It was during this and the next few years that Boswell laboured most successfully in gathering materials for his book.  In 1777 he only met Johnson in the country.  In 1779, for some unexplained reason, he was lazy in making notes; in 1780 and 1781 he was absent from London; and in the following year, Johnson was visibly declining.  The tenour of Johnson’s life was interrupted during this period by no remarkable incidents, and his literary activity was not great, although the composition of the Lives of the Poets falls between 1777 and 1780.  His mind, however, as represented by his talk, was in full vigour.  I will take in order of time a few of the passages recorded by Boswell, which may serve for various reasons to afford the best illustration of his character.  Yet it may be worth while once more to repeat the warning that such fragments moved from their context must lose most of their charm.

On March 26th (1775), Boswell met Johnson at the house of the publisher, Strahan.  Strahan reminded Johnson of a characteristic remark which he had formerly made, that there are “few ways in which a man can be more innocently employed than in getting money.”  On another occasion Johnson observed with equal truth, if less originality, that cultivating kindness was an important part of life, as well as money-making.  Johnson then asked to see a country lad whom he had recommended to Strahan as an apprentice.  He asked for five guineas on account, that he might give one to the boy.  “Nay, if a man recommends a boy and does nothing for him, it is sad work.”  A “little, thick short-legged boy” was accordingly brought into the courtyard, whither Johnson and Boswell descended, and the lexicographer bending himself down administered some good advice to the awestruck lad with “slow and sonorous solemnity,” ending by the presentation of the guinea.

In the evening the pair formed part of a corps of party “wits,” led by Sir Joshua Reynolds, to the benefit of Mrs. Abingdon, who had been a frequent model of the painter.  Johnson praised Garrick’s prologues, and Boswell kindly reported the eulogy to Garrick, with whom he supped at Beauclerk’s.  Garrick treated him to a mimicry of Johnson, repeating, “with pauses and half-whistling,” the lines,—­

  Os homini sublime dedit—­coelumque tueri
  Jussit—­et erectos ad sidera tollere vultus: 

looking downwards, and at the end touching the ground with a contorted gesticulation.  Garrick was generally jealous of Johnson’s light opinion of him, and used to take off his old master, saying, “Davy has some convivial pleasantry about him, but ’tis a futile fellow.”

Next day, at Thrales’, Johnson fell foul of Gray, one of his pet aversions.  Boswell denied that Gray was dull in poetry.  “Sir,” replied Johnson, “he was dull in company, dull in his closet, dull everywhere.  He was dull in a new way, and that made people think him great.  He was a mechanical poet.”  He proceeded to say that there were only two good stanzas in the Elegy.  Johnson’s criticism was perverse; but if we were to collect a few of the judgments passed by contemporaries upon each other, it would be scarcely exceptional in its want of appreciation.  It is rather odd to remark that Gray was generally condemned for obscurity—­a charge which seems strangely out of place when he is measured by more recent standards.