2021 is the 100th anniversary of the Jeffrey's Hook Lighthouse installation, but a pair of lanterns on a tall pole (often called post lights) were the first aid to navigation at Jeffrey's Hook, which is a rocky outcropping at the base of Washington Heights and dangerously close to the shipping channel. Installed in 1889, the lanterns shone red to warn mariners away from the hook.

Very few records of the keepers of the post light, and even the lighthouse itself, remain. However, when doing research for the upcoming lighthouse film, we ran across this intriguing pair of newspaper articles from 1891 featuring keeper Patrick Roach and his family. The articles below were published in the New York Herald on November 26 and 27, 1891 and are reproduced here in their entirety, transcribed by Sarah Wassberg Johnson.

“A Woman’s Leap From Fire: Husband and Daughter Dragged From Windows of the Burning Shanty”
New York Herald, November 26, 1891
The family of Patrick Roach had a narrow escape last night from burning to death. Their home in 175th street, near Kingsbridge avenue, was set on fire, it is supposed, by young ruffians of the neighborhood who bore them a grudge.

The house, a two story frame shanty, stood on a rock twenty feet high, just back from the street. Roach is keeper in Jeffrey’s Hook Lighthouse and he lived in the shanty with his wife, Bridget, and Mary, his nineteen-year-old daughter.

The family spent last evening preparing for their Thanksgiving dinner. Roach left the kitchen early, and went to a room adjoining to lie down. A little later Mrs. Roach went upstairs to go to bed, and Mary was left alone.

FLAMES ALL AROUND THE GIRL
She sat in the corner of the kitchen reading by the light of a lamp on the table. Presently she heard a low rumbling sound in the opposite corner of the room and saw a flame shoot up from the floor. Other flames shot up all around her, and the terrified girl ran to the door leading up stairs and shouted to her mother that the house was afire.

Then Mary, in an effort to get out, began to dodge the flames that were fast filling the room, Suddenly the window was thrown open and a man put in his arm and lifted Mary out.

By this time Roach had awakened and skipped into the glazing kitchen. The smoke and flames were nearly suffocating him when a man came to his rescue and dragged him out of the window.

Mrs. Roach tried to go down stairs, but the smoke drove her back. She went to the window. “Jump!” shouted the crowd that had gathered in the street.

DO NOT KNOW THEIR RESCUER
Out the window sprang Mrs. Roach and landed on the street thirty-five feet below, bruised and shocked, but with no bones broken.

The fire burned up everything in the house and left very little of the house standing. Mary’s hands were badly burned and her father was burned on the hands, arms and legs. They refused to go to a hospital and sought shelter at a neighbor’s house.

Neither knew the man who had rescued them, and he did not make his presence known after he got them safely out of the house. There may have been two rescuers for all Roach and his daughter knew.

The Roaches told me that they had strong suspicions that the fire was started by a gang of young teamsters, known as the McDowell gang, who hang about the neighborhood, do mischief at night and play ball on Sunday. Sometimes their ball would be thrown into Roache’s [sic] house, and one day Mary kept it. The next day Mary was hit with a baseball thrown at her and she complained to the Washington Heights police, who stopped the ball playing.

Since then the rowdies have talked of being recognized and the other night Mrs. Roach’s sister, while passing the gang, heard them say that they were going to “get even” with “Paddy” Roach.

No arrests were made last night.

“This Fire Still a Mystery”
New York Herald, November 27, 1891
The Roach family, whose two story shanty on the rocks in 175th street, near Kingsbridge road, was burned Thanksgiving eve, insist that the house was set on fire. The police of the Washington Heights police station pooh-pooh the idea and are making no investigation.

Roach and his daughter believe that members of the McDonald gang set the shanty afire. The family have had trouble with the gang and Miss Roach says the young fellows have threatened several times to force them to leave the neighborhood.

How the person or persons who dragged the members of the family out of the burning building happened to be on hand so soon after the fire broke out is a mystery if the rescuers were not the incendiaries. The Roaches were too much excited to recognize the rescuers.
​
Roach is keeper of the Jeffrey’s Hook lighthouse at Fort Washington. Some government papers were destroyed in the fire. Roach and his daughter were painfully but not seriously burned. They are being cared for by relatives. 

Last week Hudson River Maritime Museum staff were at the Jeffrey's Hook Lighthouse filming for our upcoming documentary film on Hudson River Lighthouses. But did you know? Yesterday was the Little Red Lighthouse's 100th birthday! So to speak. October 10, 1921 was the first day the Jeffrey's Hook lighthouse was lit and put into service. Now part of Fort Washington Park in Manhattan and managed by the Historic House Trust and New York City Parks, the Jeffrey's Hook Lighthouse is affectionately known as the Little Red Lighthouse, after the famous children's book by Hildegarde Swift. 

​To learn more about the history of the lighthouse, check out our short history video from the RiverWise series, and keep your eyes peeled for more information about our upcoming documentary film series! 

And if you've never read The Little Red Lighthouse and the Great Gray Bridge, you can pick up a copy from your local library, or read along with the classic recording and images below.

