ities, 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 hi