he wrote himself into immortality under an alias." That Madame de Montespan, who found it for her interest and vanity to live in habitual violation of the seventh commandment, was so rigorous in her devotions as to weigh her bread in Lent. That Cardinal Bernis, the most worthless of abbes, who owed his advancement in the church to Madame de Pompadour, the most worthless of women, refused to communicate in the dignity of the purple with a woman of so unsanctimonious a character. That Rousseau, whose preaching made it fashionable for women of rank to nurse their own children, sent his own, as soon as born, to the foundling hospital. That Coleridge and Goldsmith wrote The House that Jack Built and Goody Two Shoes: more than all it is curious, and wonderful, that these two simple trifles seem destined to outlive their more elaborate productions--The Ancient Mariner and The Vicar of Wakefield. Christabel and The Deserted Village may hardly be preserved amongst the curiosities of literature, when the famous nursery rhymes--joyously ringing upon the tongues of silver-voiced children--will be immortally fresh and new. X. CONTRASTS. The world will never be tired reading and talking of the peculiarities and struggles of some of its literary worthies, they seem so incredible. Poor Goldsmith, for example: every incident relating to him is interesting, even if colored by envy--as most of the contemporaneous gossip about him was. "I first met Goldsmith," says Cumberland, "at the British Coffee House. He dined with us as a visitor, introduced by Sir Joshua Reynolds, and we held a consultation upon the naming of his comedy, which some of the company had read, and which he detailed to the rest after his manner with a great deal of good-humor. Somebody suggested She Stoops to Conquer, and that title was agreed upon.... 'You and I,' said he, 'have very different motives for resorting to the stage. I write for money, and care little about fame.'... The whole company pledged themselves to the support of the poet, and faithfully kept their promise to him. In fact, he needed all that could be done for him, as Mr. Colman, then manager of Covent Garden Theatre, protested against the comedy, when as yet he had not struck upon a name for it. Johnson at length stood forth in all his terror, as champion for the piece, and backed by us, his clients and retainers, demanded a fair trial. Colman again protested, but, with that salvo for his own reputation, liberally lent his stage to one of the most eccentric productions that ever found its way to it, and She Stoops to Conquer was put into rehearsal. We were not over-sanguine of success, but perfectly determined to struggle hard for our author; we accordingly assembled our strength at the Shakespeare Tavern in a considerable body for an early dinner, where Samuel Johnson took the chair at the head of a long table, and was the life and soul of the corps: the poet took post silently by