Editor's note: Many thanks to volunteer researcher George A. Thompson for finding and transcribing this pair of fantastic stories of ballooning in 19th century New York. The first article was originally published as "A Night in the Air" in the New York Herald on July 26, 1874. The New York Tribune followed with "A Successful Balloon Voyage" on July 27, 1874. The articles follow the exploits of balloonist or "aeronaut" Washington Harrison Donaldson. 

Time, which does not wait for any man or any balloon accession, stole around to four o’clock. By that hour the balloon had been gorged with its gaseous lunch, and acted as if it were pretty full, plunging, rearing and cavorting in so enthusiastic a manner that it was evident to the practiced eye of Donaldson that it could not be held in leash much longer. There was the rush of a race around the track, and the blare of the band gave a brassy éclat to our departure.  Donaldson sprang into the ropes, and in an instant all eyes were centered on the swaying wicker car. The moment had come. There was just time to see the air grow white with the premonitory kerchiefs, and clear and distinct rang out Donaldson's voice, "Let her go!" In an instant we flashed seven hundred feet, straight as an arrow's course, into the air, and hung over the opening in the canvas roof of the Hippodrome, through which we had ascended.  But only of a moment. There was just time to respond to the waving adieux by friends and spectators, and to listen to the cheers of the populace who densely packed the neighboring streets -- cheers which came up to us with a faint and far-away suggestion, when we began to drift toward the Hudson in a southwesterly direction. Then we fully realized the fact that our aerial ship was launched for its uncertain cruise.

No one wanted to make notes then, no one cared a cent for the barometer or the direction of the current. The whole being was wrapped up in an indescribable feeling of delight.  

Beneath lay New York like a city of toy blocks, filled with a tremulous noise that came up clearly and yet softly to us. We could trace every street its entire length, could see the people moving to and fro like black specks, could hear alike the hoarse murmur of the populace, the twinkle of the street car bells, and the bark of a dog. Central Park lay spread out like a piece of delicate velvet embroidery, slashed within the silver of its lake and serpentine stream. Far away was the ocean, a sheet of glass, on which moved a multitude of white winged craft. with here and there a black plumed steamer. We could see the many-steepled city of Brooklyn and the glistening Sound beyond, smoky Jersey City and the picturesque villages of the Hackensack valley, all of fair Westchester, and far up the Hudson to where the mountains raised a purple barrier against the sight. Under such circumstances it is not surprising that one's nature expanded, and thoughts woven of the sunlight in which the balloon floated stole into the brain.  

Then the mystic chain was broken; then they looked around, asked each other how he felt, and producing note book and pencil fell steadily to work measuring enchantment and surveying the airy dream.

At nineteen minutes past four o'clock we were on a line with the colosseum and rising rapidly. Forty-second street and Seventh avenue was reached at twenty minutes past four, the barometer showing an elevation of 1,800 feet. At twenty-four minutes past four the balloon was 2,200 feet above the level of the sea.
Twenty-seven minutes past four o'clock the balloon's shadow fell on the waters of the Hudson, our elevation being 2,450 feet. From this point handfuls of colored circulars, taken along as part of our ballast, were thrown out, which slowly fluttered downward like
A FLOCK OF GORGEOUSLY TINTED BUTTERFLIES.

At half-past four o'clock we were 2,500 feet high. Then we began to descend until an elevation of 1,800 feet was taken at thirty-three minutes past four. By this time we had reached the Jersey shore and began to drift over Weehawken. Busy as the party were, there was plenty of time to note the charming effect produced by the green fields, dotted with villages, that lay unrolled beneath us like a gigantic panorama. Through the broad expanse of the country, rivers and streams of small size crawled like serpents, their silver scales
GLISTENING IN THE SUN.

Union Hill was passed at twenty minutes to five o'clock; elevation 2,250 feet. A moment later the Midland Railroad was crossed, and the balloon was greeted by a cheering whistle from the engine of a train of cars that scurried along beneath it, the passengers, leaning out of the windows of the carriages, enthusiastically waving their handkerchiefs.

When the watch marked fifty-three minutes past four o'clock Donaldson came down from the ring of the balloon, where he had been perched with his sun umbrella, and notified the five journalists who accompanied him to draw lots to determine in what order they should be dropped, as it was necessary, to insure the success of his trip, that the airship should be lightened, gradually. Five pieces of paper were numbered one, two, three, four and five respectively, thrown into a high white hat, and the drawing began, the understanding being that the men should get out in the order determined by their ballots.  The result was as follows: Herald, 1; World, 2; Sun, 3; Graphic, 4; Tribune, 5.  We were then at an elevation of 1,600 feet. 

AT THREE MINUTES OF FIVE WE PASSED OVER THE HACKENSACK RIVER, 
with Hackensack lying to the west. At eleven minutes past five the balloons had fallen so low that the barometer only measured 250 feet, and the drag rope, 350 feet in length, could be heard clashing around among the tree tops. Half of a bag of sand was emptied over the edge of the basket, and we shot up 300 feet, passing over a clearing in the forest where some school children were having a picnic. They saluted the voyagers right royally, and entreated them enthusiastically to descend. But Donaldson was forced to decline the invitation. At twenty minutes past five Paterson hove into view, the elevation being 625 feet. We fell again, being only 150 feet high at thirty-five minutes past five, with our drag rope raising havoc among the forest foliage. Our course was then north by west. At forty minutes past five, and when at an elevation of 250 feet, one of the party who had brought a life preserver along, calculating upon an ocean trip, offered to sell it at half price. No takers.

