The solemnity of this assembly, the lamentations of the American people will answer, “alas, he is now no more—­the Mighty is fallen!”

Yes, Americans, your WASHINGTON is gone! he is now consigned to dust, and “sleeps in dull, cold marble.”  The man, who never felt a wound, but when it pierced his country, who never groaned, but when fair freedom bled, is now forever silent!—­Wrapped in the shroud of death, the dark dominions of the grave long since received him, and he rests in undisturbed repose!  Vain were the attempt to express our loss—­vain the attempt to describe the feelings of our souls!  Though months have rolled away, since he left this terrestrial orb, and fought the shining worlds on high, yet the sad event is still remembered with increased sorrow.  The hoary headed patriot of ’76 still tells the mournful story to the listening infant, till the loss of his country touches his heart, and patriotism fires his breath.  The aged matron still laments the loss of the man, beneath whose banners her husband has fought, or her son has fallen.—­At the name of WASHINGTON, the sympathetic tear still glistens in the eye of every youthful hero, nor does the tender sigh yet cease to heave, in the fair bosom of Columbia’s daughters.

  Farewel, O WASHINGTON, a long farewel! 
  Thy country’s tears embalm thy memory: 
  Thy virtues challenge immortality;
  Impressed on grateful hearts, thy name shall live,
  Till dissolution’s deluge drown the world!

Although we must feel the keenest sorrow, at the demise of our WASHINGTON, yet we console ourselves with the reflection, that his virtuous compatriot, his worthy successor, the firm, the wise, the inflexible ADAMS still survives.—­Elevated, by the voice of his country, to the supreme executive magistracy, he constantly adheres to her essential interests; and, with steady hand, draws the disguising veil from the intrigues of foreign enemies, and the plots of domestic foes.  Having the honor of America always in view, never fearing, when wisdom dictates, to stem the impetuous torrent of popular resentment, he stands amidst the fluctuations of party, and the explosions of faction, unmoved as Atlas,

  While storms and tempests thunder on its brow,
  And oceans break their billows at its feet.

Yet, all the vigilance of our Executive, and all the wisdom of our Congress have not been sufficient to prevent this country from being in some degree agitated by the convulsions of Europe.  But why shall every quarrel on the other side the Atlantic interest us in its issue?  Why shall the rife, or depression of every party there, produce here a corresponding vibration?  Was this continent designed as a mere satellite to the other?—­Has not nature here wrought all her operations on her broadest scale?  Where are the Missisippis and the Amazons, the Alleganies and the Andes of Europe, Asia or Africa?  The natural superiority of America clearly indicates, that it was