Tell her so, from her loving Uncle, as she has let me
call myself." It was, as I believe, a very deep paternal affection.
The particulars disclosed by the letters of 1823 and 1824 are so generally
unimportant, that it is unnecessary to refer to them. Lamb, indeed, became
acquainted with the author of "Virginius" (Sheridan Knowles), with Mr.
Macready, and with the writers in the "London Magazine" (which then had
not been long established). And he appears gradually to discover that his
work at the India House is wearisome, and complains of it in bitter terms:
"Thirty years have I served the Philistines" (he writes to Wordsworth),
"and my neck is not subdued to the yoke." He confesses that he had once
hoped to have a pension on "this side of absolute incapacity and
infirmity," and to have walked out in the "fine Isaac Walton mornings,
careless as a beggar, and walking, walking, and dying walking;" but he
says, "the hope is gone. I sit like Philomel all day (but not singing),
with my breast against this thorn of a desk."
The character of his letters at this time is not generally lively; there
is, he says, "a certain deadness to everything, which I think I may date
from poor John's (his brother's) loss.
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