SKIMMING OVER A HILLTOP,
so near the surface that the trees nearly touched the basket, we were enabled to ask a rustic, at forty-three minutes past five, how far we were from New York city, and were told twenty-six miles. More ballast was thrown out here, and the balloon ascended rapidly. At fifty-five minutes past six our course was north-northwest.

The first landing made was at half-past six o'clock, in Muncy township, Bergen county, on Garrett Harper's farm. The ladies of the house, who at first took the party for surveyors of the new State line, and had retreated within their domicile with a rapidity of movement not excessively complementary to the surveyors, were prevailed upon to furnish us a drink of milk, and even got over their timidity so far as to clamber over a couple of fences and visit the field where the
BALLOON WAS ANCHORED.

They told us we were twenty-five miles from New York city. At eight minutes of seven o'clock we rose again and set steadily toward a mountain range, behind which the sun was declining with a true Italian pomp. At twenty-five minutes past seven, when a mile from the mountains, there came a dead calm -- that evening hush so apt to surround the mystery of the day's death. At thirty-five minutes past seven a landing was made in Ramapo township, upon the farm of

​MISS CHARLOTTE THOMPSON,
the charming actress, whose "Fanchon" is as familiar as a household word. Calling upon the lady, we were received most cordially, and when Donaldson invited her to take a short ride in the balloon she clapped her hands in girlish delight, excused herself for a moment, and soon reappeared, shawled and bonneted for the trip. We carried her about two miles, her carriage following the balloon, and left her at last waving her dainty cambric at us as we sped away in the gathering gloom. It was then eighteen minutes past eight o'clock.

From this out until half-past nine o'clock we sailed over a scene of savage beauty, lit up by the magic illumination of the moon, whose silver fringes had woven a veil of luminous haze, with which all nature was draped. Deep and darksome ravines, frowning bluffs, 1,500 feet high; shadowy valleys, in which twinkled the farm-house light, and from whose depth came up the lowing of cattle, were all passed, and suddenly the Hudson, surpassingly lovely as it toiled in 

THE GLEAMING ARMS OF THE MOON
burst upon our sight, a dream of spectral light, backed by a haunting nightmare of gloomy hills. We were low enough to speak the steamers, which acknowledged our presence with the shrillest of whistles. Our rope trailed in the water and left a wake of diamond sparks. 

West Point was passed at ten minutes to ten. Crossing the river above the town Cold Spring was reached, sixty miles from New York. At twenty minutes past ten Cornwall was left behind, and then we took the middle of the stream, arriving at Newburgh at twenty-five minutes to eleven. Following the Hudson in all its graceful bending we came at twenty minutes to eleven o’clock to Fishkill, where some favoring breezes harnessed themselves to our chariot and galloped inland with us. The balloon was still

TRAILING ITS DRAG ROPE
over the surface of the earth, and the effect produced by our passage over a town must have been startling to the slumbering citizens. The long-drawn hiss of the rope as it struck a roof, followed by the rat-a-plan chorus it played upon the shingles, and the fantastic farewell salutes it gave to crazy chimney tops were all the eerie stuff of which weird legends are made, and we felt positively assured that many a ghost story was left on our trail. Particularly attentive was the party to Wappinger’s Falls, over whose rooftrees the rope

SHRIEKED AND DANCED WITH SATANIC GLEE.
This place was passed at twenty minutes past eleven o’clock, and then began the serious business of the night, the watching for the dawn, as the moon had left us.

To sleep was a matter of impossibility. Leaving two on watch, with no more serious business than to report such and such a star on the port bow, the balance of the air travellers curled up in the bottom of the basket, with sand bags for pillows, and silently composed themselves to a contemplation of their situation. There was absolutely no sound save the croaking of the frogs and the hiss of the drag rope. It was a strange scene,

THAT BIVOUAC BENEATH THE STARS,
that camp in mid-air. So we drifted, drifted on until the east began to show the carmine upon its pallid cheek, until rosy flashes shot up the sky and the miracle of the sunrise was enacted once again. This was at half-past four o’clock, and from a sleepy ploughboy, whom we froze in an attitude of open-mouthed astonishment, we learned that we were in Columbia county.

We landed on the farm of Mr. J. W. Coon, in Germantown, four miles from the city of Hudson, and about 

ONE HUNDRED AND THIRTY MILES FROM NEW YORK
at twenty-four minutes past five o’clock, but not without some difficulty, having to resort at last to the valve rope and the anchor. Here the aeronauts were treated with courtesy, and after a hearty breakfast the party, minus the Herald and World representatives, who had drawn numbers one and two in the “get-out lottery,” and the Graphic man continued their jaunt, rising again at fifteen minutes past seven o’clock. After nearly describing a circle around the city of Hudson, the

BALLOON STRUCK A SOUTHWESTERLY CURRENT
at a high altitude and floated rapidly toward the Catskill Mountains. At half-past eleven it was within half a mile of the Mountain House, and the rope being within reaching distance it was taken hold of by a man and a conversation held with the aeronauts. They then threw out more ballast and arose to an immense elevation, still keeping a southwesterly course, which they were holding when last seen.

