CHAPTER IV.
_The Story of Richmond Hill_ If my days of fancy and romance were not past, I could find here an ample field for indulgence!--ABIGAIL ADAMS, writing from Richmond Hill House, in 1783.
I had left dear St.John's,--for this time my pilgrim feet were turned a bit northward to a shrine of romance rather than religion.

I meandered along Canal, and traversed Congress Street.

Congress, by the bye, is about two yards long; do you happen to know it?
In a few moments, I was standing in a sort of trance at that particular point of Manhattan marked by the junction of Charlton and Varick streets and the end of Macdougal, about two hundred feet north of Spring.

And there was nothing at all about the scenic setting, you would surely have said, to send anyone into any kind of a trance.
On one side of me was an open fruit stall; on another, a butcher's shop; the Cafe Gorizia (with windows flagrant with pink confectionery), and the two regulation and indispensable saloons to make up the four corners.
In a sentimentally reminiscent mood, I took out a notebook, to write down something of my impressions and fancies.

But there was a general murmur of war-inflamed suspicion, and I desisted and fled.