[450] The Rev. N. Paterson, author of The Manse Garden; afterwards minister of St. Andrew’s, Glasgow.  He died in 1871.  Mr. Paterson was a grandson of Robert Paterson, “Old Mortality,” and brother of the Rev. Walter Paterson, minister of Kirkurd, author of the Legend of Iona—­a poem written in imitation of the style of Scott, and in which he recognises his obligations to Sir Walter in the following terms:—­“From him I derived courage to persevere in an undertaking on which I had often reflected with terror and distrust.”—­Legend, notes, p. 305.

[451] Mr. John Smith of Darnick, the builder of Abbotsford, and architect of these bridges.—­J.G.L.

[452] This gentleman died in Edinburgh on the 4th February 1838.—­J.G.L.

[453] The late Captain Watson, R.N., was distantly related to Sir Walter’s mother.  His son, Sir John Watson Gordon, rose to great eminence as a painter; and his portraits of Scott and Hogg rank among his best pieces.  He became President of the Royal Scottish Academy in 1850, died in 1864, leaving funds to endow a Chair of Fine Arts in the Edinburgh University.

[454] Mr. W.F.  Skene, Historiographer Royal for Scotland, and son of Scott’s dear friend, has been good enough to give me his recollections of these days:—­

“On referring to my Diary for the year 1831 I find the following entry:  ’This Spring, on 31st April, I went with my father to Abbotsford and left on Sir Walter Scott being taken ill.’  The date here given for my visit does not correspond with that in Sir Walter’s Diary, but, as there are only thirty days in April it has evidently been written by mistake for the 13th.  I had just attained my twenty-first year, and as such a visit at that early age was a great event in my life, I retain a very distinct recollection of the main features of it.  I recollect that Lord Meadowbank and his eldest son Alan came at the same time, and the dinner party, at which Mr. Pringle of the Haining and his brother were present.  The day after our arrival Sir Walter asked me to drive with him.  We went in his open carriage to the Yarrow, where we got out, and Sir Walter, leaning on my arm, walked up the side of the river, pouring forth a continuous stream of anecdotes, traditions, and scraps of ballads.  I was in the seventh heaven of delight, and thought I had never spent such a day.  On Sunday Sir Walter did not come down to breakfast, but sent a message to say that he had caught cold and had taken some medicine for it the night before, which had made him ill, and would remain in bed.  When we sat at either lunch or dinner, I do not recollect which, Sir Walter walked into the room and sat down near the table, but ate nothing.  He seemed in a dazed state, and took no notice of any one, but after a few minutes’ silence, during which his daughter Anne, who was at table, and was watching him with some anxiety, motioned to us to take no notice, he began in a quiet voice