Charles Lamb | Page 4

these letters we learn that besides
his own mental trouble, his sister had been very ill, his brother was laid
up and demanded constant attention, having a leg so bad that for a time
the necessity of amputation appeared to be probable.[1] Through it all
Charles Lamb was conscious of being "sore galled with disappointed
hope," and felt something of enforced loneliness, consequent upon his
being, as he described himself, "slow of speech and reserved of
manners"; he went nowhere, as he put it, had no acquaintance, and but
one friend--Coleridge. It is difficult, in reading much in these letters, to
realize that the writer was but just come of age in the previous February.
The first twenty or so of the letters of Lamb which have come down to
us are addressed to Coleridge (1796-1798). Between the seventh of the
series (5th July, 1796) and the eighth (27th September, 1796) there is a
gap of time at the close of which happened the tragedy that coloured

the whole of Charles Lamb's subsequent life and caused him to give
himself up to a life of devotion to which it would not be easy to find a
parallel.
[Footnote 1: It is curious that a quarter of a century later, when writing
of his brother in "Dream Children," Lamb speaks of his being
lame-footed, and of having his limb actually taken off.]
The story is best told in the poignant simplicity of Lamb's first letter to
Coleridge after the calamity:
MY DEAREST FRIEND,
White, or some of my friends, or the public papers, by this time may
have informed you of the terrible calamities that have fallen on our
family. I will only give you the outlines: My poor dear, dearest sister,
in a fit of insanity, has been the death of her own mother. I was at hand
only time enough to snatch the knife out of her grasp. She is at present
in a madhouse, from whence I hear she must be moved to an hospital.
God has preserved to me my senses, I eat and drink and sleep, and have
my judgment, I believe, very sound. My poor father was slightly
wounded, and I am left to take care of him and my aunt. Mr. Norris of
the Blue-Coat School, has been very kind to us, and we have no other
friends; but, thank God, I am very calm and composed, and able to do
the best that remains to do. Write as religious a letter as possible, but no
mention of what is gone and done with. With me "the former things are
passed away," and I have something more to do than to feel.
God Almighty have us all in His keeping!
C. LAMB.
Mention nothing of poetry, I have destroyed every vestige of past
vanities of that kind. Do as you please, but if you publish, publish mine
(I give free leave) without name or initial, and never send me a book, I
charge you.
Your own judgment will convince you not to take any notice of this yet

to your dear wife. You look after your family; I have my reason and
strength left to take care of mine, I charge you, don't think of coming to
see me. Write. I will not see you if you come. God Almighty love you
and all of us!
C. LAMB.
At the inquest the only possible verdict was returned, that of homicide
during temporary insanity, against the young woman who, in her frenzy,
had killed her own mother and destroyed a home which she had been
working hard, as a mantua maker, to help support. The awful shock had,
perhaps, a steadying effect on Charles Lamb. Here he was at the age of
one-and-twenty suddenly placed in a position that might have tried a
strong-minded man in his prime; his brother, a dozen years his senior,
so far as we are aware mixed himself as little as might be with the
family tragedy; poor Mary had to be placed in an asylum and supported
there, and a pledge taken for her future safe-guarding, while in the
home a physically feeble old aunt and a mentally feeble old father had
to be looked after and companioned. Humbly and unhesitatingly he
who was but little more than a youth in years took up a task which it is
painful even to contemplate; the simple spirit in which he did so may
be realized from a noble letter which he sent to his friend at the time.
The shattered family removed from Little Queen Street to 45, Chapel
Street, Pentonville, and there in the following year Aunt Hetty died. In
the spring of 1799 old John Lamb also passed away, and Mary returned
to share her brother's home, to be tended