Take Me Back to Manhattan

John Fowler finishes his 1830 visit to Long Island

When Englishman John Fowler stayed with a relative in Whitestone, New York, in
1830, the immediate area was mostly agricultural. Thirty years later, in 1860, its
population was only 630, so would have been considerably smaller when Fowler
arrived. The area got its name for a rock down by the boat landing. Fowler’s first
two full days there, August 6th and 7th, were spent visiting neighboring farms.
He took a great many notes, mostly regarding Long Island itself, which at this time
consisted of King’s (or Brooklyn), Queens and Suffolk counties.

Roads on the island are quite good, although sandy; most leading to Brooklyn, where
ferries and steamboats for Manhattan, capable of transporting wagons and carriages,
are readily available. With such a large market just to the west, farmland prices are
probably among the highest in the state. A visit to one of the bays convinces Fowler
that fishing is abundant in the area. And lobsters “I myself saw the claw of one which,
when fresh, I am satisfied would have weighed from seven to nine pounds.”

That second day, one in which the temperature reached 85 degrees, when the two men
return, it’s to learn, from one of the New York papers, that England’s King George IV
has died on June 26th. The Duke of Clarence has succeeded him as William IV.
Fowler turns in but finds it difficult to drift off, since the temperature is still high and
he's had to close his windows – those damn mosquitoes again!

The next day, August 8th, Fowler decides to head inland from the East River a bit,
visiting the village of Flushing, to the south. Contrary to what some of you might
think, it was corrupted from the name of a Dutch village, Vlissingen. Between the
two settlements he notes the aftereffects of the tornado that had struck a few days
earlier. Flushing was more developed than Whitestone. Fowler describes an actual
village, with houses, stores and churches. Spafford’s Gazetteer had summed it up as,
“quite a place of resort for the butterflies of fashion, at least for a part of the year.”

Fowler and his relation head back for Whitestone late in the afternoon. After dinner he
takes the steamboat back to Manhattan, getting ready for his trip upstate. While he’s
winding up his affairs there we’ll take note of a few more 1830 Long Island happenings.

Back in February Elias Hicks, founder of a schismatic branch of the Quaker religion and
an early abolitionist, died in his home in Jericho, a dozen mile to the east of Whitestone,
at the age of 81. A little further to the east of that, on Long Island Sound, Port
Washington residents got stage service into the city. Down on the south shore, also
back in February, William Hutchinson and C. F. Le Fevre began publishing The Long
Island Telegraph and General Advertiser, the island’s fifth newspaper. In November of
1831 it will be renamed The Hempstead Inquirer by new owner Morris Snedeker.

One change would be made to island place names, within the town of Hempstead, as a
temperance movement swept through the area. An early settlement, known as Rum
Point (for its many taverns) was renamed Greenwich Point. Later it would have
another new name – Roosevelt, for Teddy.

© 2007 David Minor / Eagles Byte

Heading for Lawn Guyland

We re-join our English visitor John Fowler as he starts around the state in 1830

A lot was happening on our last visit to New York City, back in 1830. Scotsman James Stuart and his wife were departing America to return to Britain after a three-year visit; Englishman John Fowler was arriving, for his own tour of the former colony. During the year the city saw the debut of a thirteen-year-old Irish stage prodigy, a celebration of the second popular uprising over in France, a hot-air balloon flight from the Battery to Amboy, New Jersey, and a mutinous crew landing near Coney Island and burying a treasure there in the sands. In other words, things pretty much as normal, there at the mouth of the Hudson.

Now our man Fowler prepares to explore the rest of the state in this year of 1830 - he would write about the journey next year, in Journal of a Tour Through the State of New York. On August 4th he writes, “Previous to my setting out on my intended excursion to the western part of the state, wishing to see something of Long Island, and having given a relative, resident near Flushing, a promise of spending a few days with him, took my place this afternoon upon a steam-boat plying daily to different parts of the Sound, to Whitestone, about eighteen miles distant from New York.” Ever since the consolidation of the city nearly seven decades in the future, Whitestone has lain within the limits of the city.

Passing on toward Long Island Sound, Fowler mentions passing by “Horll Gatt, or Hurl Gate.” This of course is Hell Gate, where the Stuarts have been staying. Perhaps they were out in the gardens that day and glanced up as Fowler’s ship steamed past.

