to take up her abode under genial care, at a pleasant house in St. John's Wood, where she was surrounded by the old books and prints, and was frequently visited by her reduced number of surviving friends. Repeated attacks of her malady weakened her mind, but she retained to the last her sweetness of disposition unimpaired, and gently sunk into death on the 20th May, 1847.

A few survivors of the old circle, now sadly thinned, attended her remains to the spot in Edmonton church-yard, where they were laid above those of her brother. With them was one friend of latter days—but who had become to Lamb as one of his oldest companions, and for whom Miss Lamb cherished a strong regard-Mr. John Forster, the author of "The Life of Goldsmith," in which Lamb would have rejoiced, as written in a spirit congenial with his own. In accordance with Lamb's own feeling, so far as it could be gathered from his expressions on a subject to which he did not often, or willingly, refer, he had been interred in a deep grave, simply dug, and wattled round, but without any af fectation of stone or brickwork to keep the human dust from its kindred earth. So dry, however, is the soil of the quiet church-yard that the excavated earth left perfect walls of stiff clay, and permitted us just to catch a glimpse of the still untarnished edges of the coffin in which all the mortal part of one of the most delightful persons who ever lived was contained, and on which the remains of her he had loved, with love "passing the love of woman," were henceforth to rest; -the last glances we shall ever have even of that covering; -concealed from us as we parted, by the coffin of the sister. We felt, I believe after a moment's strange shuddering, that the re-union was well accomplished; and although the true-hearted son of Admiral Burney, who had known and loved the pair we quitted, from a child, and who had been

among the dearest objects of existence to him, refused to be comforted, even he will now join the scanty remnant of their friends in the softened remembrance that "they were lovely in their lives," and own with them the consolation of adding, at last, "that in death they are not divided!"

THE END.

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to sacred things, in which, though not to be quoted with approval, there was no profaneness, but rather a wayward, fitful, disturbed piety. If, indeed, when borne beyond the present, he sought to linger in the past; to detect among the dust and cobwebs of antiquity, beauty which had lurked there from old time, than to "rest and expatiate in a life to come," no anti-christian sentiment spread its chillness over his spirit. The shrinking into mortal life was but the weak. ness of a nature which shed the sweetness of the religion of its youth through the sorrows and the snatches of enjoyment which crowded his after years, and only feebly perceived its final glories, which, we may humbly hope, its immortal part is now enjoying.

Shortly before his death, Lamb had borrowed of Mr. Cary, Phillips's "Theatrum Poetarum Anglicanorum," which, when returned by Mr. Moxon, after the event, was found with the leaf folded down at the account of Sir Philip Sydney. Its receipt was acknowledged by the following lines:

66

So should it be, my gentle friend;

Thy leaf last closed at Sydney's end.
Thou, too, like Sydney, wouldst have given
The water, thirsting and near heaven;
Nay, were it wine, fill'd to the brim,

Thou hadst look'd hard, but given, like him.

And art thou mingled then among
Those famous sons of ancient song?
And do they gather round, and praise
Thy relish of their nobler lays?
Waxing in mirth to hear thee tell

With what strange mortals thou didst dwell;
At thy quaint sallies more delighted,

Than any's long among them lighted!

'Tis done and thou hast join'd a crew,

To whom thy soul was justly due;

And yet I think, where'er thou be,

They'll scarcely love thee more than we."*

Little could any one, observing Miss Lamb in the habitual serenity of her demeanor, guess the calamity in which she had partaken, or the malady which frightfully chequered her life. From Mr. Lloyd, who, although saddened by impending delusion, was always found accurate in his recollection of long past events and conversations, I learned that she had described herself, on her recovery from the fatal attack, as having experienced, while it was subsiding, such a conviction, that she was absolved in heaven from all taint of the deed in which she had been the agent-such an assurance, that it was a dispensation of Providence for good, though so terrible—such a sense, that her mother knew her entire innocence, and shed down blessings upon her, as though she had seen the reconcilement in solemn vision-that she was not sorely afflicted by the recollection. It was as if the old Greek notion, of the necessity for the unconscious shedder of blood, else polluted though guiltless, to pass through a religious purification, had, in her case, been happily accomplished; so that, not only was she without remorse, but without other sorrow than attends on the death of an infirm parent in a good old age. She never shrank from alluding to her mother, when any topic connected with her own youth made such a reference, in ordinary respects, natural; but spoke of her as though no fearful remembrance was associated with the image; so that some of her most intimate friends who knew of the disaster, believed that she had never become aware of her own share in its horrors. It is still

*These lines, characteristic both of the writer and the subject, are copied from the Memoir of the translator of Dante, by his son, the Rev. Henry Cary, which, enriched by many interesting memorials of contemporaries, presents as valuable a picture of rare ability and excellence as ever was traced by the fine observation of filial love.