ng correspondence between them, which
took place four years before their decease:--

MR. JEFFERSON TO MR. ADAMS.

"Monticello, June 1, 1822.
"It is very long, my dear sir, since I have written to you. My dislocated
wrist is now become so stiff, that I write slowly, and with pain; and
therefore write as little as I can. Yet it is due to mutual friendship, to
ask once in a while how we do? The papers tell us that General Starke is
off, at the age of ninety-three. ***** still lives at about the same age,
cheerful, slender as a grasshopper, and so much without memory, that he
scarcely recognizes the members of his household. An intimate friend of
his called on him, not long since. It was difficult to make him recollect
who he was, and sitting one hour, he told him the same story four times
over. Is this life?--with laboring step

'To tread our former footsteps? pace the round
Eternal?--to beat and beat
The beaten track--to see what we have seen
To taste the tasted--o'er our palates to decant
Another vintage?'

"It is, at most, but the life of a cabbage, surely not worth a wish. When
all our faculties have left, or are leaving us, one by one, sight,
hearing, memory, every avenue of pleasing sensation is closed, and
athumy, debility, and malaise left in their places, when the friends of
our youth are all gone, and a generation is risen around us whom we know
not, is death an evil?

'When one by one our ties are torn,
And friend from friend is snatch'd forlorn;
When man is left alone to mourn,
Oh, then, how sweet it is to die!

'When trembling limbs refuse their weight,
And films slow gathering dim the sight;
When clouds obscure the mental light,
'Tis nature's kindest boon to die!'

"I really think so. I have ever dreaded a doting old age; and my health
has been generally so good, and is now so good, that I dread it still. The
rapid decline of my strength during the last winter, has made me hope
sometimes, that I see land. During summer, I enjoy its temperature, but I
shudder at the approach of winter, and wish I could sleep through it, with
the dormouse, and only wake with him in spring, if ever. They say that
Starke could walk about his room. I am told you walk well and firmly. I
can only reach my garden, and that with sensible fatigue. I ride, however,
daily; but reading is my delight. I should wish never to put pen to paper;
and the more