I had passed on Downing Street one house at least which looked as though it had been there forever and ever, but just here it was most commonplace and present-century in setting, and the roar of traffic was in my ears.  But I am sure that I saw Richmond Hill House plainly,—­that distinguished structure which was described by an eyewitness as “a wooden building of massive architecture, with a lofty portico supported by Ionic columns, the front walls decorated with pilasters of the same order and its whole appearance distinguished by a Palladian character of rich though sober ornament.”  We learn further that its entrance was broad and imposing, that there were balconies fronting the rooms on the second story.  The inside of the house was spaciously partitioned, with large, high rooms, massive stairways with fine mahogany woodwork, and a certain restful amplitude in everything which was a feature of most of the true Colonial houses.

Thomas Janvier quotes from some anonymous writer of an earlier day:  “From the crest of this small eminence was an enticing prospect; on the south, the woods and dells and winding road from the lands of Lispenard, through the valley where was Borrowson’s tavern; and on the north and west the plains of Greenwich Village made up a rich prospect to gaze on.”

Lispenard’s Salt Meadows lie still, I suppose, under Canal Street North.  I have not been able to place exactly Borrowson’s tavern.  Our old friend, Minetta Water, which flowed through the site of Washington Square, made a large pond at the foot of Richmond Hill,—­somewhere about the present junction of Bedford and Downing streets.  In winter it offered wonderful skating; in summer it was a dream of sylvan loveliness, and came to be called Burr’s Pond, after that enigmatic genius who later lived in the house.

One more description—­and the best—­of Richmond Hill as it was the century before last; this one written by good Mistress Abigail, wife of John Adams, one-time vice-president of the United States, during their occupancy of the place.  Said she, openly adoring the Hill at all times: 

“In natural beauty it might vie with the most delicious spot I ever saw.  It is a mile and a half from the city of New York.  The house stands upon an eminence; at an agreeable distance flows the noble Hudson, bearing upon its bosom innumerable small vessels laden with the fruitful productions of the adjacent country.  Upon my right hand are fields beautifully variegated with grass and grain, to a great extent, like the valley of Honiton in Devonshire.  Upon my left the city opens to view, intercepted here and there by a rising ground and an ancient oak.  In front beyond the Hudson, the Jersey shores present the exuberance of a rich, well-cultivated soil.  In the background is a large flower-garden, enclosed with a hedge and some every handsome trees.  Venerable oaks and broken ground covered with wild shrubs surround me, giving a natural beauty to the spot which is truly enchanting.  A lovely variety of birds serenade me morning and evening, rejoicing in their liberty and security.”

The historian, Mary L. Booth, commenting on the above, says: