MEMOIR OF DANIEL TREADWELL. 391 



To Mrs. Treadwell. 



Glasgow, June 20, 18.35. 



Dear Adda, . . . Last Thursday I went to Abbotsford in company with Colonel Benjamin 

 Loring, whom I met with by chance on Sunday last at York. The house and furniture are 

 all in the exact state in which they were left at the death of Sir "Walter, and are shown to 

 visitors by an intelligent woman, who was long in the service of the family, and who, with 

 her husband, are now the only inhabitants of the place. She told me that the loss sustained 

 by Sir Walter from Constable's failure was a death-blow to Lady Scott, whose lofty spirit 

 was broken by it ; and she survived but about a year, and died in 1827. ... It was while on 

 his journey, and near Naples, in 1832, that the last and terrible shock came upon Sir Walter, 

 from which he never recovei'ed the use of his speech or reason. He never, except in one 

 instance, appeared to know any of his former friends, or any one of his family. This instance, 

 in which he gave signs of a glimpse of rational power, was on his arrival at Abbotsford, in 

 June, 1832, where, on meeting Mr. Laidlaw at the door, he said, " Now, Laidlaw, I know that I 

 am at Abbotsford, for I see you." From that time, however, he gave no signs of memory or 

 reason, was incapable of feeding himself or doing the least office for his personal comfort, but 

 passed his time in making a constant loud and piteous moaning, or roaring, which might be 

 heard to a considerable distance from the house. In this condition he continued from June 

 until September, when he was released. Such is the story of the housekeeper, and I have no 

 doubt that it is true. I have never seen it in print, and, melancholy as it is, I thought I would 

 send it to you. 



There is in this travelling a great deal that is uncomfortable, for one can come at that 

 which he wishes to see and know only by looking it out amongst a vast number of things he 

 cares nothing about. This is particularly the case with me, as I am not looking after fine 

 scenery and other like objects of the pleasure tourist, but for every-day arts, which are not 

 subjects of show. I keep constantly at work, however, and some way or other generally find 

 what I want to see. I shall be glad when it is over, and I can say I have seen all that I came 

 to see. 



Ever yours, 



Daniel Treadwell. 



To Mrs. Treadwell. 



London, July 6, 18.35. 

 My dear Adda, — You will perceive by the head of this letter that I have returned to the City 

 of Cities once more. My return from Glasgow was through Liverpool, Stratford upon Avon, 

 Warwick, and Coventry, to London. I have had every reason to be pleased with my journey to 

 the North, particularly with the Scotch part of it, and shall remember to my dying day the 

 remarkable appearance of the Scotch scenery in the Highlands, the strange mixture of good 

 taste and magnificence with the barbarism and filth of their cities, and the combination of high 

 intellect with naked feet in their inhabitants. This last is a striking feature in Scotland, as I 

 do not think I saw ten pairs of shoes and stockings for the many thousand female feet in the 

 factories of Glasgow. The males were modest enough to wear shoes, but the females of the 

 class who do work of any kind, which may be taken at three fourths of the sex in Scotland, so 

 far as I saw it, go barefooted, and that out of doors and in wet weather, as well as in the 

 house. 



