App. Marry, old fool! I tell ye I'm in love,
Even to the very schism of my senses.
Men do not love to marry, nor marry
Where they love. Virginia a matron!

I hold such excellence in housewife's drab?
No, no, not I!

Punc. We must even own 'tis true..
Yes, marriage is the limit of our love ;-
Root of caprice;-shoal in pleasure's ocean,
And roadsted of the rake. He who marries,
Has neither wife nor home to call his own.
His house resembles a confection-shop;
His sweet spouse a sugar-plum, surrounded
By swarms of greedy insects-myriads
Of idle atomies, that only move

I' the gay bask of sunshine. Some come to feed,
Some to display their plumage; all have their end,
Yet endless are they all, for mushrooms are
The growth but of a night.

App. In faith, Punctilio,

You'd make more bachelors than war makes widows.
And, for Virginia's sake, I too will be

A bachelor.

Punct. There's old Lucette, who'd baffle,

Aye, experience' self at plain chaffery.

He must win her, who would Virginia woo.

App. 'Tis said she holds herself in good esteem.

Applaud her thoughts, she'll not be formidable.

Punc. She's the giant, yet the gentlest of her sex.

The rapid flow of her discourse distils

So

pure and unadulterated from

The ever-steaming cauldron of her wits,

That one might think two souls dispute the sway

Of her elastic faculties, so mild,

And yet so mighty can she be.

App. Bear to her straight the sum of my good wishes.

Say, in such words of grace and sentiments,

Graced in such words, as well may relish

A maiden's clammy appetite at fifty,

That Appius would profit by her presence,
At her convenient hour.

Punc. My lord, your pleasure bears me hence,
And I your lordship's pleasure, with lighter step,
That, as my profit, 'tis my pleasure too. (aside.)

(Exit Punctilio.)

THE DEJEUNE; OR, COMPANION FOR THE BREAKFAST TABLE.
No. I. New Series.

Ecce iterum Crispinus.-HOR.

In the Autumn of 1820, a little daily publication, bearing the title of "The Dejeune," was projected and" perpetrated"-to borrow a phrase from the Old Bailey-by some aspiring literary marauders of Russel Street. At that primitive period, Messieurs Gold and Northouse, Bibliopolists and Yorkshiremen, were in the habit of enlightening the neighbourhood of Covent Garden through the monthly medium (peace be with its ashes) of the London Magazine. The Dejeune was the child-the only child of this respected periodical. As it made its daily appearance at the companionable hour of Breakfast, "the asperity of first thoughts, the little roughnesses of extempore ideas, and so forth, were" (in the language of its original Prospectus) occasionally discernible in its pages." Still it sold, and sold with a rapidity proportioned to its appearance. Why, then, the reader will ask, was it discontinued? From a downright deficiency of matter, is the sincere, unsophisticated reply. Pursuits of more vital importance called off the attention of its contributors, indisposition crippled its Editor, and, after a brief, but mercurial existence of five calendar months, The Dejeune "slept with its fathers, and was not."

Four years have since elapsed, and "Richard's himself again." The Dejeune is re-born. We know not how many of its original subscribers -those fortunate thousands, who, let the world frown as it might, could still calculate upon twopenny-worth of extacy at breakfast-may still live to welcome its resurrection, but this at least we can assure them, their old favourite's improved by experience, and, desirous as ever to amuse, will again appear on the arena. Variety of style and subject, sentiment combined with humour, and information relieved by anecdote, will, as in the days of old, abundantly gild our pages. But, good gracious! what a difference between that time and the present. Then we were boys, now we are men. Then we were sometimes (blushing we confess it) intolerable, occasionally absurd, and more frequently bombastical; now we are interesting, gentleman-like, and well-informed. We mention this in order to show our modesty, for nothing, as Blackwood would observe, is so insufferably tedious as egotism. Mr. Hume's speeches are even preferable.

With these additional claims on their attention, we hope once more to find our original subscribers restored to us. Those who are deceased can, of course, have no will of their own, save through the medium of their descendants; and can there be a more gratifying and imperious duty, than for children to tread in the steps of their fathers? We anticipate the reply: virtue still flourishes in England, despite the Society for the Suppression of Vice; and the same literary Dejeune, that transported the fancy of the parent, we may reasonably hope (for the honour of human nature) to see ravishing the bosoms of his posterity. Thus much by way of introduction; or, in the words of Horace,

THE EXILE.

(The Subject of the Plate.)

BUT when the sun was sinking in the sea

He seiz'd his harp, which he at times could string,
And strike, albeit with untaught melody,
When deem'd he no strange ear was listening:
And now his fingers o'er it he did fling,
And tun'd his farewell in the dim of twilight.
While flew the vessel on her snowy wing,
And fleeting shores receded from his sight,
Thus to the elements he poured his last "Good Night."
“ADIEU, adieu!—my native shore
Fades o'er the waters blue;

The Night-winds sigh, the breakers roar,
And shrieks the wild seamew.
Yon Sun that sets upon the sea,
We follow in his flight;
Farewell awhile to him and thee,
My native Land-Good Night!

"A few short hours and He will rise
To give the Morrow birth;
And I shall hail the main and skies,
But not my mother Earth.
Deserted is my own good hall,

Its hearth is desolate;

Wild weeds are gathering on the wall;
My dog howls at the gate.

"Come hither, hither, my little page!
Why dost thou weep and wail?
Or dost thou dread the billows' rage,
Or tremble at the gale?

But dash the tear-drop from thine eye;

Our ship is swift and strong:

Our fleetest falcon scarce can fly

More merrily along."

'Let winds be shrill, let waves roll high,

I fear not wave nor wind;

Yet marvel not, Sir Childe, that I

Am sorrowful in mind;

For I have from my father gone,

A mother whom I love,

And have no friend, save these alone,
But thee-and one above.