A few years since I visited Devonshire, to make the acquaintance of
some distant relations, whom circumstances had prevented me from
before seeing. Amongst others, there was one who lived in a decayed
family mansion about six miles east of the pretty town of Dartmouth.
Before calling on her, I was prepared, by report, to behold a very
aged and a very eccentric lady. Her age no one knew, but she seemed
much older than her only servant--a hardy old dame, who, during the
very month of my visit, had completed her ninety-ninth year.

The mistress never allowed any one to see her, save a young and
interesting cousin of mine. She seldom went out except on Sundays,
and then was carried to church in an old sedan-chair by a couple of
labourers, who did odd jobs of gardening about the house. She had
such an insuperable objection to be seen by anybody, whether at home
or abroad, that she concealed her face by a thick veil.

These, with other particulars, were narrated to me by my cousin as we
rode towards Coote-down Hall, in which the old lady resided, and
which, with the surrounding estate, was her own property. On
approaching it, signs of past grandeur and present decay presented
themselves. The avenue leading to the house had evidently been
thickly planted; but now only a few stumps remained to mark where
noble and spreading elms once had been. Having arrived at the house,
my cousin reined up at the steps of the hall, upon which she, in a
low cautious voice, desired me to alight. Having assisted her out of
her saddle, I was about to utter some exclamation of surprise at the
extreme dilapidation of the place, when she whispered me to be
silent; adding, that I must not stir until she had returned from
within, to announce whether my visit would be accepted or not.