than if I go through Dublin. This depends upon accidents which I cannot yet be informed of, so that our meeting is not absolutely impossible. Adieu. God bless you, my dear Ned, and believe me ever, &c.
The first days of the return of this cheerful friend to his post—Rockfort, near Bandon—were employed in persuasions to Malone to release his muse from supposed durance, and exhibit her to the world. Literature, and the persons and topics connected with it, formed at all times his favourite theme. And among youthful writing associates, whenever prose is not forthcoming, the presumption seems to be that the candidate is addressing the Goddess of Song. Most of them would have it that nature had cut him out for a poet; but circumstances afterwards hardened him into a critic.
Our friend, Southwell, transmitted your letter to me by the last post, which I had expected with impatience before my departure from Dublin. It arrived here, however, before I did, as if it was meant to welcome me to my rural abode. I received my friend with that ardour that its hospitable intentions merited; and you see, I take the earliest opportunity of returning the visit.
I feel a little like a schoolboy upon his reviewing the scenes of scholastic discipline after the dissipation of Christmas holidays. I enjoy the sensations that a poor bird does when clipped in his wings; and I fancy, that no lover ever sat down to pen a sonnet on the charms of his mistress with stronger inspirations from the power of song than I now could to tack together a few wretched couplets of wretched topics on rusticity and retirement. But, however, as you are my friend, and have not offended me, I will not punish you at present by inflicting torments brought from the inquisition of the Muses. I long much to see you, if it were for no other