this apparent dessolation of nature. We sit down in the lodge "of the way-fearing man in the wilderness," and we feel that all we witness in the emblem of our own fate. Such also, in a few years, will be our own condition. The blossoms of our Spring-the pride of our summer, will also fade into decay; and the pulse that now beats high with virtuous or with vicious desire, will gradually sink, and then must stop forever. We rise from our meditations with hearts softened and subdued, and we return into life as into a shadowy scene, where we have " disquieted ourselves in vain.”

Yet a few years, we think, and all that now bless, or all that now convulse humanity, will also have perished. The mightiest pageantry of life will pass-the loudest notes of triumph or of conquest will be silent in the grave-the wicked, wherever active, “will cease from troubling," and the weary, wherever suffering," will be at rest." Under an impression so profound, we feel our own hearts better. The cares, the animosities, the hatreds which society may have engendered, sink unperceived from our bosoms. the general dessolation of nature, we feel the littleness of our passions ;-we look forward to that kindred evening which time must bring to all; we anticipate the graves of those we hate and of

In

those we love. Every unkind passion falls, with the leaves that fall around us; and we return slowly to our homes, and to the society which surrounds us, with the wish only to enlighten or to bless them.

There is an even-tide in human life; a season when the eye becomes dim,and the strength decays, and when the winter of age begins to shed upon the human head, its prophetic snow. It is the season of life to which the present is most analogous; and much it becomes, and much it would profit you, my elder brethren, to mark the in structions which the season brings. The spring and the summer of your days are gone, and with them, not only the joys they knew, but many of the friends who gave them. You have entered upon the autumn of your being; and whatever may have been the profusion of your spring, or the warm intemperance of your summer, there is yet a season of stillness and solitude which the beneficence of Heaven affords you, in which you may meditate upon the past and the future, and prepare yourselves for the mighty change which you are soon to undergo.

In the long retrospect of your journey, you have seen every day the shades of the evening fall, and every year the clouds of winter gather But you have seen also, every succeeding day, the morning arise in its brightness, and in every succeeding year, spring return to renovate the winter of nature. It is now you may understand the magnificent language of Heaven,-it mingles it voice with that of revelation,-it summons you in these hours, when the leaves fall, and the winter is gathering, to that evening study which the mercy of Heaven has provided in the book of salvation And, while the shadowy valley opens, which leads to the abode of death, it speaks of that hand which cán comfort and can save, and which can conduct to those " green pastures, and those still waters," where there is an eternal spring for the children of God.

;

THE DIVINE BENEVOLENCE.

WHEN God created the human species, either he wished their happiness, or he wished their misery, or he was indifferent and unconcerned about both.

If he had wished our misery, he might have made sure of his purpose, by forming our senses to be so many sores and pains to us, as they are now instruments of gratification and enjoyment; or by placing us amidst objects so ill suited to our perceptions, as to have continually offended us, instead of ministering to our refreshment