floors of wide boards and hand-wrought nails brought over from
England, are still intact. The house is entirely hidden from sight,
and if one should go to the very bottom of the steep hill and peer
up with all their eyes, only the tops of the dormer windows would
be their reward. |
Unlike the house, the grounds had a very difterent tale to tell.
Nothing was left of the spacious lawn with its many shade trees
and flowering shrubs, though here and there a few lilacs and crepe
myrtles bloom bravely on. Remnants of the formal garden could
still be seen, with its oblong plots, edged with box to keep the unruly
little plants off those neat gravel paths. But the avenue of lindens,
which bordered the brick walk leading to the house, had long since
been cut down, one lone tree standing guard near the doorway.
At the south of the house, and overlooking the river, are five
terraces covered with old-fashioned flags, which must be a marvel
of beauty in the spring. Fig bushes bask in the southern sun,
while at the east of the house a few gnarled fruit trees and a quaint
old grape arbor stand. The pit on the slope of one of the ter¬
races, still used by the Sisters, is filled with bloom.
Benedict Arnold, in his brief raid on Richmond, used this house,
as well as St. John’s Church, as barracks for his British soldiers.
Thomas Jefferson was an intimate friend and frequent guest
of Colonel Adams, and we can picture the two on that memorable
March day of 1775, their breasts filled with apprehension, hurry¬
ing over to St. John’s Church, where Patrick Henry was so soon
to sway that illustrious body of men, and where then and there
George Washington determined on his definite policy of war.
Dr. John Adams, the third son of Colonel Richard Adams,
built on the corner of Twenty-fourth and Grace Streets that stately
mansion which, up to a few years ago, was such an ornament to
the eastern part of the city. It stood on one of the highest of
Richmond’s seven hills, its dignified appearance, as seen from the