Rock around the Revolution: New Jersey in Chicago?

No matter where you go, you're bound to run into New Jersey. I just wasn't expecting it on Michigan Avenue in Chicago, embedded in the side of a Gothic building.

Admittedly, I found this one about 20 years ago, back when my New Jersey history maven cred was in its infancy. Yeah, I'll admit it: I was the one hanging around the Excellent Diner in Westfield, reminding people that the state was once home to four, count 'em FOUR pre-fab diner manufacturers. It was well before Ivan and I met, and while I did my share of exploring, it didn't yet involve birds.

Anyway, a friend and I made a weekend visit to Chicago for its annual Blues Festival and whiled away some free time enjoying the city's amazing downtown architecture. As we walked past the Chicago Tribune building, I noticed something very unusual: embedded within the uniform granite blocks of the walls are scores, maybe hundreds of irregularly-shaped stones, each labeled with a description and a place.

At first, I figured they might represent locations in Illinois, but as I sought more out, I noticed they came from many states, and even historically significant places in Europe, Asia and beyond. Tribune publisher Robert McCormick had started the tradition before the building was erected, asking the newspaper's correspondents to deliver rocks and bricks from historically significant places. The tradition continues today, with portions of the Berlin Wall and World Trade Center girders incorporated in the building's walls.

There would be no justice if there was no rock to represent New Jersey. Had the Trib assigned a correspondent to the state, and if so, had he (or she) taken the assignment seriously?

The answer came pretty quickly:

Yup: a stone from the Battle of Trenton. I searched farther and found one labeled ambiguously as "New Jersey Washington's Landing after crossing the Delaware River." Another was flatter and browner -- "Revolutionary Battlefield Princeton, New Jersey." Mixed among rocks from Prairie DuChien, Wisconsin, Great Wall of China, Hawaii's Pearl Harbor and Omaha Beach in Normandy, Princeton actually gets another shout-out from the Trib building, with a squarish rock from "New Jersey Princeton University."

The Trib's New Jersey correspondent was apparently a bit of an overachiever, delivering four rocks back to HQ. Granted, he took the easy way out, grabbing specimens from four places no more than 15 miles from his presumed Trenton bureau office, but their significance is unquestioned.

And, well, from what I can surmise, there are more rocks from New Jersey embedded at the Trib than from any other jurisdiction of its type within the United States, maybe the world. This list gives you an idea of what's there... it may not be complete, but it's still staggering to see how well we're represented, and you don't see a heck of a lot of other Revolutionary-era sites on the list, either.

If you were going to send a New Jersey stone to the Trib building, what would you choose?

Palmer Square: Vintage Colonial charm, circa 1937

Walk around Princeton's atmospheric Palmer Square, and you'd be excused if you thought parts of it had been there since the American Revolution. Small shops with brick facades are interspersed with wood-faced neighbors, and the picturesque Nassau Inn stands in the center, seemingly having been there forever.

However, Palmer Square is much younger, a planned development built in the 1930s. Its construction brought the destruction of a local institution with a legitimate link to colonial times, as well the relocation of a thriving African-American community.

A portion of Palmer Square, Fall 2014.

Given how central Palmer Square is to the contemporary image of Princeton, and how convincingly old it looks, it's difficult to conceive the town before it was built. Edward Palmer, a Princeton alumnus and heir to the New Jersey Zinc fortune, envisioned a mixed-use development that would become the new focus within the town. In the late 1920s he began to quietly acquire property just a few blocks west of the University gates, between Nassau Street and Jackson Street. He hired architect Thomas Stapleton to design shops and office buildings that, though united, would appear to have been built over an extended period of time.

Typical for 20th century redevelopment projects, Palmer's vision meant displacement for some of the community's less prominent residents. In this case, it was members of the black community, many of whom worked in service positions around town and at the University. As the land for the project was cleared, residents were moved eight blocks north of their previous neighborhood, creating a new 'edge' of town. With them went several houses; new dwellings were built for those whose homes couldn't be salvaged. The project also erased two roads: Baker Street, which intersected Nassau, and Nassau Place, which had been a service road for coaches.

