It is well known that Miss Lamb survived her brother many years. I remember that when she visited my father’s house at Brompton, about 1843, she was accompanied by three or four snuff-boxes, which came empty and went away full; and by at least four large silk pocket-handkerchiefs, one of which was devoted to the reception of some article from the dinner-table, which happened to strike her fancy, and which she conveyed back with much satisfaction to St. John’s Wood.... I met her also at Sir John Stoddart’s, in the immediate neighborhood of our house at Brompton, and the same thing took place. It was the poor old lady’s whim, and of course she was humored in it by every one. Sir John had to send out to the nearest tobacconist’s, and get all the boxes filled; and a leg of a fowl, or some other dainty morsel which had been selected, was duly wrapped up in a bandana. W. CAREW HAZLITT: ‘Mary and Charles Lamb.’ * * * * * [Sidenote: Her death.] Mary Lamb departed, eighty-two years old, on the 20th of May. She had survived her mind in great measure, but much of the _heart_ remained. Miss Lamb had a very fine feeling for literature, and was refined in mind, though homely, almost coarse, in personal habits. Her departure is an escape out of prison, to her sweet, good soul. SARA COLERIDGE: _Letter to Miss Fenwick_, 1847, in the former’s ‘Memoir and Letters,’ edited by her daughter. New York: Harper & Bros., 1874. * * * * * Repeated attacks of her malady weakened her mind, but she retained to the last her sweetness of disposition unimpaired, and gently sank into death on the 20th of May, 1847. A few survivors of the old circle, now sadly thinned, attended her remains to the spot in Edmonton churchyard, where they were laid above those of her brother.... 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 affectation of stone or brickwork to keep the human dust from its kindred earth. So dry, however, is the soil of the quiet churchyard 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 were henceforth to rest. We felt, I believe, after a moment’s strange shuddering, that the reunion was well accomplished; and although the true-hearted son of Admiral Burney, who had known and loved the pair we quitted from a child, 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.”