terrible death of his mother, cannot be explained in any condensed manner.
His mind, short of insanity, seems to have been utterly upset. He had been
fond of poetry to excess; almost all his leisure hours seemed to have been
devoted to the books of poets and religious writers, to the composition of
poetry, and to criticising various writers in verse. But afterwards, in
his distress, he requests Coleridge to "mention nothing of poetry. I have
destroyed every vestige of past vanities of that kind. Never send me a
book, I charge you. I am wedded" (he adds) "to the fortunes of my sister
and my poor old father." At another time he writes, "On the dreadful day I
preserved a tranquillity, not of despair." Some persons coming into the
"house of misery," and persuading him to take some food, he says, "In an
agony of emotion, I found my way mechanically into the adjoining room, and
fell on my knees by the side of her coffin, asking forgiveness of Heaven,
and sometimes of her, for forgetting her so soon."

A few days later, he says to his friend, "You are the only correspondent,
and, I might add, the only friend I have in the world. I go nowhere and
see no acquaintance." At this time he gave away all Coleridge's letters,
burned all his own poetry, all the numerous poetical extracts he had made,
and the little journal of "My foolish passion, which I had a long time
kept." Subsequently, when he becomes better, he writes again to his
friend, "Correspondence with you has roused me a little from my lethargy,
and made me conscious of my existence."

Charles was now entirely alone with his sister. She was the only object
between him and God, and out of this misery and desolation sprang that
wonderful love between brother and sister, which has no parallel in
history. Neither would allow any stranger to partake of the close
affection that seemed to be solely the other's right. Doubts have existed
whether Charles Lamb ever gave up for the sake of Mary the one real