October 3, 1796.

My dearest friend, ­Your letter was an inestimable treasure to me.  It will be a comfort to you, I know, to know that our prospects are somewhat brighter.  My poor dear, dearest sister, the unhappy and unconscious instrument of the Almighty’s judgments on our house, is restored to her senses, to a dreadful sense and recollection of what has past, awful to her mind and impressive (as it must be to the end of life), but tempered with religious resignation and the reasonings of a sound judgment, which in this early stage knows how to distinguish between a deed committed in a transient fit of frenzy, and the terrible guilt of a mother’s murder.  I have seen her.  I found her, this morning, calm and serene; far, very, very far, from an indecent, forgetful serenity.  She has a most affectionate and tender concern for what has happened.  Indeed, from the beginning, frightful and hopeless as her disorder seemed, I had confidence enough in her strength of mind and religious principle to look forward to a time when even she might recover tranquillity.  God be praised, Coleridge, wonderful as it is to tell, I have never once been otherwise than collected and calm; even on the dreadful day and in the midst of the terrible scene, I preserved a tranquillity which bystanders may have construed into indifference, ­a tranquillity not of despair.  Is it folly or sin in me to say that it was a religious principle that most supported me?  I allow much to other favorable circumstances.  I felt that I had something else to do than to regret.  On that first evening my aunt was lying insensible, to all appearance like one dying; my father with his poor forehead plastered over, from a wound he had received from a daughter dearly loved by him, and who loved him no less dearly; my mother a dead and murdered corpse in the next room, ­yet was I wonderfully supported, I dosed not my eyes in sleep that night, but lay without terrors and without despair, I have lost no sleep since, I had been long used not to rest in things of sense, ­had endeavored after a comprehension of mind unsatisfied with the “ignorant present time;” and this kept me up.  I had the whole weight of the family thrown on me; for my brother, little disposed (I speak not without tenderness for him) at any time to take care of old age and infirmities, had now, with his bad leg, an exemption from such duties; and I was now left alone.

One little incident may serve to make you understand my way of managing my mind, Within a day or two after the fatal one, we dressed for dinner a tongue which we had had salted for some weeks in the house.  As I sat down, a feeling like remorse struck me:  this tongue poor Mary got for me, and can I partake of it now, when she is far away?  A thought occurred and relieved me; if I give in to this way of feeling, there is not a chair, a room, an object in our rooms, that will not awaken the keenest griefs; I must rise above such weaknesses.  I hope this was not want of true feeling.  I did not let this carry me, though, too far.  On the very second day (I date from the day of horrors), as is usual in such cases, there were a matter of twenty people, I do think, supping in our room; they prevailed on me to eat with them (for to eat I never refused).  They were all making merry in the room!  Some had come from friendship, some from busy curiosity, and some from interest.  I was going to partake with them, when my recollection came that my poor dead mother was lying in the next room, ­the very next room; a mother who through life wished nothing but her children’s welfare.  Indignation, the rage of grief, something like remorse, rushed upon my mind.  In an agony of emotion I found my, way mechanically to 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.  Tranquillity returned, and it was the only violent emotion that mastered me; and I think it did me good.

