had been mislaid or lost, so anxious was he always that every man should
have his own.

In December, 1834, the history of Charles Lamb comes suddenly to a close.
He had all along had a troubled day: now came the night. His spirits had
previously been tolerably cheerful; reading and conversing, as heretofore,
with his friends, on subjects that were familiar to him. There was little
manifest alteration or falling off in his condition of mind or body. He
took his morning walks as usual. One day he stumbled against a stone, and
fell. His face was slightly wounded; but no fatal (or even alarming)
consequence was foreboded. Erysipelas, however, followed the wound, and
his strength (never robust) was not sufficient to enable him to combat
successfully that inflammatory and exhausting disease. He suffered no pain
(I believe); and when the presence of a clergyman was suggested to him, he
made no remark, but understood that his life was in danger; he was quite
calm and collected, quite resigned. At last his voice began to fail, his
perceptions became confused, and he sank gradually, very gradually, until
the 27th of December, 1834; and then--he died! It was the fading away or
disappearance of life, rather than a violent transit into another world.

He died at Edmonton; not, as has been supposed, at Enfield, to which place
he never returned as to a place of residence, after he had once quitted
it.

It is not true that he was ever deranged, or subjected to any restraint,
shortly before his death. There never was the least symptom of mental
disturbance in him after the time (1795-6) when he was placed for a few
weeks in Hoxton Asylum, to allay a little nervous irritation. If it were
necessary to confirm this assertion, which is known to me from personal
observation and other incontrovertible evidence, I would adduce ten of his