The original Nassau Inn (College Inn) on Nassau Street.
Photo from the Historic American Buildings Survey/
Library of Congress

The Nassau Inn was was to be the focal point of the development, but ironically the lovely Colonial-style building we see today took the name of a 1757 structure that was razed in the name of progress. Originally built of brick imported from Holland, Judge Thomas Leonard's home was known as the finest in Princeton for its day, and eventually became widely known as the place to stay as the town became an important stop on the stagecoach route.

A hotel since 1769, the original Nassau Inn had stood directly on Nassau Street, eventually absorbing the adjacent Mansion House built in 1836. At its start, the inn had been known as "The Sign of the College" or "College Inn," and had hosted commencement dinners for the original College of New Jersey until the Revolutionary War forced an end to the tradition. According to local lore, Paul Revere and Thomas Paine visited during wartime, as did several signers of the Declaration of Independence.

In later years, the building hosted the annual commencement ball, though Princeton students were ordinarily forbidden from visiting the tavern. According to notes from the Historic American Buildings Survey, New Jersey Legislature committees often held meetings at the inn, as well. It appears that by the time the building was brought down, it bore little resemblance to the hostelry Washington Irving had visited on an 1813 stop in Princeton.

Though the neighborhood -- and the Inn -- had received their death warrants in the late 1920s, the advent of the Great Depression put the project on hold until 1937. The WPA Guide to 1930s New Jersey notes that construction was to be completed by 1941, but in reality, pieces and portions of the project have evolved over the decades. More stores, an office building and luxury apartments have all been added in the past 20 years.

As for the old inn, only a few relics remain: a stone platform that now graces the Nassau Inn's Yankee Doodle Tap Room, and the old Nassau Inn sign salvaged by Princeton students in 1937.   

Mercer: a county, a tree and a kick-butt general

Every once in a while, we run into a place or a story that is so remarkable that we wonder why in heck we'd never heard it. Our visit to the Princeton Battlefield revealed the contributions of a Revolutionary War officer who was so tough that, well, he could teach nails how to be tough. His grit and heroism made such an impression on his contemporaries that a county, a fort and a tree in New Jersey were named in his honor though he never lived here. Add to that the fact that he sired a family that produced, among others, General George Patton, and it's odd to think that more of us don't know his story well.

Hugh Mercer, in a study
by painter John Trumbull

Originally trained as a physician, Hugh Mercer first saw combat in his native Scotland as an assistant surgeon in the army of Bonnie Prince Charles during the battle to regain the Scottish monarchy. Fleeing to America to escape persecution, he settled in Pennsylvania and practiced medicine, but the call of battle came once again, this time the French and Indian War. He joined the British cause in 1755, first as a surgeon and then as a soldier, serving honorably in both roles. It's said that after suffering serious injury and being separated from his troops in a battle against the Delaware and Shawnee tribes, he walked 100 miles back to his fort. His feats earned him the rank of colonel and some influential new friends, most notably George Washington.

Fast forward to the American Revolution. Mercer was first appointed Colonel within the Virginia Line and then Brigadier General of the Armies of the United Colonies. In the latter role, he supervised the construction of Fort Lee on the Palisades, and his brigade was among the troops who retreated in November 1776 following the British attack on the fort. You'll recall that after the Continentals' arrival in Pennsylvania, Washington set into motion the surprise attack that would startle the Hessians at Trenton and turn the tide of the war in the Americans' favor.

The success at Trenton emboldened Washington to attempt to take Princeton on January 3, 1777, with Mercer's brigade at the lead. Hitting the British head on at Thomas Clarke's farm outside of town, Mercer found himself separated from his troops as he had during the French and Indian War. This time, however, the outcome was not to be as favorable for him. Having shot his horse from under him and confused him for Washington, the British surrounded Mercer and demanded that he surrender. Instead, he drew his sword and charged, despite being substantially outnumbered. The Brits set on him with musket butts and bayonets, beating him severely and stabbing him seven times before leaving him for dead. They clearly underestimated the amount of fight left in the man: he endured another nine days before perishing.

