Beside the several pieces of morality to be drawn out of this vision, I learnt from it never to repine at my own misfortunes, or to envy the happiness of another, since it is impossible for any man to form a right judgment of his neighbor's sufferings; for which reason, also, I have determined never to think too lightly of another's complaints, but to regard the sorrows of my fellow-creatures with sentiments of humanity and compassion.

NOTES.-Horace (b. 65, d. 8 B. C.) was a celebrated Roman

poet.

Jupiter, according to mythology, was the greatest of the Greek and Roman gods; he was thought to be the supreme ruler of both mortals and immortals.

LXXXII. JUPITER AND TEN.

James T. Fields, 1817-1881, was born at Portsmouth, New Hampshire. For many years he was partner in the well-known firm of Ticknor & Fields (later Fields, Osgood & Co.), the leading publishers of standard American literature. For eight years, he was chief editor of the "Atlantic Monthly;" and, after he left that position, he often enriched its pages by the productions of his pen. During his latter years Mr. Fields gained some reputation as a lecturer. His literary abilities were of no mean crder: but he did not do so much in producing literature himself, as in aiding others in its production.

MRS. CHUB was rich and portly,

Mrs. Chub was very grand,
Mrs. Chub was always reckoned
A lady in the land.

You shall see her marble mansion

In a very stately square,-
Mr. C. knows what it cost him,

But that's neither here nor there.

Mrs. Chub was so sagacious,
Such a patron of the arts,
And she gave such foreign orders
That she won all foreign hearts.

Mrs. Chub was always talking,
When she went away from home,
Of a most prodigious painting
Which had just arrived from Rome.

"Such a treasure," she insisted, "One might never see again!" "What's the subject?" we inquired. "It is Jupiter and Ten!"

"Ten what?" we blandly asked her For the knowledge we did lack, "Ah! that I can not tell you, But the name is on the back.

"There it stands in printed letters,-
Come to-morrow, gentlemen,-
Come and see our splendid painting,
Our fine Jupiter and Ten!"

When Mrs. Chub departed,
Our brains began to rack,-

She could not be mistaken

For the name was on the back.

So we begged a great Professor
To lay aside his pen,
And give some information
Touching "Jupiter and Ten."

NOTES.-John Lemprière, an Englishman, was the author of a 'Classical Dictionary" which until the middle of the present century was the chief book of reference on ancient mythology.

Io is a mythical heroine of Greece, with whom Jupiter was enamored.

LXXXIII. SCENE FROM "THE POOR GENTLEMAN."

George Colman, 1762-1836, was the son of George Colman, a writer of dramas, who in 1777 purchased the "Haymarket Theater," in London. Owing to the illness of the father, Colman the younger assumed the management of the theater in 1785, which post he held for a long time. He was highly distinguished as a dramatic author and wit. "The Poor Gentleman," from which the following selection is adapted, is perhaps the best known of his works.

SIR ROBERT BRAMBLE and HUMPHREY DOBBINS.

Sir R. I'LL tell you what, Humphrey Dobbins, there is not a syllable of sense in all you have been saying. But I suppose you will maintain there is.

Hum. Yes.

Sir R. Yes! Is that the way you talk to me, you old boor? What's my name?

Hum. Robert Bramble.

Sir R. An't I a baronet? Sir Robert Bramble, of Blackberry Hall, in the county of Kent? 'Tis time you should know it, for you have been my clumsy, two-fisted valet these thirty years: can you deny that?

Hum. Hem !

Sir R. Hem? What do you mean by hem? Open that rusty door of your mouth, and make your ugly voice walk out of it. Why don't you answer my question?

Hum. Because, if I contradict you, I shall tell you a lie, and whenever I agree with you, you are sure to fall

out.

Sir R. Humphrey Dobbins, I have been so long endeavoring to beat a few brains into your pate that all your hair has tumbled off before my point is carried.

Hum. What then? Our parson says my head is an emblem of both our honors.

Sir R. Ay; because honors, like your head, are apt to be empty.

Hum. No; but if a servant has grown bald under his master's nose, it looks as if there was honesty on one side, and regard for it on the other.

Sir R. Why, to be sure, old Humphrey, you are as honest as a -pshaw! the parson means to palaver us; but, to return to my position, I tell you I don't like your flat contradiction.

Hum. Yes, you do.

Sir R. I tell you I don't. I only love to hear men's arguments. I hate their flummery.

Hum. What do you call flummery?

Sir R. Flattery, blockhead! a dish too often served up by paltry poor men to paltry rich ones.

Hum. I never serve it up to you.

Sir R. No, you give me a dish of a different description.

Hum. I have held you a stout tug at argument this many a year.

Sir R. And yet I could never teach you a syllogism. Now mind, when a poor man assents to what a rich man says, I suspect he means to flatter him: now I am rich, and hate flattery. Ergo-when a poor man subscribes to my opinion, I hate him.

Hum. That's wrong.

Sir R.

Hum.

Very well; negatur; now prove it.

Put the case then, I am a poor man.

Sir R. You an't, you scoundrel. You know you shall never want while I have a shilling.

Hum. Bless you!

Hum. Well, then, I am a poor-I must be a poor man now, or I never shall get on.

Sir R. Well, get on, be a poor man.

́Hum. I am a poor man, and I argue with you, and convince you, you are wrong; then you call yourself a blockhead, and I am of your opinion: now, that's no flattery.

Sir R. Why, no; but when a man's of the same opinion with me, he puts an end to the argument, and that puts an end to the conversation, and so I hate him for that. But where's my nephew Frederic?

Hum. Been out these two hours.

Sir R. An undutiful cub! Only arrived from Russia last night, and though I told him to stay at home till I rose, he's scampering over the fields like a Calmuck Tartar.

Hum. He's a fine fellow.

Sir R. He has a touch of our family. Don't you think he is a little like me, Humphrey?

Hum. No, not a bit; you are as ugly an old man as ever I clapped my eyes on.

Sir R. Now that's plaguy impudent, but there's no