a large portion of the truth itself. I barely mention that the mafs of sorrow which you are called to alleviate, appears in as many forms as there are affinities among men.

Is there in this afsembly a father, the sons of whose youth are the stay of his age, and the hope of his family? In yonder cell lies a man of grey hairs, crushed by poverty, and tortured by disease. His children are scattered abroad, or have long since descended into the tomb. The sound of "Father," never salutes his ears: He is a stranger in his own country: His only companions are want and anguish.

Is there here a wife of youth encircled with domestic joys? or is there one whose heart, though solaced with a thousand outward blefsings, calls back the aching remembrance of the loved relation? Behold that daughter of grief. The fever rankles in her veins. She has no partner, dearer than her own soul, on whose bosom she may recline her throbbing head. Her name is Widow. Desolate, forsaken, helplefs, she is stretched on the ground. The wintry blast howls through her habitation, and Famine keeps the door.

Is there a mother here, whose eyes fill in` the tenderness of blifs, while health paints the cheeks of her little offspring, and they play around her in all the gaiety of infantine sim

plicity? I plead for a mother, the toil of whose hands was the bread of her children. The bed of languishing destroys her strength and their sustenance. "The son of her womb" turns pale in her feeble arms; her heart is wrung with double anguish, while, unconscious of the source of his pain, he cries for bread, and there is none to give it.

Is there here a man of public spirit who exults in the return of plenty and of peace? Let him think of those who suffer under the stern arrest of hunger and disease. Ah! let him think, that this wretchednefs belongs to the wife and family of the soldier who has fought the battles of his country. The messenger of peace arrives: the murmur of the crowd swells into ecstacy: Their shout echoes through the hills. She raises her drooping head, and hears, not that her friend and helper is at hand, but that herself is a widow and her children fatherlefs. The blood of her husband and of their father has flowed for the common safety-He shall never return.

Is there a Christian here, who knows how to do good unto all, but especially to them that are of the houshold of faith? Among these afflicted who are sinking under their infirmities, and have not where to lay their heads, are some to whom the celestials minister, and who

are fellow-heirs with Christ in glory. I state the facts: I use no arguments: I leave the result with your consciences, your hearts, and your God.

A

FUNERAL ORATION,

ON THE

DEATH

OF

GEN. WASHINGTON,

BY APPOINTMENT OF A NUMBER OF THE CLERGY OF NEW YORK,

AND PUBLISHED AT THEIR REQUEST.