The 'new' Mercer Oak,
descendant of the original.

While Mercer himself was unsuccessful in repelling the British, his courage ultimately helped turn the tide in the Americans' favor. Washington rallied Mercer's retreating troops to return to the conflict, resulting in another decisive battle that lifted American morale and forced Cornwallis back to New York. Not long afterward, Fort Mercer, on the Delaware River, was named for him.

So, now we know about the general, but what's this about a tree? Legend holds that the mortally injured Mercer was propped beneath a white oak tree on the Princeton battlefield, and that he refused to leave his troops until they had won the battle. In truth, he was brought to the nearby Clarke House for treatment as soon as he could be retrieved, but you have to admit that the tree story is a lot more compelling. A reminder of the general's heroism, the oak became the symbol of Mercer County and Princeton Township, as well as New Jersey's Green Acres program. (So much for the Salem Oak.) Unfortunately the tree succumbed to old age and collapsed in 2000, but a healthy successor tree, sprouted from an acorn of the original in 1980, now stands next to the stump of the trunk against which Mercer was said to have leaned. Let's hope that this descendant lasts many years, to help tell the story its parent is said to have witnessed.

A classical ruin and the preservation of a battlefield

If you have interest in historic preservation, you're likely familiar with the many protracted fights to keep development from encroaching on some of America's most important battlefields. The past 40 years or so have seen attempts to build a Disney theme park on the Civil War-era Manassas battlefield in Virginia (also known as the "Third Battle of Manassas"), and here in New Jersey, the encroachment of residential sprawl on portions of the historic site of the Battle of Monmouth.

It goes without saying that your Hidden New Jersey explorers are firmly on the side of preserving historic battle sites. Keeping battlefields undeveloped is crucial to helping visitors understand the the challenges our forebears faced in liberating and defending our nation. Somehow, watching a reenactment on a developed battlefield -- as I did for the 225th anniversary of the Battle of Springfield -- loses its impact when you see Hessians marching past a CVS.

Thing is, we've been building on battlefields for as long as there's been a United States. Many of the battles took place on privately owned land, and when the wars were over, the owners were more concerned with making their land profitable than they were in preserving history. You really couldn't blame them, especially farmers who were trying to get as much from their acreage as possible.

I hadn't given too much thought to the old development issues until we stopped by the Princeton Battlefield a few weekends ago. A key location in the ten crucial days that turned the tide of the Revolution in the Americans' favor, the Battlefield State Park includes the site of the recently-deceased Mercer Oak, under which General Hugh Mercer was said to have collapsed after having been bayonetted by Redcoats several times. The Clarke House, which was used as a hospital during and after the battle, is also still on site.

And then there's the Colonnade -- a set of Ionic columns topped by a large lintel and supported by brick walls on the sides. It sits on the northern side of the park, atop a hill far opposite the Clarke House, looking very out of place and incomplete. There's no statue of Mercer or Washington or anyone else beside it to give it context, and the casual passer-by is left to wonder what in heck it is. If it were in Greece or Italy, you'd shrug it off as just another classical ruin, but in Princeton? Ivan and I took a walk up the hill to check it out (and, well, to see if we could find winter finches, but that's another story).

Long story short, the Colonnade is a ruin -- of not one, but two houses. Originally, it served as part of the facade for a Philadelphia mansion designed by U.S. Capitol architect Thomas U. Walter in 1836 for a merchant named Matthew Newkirk. After the Newkirk home was demolished in 1900, the columns were brought to Princeton and recycled for the entrance of Mercer Manor, a grand home built at the edge of the battlefield.