Fowler finds a “conveyance” waiting at the Whitestone landing, which takes him to his relative’s farmhouse, for a ten-year reunion. The area was settled back in 1645, and at the time of the American Revolution was home to Francis Lewis, a signer of the Declaration of Independence. A young school teacher from further out on Long Island will come along eight or nine years from now. Kid by the name of Whitman.

Fowler and his kinsman spend the evening reminiscing. Having purchased his present farm from his wife’s family, the unnamed relative tells Fowler that nothing could induce him to return to England.

The next day Fowler’s given a tour of the farm, viewing nearly fifty acres of woodland, apple and peach orchards, plus pens of cows, sheep and pigs. The day has become quite sultry; during the middle of the day dark clouds gather and a brief tornado - Fowler’s word - tears up a few trees and brings branches from others crashing to the ground. Half an hour later the skies clear.

That night sleep comes fitfully to Fowler. Not the bedbugs which he complained of in Brooklyn, but mosquitos, not to mention, “locusts, crickets, tree-toads, kater-dids, grasshoppers, &c, &c, the din and bustle of the country, though of a different kind, seems scarcely less than that of the town.” He’s heard that winter quiets things down but to him it’s a remedy, “ as bad as the disease.”

We’ll tiptoe out quietly, try to let him get some sleep

© 2007 David Minor / Eagles Byte

A Name from the Past

A late summer encounter in 1830 revives memories for James Stuart

© 2006 David Minor/Eagles Byte

When James Stuart decided he and his wife might enjoy taking refuge from the summer’s heat at the Long Island home of a Mr. Anderson, he had a New York friend inquire if the family would mind taking in boarders for a month or so. The couple “ . . . were good enough to agree to receive us, provided we could conform to the hours of their meals, which were six A. M. for breakfast, twelve for dinner, and seven for tea and supper. We never hesitated about this, knowing how much one's comfort depends in sultry weather on airy rooms and airy situation.”

The move was made and our travelers were soon enjoying the breezes at Hell Gate as they relaxed in the large, breezy rooms shaded by overhanging trees, and strolled about among the six-foot tall hydrangeas in the cool, dewy early morning hours. “There is nowhere, even upon the Thames, in the same space of ground, a greater number of country houses or villas. Mr Anderson's house is in the highest situation, above and close to the whirlpool, and the views from it are at all times fine, and, while the shipping are dancing through Hellgate, frequently very amusing.” Life was good.

As they did last year while staying in New Rochelle, the Stuarts spent most sabbaths attending neighborhood services of various denominations. He tells us, “There is a perfectly good understanding among the different classes of religious persons in this country. No superiority is claimed, or allowed by one over another.” If this truly was the case we’ve come a long way in the past 176 years. Wrong direction but, oh, well!

Other times were spent visiting neighboring farms for tea parties, complete with many tempting examples of the pastry arts, in keeping with the Dutch backgrounds of most households - waffles, crullers, doughnuts, sweet cakes, gingerbread - not to mention sliced ham and a wide variety of local fruit preserves. The sideboards were well supplied with decanters of various potables, the food accompanied by pipes and cigars. Draughts and backgammon were favorite amusements. Life was good, and not too often sticky, thanks to counter-intuitive cool breaths from Hell Gate.

One day near the end of August Stuart took a short trip to Flushing for another camp meeting much like last year’s, with the exception that this was attended primarily by blacks. He shared the steamboat Linnæus with close to 450 other attendees - all careful to distribute themselves evenly on the upper deck so as to keep the craft balanced - and spent most of the day at the services, along with 3,000 to 4,000 worshipers, himself leaving after the afternoon observances.

It was around now that he was approached by a fellow Scot, recently arrived in North America. Stuart must have turned a bit pale when he first heard the man’s name - John Boswell. If you remember Stuart’s own reason for leaving Scotland in the first place, you’ll understand. For it was back in 1822, eight years earlier, when Stuart had placed a 0.68-in ball from a Tatham and Egg pistol into the collarbone of Sir Alexander Boswell of Auchinleck. Sir Alexander, son of the late biographer James Boswll, had died the following afternoon. Why was John Boswell hunting up Stuart now? Next time.