Professor Donaldson has informed the Herald representative that this was the most brilliant voyage he had ever made, and if he continues it as successfully as it was conducted up to the time the balloon landed in Columbia county yesterday morning the trip will cover the daring aeronaut with that glory which his skill and coolness deserve.

At 6.30 the rope caught and the balloon was made to descend, and the party landed near a farm house and got some milk. The balloon ascended again at 6:52, crossed the Piermont branch of the Erie Railroad, in the township of Ramapo, and landed on a farm in the township near the Summer residence of Charlotte Thompson, the actress, who was visited. She accepted readily an invitation to ascend, and in half an hour the party were off again with Miss Thompson in company. After going about two of three miles she was landed, and returned home in her carriage which had followed.

At 10 p. m. the air-ship was over the Hudson, opposite West Point, and only 40 feet above the ground.  During the night only eight pounds of ballast were thrown out.

At 5:24 on Saturday the grappling hook was thrown out and in a few seconds the party were landed on the farm of William Cooms, in Greenport. The Graphic, Herald and World representatives then got out and left for Hudson. The anchor was then loosened, and in three minutes the balloon was 2,200 feet in the air. At 9 o'clock it was 8,300 feet, nearly a mile and three quarters. The sun was very hot, and the thermometer registering 70. The balloon drifted slowly southward towards New-York. The City of Hudson was almost directly below, and a little off to the east, across the river, was Catskill, and beyond the Catskill Mountains. Four stratas [sic] of clouds were distinctly to be seen. The first or lower strata was of a dirty gray color; the second, a pure, gleaming, silvery white; the third, a beautiful deep azure, darker than the clear blue vault overhead; and the fourth or upper, a dark brown, almost the color of amber. Albany and Greenbush came in sight, with Troy beyond. Ballast was thrown out and the balloon rose rapidly to 9,000 feet -- so fast that the party had to shout to make one another hear. Then they descended.

For three hours and a half the balloon was nearly a mile and three-quarters high. All this time it was in sight of Hudson City. At 11 it arose over the first span of the Catskills. After several hours of travel the balloon sailed over a deep valley which Donaldson said would be good for a landing, and the anchor was dropped. It grappled readily, gas was let out, and the party descended among some small trees at 6:07 p. m. The place of landing was E. R. Young's farm, in Greenfield, Saratoga County, nine miles north of the place. The journey of 400 miles had been accomplished in 26 hours.

W. H. Donaldson had preceded his balloon flight up the Hudson with a botched attempt to balloon across the Atlantic. Later in 1874, he helped a Cincinnati couple marry in mid-air, and in 1875 attempted to balloon from Chicago across Lake Michigan when a storm came up, with fatal results. 

To learn more about Donaldson and his exploits, check out the additional resources below!

• "America's Balloonatic," by Peter Carlson, HistoryNet.com
• "Love Is In The Air," by Elizabeth Borja, Smithsonian Air & Space Museum
• "Professor Donaldson’s Unexpected Voyage To Connecticut – 1873" by New England Aviation History
• "Grooms, Balloons, and Aerial Honeymoons," by Jim Ignasher, New England Aviation History
• "W.H. Donaldson: The Lost Aeronaut (Podcast)" by Adam Selzer
• America's Daredevil Balloonist: W. H. Donaldson, 1840-1875 by James W. Raab (1999)

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Last week we learned about the Lincoln Tunnel, but the earlier Holland Tunnel has stories of its own. Opened in 1927, the Holland Tunnel was at the time the longest vehicular underwater tunnel in the world. It connects Jersey City, NJ to lower Manhattan and is still in use today. 

But in 1949, an extraordinary event would occur. On Friday, May 13, 1949 truck carrying 55 gallon drums of carbon disulfide entered the tunnel. Carbon disulfide is still used today, primarily in the manufacture of viscose rayon and cellophane film. The driver had no idea of the danger of his cargo, which was actually banned from the tunnel because of its toxic and highly flammable fumes. Less than a hundred yards into the tunnel, a drum broke loose from the truck and fell onto the roadway, breaking open and releasing the highly flammable gas. The resulting fire would burn for hours. To tell the full story, we actually have FOUR media resources for you today - two original newsreels from 1949 recounting the event, a podcast entitled "A Miraculous Disaster – In 1949 The Holland Tunnel Burned At 4,000-Degrees And No One Died," and an original report from the National Board of Fire Underwriters.

Although no one died in the fire itself, 66 people were treated and 27 hospitalized for smoke inhalation. Among them was Battalion Chief firefighter Gunther E. Beake, who succumbed to injuries from toxic smoke inhalation on August 23, 1949. 

The incident ultimately resulted in legislation in both New Jersey and New York enacting stiffer penalties and fines for companies who violated cargo rules.

