even at a distant day, which could not, by any diligence, be obtained by Dr. Johnson.  The wits of France had ample materials.  They lived in a nation of critics, who had, at heart, the honour done to their country by their poets, their heroes, and their philosophers.  They had, besides, an academy of belles-lettres, where genius was cultivated, refined, and encouraged.  They had the tracts, the essays, and dissertations, which remain in the memoirs of the academy, and they had the speeches of the several members, delivered at their first admission to a seat in that learned assembly.  In those speeches the new academician did ample justice to the memory of his predecessor; and though his harangue was decorated with the colours of eloquence, and was, for that reason, called panegyric, yet, being pronounced before qualified judges, who knew the talents, the conduct, and morals of the deceased, the speaker could not, with propriety, wander into the regions of fiction.  The truth was known, before it was adorned.  The academy saw the marble before the artist polished it.  But this country has had no academy of literature.  The public mind, for centuries, has been engrossed by party and faction; “by the madness of many for the gain of a few;” by civil wars, religious dissensions, trade and commerce, and the arts of accumulating wealth.  Amidst such attentions, who can wonder that cold praise has been often the only reward of merit?  In this country, Dr. Nathaniel Hodges, who, like the good bishop of Marseilles, drew purer breath amidst the contagion of the plague in London, and, during the whole time, continued in the city, administering medical assistance, was suffered, as Johnson used to relate, with tears in his eyes, to die for debt, in a gaol.  In this country, the man who brought the New river to London, was ruined by that noble project; and, in this country, Otway died for want, on Tower hill; Butler, the great author of Hudibras, whose name can only die with the English language, was left to languish in poverty; the particulars of his life almost unknown, and scarce a vestige of him left, except his immortal poem.  Had there been an academy of literature, the lives, at least, of those celebrated persons, would have been written for the benefit of posterity.  Swift, it seems, had the idea of such an institution, and proposed it to lord Oxford; but whig and tory were more important objects.  It is needless to dissemble, that Dr. Johnson, in the life of Roscommon, talks of the inutility of such a project.  “In this country,” he says, “an academy could be expected to do but little.  If an academician’s place were profitable, it would be given by interest; if attendance were gratuitous, it would be rarely paid, and no man would endure the least disgust.  Unanimity is impossible, and debate would separate the assembly.”  To this it may be sufficient to answer, that the Royal society has not been dissolved by sullen disgust; and the modern academy, at Somerset