No. 44  February 2005
The authoritative source on early churches in New Jersey

ISSN 1543-3250

find a church

— Highlights —

Last month's feature
the miner's churches

Book reviews
Architects & Builders of NC

Can you identify this church?

Montclair

Vintage photo of the month

Pilesgrove Meetinghouse

           Endangered churches
A dozen at-risk buildings are noted. Submit your nomination for the most endangered churches in the state. We will research the submissions and feature one each month, then maintain that list indefinitely.

      Annotate this article
Do have additional information about any of the buildings in this article? Or perhaps an old photograph or an article that can enrich our knowledge? Please submit that information for the benefit of other visitors.

How to use this site
Consult the database
Annotate the database
Upload a photo
Suggest a church for inclusion
Glossary
List of churches, by county
Photographic notes
Links to related sites
Contact us

Feature of the month

The devil is not in the details

Contrary to an expression that has become much overused of late, the devil is not to be found in the details of the state's churches. Indeed, we have only a few Gothic churches with gargoyles or other grotesques that might stand in for Old Scratch. Demonic figures are as rare in Jersey churches as they are in the Old Testament. Even human figures are usually absent, except of course for the statues of members of the holy family often found as part of Catholic iconography. The rather stern looking figure to the left, from the Presbyterian church on the green in Morristown, is unidentified, but seems more Nordic or perhaps English than mid-Eastern or prophetic. Saints, bishops, and angels in serried ranks greet the visitor at the entries of the French cathedrals, and fanciful as well as anthropomorphic bas-reliefs adorn many 9th and 10th century parish churches in Tuscany, but it is as though some American censor banned any human or demonic representations on the exteriors of our churches and meetinghouses, as they did in Muslim Spain. We do have an abundance of the two-dimensional figures memorialized in stained glass windows, of course, so there is perhaps nothing liturgical about the absence of such figures.
     In any case, it is the benign details—architectural details, rather than devils or gargoyles—that is my subject. I intend to call attention to a variety of capitals, hinges, keystones, railings, and a few other elements we don't usually notice. Indeed, some were not meant to be noticed, for they were purely functional and were not expected to exhibit any artistic merit. But the workmanship and the significance of the idiom or design tradition of the element urges a closer look.
      I have not spent much time photographing interior details—a very rich source, I readily concede—as I am rarely near a church during “working” hours. