I am an old woman now, and things are very different to what they were in myyouth. Then we, who travelled, travelled in coaches, carrying six inside, andmaking a two days’ journey out of what people now go over in a couple ofhours with a whizz and a flash, and a screaming whistle, enough to deafen one.Then letters came in but three times a week: indeed, in some places in Scotlandwhere I have stayed when I was a girl, the post came in but once amonth;—but letters were letters then; and we made great prizes of them,and read them and studied them like books. Now the post comes rattling in twicea day, bringing short jerky notes, some without beginning or end, but just alittle sharp sentence, which well-bred folks would think too abrupt to bespoken. Well, well! they may all be improvements,—I dare say they are;but you will never meet with a Lady Ludlow in these days.
I will try and tell you about her. It is no story: it has, as I said, neitherbeginning, middle, nor end.
My father was a poor clergyman with a large family. My mother was always saidto have good blood in her veins; and when she wanted to maintain her positionwith the people she was thrown among,—principally rich democraticmanufacturers, all for liberty and the French Revolution,—she would puton a pair of ruffles, trimmed with real old English point, very much darned tobe sure,—but which could not be bought new for love or money, as the artof making it was lost years before. These ruffles showed, as she said, that herancestors had been Somebodies, when the grandfathers of the rich folk, who nowlooked down upon her, had been Nobodies,—if, indeed, they had anygrandfathers at all. I don’t know whether any one out of our own familyever noticed these ruffles,—but we were all taught as children to feelrather proud when my mother put them on, and to hold up our heads as became thedescendants of the lady who had first possessed the lace. Not but what my dearfather often told us that pride was a great sin; we were never allowed to beproud of anything but my mother’s ruffles: and she was so innocentlyhappy when she put them on,—often, poor dear creature, to a very worn andthreadbare gown,—that I still think, even after all my experience oflife, they were a blessing to the family. You will think that I am wanderingaway from my Lady Ludlow. Not at all. The Lady who had owned the lace, UrsulaHanbury, was a common ancestress of both my mother and my Lady Ludlow. And soit fell out, that when my poor father died, and my mother was sorely pressed toknow what to do with her nine children, and looked far and wide for signs ofwillingness to help, Lady Ludlow sent her a letter, proffering aid andassistance. I see that letter now: a large sheet of thick yellow paper, with astraight broad margin left on the left-hand side of the delicate Italianwriting,—writing which contained far more in the same space of paper thanall the sloping, or masculine hand-writings of the present day. It was sealedwith a coat-of-arms,—a lozenge,—for Lady Ludlow was a widow. Mymother made us notice the motto, “Foy et Loy,” and told us where tolook for the quarterings of the Hanbury arms before she opened the letter.Indeed, I think she was rather afraid of what the contents might be; for, as Ihave said, in her anxious love for her fatherless children, she had written tomany people upon whom, to tell truly, she had but little claim; and their cold,hard answers had many a time made her cry, when she thought none of us werelooking. I do not even know if she had ever seen Lady Ludlow: all I knew of herwas that she was a very grand lady, whose grandmother had been half-sister tomy mother’s great-grandmother; but of her character a