I mention these things because I hate concealment, and love to give a faithful journal of what passes within me.  Our friends have been very good.  Sam Le Grice, who was then in town, was with me the three or four first days, and was as a brother to me, gave up every hour of his time, to the very hurting of his health and spirits, in constant attendance and humoring my poor father; talked with him, read to him, played at cribbage with him (for so short is the old man’s recollection that he was playing at cards, as though nothing had happened, while the coroner’s inquest was sitting over the way!).  Samuel wept tenderly when he went away, for his mother wrote him a very severe letter on his loitering so long in town, and he was forced to go.  Mr. Norris, of Christ’s Hospital, has been as a father to me, Mrs. Norris as a mother, though we had few claims on them.  A gentleman, brother to my god-mother, from whom we never had right or reason to expect any such assistance, sent my father twenty pounds; and to crown all these God’s blessings to our family at such a time, an old lady, a cousin of my father and aunt’s, a gentlewoman of fortune, is to take my aunt and make her comfortable for the short remainder of her days.  My aunt is recovered, and as well as ever, and highly pleased at thoughts of going, and has generously given up the interest of her little money (which was formerly paid my father for her board) wholely and solely to my sister’s use.  Reckoning this, we have, Daddy and I, for oar two selves and an old maid-servant to look after him when I am out, which will be necessary, L170, or L180 rather, a year, out of which we can spare L50 or L60 at least for Mary while she stays at Islington, where she roust and shall stay during her father’s life, for his and her comfort.  I know John will make speeches about it, but she shall not go into an hospital.  The good lady of the madhouse and her daughter, an elegant, sweet-behaved young lady, love her, and are taken with her amazingly; and I know from her own mouth she loves them, and longs to be with them as much.  Poor thing, they say she was but the other morning saying she knew she must go to Bethlem for life; that one of her brothers would have it so, but the other would wish it not, but be obliged to go with the stream; that she had often, as she passed Bethlem, thought it likely, “here it may be my fate to end my days,” conscious of a certain flightiness in her poor head oftentimes, and mindful of more than one severe illness of that nature before.  A legacy of L100 which my father will have at Christmas, and this L20 I mentioned before, with what is in the house, will much more than set us clear.  If my father, an old servant-maid, and I can’t live, and live comfortably, on L130 or L120 a year, we ought to burn by slow fires; and I almost would, that Mary might not go into an hospital.

Let me not leave one unfavorable impression on your mind respecting my brother.  Since this has happened, he has been very kind and brotherly; but I fear for his mind.  He has taken his ease in the world, and is not fit himself to struggle with difficulties, nor has much accustomed himself to throw himself into their way; and I know his language is already, “Charles, you must take care of yourself, you must not abridge yourself of a single pleasure you have been used to,” etc., and in that style of talking.  But you, a necessarian, can respect a difference of mind, and love what is amiable in a character not perfect.  He has been very good, but I fear for his mind.  Thank God, I can unconnect myself with him, and shall manage all my father’s moneys in future myself, if I take charge of Daddy, which poor John has not even hinted a wish, at any future time even, to share with me.  The lady at this madhouse assures me that I may dismiss immediately both doctor and apothecary, retaining occasionally a composing draught or so for a while; and there is a less expensive establishment in her house, where she will only not have a room and nurse to herself, for L50 or guineas a year, ­the outside would be L60.  You know, by economy, how much more even I shall be able to spare for her comforts.  She will, I fancy, if she stays, make one of the family rather than of the patients; and the old and young ladies I like exceedingly, and she loves dearly; and they, as the saying is, take to her very extraordinarily, if it is extraordinary that people who see my sister should love her.

Of all the people I ever saw in the world, my poor sister was most and thoroughly devoid of the least tincture of selfishness, I will enlarge upon her qualities, poor dear, dearest soul, in a future letter, for my own comfort, for I understand her thoroughly; and if I mistake not, in the most trying situation that a human being can be found in, she will be found (I speak not with sufficient humility, I fear, but humanly and foolishly speaking), ­she will be found, I trust, uniformly great and amiable.  God keep her in her present mind, to whom be thanks and praise for all His dispensations to mankind!

C. LAMB.

These mentioned good fortunes and change of prospects had almost brought my mind over to the extreme the very opposite to despair.  I was in danger of making myself too happy.  Your letter brought me back to a view of things which I had entertained from the beginning.  I hope (for Mary I can answer) ­but I hope that I shall through life never have less recollection, nor a fainter impression, of what has happened than I have now.  ’T is not a light thing, nor meant by the Almighty to be received lightly.  I must be serious, circumspect, and deeply religious through life; and by such means may both of us escape madness in future, if it so please the Almighty!

Send me word how it fares with Sara.  I repeat it, your letter was, and will be, an inestimable treasure to me.  You have a view of what my situation demands of me, like my own view, and I trust a just one.

Coleridge, continue to write, but do not forever offend me by talking of sending me cash.  Sincerely and on my soul, we do not want it.  God love you both!

I will write again very soon.  Do you write directly.