We dined at an excellent inn at Chapel-house, where he expatiated on the felicity of England in its taverns and inns, and triumphed over the French for not having, in any perfection, the tavern life.  ’There is no private house, (said he,) in which people can enjoy themselves so well, as at a capital tavern.  Let there be ever so great plenty of good things, ever so much grandeur, ever so much elegance, ever so much desire that every body should be easy; in the nature of things it cannot be:  there must always be some degree of care and anxiety.  The master of the house is anxious to entertain his guests; the guests are anxious to be agreeable to him:  and no man, but a very impudent dog indeed, can as freely command what is in another man’s house, as if it were his own.  Whereas, at a tavern, there is a general freedom from anxiety.  You are sure you are welcome:  and the more noise you make, the more trouble you give, the more good things you call for, the welcomer you are.  No servants will attend you with the alacrity which waiters do, who are incited by the prospect of an immediate reward, in proportion as they please.  No, Sir; there is nothing which has yet been contrived by man, by which so much happiness is produced as by a good tavern or inn.’* He then repeated, with great emotion, Shenstone’s lines:—­

’Whoe’er has travell’d life’s dull round,
Where’er his stages may have been,
May sigh to think he still has found
The warmest welcome at an inn.’

* Sir John Hawkins has preserved very few Memorabilia of Johnson.  There is, however, to be found, in his bulky tome [p. 87], a very excellent one upon this subject:—­’In contradiction to those, who, having a wife and children, prefer domestick enjoyments to those which a tavern affords, I have heard him assert, that a tavern chair was the throne of human felicity.—­“As soon,” said he, “as I enter the door of a tavern, I experience an oblivion of care, and a freedom from solicitude:  when I am seated, I find the master courteous, and the servants obsequious to my call; anxious to know and ready to supply my wants:  wine there exhilarates my spirits, and prompts me to free conversation and an interchange of discourse with those whom I most love:  I dogmatise and am contradicted, and in this conflict of opinions and sentiments I find delight."’—­Boswell.

In the afternoon, as we were driven rapidly along in the post-chaise, he said to me ‘Life has not many things better than this.’

We stopped at Stratford-upon-Avon, and drank tea and coffee; and it pleased me to be with him upon the classick ground of Shakspeare’s native place.

He spoke slightingly of Dyer’s Fleece.—­’The subject, Sir, cannot be made poetical.  How can a man write poetically of serges and druggets?  Yet you will hear many people talk to you gravely of that excellent poem, The Fleece.’  Having talked of Grainger’s Sugar-Cane, I mentioned to him Mr. Langton’s having told me, that this poem, when read in manuscript at Sir Joshua Reynolds’s, had made all the assembled wits burst into a laugh, when, after much blank-verse pomp, the poet began a new paragraph thus:—­