Mercer Manor stood on the site for over 50 years, until it was severely damaged in a fire. Mostly unsalvageable, the mansion was demolished in 1957, except for the Colonnade that stands today. Its then owners, the Institute for Advanced Study, donated the property to the State for inclusion in the Battlefield Park.

A view of the battlefield from behind the Colonnade.

Since then, the four Ionic columns have become the focal point of a memorial to unidentified soldiers killed in the battle -- 21 British and 15 Americans who are buried somewhere behind the site where Mercer Manor once stood. Nearby, there's a plaque on which is printed a memorial poem written in 1916 by visiting Princeton professor and future Poet Laureate of England, Alfred Noyes.

Unintended as it might have been, the Colonnade could be considered a fitting tribute to the brave Americans who fought at Princeton. These patriots were battling for a new republic and victory that until then appeared unlikely. Their humble contributions helped forge a country that has stood strong for well over two centuries.

Finding the key in Princeton

When you spend a good bit of time in historic buildings, you start to notice the anachronisms. You know, the current day things that shake you out of the pretense that you're actually seeing the place the same way it looked to the people who made history there.

Usually, they're things like fire supression systems or safety lights: items placed to protect and preserve visitors, the building and its contents. Most of the hardware is obscured from visitors' eyes, leaving only the necessary working parts in view. There's generally some level of respect and consideration.

Other times, they're just thoughtless additions. During my college days, I despaired at the sight of red "No Trespassing" (or words to that effect) stickers slapped on the doors of Rutgers' most historic structures. Really, guys? Granted, these buildings are in active use, but there's no other way of getting the message across without defacing history?

I made occasional visits to Princeton when I was going to Rutgers, and while I will always bleed scarlet red, I was tremendously impressed with the older Princeton University campus buildings. The oldest building, Nassau Hall, had, of course, been the meeting place of the Continental Congress in the early 1780s, and had suffered damage from British gunfire. Regardless of college loyalties, you have to admit that's pretty cool.

Rutgers, of course, has a similar building, Old Queens, and while it's about 70 years younger than Old Nassau, it too houses university administration. I'd never had occasion to venture inside, and to be honest, I was a little frightened to just open the door and walk inside. I never had university business there, and, well, there was the matter of that red sticker, right?

Most of my Princeton visits were made at night, but I once found myself there in the late afternoon during the week. Maybe a visit to Nassau Hall was in order?

It was a bit daunting to walk the long path from Nassau Street to the front steps and then up to the door. It seemed so official, so formal. I hadn't seen anyone else enter the building that way, so I wondered if the imposing black door was even functional or unlocked. And where would it land me? Would I open the door to end up directly in the university president's office? Would I have to withstand the glaring inquisition of an imperious security guard? I wouldn't know until I tried, so...

I tried. The doorknob turned and the door opened into a large lobby. Once inside, I saw the walls were adorned with the names of Princeton graduates who had died in the service of their countries in wars back to the Revolution. As I later found out, the building itself could be considered a veteran, as it served as both a barracks and a prison during the Battle of Princeton in 1777.

I was up to the World War casualties when I heard steps approaching. Oh, no, a guard. Was I trespassing? I figured the best thing to do was to apologize, but apparently there was no problem. "I'm just closing up for the day," he said.

We chatted about the building for a few minutes as we walked to the front door and stepped outside. He seemed to have a real interest and respect for Old Nassau, and he appreciated that I did, too, but he couldn't talk for very long. He had his rounds to make, so he had to lock up and be on his way.

"They'd kill me if I lost this," he said, pulling the door key out of his pocket. It was large, obviously quite old and still effective, as he inserted it into the ancient keyhole and gave it a twist to secure the entrance. Yup, they were still locking up their oldest building with what appeared to be original (or close to original) equipment.

Visiting Princeton in Elizabeth

If you happen to get called for jury duty in Union County, be sure to check out Princeton University while you're there. You'll be walking in the footsteps of some of our most notable early Americans.

