The story behind it is certainly a grim one. In September 1796 Mary Lamb had killed her mother with a kitchen knife. The family had been living under the strain of poverty, with a senile father & a bed ridden mother.
Charles Lamb, against the wishes of other family members, gave surety which allowed Mary to be released into his care, rather than be committed to the Bethlem Hospital (more popularly known as Bedlam).
They lived together for over 30 years (though Mary required periodic hospitalisation). Modern diagnosis suggests that Mary suffered from bipolar disorder.
Or perhaps she just read too much as a child! Even in my youth there were some grown ups around who believed that a child who read too intensely risked damaging her brain.
Although the brother/sister relationship, particularly as expressed in this poem, seems uncomfortably intense to modern ears, their writing collaboration was a fruitful one, which lives on to this day.
Tales From Shakespeare was still popular when I was at school; many homes, including ours, introduced children to the bard in this way.
So, all in all, a tale of optimism, of a kind.
Count your blessings.
Written On Christmas Day, 1797
I am a widow'd thing, now thou art gone!
Now thou art gone, my own familiar friend,
Companion, sister, help-mate, counsellor!
Alas! that honour'd mind, whose sweet reproof
And meekest wisdom in times past have smooth'd
The unfilial harshness of my foolish speech,
And made me loving to my parents old,
(Why is this so, ah God! why is this so?)
That honour'd mind become a fearful blank,
Her senses lock'd up, and herself kept out
From human sight or converse, while so many
Of the foolish sort are left to roam at large,
Doing all acts of folly, and sin, and shame?
Thy paths are mystery!
Yet I will not think,
Sweet friend, but we shall one day meet, and live
In quietness, and die so, fearing God.
Or if not, and these false suggestions be
A fit of the weak nature, loth to part
With what it lov'd so long, and held so dear;
If thou art to be taken, and I left
(More sinning, yet unpunish'd, save in thee),
It is the will of God, and we are clay
In the potter's hands; and, at the worst, are made
From absolute nothing, vessels of disgrace,
Till, his most righteous purpose wrought in us,
Our purified spirits find their perfect rest.
Charles Lamb
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