Today's Media Monday post is this wonderful film from 1938 about the construction of the Lincoln Tunnel! First proposed in the 1920s as the "Midtown Hudson Tunnel," construction on the tunnel began in 1934, connecting Weekhawken, NJ and midtown Manhattan. The first tube opened in 1937, just a year before this film was produced.

The Port Authority advertised the tunnel as "The Direct Way to Times Square" and in the first 24 hours over 7,500 vehicles used the tunnel, which officially opened December 22, 1937, just in time for the busy holiday season. Bus companies were especially happy to be allowed to use the tunnel - previously they had had to board ferries in Weehawken bound for New York City. 

Two more tubes were later added due to traffic increases, opening in 1945 and 1957, respectively. Construction of the second tube began almost immediately, as the equipment and personnel were already on site. Automobile tunnels under the Hudson River helped alleviate some of the congestion of bridges and ferries, changing New York City streets forever. 

​If you enjoyed this post and would like to support more history blog content, please make a donation to the Hudson River Maritime Museum or become a member today!​

In 1917 the steamboat Mary Powell took one of her last excursions. The above advertisement, published in June, 1917, gives Hudson Valley residents the opportunity to travel down to New York City to see Billy Sunday's Tabernacle. 

Sunday was a former baseball star turned evangelical Christian and had been known for his fiery revivals. But although he once said Prohibition was a greater cause than the First World War, when the U.S. entered the war in April of 1917, he turned to his pulpit to decry Germany and Kaiser Wilhelm as tools of the Devil. 

He arrived in New York City to enormous crowds just days after the U.S. entrance into the war. Thousands met him at Penn Station, where he required a police escort. Thousands more thronged into his custom-built Tabernacle where he preached fiery revivals with a patriotic tinge. The tabernacle included 16,000 seats. He gave revivals multiple times a week in New York City for over ten weeks. ​

Without amplification, Sunday used enormous gestures, a gregarious personality, and special acoustics along with music to make his points. 

While in New York City in 1917, Sunday purportedly converted nearly 100,000 people to his brand of Christianity and was in the pages of the New York Times constantly during the ten weeks of the revival.

But like the Mary Powell, Billy Sunday's career waned after 1917, especially after the end of the First World War and the onset of Prohibition - his cause celebre - in 1920. He continued to preach the revival circuit, albeit to smaller and smaller crowds, until his death in 1935. The Mary Powell's 1917 season was her last. She was out of service in 1918, sidelined due to coal shortages thanks to the First World War, and sold in 1919 for scrap. 

To learn more about the Mary Powell and her long career, visit our online exhibit, "Mary Powell: Queen of the Hudson."

If you enjoyed this post and would like to support more history blog content, please make a donation to the Hudson River Maritime Museum or become a member today!​

Editor's note: the following engraving and text were originally published in Gleason's Pictorial Drawing Room Companion, December 25, 1852. Thanks to volunteer researcher George A. Thompson for finding and cataloging this article. The article was transcribed by Sarah Wassberg Johnson, and includes paragraph breaks and bullets not present in the original, to make it easier to read for modern audiences.

Next to the immense foreign export and import trade, comes the inland trade. The whole of the western country from Lake Superior finds a depot at New York. The larger quantity of produce finds its way to the Erie Canal, from thence to the Hudson River to New York.

The canal boats run from New York to Buffalo, and vice versa. These boats are made very strong, being bound round by extra guards, to protect them from the many thumps they are subject to. They are towed from Albany to New York - from ten to twenty - by a steamboat, loaded with all the luxuries of the West.

The view represented above is taken from Pier No. 1, East River, giving a slight idea of the immense trade which, next to foreign trade, sets New York alive with action. We subjoin from a late census a schedule of the trade; the depot of which, and the modus operandi, Mr. Wade, our artist, has represented in the engraving above, is so truthful and lifelike a manner.

​In 1840, there were

• 474,543 horses and mules,
  
• 1,911,244 neat cattle,
  
• 5,118,777 sheep,
  
• 1,900,065 swine,
  
• poultry valued at $1,153413,
  
• 12,286,418 bushels of wheat,
  
• 2,520,060 do. [the same] of buckwheat,
  
• 10,972,286 do. of Indian corn,
  
• 9,845,295 lbs. of wool,
  
• 447,250 do. of hops,
  
• 30,133,614 bushels of potatoes,
  
• 3,127,047 tons of hay,
  
• 10,048,109 pounds of sugar,
  
• 1,735 lbs. of silk cocoons;
  
• the products of the dairy, $10,496,021;
  
• the orchard, $1,701,935;
  
• lumber, $3,891,302;
  
• 6,799 gallons of wine.
  

​In this connection we may say, the Hudson and Erie Canal is a noble work of enterprise. It passes from Albany along the western bank of the Hudson River, until it meets the Mohawk; then runs, in a northwesterly direction, up the southwestern bank of the river, to the town of Rome, where it turns more westerly, on a summit level of about sixty miles, without a lock, and, passing in a line corresponding, in some measure, to the direction of the southern shore of Lake Ontario, and crossing the Seneca and Genesee Rivers in its course, communicates with Lake Erie at Buffalo, 363 miles from Albany. But canals are fast giving place to railroads, speed in business being the order of the day.

