In this blog post, we’ll examine how Mary’s mental breakdown and the murder had a decisive impact on Charles Lamb’s life and essays, focusing on his poverty, family history, and literary transformation.
When we reflect on the lives of writers or artists, we often find ourselves engaging in hypothetical speculation. We wonder: If Shakespeare hadn’t been driven out of his hometown, or if Wordsworth hadn’t had a sister named Dorothy, how might their lives and literature have differed?
If Charles Lamb hadn’t had a sister named Mary—if the incident in which she suffered a mental breakdown and murdered their mother had never occurred in his life—what would his life and literature have been like? Perhaps the fantasies in his essay “Children in a Dream” would have become reality rather than fantasy, and he might have enjoyed a happier life in the conventional sense; while his literary talent might have crystallized into poetry, his essays might never have existed.
It goes without saying that nearly all literary works are the product of the author’s life, but this is especially true in Lamb’s case. It is no exaggeration to say that the character of his literature, imbued with a unique resonance of human warmth, is not the product of a leisurely and gentle life like Montaigne’s, but rather the result of the tragic and terrifying, fateful events that shaped his life.
Lamb was born in 1775 on Court Street in London’s Inner Temple, the youngest of seven children born to John and Elizabeth. His father was merely a clerk and steward for Samuel Salt, an officer at the Law School. Although they had seven children, only Charles, his older brother John (born 1763), and his sister Mary Anne (born 1764) survived to adulthood.
Since both parents were frail, Charles inherited a naturally weak constitution. Lamb’s formal education consisted entirely of the seven years he spent at Christ’s Hospital Primary School, which he entered before he was even seven years old. While there, he was considered a prodigy with an exceptional talent for writing, and it was naturally assumed that he would go on to become a clergyman.
However, he was forced to give up that path at an early age. From an early age, he stuttered severely and had difficulties with speech, but above all, he was in a position where he had to take care of his family. In fact, while Lamb’s family was not so destitute as to be in debt, it was clearly a poor household. They lived in the basement quarters of Mr. Salt’s mansion, and after Mr. Salt’s death, they moved from one rented house to another.
The fact that Christ Hospital, which he attended, was little more than a school for the poor at the time gives a good indication of his family’s financial circumstances. After working as a shop assistant and at the Namhae Trading Company where his older brother had worked, Lamb joined the East India Company as an accounting clerk at the age of 17 and worked there for 33 years until his retirement at age 50.
He was not a professional writer but a working man who had to support his family. However, he loved reading, and his essay “Oxford on Leave,” written later in life, clearly reveals how much he envied those who pursued scholarship. It is said that his love of books stemmed from his childhood access to Mr. Salt’s study.
There, he was exposed to many classics, and his frequent visits to Hertfordshire—where his maternal grandmother lived—from an early age familiarized him with the atmosphere of aristocratic mansions.
His maternal grandmother, Mrs. Field, was the housekeeper at an aristocratic manor in Blakesware, Hertfordshire; Ann Simmons, whom he met at this house, is the character who appears as Alice Winterton in his essays and as Anna in his poetry.
He fell in love with Ann Simmons, but their romance did not come to fruition, and she eventually married Bartram, a pawnbroker. Lamb was admitted to a mental hospital in Hoxton for six weeks; it is unclear whether this was the cause of the broken engagement.
The year 1796 was the most tragic of Lamb’s life. At that time, his household consisted of his senile, elderly father; his sick, bedridden mother; his sister Mary; and his aunt Hetty, while his older brother John lived apart from the family. The household was supported by his aunt’s pension, Lamb’s salary, and Mary’s earnings from sewing.
Mary had shown signs of mental illness on several occasions, and on September 22 of that year, she exhibited alarming symptoms. On his way to work, Lamb stopped by a doctor’s office, but it was in vain. He was concerned, having been confined to a mental hospital himself the previous year, but there was nothing he could do. When he returned home after work, an unbelievable and horrific scene unfolded before his eyes.
The dinner table was still set, but the room was in complete disarray; his aunt lay unconscious on the blood-soaked floor, and his father had a wound on his forehead. His mother was sitting in a chair, stabbed by Mary’s knife, while Mary stood there clutching the weapon. Ram wrestled the knife away from Mary, but his mother had already passed away.
