Alexandria Gazette & Advertiser

Mr. Jefferson and Mr. Adams.

From the Boston Christian Register.

The following Letters have been obtained by solicitation; and are sent to the press by permission of their venerable authors,—The character, standing, and age of the writers, the one in his eightieth, the other in his eighty-seventh year, give them peculiar interest, and they cannot fail to be read with great pleasure. It is delightful to witness this kind of correspondence between these two distinguished men, the asperities of party by which they were at one time separated, worn down, and nothing remaining but the interchange of sentiments of unfeigned kindness and respect. It is charming to see an old age like this, retaining, even under its decays and infirmities, the intellectual vigour unimpaired: and displaying amidst its snows, the greenness and freshness of the summer of life. It is an enviable and privileged height to which these great men have attained; from which they are permitted to look down upon an extensive and eminently happy country, enjoying the fruit of their labors and sacrifices, more than realizing their boldest anticipations; and regarding them with that gratitude and respect to which their magnanimity and distinguished patriotism so emphatically entitle them.

The letter of Mr. Jefferson was written soon after the attack upon him by the "Native Virginian:" and when there was a strong expectation of a war between Russia and Turkey; this will explain some allusions in them.

From 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 Stark 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 recognises 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 labouring 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 mal-aise 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 doating 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 Stark could walk about his room. I am told that 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 because of the treacherous practice some people have of publishing one's letters without leave. Lord Mansfield declared it a breach of trust, and punishable at law. I think it should be a penitentiary felony; yet you will have seen that they have drawn me out into the arena of the newspapers. Although I know it is too late for me to buckle on the armour of youth, yet my indignation would not permit me passively to receive the kick of an ass.

To turn to the news of the day, it seems that the cannibals of Europe are going to eating one another again. A war between Russia and Turkey is like the battle of the kite and snake: whichever destroys the other, leaves a destroyer the less for the world. This pugnacious humour of mankind seems to be the law of his nature, one of the obstacles to too great multiplication provided in the mechanism of the Universe. The cocks of the hen-yard kill one another; bears, bulls, rams, do the same, and a horse in his wild state, kills all the young males, until worn down with age and war, some vigorous youth kills him. *** I shall prove how much happier for man the quaker policy is, and that the life of the weaver is better than that of the fighter; and it is some consolation that the desolation by these maniacs of one part of the earth, is the means of improving it in other parts. Let the latter be our office; and let us milk the cow, while the Russian holds her by the horns, and the Turks by the tail. God bless you and give you health, strength, good spirits, and as much of life as you think worth having.