​If you enjoyed this post and would like to support more history blog content, please make a donation to the Hudson River Maritime Museum or become a member today!​

In 1865, after four years of service to New York City, the steamboat Mary Powell decided to move to a new pier. Previously docking at the Jay Street pier, the influx of freight vessels loading and offloading from the same pier made it difficult and sometimes dangerous for passengers to get to and from the Mary Powell.
​
Nearly every street along the Manhattan waterfront throughout the 19th century used to end in a pier. As an island with no bridges until the completion in 1883 of the Brooklyn Bridge, water was the main method of transportation for people, animals, and freight, so these piers became incredibly important. As trains and automobiles overtook boats and ships as the primary mode of moving people and goods, the piers became less and less important. The map pictured below was created in 1867 and illustrates the importance of piers to the “business portion” of lower Manhattan. 

On April 1, 1865, The World (NYC) published this short article:
​
“In consequence of the immense freighting business which has accumulated at the Jay street pier, rendering it almost impassable and certainly unsafe for any one, especially ladies, to pass along the same on their way to or from steamers, Captain A. L. Anderson, of the steamer Mary Powell, has made arrangements to arrive and depart from the fine new pier No. 40 North River, foot of Debrosses street, built for the day line of Albany steamers Daniel Drew and C. Vibbard, where the nuisances and dangers are not tolerated.  Ladies can there step from carriages and passing railroad cars upon a substantial and smooth plank walk, without fear of injury to their persons or damage to their dresses.  A great reform is needed in the construction of our piers, by which passengers can be protected from the risks and annoyances they now encounter.”

The Jay Street pier was named after the street that connected Hudson Street and West Street and continued out toward Pier 32. All that is left of Jay Street today is a stretch of street one block long between Hudson and Greenwich Streets. Where Pier 32 once lay is today partially filled in and open water just to the north of Stuyvesant High School. The park area between West Street and the river as well as the land on which Stuyvesant High School now stands did not exist in the 1860s. It has been completely filled in, likely right on top of the old piers that once lined the Manhattan waterfront.

​Period newspapers lamented the state of the city piers in the 1860s. On April 13, 1865, the New-York Daily Tribune published “Our Piers, Reform Is Needed,” transcribed below:
​
“Something ought to be done by our city authorities in the way of affording better arrangements for the accommodation of the thousands of passengers who daily arrive in and leave the city by steam vessels.  Most of the piers and approaches thereto, are in a most filthy condition, while others are so incumbered by freight of every description, carts, wagons, &c., that it is oftentimes, almost unsafe for a man to steer his way among the vehicles, boxes, barrels, &c.; while ladies, in order to avoid being left behind, the ruin of their dresses, or personal injury are left the only alternative of hiring a carriage at exorbitant rates to convey them a few hundred yards.  It is contended by many Captains of steamers which ply to and from tis port, that in consideration of the high rates they pay for dock privileges, they ought to have better accommodations provided them.  This could be done by the construction of piers with flat coverings or roofs, upon which persons could pass to and from the steamers by means of stairs at convenient points.  The subject is at least certainly worthy the consideration of our City Fathers.  The annoyances are [sic; "and"] serious inconveniences to which passengers are subjected, have done much toward driving the People's Line, the Albany day line, and the Norwich and Worcester line of steamers up-town, and now it is understood that Capt. A. L. Anderson of the steamer Mary Powell has resolved to follow suit, and accordingly made arrangements for the season to land at and depart from pier No. 40 N. R., foot of Debrosses st., which has been planked by the leasees, and will be kept free from incumbrances of every kind, so that ladies, while on their way to or from the steamer need not feel any apprehension as regards their personal safety or ruin of their dresses.”

​The Desbrosses Street pier would remain Mary Powell’s Manhattan landing site for the rest of her career. In the 1900s, the Hudson River Day Line company headquarters also operated out of the Debrosses Street Pier for several decades. Today, the Desbrosses Street Pier is no more. 

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Today's Media Monday features this 10-minute tour of lower Manhattan from 1937!

Produced by the Van Beuren Corporation as a travelogue, part of the "World on Parade" series, "Manhattan Waterfront" was distributed by RKO Pictures in 1937. Watch the full movie below!

We see tugboats and sailing schooners, barge families, Fulton Fish Market, We also see the lives of the super-rich contrasted with the lives of the poor, living in waterfront shacks, or in neat houses built on top of abandoned barges. Interestingly, despite the fact that 1937 was the height of the Great Depression, the narrator blames the indigent for not taking advantage of the "land of opportunity." We also see most of Manhattan's bridges, including the 6 year old George Washington Bridge with only one deck. ​

How much of lower Manhattan can you still recognize today? 

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​Last week, we discussed the impacts of cholera and yellow fever on Rondout in the 1830s and ‘40s, but New York City underwent similar epidemics throughout the early 19th century. At the same time, rising population in New York City, as well as efforts to fill in its brackish wetlands and shorelines, was creating a problem with the water table and pollution. Fresh drinking water was becoming more and more scarce in the growing city and natural water sources were increasingly contaminated by sewage and industrial wastes. 