Ram was only 21 at the time. His older brother John suggested sending Mary to a state-funded nursing home, but Ram vehemently opposed the idea, and in the end, he took responsibility for his sister. Ram resolved to devote himself to her care and remained single until his death, never wavering from that decision.
Ram took on a burden that he could have shed had he heeded his brother’s advice. Caring for her and living with her went far beyond mere financial support. He had to endure the anxiety of not knowing when another terrible tragedy might strike, as well as—in his own words—“because Mary was stigmatized”—the constant whispers and judgmental glances regarding their medical history. They were forced to move homes countless times.
Ram is described as having a gentle and meek demeanor. Though his frail frame seemed as if it might blow away with a single gust of wind, what he accomplished required a will of steel and a fighting spirit that only such resolve could sustain.
In such an environment, what sustained his spirit were the friendships of his peers and his love of reading. Having lived in London his entire life, he was able to maintain close ties with his alumni from Christ’s Hospital. He was particularly close to White, Coleridge, and Dyer, and later, literary gatherings were held at his home, attended by the leading writers of the time.
One can gauge the depth of their friendship simply by looking at the countless letters exchanged between them. Coleridge, in particular, was his lifelong friend; when Coleridge passed away in July 1834, Lamb was unable to recover from the shock, lamenting at every turn that “Coleridge is dead,” and it is said that Lamb himself passed away that December.
Lamb’s interest in and passion for literature began at an early age. However, he had to endure a longer and more arduous struggle than anyone else before gaining recognition as a writer. His humble background, lack of formal education, and the burden of covering Mary’s medical expenses created a severe conflict between his literary aspirations and the practical necessity of making a living.
The depth of his despair can be seen in the letters he sent to his friends. For example, he wrote, “Hetty died on Friday…. Overwork and worry have caused Mary’s illness to flare up again. Yesterday, I had no choice but to have her taken to the hospital and confined there. I am alone at home. Hetty’s body is all that remains by my side…. My heart is in ruins. I don’t know where to find comfort. Mary will get better again. But I fear the illness will keep recurring. I am completely bankrupt. My mind has gone quite bad. I wish Mary were dead….” (Letter to Coleridge, May 12, 1800).
Mary’s illness recurred frequently after that, and his despair also returned time and again. His first published works were four short poems included in Coleridge’s poetry collection. He had sent them to Coleridge after leaving the sanatorium in Hoxton, and discussions regarding the publication of that collection took place around the time of Mary’s tragic incident.
However, after the incident, his dream of becoming a poet was no longer a concern. Calming his mind and making a living took priority. In a letter sent to Coleridge immediately after the incident, he cried out, “Please do not mention poetry. That sort of past vanity has been completely shattered. For now, please speak to me of nothing but religious matters.”
Paradoxically, what sustained him at that time were his literary studies and religion. He found solace in devouring Elizabethan drama and the classics, and used his immersion in theological texts as a pillar of strength. Meanwhile, having failed to achieve success as a poet, he published the sentimental novel ‘A Tale of Posamund Gray’ (1798), which received some favorable reviews.
Later, through Coleridge’s introduction, he serialized several essays in publications such as ‘The Morning Post’—a move intended to help him make ends meet. He was paid six pence per installment, and he said he would walk home from work every day thinking of those six coins. He also tried his hand at playwriting, penning the Elizabethan-style poetic drama ‘John Woodvil’ (1802), which was rejected for production; he subsequently wrote the one-act play ‘Mr. H─’ (1806), which was staged but failed to achieve success.
The turning point that established him as a writer and provided him with financial stability came with the publication of ‘The Tales from Shakespeare’ (1807), which he co-authored with his sister. Mary wrote the comedies in the book, while Lamb wrote the tragedies. Lamb often boasted that his sister’s contributions were far superior to his own.
It was only after the publication of ‘The Adventures of Ulysses’ (1808) and ‘Specimens of English Dramatic Poets who lived about the Time of Shakespeare’ (1808) that he established his position and reputation as a literary critic. At the time, Lamb was 33 years old, marking the culmination of a long journey of effort.
He subsequently published reviews in various periodicals and released ‘Mr. Leicester’s School’ (1809), a collection of autobiographical stories. When he published critical essays on figures such as Gerrick and Hogarth in Lee Hunt’s magazine ‘The Reflector’, many writers gathered around them, and the name “Charles Lamb” even came to be regarded as a brand of sorts. However, he truly earned critical acclaim for the pieces he regularly published under the pen name “Elia” in ‘The London Magazine’ between 1820 and 1823; these were compiled into ‘Essays of Elia’ in 1823 and a second volume in 1833, securing his immortal place in literary history.
