house, has already performed much, and promises more.  Unanimity is not necessary to such an assembly.  On the contrary, by difference of opinion, and collision of sentiment, the cause of literature would thrive and flourish.  The true principles of criticism, the secret of fine writing, the investigation of antiquities, and other interesting subjects, might occasion a clash of opinions; but, in that contention, truth would receive illustration, and the essays of the several members would supply the memoirs of the academy.  “But,” says Dr. Johnson, “suppose the philological decree made and promulgated, what would be its authority?  In absolute government there is, sometimes, a general reverence paid to all that has the sanction of power the countenance of greatness.—­How little this is the state of our country, needs not to be told.  The edicts of an English academy would, probably, be read by many, only that they may be sure to disobey them.  The present manners of the nation would deride authority, and, therefore, nothing is left, but that every writer should criticise himself.”  This, surely, is not conclusive.  It is by the standard of the best writers, that every man settles, for himself, his plan of legitimate composition; and since the authority of superior genius is acknowledged, that authority, which the individual obtains, would not be lessened by an association with others of distinguished ability.  It may, therefore, be inferred, that an academy of literature would be an establishment highly useful, and an honour to literature.  In such an institution, profitable places would not be wanted.  “Vatis avarus haud facile est animus;” and the minister, who shall find leisure, from party and faction, to carry such a scheme into execution, will, in all probability, be respected by posterity, as the Maecenas of letters.

We now take leave of Dr. Johnson, as an author.  Four volumes of his Lives of the Poets were published in 1778, and the work was completed in 1781.  Should biography fall again into disuse, there will not always be a Johnson to look back through a century, and give a body of critical and moral instruction.  In April, 1781, he lost his friend Mr. Thrale.  His own words, in his diary, will best tell that melancholy event.  “On Wednesday, the 11th of April, was buried my dear friend Mr. Thrale, who died on Wednesday, the 4th, and with him were buried many of my hopes and pleasures.  About five, I think, on Wednesday morning, he expired.  I felt almost the last flutter of his pulse, and looked, for the last time, upon the face, that, for fifteen years before, had never been turned upon me but with respect and benignity.  Farewell:  may God, that delighteth in mercy, have had mercy on thee!  I had constantly prayed for him before his death.  The decease of him, from whose friendship I had obtained many opportunities of amusement, and to whom I turned my thoughts, as to a refuge from misfortunes, has left me heavy.  But my business is with myself.”—­From