of sailing to Iceland, with his friend Bathurst. In
1774, he went with the Thrales to the extremity of North Wales. A few
trifling memoranda of this journey, which were found among his papers,
have been lately published; but, as he wrote to Boswell, he found the
country so little different from England, that it offered nothing to the
speculation of a traveller. Such was his apathy in a land

Where each old poetic mountain
Inspiration breathes around,
Every shade and hallow'd fountain
Murmurs deep a solemn sound.

In the following year (1775) he made his usual visit to the midland
counties, and accompanied the Thrales in a Tour to Paris, from whence
they returned by way of Rouen. This was the only time he was on the
Continent. It is to be regretted that he left only some imperfect notes
of his Journey; for there could scarcely have failed to be something
that would have gratified our curiosity in his observations on the
manners of a foreign country. We find him in the next year (1776)
removing from Johnson's Court, No. 7, to Bolt Court, Fleet-street, No.
8; from whence at different times he made excursions to Lichfield and
Ashbourne; to Bath with the Thrales; and, in the autumn, to
Brighthelmstone, where Mr. Thrale had a house. This gentleman had, for
some time, fed his expectations with the prospect of a journey to Italy.
"A man," said Johnson, "who has not been in Italy, is always conscious
of an inferiority, from his not having seen what it is expected a man
should see. The grand object of travelling is to see the shores of the
Mediterranean. All our religion, almost all our law, almost all our
arts, almost all that sets us above savages, has come to us from the
shores of the Mediterranean." Much as he had set his heart on this
journey, and magnificent as his conceptions were of the promised land,
he was employed with more advantage to his own country at home; for, at
the solicitation of the booksellers, he now (1777) undertook to write
the Lives of the English Poets. The judicious selection of the facts
which he relates, the vivacity of the narrative, the profoundness of the
observations, and the terseness of the style, render this the most
entertaining, as it is, perhaps, the most instructive of his works. His
criticisms, indeed, often betray either the want of a natural perception
for the higher beauties of poetry, or a taste unimproved by the diligent
study of the most perfect models; yet they are a