Enter a pie-in-the-sky idea for yet another enormous engineering marvel (New York’s canals being the previous pipedreams turned reality) – the Croton Aqueduct. The idea was simple – pipe clean water from the relatively unspoiled Croton River through gravity-fed aqueducts to New York City. Aqueducts were certainly not a new idea – the Romans had invented them, after all – but to construct something on this scale was a rather startling idea.

Following the cholera epidemic of 1832, Major David Bates Douglass, an engineering professor at West Point and one of a new school of civil engineers, surveyed the proposed route in 1833. Bates was an excellent surveyor, but had proposed no practical plans for physical structures, and so was fired in 1835.
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As early as 1835, before construction even began, the project was gaining national attention. An article from the Alexandria Gazette (Richmond, VA) from December 25, 1835 discussed the plan, writing, “In carrying into effect the contemplated plan of supplying the City of New York with water from the Croton River, an aqueduct, we believe, is necessary across one of the rivers. If this is so, the experience gained to that city and the county in submarine architecture, by the works now going on at the Potomac Aqueduct in connexion with the Alexandria Canal, will be invaluable.” 

​December, 1835 gave New York City another reason to want abundant supplies of water – the Great Fire of New York of 1835 wiped out most of New York City and bankrupted all but three of its fire insurance companies. The fire would spur a number of reforms, including an end to wooden buildings (a boon for the Hudson Valley’s brick, cement, and bluestone industries). But many wondered, had the aqueduct already been in place, if more of the city would have been saved.

John B. Jervis, who cut his teeth on the construction of the Erie, D&H, and Chenango canals as well as early railroads, became Chief Engineer on the Croton Aqueduct project in 1836, and construction began the following year.
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The Croton River was dammed and thousands of laborers, many of them Irish, commenced digging tunnels by hand and lining them with brick. On August 22, 1838, the Vermont Telegraph published a good description of the work: “The Aqueduct which is to bring Croton river water into the city of New York, will be 40 miles long. It will have an unvarying ascent from the starting point, eight miles above Sing Sing to Harlem Heights, where it comes out at 114 feet above high water mark. A great army of men are now at work along the line, and at many points the aqueduct is completed. The bottom is an inverted arch of brick; the sides are laid with hewn stone in cement, then plastered on the inside, and then within the plaster a four inch brick wall is carried up to the stone wall, and thence the top is formed with an arch of double brick work. It will stand for ages a monument of the enterprise of the present generation.” 

On November 11, 1838, a newspaper in Liberty, Mississippi reported on a bricklaying contest – “In a match at brick-laying in a part of the arch of the Croton Aqueduct, between Nicholson, a young man of Connecticut, and Neagle, of Philadelphia, the latter was a head when his strength gave way, having laid 3,700 bricks in 5 ½ hours. Nicholson continued a half hour longer, when he had laid 5,350. The work was capitally done.”

On September 12 of that same year, the Alexandria Gazette chimed in again, noting, “There are full four thousand men employed on the line of the Croton Aqueduct, which is to supply the city of New York with pure and wholesome water. About six of the sections will be completed this fall. The commissioners will now proceed to contract for the ‘Low Bridge’ across the Harlem river, according to the original plan. The whole, when finished, will be the most magnificent work in the United States.” 

The Low Bridge the Gazette referred to was originally planned to go under the Harlem River, but this was quickly abandoned. Instead, what is now known as the High Bridge was constructed in stone – its arched support pillars strongly reminiscent of Roman aqueducts. High Bridge was designed by Chief Engineer John B. Jervis and completed in 1848. It remains the oldest bridge in New York City.

Indeed, the High Bridge and the whole aqueduct warranted a lengthy newspaper article – almost the whole page – August 27, 1839 edition of the New York Morning Herald. Cataloging the extant Roman aqueducts around the world, defining the difference between an aqueduct and a viaduct (aqueducts carry water across water – viaducts carry water across roads), and in all comparing the Croton Aqueduct, and especially the High Bridge, quite favorably to all its predecessors.

But not all was well in construction. The Morning Herald wrote extensively of the aqueduct again on September 4, 1839 claiming, “owing to the gross mismanagement that has prevailed in the office of the water commissioners, the expense of the work has been twice as much as it ought to have been, and after all it will be very defective in many of its most important points; and independent of the immense trouble and the large sums of money that will perpetually be required to keep the whole of it in repair, we have not the least doubt that, when the work comes to be proved by passing a large body of water through it, at least one-sixth part of it will have to be pulled down and rebuilt.”

The article continues on in that vein for quite some time – the principal complaint besides cost being that, unlike the Romans (who also used better quality brick and cement), the Croton Aqueduct would be largely hidden from sight, and the iron pipes would “burst upon the first pressure,” claiming that the commissioners “wanted to oblige some friend who was an iron founder, and to give him a fat contract, by which he could get rid of a quantity of old metal.”

