again applied by the
company to Dr. Johnson. I was also treated with much civility; and I
must take some merit from my assiduous attention to him, and from my
contriving that he shall be easy wherever he goes, that he shall not be
asked twice to eat or drink any thing (which always disgusts him), that
he shall be provided with water at his meals, and many such little
things, which, if not attended to, would fret him. I also may be allowed
to claim some merit in leading the conversation: I do not mean leading,
as in an orchestra, by playing the first fiddle; but leading as one does
in examining a witness--starting topics, and making him pursue them. He
appears to me like a great mill, into which a subject is thrown to be
ground. It requires, indeed, fertile minds to furnish materials for this
mill. I regret whenever I see it unemployed; but sometimes I feel myself
quite barren, and have nothing to throw in. I know not if this mill be a
good figure; though Pope makes his mind a mill for turning verses[716].

We set out about four. Young Corrichatachin went with us. We had a fine
evening, and arrived in good time at _Ostig_, the residence of Mr.
Martin M'Pherson, minister of Slate. It is a pretty good house, built by
his father, upon a farm near the church. We were received here with much
kindness by Mr. and Mrs. M'Pherson, and his sister, Miss M'Pherson, who
pleased Dr. Johnson much, by singing Erse songs, and playing on the
guittar. He afterwards sent her a present of his _Rasselas_. In his
bed-chamber was a press stored with books, Greek, Latin, French, and
English, most of which had belonged to the father of our host, the
learned Dr. M'Pherson; who, though his _Dissertations_ have been
mentioned in a former page[717] as unsatisfactory, was a man of
distinguished talents. Dr. Johnson looked at a Latin paraphrase of the
song of Moses, written by him, and published in the _Scots Magazine_ for
1747, and said, 'It does him honour; he has a good deal of Latin, and
good Latin.' Dr. M'Pherson published also in the same magazine, June
1739, an original Latin ode, which he wrote from the isle of Barra,
where he was minister for some years. It is very poetical, and exhibits
a striking proof how much all things depend upon comparison: for Barra,
it seems, appeared to him so much worse than Sky, his _natale
solum_[718], that he languished for its 'blessed mountains,' and thought
himself buried alive amongst barbarians where he was.