Lam’s essays do not primarily deal with grand philosophical musings, pressing social, historical, or contemporary issues, or sensational discussions of great figures. With the exception of a few critical pieces, almost all of them are small, personal stories about himself and those around him. His literary impulse, which had wandered through poetry and drama, had finally found its home in the harbor of the essay.
Just as a scarred veteran is well-suited to writing his memoirs, Lamb—who bore deep wounds from life—achieved success through his own stories. The trivial subjects of daily life ferment into a unique hue of insight and warmth toward life through his elegant prose, humor, wit, and jokes, leaving readers moved and with a lingering impression.
The subjects of his essays include not only himself but also his family, relatives, friends, coworkers, passersby on the street, children—chimney sweeps and beggars—as well as the streets of London, historic palaces, rare books, antique porcelain, theaters, art galleries, schools, and virtually every aspect of human life. Yet, the focus of nearly every piece ultimately lies in human life and character. It is rare for objects or nature to be the subject; he loved people more than nature—people from all walks of life, with all their strengths and weaknesses—and valued their peculiarities—such as deformities, eccentricities, odd behaviors, and follies—over perfection.
While some of his writings exude a mood of detachment and enlightenment, revealing what it means to live calmly and quietly, others reveal a passionate, militant spirit.
For Ram, who had to live amid a passion for literature and repeated setbacks, harrowing events and excruciating loneliness, as well as the terror of mental illness and the fear of relapse, self-control, restraint, and an ascetic struggle were necessary to overcome these challenges. At the same time, he likely harbored the conviction that life ultimately requires contentment with the small joys found in quiet conversation and good-natured banter, as well as in savoring the arches of ancient palaces and the pages of old books. Thus, his insight uncovered the small moments of justice hidden within life, and his sensitivity captured the true fragrance of life from them, filling his heart with longing.
“The sun, the sky, the cool breeze, a solitary stroll, summer vacations, lush green meadows, delicious juice and meat, friends, cheerful drinks, lit candles, stories by the fire, harmless arrogance, jokes, satire—do all these things vanish along with life (when one dies)?” he wondered, fearing death.
In his later essays, the melancholic tone of “autumn leaves falling” grows deeper, revealing the loneliness and futility of life; yet, without succumbing to sentimentality or sorrow, he conveys the fragrance of life through realistic depictions and humor. His writing always contains joy within melancholy, a touch of pathos within witty jokes, and a unique flavor born from the artful blending of laughter and tears.
The foundation of Lamb’s essays lies precisely in this harmony of joy and sorrow, and in his love and compassion for humanity, which reached the realm of “love of humanity.” So, what in his life most strongly fostered these emotions within him? Perhaps it was his sister, Mary.
As Lamb’s friend Hazlitt remarked, calling Mary the wisest and most rational woman he knew, she was—when not afflicted by illness—a woman of great sensitivity and clear reason. To Lamb, Mary was a loving sister and a literary advisor, and she reciprocated her brother’s devotion with equal sincerity.
The sight of these brother and sister—who lived a complementary life of mutual understanding and dependence—sitting face to face and writing together would surely have evoked a warm sense of affection in the observer, while at the same time stirring a sadness that moistened a corner of the heart.
“When people see us sitting together, they might laugh or cry—or perhaps laugh and then cry. With our pitiful faces hanging low, we look at each other and ask, ‘Are you all right?’ and say, ‘Tomorrow will be better,’ only to burst into tears. Charles says, ‘It’s like a friend suffering from gum disease while we don’t have any teeth.’ ‘It is a comfort, but an uneasy one,’” as in the letter Mary sent to Miss Stoddart, the sight of them comforting one another amid the terror and fear of mental illness evokes deep compassion.
Although Lamb once confessed that when Mary had a seizure, he had wished she would die, when she regained her sanity, his compassion, love, and affirmation of life must have intensified many times over. That compassion expanded from himself to his brother, to his friends, and to everyone, evolving into a love for humanity that embraced people with flaws and follies; as a result, essays that harmoniously blend joy and sorrow were born. Mary died in 1847, having lived about a decade longer than Lamb.
