Mark is the bearer of a list of Liddy's wants written by me from her dictation, and while the pen is in my hand I would fain tell you a little of what engaged my thoughts during my seat with Henry in the gig, on our way from Bungay last night.

I could not help thinking on the active life you have hitherto led, and inquiring by what means your activity would be stayed—you have yet life, and your activity may be stayed, and probably your life be spared for many years, by considering that you may have arrived at a period when it is, in every sense, wisdom to be quiet. Allow me to say, my friend, common sense to be quiet. Surely, my dear friend, you must perceive you are not the man you were, and, at fifty, persistence in efforts which were habitual and wholsesome before that age, may waste up health and spirits in a very, very short time, which might otherwise, by the blessing of Almighty God, be husbanded to the comfort of yourself and your family, through after years of a calm existence. Leave the bustle of Politics to those who can bear the fatigue, as you have borne it to the present time. — such fatigue I am convinced you have not animal strength to resume and continue, and I think you may somewhat incline to concur with me in believing, that your mental powers may deviate, without disadvantage to public affairs, into a course beneficial in an eminent degree to yourself, and even more beneficial to those whom you are related to as a parent, a friend, and a townsman. Enter, my dear friend, upon a course of rigid self-examination—begin it, and continue it, in quiet—do not suffer yourself to be disturbed from it by other affairs—persist in it—commune with yourself patiently, and in silence—go into retrospect, and try to discover where you are, what your are, to what you have attained, to what you may attain, and whither, as respects yourself, all your doings tend. I do not prescribe, what I am or have been unwilling to do myself, and I venture to affirm, from self-experience, that such a [one word], with humble and earnest prayer to God, will wean you, from, what you and I must soon leave—the world. Mind, my friend, I am charging nothing upon you. I am not ignorant that such a mind as yours has not done much in this way, but has it done all?

I am afraid of this Book Club Meeting tonight. At night you ought not to go out. To such Meetings you ought not to go. You may go without intention, and indeed with a determination not, to take any active part in it, but you will. You will be drawn out—things will not go as you wish—they must be done as they ought to be and you must do them. This is our nature. Will. Hone did so, and the fool discovered his folly just in time.

John, my friend, you must have done with all this—with all—if you desire to live on. Do not, my dear friend, spurn this, but regard it as the sincere admonition of a kind earnest well wisher to you and yours, who, at the hazard of losing your friendship, presumes to say things which if not rightly taken may be more than unacceptable.

I have wanted to say much to you in this way, but Henry is importunate for Mark to take off and