No, they haven't moved the county courthouse. It's still in Elizabeth, the county seat. The very seeds of one of America's nine colonial colleges were originally planted there, beside the First Presbyterian Church on what's now Broad Street. A marker commemorating the spot is planted squarely on the outside wall of the parish house, site of the original school building.

Colleges at the time were vastly different than they are today; the students were younger and primarily studied for the ministry. Jonathan Dickenson, the pastor at First Presbyterian, helped establish the College of New Jersey in October 1746 as an alternative to the less enlightened religious philosophy being taught at Yale. With his death the following year, the presidency of the school shifted to the Reverend Aaron Burr, father of the more famous man with the same name. He moved the school to Newark and eventually to Princeton, whose remote location he felt would provide little distraction from his students' scholarship.

Though The College of New Jersey had a brief stay in Elizabeth, the town's educational heritage had a major impact on American independence. The Parish House I mentioned earlier was built on the site of Elizabethtown Academy, which educated Revolutionary-era notables including Alexander Hamilton and his future nemesis, the younger Aaron Burr.

Hamilton made quite an impression on attorney and future New Jersey Governor William Livingston, who invited the student to live at Liberty Hall just a few miles away. The contacts the future Treasury Secretary made through Livingston were the foundation for his future accomplishments. He even established his reputation as a ladies man by wooing one of the venerable three graces, the beautiful and coquettish Catharine Livingston.

The Academy didn't survive the war, as many students joined Hamilton and some of the faculty in joining the Continental Army. The building itself, converted to a storehouse, was burned by the British in 1780.

Visiting the notables in Princeton

This past weekend was bookended with the birth and death of our 22nd and 24th president, Stephen Grover Cleveland. Conveniently, he's buried about an hour away from Caldwell, in what's known as "the Westminster Abbey of the United States," the Princeton Cemetery.

The smallest of several memorials clustered around
John Witherspoon's grave.

Since being established by the Nassau Presbyterian Church in 1757, the Princeton Cemetery has become the final resting place of many of the town's and university's notable personages, regardless of faith. In fact, a healthy number of Stars of David, Sanskrit symbols and other markings are visible among all of the crosses of many Christian denominations. Cleveland gained his Princeton credentials after his second presidential term, when he retired to the community and became a University trustee. He's buried not far from the University Presidents' Plot, which itself is the final resting place of such notables as Aaron Burr Sr. and John Witherspoon, who both led the school in the 1700s.

The Cleveland plot

Visitors to Cleveland's burial plot are left with the impression that he's not soon to be forgotten. First, his grave still held a memorial wreath placed there by a military honor guard on his birthday, March 18. And given the shell leis draped over his headstone, it's clear that the Hawaiian monarchists make the cemetery one of their stops on their annual New Jersey pilgrimage. They've also thoughtfully left leis for his wife Frances and their child Ruth, who is said to have been the inspiration for the name of the Baby Ruth candy bar though she died in childhood, long before the product was marketed. Both are also buried in the family plot.

Paul Tulane seemingly thought
a lot of himself, as evidenced here.

A few steps away from the Clevelands is a memorial whose placement has caused a fair bit of conjecture. Paul Tulane was a native New Jerseyan, merchant and philanthropist who also had a special interest in the city of New Orleans. As the story goes, Tulane offered a significant donation to Princeton University in 1882, with the condition that the school should be renamed in his honor. When the trustees balked, he instead gave over $300,000 to the Medical College of Louisiana, which subsequently became Tulane University. Allegedly he developed a grudge against Princeton, and ordered that when he died, his memorial gravestone should stand with its back facing Nassau Hall. Indeed it does, but there appears to be no rhyme or reason to why graves in that part of the cemetery are oriented as they are, and there's no uniformity to their directions. I'll give him this, though: it's one of the largest and grandest stones in the lot, so if he was making a statement, he wasn't messing around.

And finally, for those who need a little humor in their graveyards, here's one from a more obscure Princeton resident. I wonder: did his family consider him to be a bit of a hypochondriac?