In 1849--thank God--its nightmare of desecration was over. It was
pulled down, and they built red-brick houses on its grave and left its
ancient memories to sleep in peace.
"And thus" [Wetmore once again] "passed away the glories and
the shadows of Richmond Hill. All that remains of them are
a few fleeting memories and a page or two of history fast
fading into oblivion."
For once, I cannot quite agree with him--not when he says that. For
surely the home of so much romance and grandeur and charm and
importance must leave something behind it other than a few fleeting
memories and a page or two of history. Houses have ghosts as well as
people, and if ever there stood a house with a personality, that was
sweet, poignant and indestructible, it was the House on Richmond Hill.
I, who tell you this, am very sure. Have I not seen it sketched in
bright, shadowy lines upon the air above Charlton and Varick
streets,--its white columns shining through all the modern city murk?
Go there in the right mood and at the right moment, and you will see,
too.
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