The year 1796 was a terribly eventful one for the Lambs. There was a
taint of insanity in the family on the father's side, and on May 27,
1796, we find Charles writing to Coleridge these sad words,--doubly sad
for the ring of mockery in them:--

"My life has been somewhat diversified of late. The six
weeks that finished last year and began this, your very
humble servant spent very agreeably in a madhouse at
Hoxton. I am got somewhat rational now and don't bite
any one. But mad I was!" [4]

Charles, thanks to the resolution with which he combated the tendency,
and to the steadying influence of his work at the desk,--despite his
occasional murmurs, his best friend and sheet-anchor in life,--never
again succumbed to the family malady; but from that moment, over his
small household, Madness--like Death in Milton's vision--continually
"shook its dart," and at best only "delayed to strike." [5]

It was in the September of 1796 that the calamity befell which has
tinged the story of Charles and Mary Lamb with the sombrest hues of the
Greek tragedy. The family were still in the Holborn lodgings,--the
mother an invalid, the father sinking into a second childhood. Mary, in
addition to the burden of ministering to her parents, was working for
their support with her needle.

At this point it will be well to insert a prefatory word or two as to
the character of Mary Lamb; and here the witnesses are in accord. There
is no jarring of opinion, as in her brother's case; for Charles Lamb has
been sorely misjudged,--often, it must be admitted, with ground of