Ninety-nine out of a hundred persons look upon Sandy Hook merely as a sandbank, a mosquito desert; but really it is a place worth seein’ and stoppin’ at, if you don’t stop too long, and an extra-size Jersey mosquito don’t carry you off.
In the first place, the place itself is curious. There are some cedars near it which are 300 to 500 years old, while the vegetation, what there is of it, is wonderfully like that which characterizes hundreds of miles in the Southern States.
In the second place, the government is putting’up some first class works there–fortifications and so on–intended to guard the entrance to the anchorage bay by the main channel, half a mile distant, or by what is called the swash channel, a mile further north. With the exception of Fortress Monroe and Fort Adams, at Newport, the fort at Sandy Hook will be the largest in the country, and in some respects the finest and most complete.
Then there is a very curious population at Sandy Hook. The common idea is that the place has no inhabitants but insects, but this is altogether a mistake. There are a hundred or so of “sand-hillers” who right in this nineteenth century live a very isolated life, just as men used to live in the dark ages. They have no post-office, they have no church, they have no doctor, there is no fire department, there is no police department, and there is only one store, moored to the steamboat dock. But on the other hand they are not bothered with taxes or rent, they don’t have to serve on juries, and they are not bothered by book canvassers, commercial drummers, peddlers, lightnin’ rod men or life insurance agents. They have regular work, very moderate pay and absolutely hardly any expenses. So, on the whole, the “sand-hillers” of Sandy Hook are about as lucky as they are lonely.
Then there is no place in the world more truly delightful to a naturalist–a student of insect life–than Sandy Hook. It would be a paradise for men like Welsh Edwards. There are said to be over one thousand varieties of the mosquito, over five hundred varieties of sand adders, and a hundred or so distinct species of black snakes.
And lastly, Sandy Hook has quite an interestin’ history. The earliest settlers on it–its original owners after the Indians–were a Quaker family by the name of Hartshorne. Quaker like, these Hartshornes got the land very cheap and sold it very dear.
From the very earliest period the authorities in New York saw the importance of controllin’ and protectin’ the harbor at Sandy Hook, and made negotiation with the Hartshorne descendants to purchase their property for the government. But the Hartshornes wanted such outrageous sums that the negotiations time after time fell through. What the Hartshornes paid the Indians seventeen shillings for they asked 750 pounds sterling for, or about seventy-five thousand per cent advance on the original investment. Finally it was decided that this land must be secured by the government at any price, so preparations were set afoot to start a lottery to buy the land. The lottery was made a sort of State affair of, and was considered a great undertakin’. The highest citizens of New York were managers in this lottery scheme; men like Cruger, Bayard, Lispenard and Livingston controlled it and sold tickets for it.
With a deal of time and trouble the lottery scheme proved a success, and the government got possession of Sandy Hook, and the Hartshorne Quakers realized a fortune.
As soon as the government took hold a lighthouse was put up and a duty of ninepence a ton was laid on all ships enterin’ the port to defray expenses. This duty amounted to about twenty-five hundred dollars the first twelve months.
Havin’ taken all this trouble to get Sandy Hook, the next step taken by the government was to endeavor to destroy it. This was on account of the troubles between Great Britain and the colonies, and the American government, comin’ to the conclusion that it was necessary for the protection of New York harbor to destroy the lighthouse at Sandy Hook, so that the British fleet couldn’t steer safely right into New York Bay. A Major Malcolm was accordin’ly ordered to proceed to Sandy Hook and destroy the lighthouse there, but to do so secretly and as economically as possible, savin’ all the glass and oil for future use.
Major Malcolm did as he was ordered. He closed the beacon light, but he didn’t destroy the lighthouse or injure its walls, and he took such care of the oil and lamps that after the trouble had passed they were all in use again.
When General Howe retreated from the battle of Monmouth, he went by the way of the old Navesink road and embarked from the Hook, makin’ a temporary bridge from the mainland to the Hook. At that time the Hook was an island, but at other times it has been a peninsula, and it seems to have been in the singular habit of being peninsula or Island by turns, at the whim of the sea. The Hook has lengthened over half a mile in the last fifty years.
The old lighthouse at Sandy Hook is a genuine historical relic, bein’ over one hundred and twenty years old–considerably older than the United States. It used to show the marks of cannon shot, but these have been removed by recent repairs. For a while it was in the possession of the British and refugees, durin’ the Revolutionary War, and there was a sort of prison in the lower part of the lighthouse, where captives were kept. It is rumored that one of these captives was murdered in his cell by one of the refugees from New York, who owed the poor devil of a captive a grudge. This den was some fourteen feet below the top of the cellar of the lighthouse, and was a terribly dark and stiflin’ hole. God help the poor wretch who found himself in it–the loneliest, dreariest part of the lonely, dreary Sandy Hook. The last poor devil confined in it had been in prison there in the Winter time, for when introducin’ a new brick linin’, some ten years ago, the workmen came upon a ponderous iron door which guarded the entrance into this cell and in the room was a fireplace, with ashes still in the grate.