Of course, the editor of the Morning Herald seemed to have ulterior motives, as he negatively connected the Croton Aqueduct with President Martin Van Buren’s campaign for reelection in July of that year, and blamed politicking for the delays and purported graft. He also seemed to hold a grudge – the Morning Herald reported endlessly about the aqueduct, but also about purported mismanagement. No other newspaper from the era reported similar claims. However, an article in the Richmond Gazette (Richmond, VA) from July 28, 1842, does hint at the enormous cost of the project, but brings up the 1835 fire and its enormous cost as a justification for the price.

At 5 A.M. on June 22, 1842, water began flowing through the Croton Aqueduct. The water commissioners, aboard the small vessel the Croton Maid of Croton Lake, went with it. The 16 foot long, four-person barge was especially built to traverse the tunnels and continued until High Bridge, which was not yet completed. On June 27, the Croton Maid was carried across the river and the commissioners continued back into the aqueduct, arriving at the York Hill Reservoir to a 38 artillery gun salute.

The following day, the Board of Water Commissioners submitted a report to Robert H. Morris, the Mayor of New York City. It was printed in the New York Herald on June 25, 1842.

“SIR – The Board of Water Commissioners have the honor to Report, that on Wednesday, the twenty second instant, they opened the gates of the Croton Aqueduct at its mouth, on the Croton Lake, at 5 o’clock in the morning, giving it a volume of water of 18 inches in depth.

“The Commissioners, with their Chief and Principal Assistant Engineers, accompanied the water down, sometimes in their barge, ‘the Croton Maid of Croton Lake,’ and sometimes on the surface of the Aqueduct above.
“We found that the water arrived at the waste gates at Sing Sing, a distance of 8 miles in 5 hours and 48 minutes: here we suffered the water to flow out at the waste gates until 12 o’clock, M., when the gates were closed on a volume of about 2 feet in depth. The water then flowed on and arrived at Mill River waste gates at a quarter past 3 o’clock, a distance of 5 miles.

“It was there drawn off through the waste gates for half an hour, and was, at a quarter before 4 o’clock, allowed to flow on. We continued to precede it on land, and to accompany it in our boat, in the aqueduct, to Yonkers, a distance of 10 miles, where it arrived at half past 10 o’clock at night. Here we permitted it to flow at this waste gate until a quarter past 5 o’clock in the morning, when the waste gates were closed, and it flowed on and arrived at the waste gate on the Van Courtlandt farm, a distance of five miles and a half, in three hours and a quarter. Here we permitted it to flow out of the waste gates for two hours when the gates were closed, and it flowed, in two hours and twenty minutes, a distance of about four miles and three quarters, down to the Harlem river, where the Commissioners and their Chief Engineer emerged to the surface of the earth in their subterranean barge at 1 o’clock, June 23d.

“The average current or flow of the water has been thus proved to be forty-five minutes to the mile, a velocity greater, we are happy to say, than the calculations gave reason to expect.

“It is with great satisfaction we have to report, that the work at the dam, on the line of aqueduct proper, the waste gates and all the appendages of this great work, so far as tried by this performance, have been found to answer most perfectly the objects of their construction.

“In conclusion, we congratulate the Common Council of the city, and our fellow citizens, at the apparent success of this magnificent undertaking, designed not for show, nor for luxury, nor for glory; but for health, security against fire, comfort, temperance [note: a reference to the habit of mixing New York water with alcohol to make it safe and palatable to drink] and enjoyment of our whole population – objects worth of a community of virtuous freemen.

“With great respect, we remain, your obedient servants, Samuel Stevens, John D. Ward, Z. Ring, B. Birdsall.
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“P.S. – We expect the water will be admitted into the Northern Division of the Receiving Reservoir on Monday next, at half-past 4 o’clock, P.M. at which time and place we shall be happy to see yourself and the other members of the Common Council.”

In fact, the water did not begin to fill the Manhattan reservoirs until July 4, 1842. The official celebration was reserved for October 14, 1842. The New York Herald reported the following day, “The celebration commenced at daylight with the roar of one hundred cannon, and all the fountains in the city immediate began to send forth the limpid stream of the Croton. Soon after this, the joyous bells from a hundred steeples pealed forth their merry notes to usher in the subsequent scenes. At and before this moment, over half a million of souls leaped simultaneously from their slumbers and their beds, and dressed themselves as for a gladsome gala day – a general jubilee.”

Workers were given the day off and an enormous parade, with representatives from every official organization in the city followed, ending at City Hall Park, where an enormous fountain was flowing. Again, the New York Herald, “For several days previous, thousands of strangers had been pouring into the city from all parts of the country, to see and join in the procession, until there must have been at least 200,000 strangers in the city, making an aggregate with the resident inhabitants of half a million of souls congregated in our streets.”

The opening of the Croton Aqueduct marked a period of transformation for New York City. Already one of the most important port cities in the nation, the abundance of clean water meant that urban and industrial growth could continue apace. The aqueduct was expanded several times, but in 1885 the “New Croton Aqueduct” was constructed. The Old Croton Aqueduct continued to be used until the 1950s, and is today a park – many of its old aqueduct bridges are now pedestrian bridges, as had been suggested during their original construction. The New Croton Aqueduct is still in use, still bringing Croton River water to New York City.

​If you enjoyed this post and would like to support more history blog content, please make a donation to the Hudson River Maritime Museum or become a member today!​