Beside the tower of the lighthouse is a garden, quite pretty and picturesque, and around the spot are a number of material reminiscences of shipwreck and disaster.
Some twenty years ago, one wintry night, the brig Swett foundered on the shore in a terrific gale. All souls on board were lost, and the only relic now in existence of the ill-starred ship is an arm chair that floated ashore, and which now is to be seen on the piazza of the keeper’s house.
Some thirty years since, a huge English merchantment, the Clyde, and not long after, another brig, the Risper, were driven on shore near the bar, in two of the most terrific gales that ever visited and devastated the coast. All that is left of ‘em now is a figure head, and a hen coop, and a stern board.
There have been fifty or sixty wrecks in the last twenty years or so, since keeper Patterson took charge of the lighthouse, and in one of these wrecks a beautiful young girl was washed ashore. She was the only one given up by the sea, which, though it had killed her, had not even mutilated her. She was found upon the beach lookin’ as if she had fallen fast asleep. Her hands were folded as if in prayer, and there was a smile upon her face, as if she had not died a death of horror. There was a weddin’ ring on her finger, and that was all.
She was found smilin’ and she sleeps peacefully, her long, last sleep in a little spot called Ocean Cemetery, a half acre or so, where among the shadow of the cedars among the sand grass and brambles, there are a few graves of shipwrecked men and women, whose restin’ places are marked by rude head-boards and wooden crosses, without any names, because to those who buried ‘em the buried ones were nameless. This Ocean Cemetery stands right next to the plum picnic grounds, where the people come from miles around after the peculiar species of plum which flourishes here.
Somewhat strange to say, since the government has appointed a life-savin’ station at this place–seven men with a complete outfit–there have been no shipwrecks at all off Sandy Hook.
Aong the wrecks was a canal boat that was separated from its tug and dashed ashore in the storm. This canal boat was taken possession of by a man and his family and was turned into one of the completest and coziest houses in the world. This canal-wreck house contained four rooms–a kitchen, a store room and two bed-rooms, and was inhabited by five people. It belonged to the Delaware and Hudson Canal-boat Company.
There is one tall pine tree on Sandy Hook called Captain Kidd’s tree. This has been one of the reported places where the pirate buried his treasure, and it has been dug all around till all its roots are bare.
Another tree nearby was inhabited by an old fishhawk, who was a chronic thief. He stole the workmen’s tools and the workmen’s coats till he was killed, and then there was found in his nest a regular museum of stolen articles. Then there used to be an old goat who was one of the curiosities of “The Hook.” He had been drifted ashore on a sort of a raft, and had made the Hook his home, and always followed the keeper’s cows to the barnyard at milkin’ time.
But the most interestin’ curiosity around the Hook used to be little Dickie, the carrier pigeon. Dickie was the oldest and the smartest, and at the same time the laziest, of the six carrier pigeons which used to be attached to this station to get the earliest news of the transatlantic steamers.
Old Captain Farrell had charge for years of this department, and he and Dickie were very fond of each other. Whenever an ocean steamer was sighted old Captain Farrell would row out to sea in a boat, if there wasn’t a gale, and take Dickie along. The message written on tissue paper would be attached to Dickie’s leg, and with this message Dickie would fly like an arrow to the tower, where Farrell’s assistant would be waitin’ for him.
But Dickie was rather “cranky,” and sometimes, just to tease the assistant, he would keep him waitin’ for the message for half an hour extra or so. He would fly back to the tower all right, but once there, he would flit around without comin’ in, and would hop about just out of reach of the impatient operator, who would try to taffy him, but all in vain. No amount of soft sawder could induce Dickie to come in till he was ready. So sometimes the whole country would be waitin’ for important news just on account of the whims of a pigeon. Such is life!
Altogether Sandy Hook is and has been a curious place–much more interesting than people give it credit for. And not the least interestin’ part about it is that the late Jim Fisk, Jr., took one of his fancies to Sandy Hook, and had determined to make a first class bathin’ place of it, and put up a big seaside hotel. But he was shot, and Sandy Hook as a waterin’ place and Jim Fisk went out together.
[Editor’s notes: The above column was adapted with few changes from an article “Sandy Hook” that appeared in the September, 1879 issue of Scribner’s Monthly.
The old growth red cedars of Sandy Hook still exist, but are endangered, suffering much damage from Hurricane Sandy in 2012. The “Southern States” vegetation probably refers lichens and sphagnum moss, similar to the barrier islands off the coasts of South Carolina and Georgia; as well as the Eastern Prickly Pear cactus. The beach plums are still to be found by gatherers.]
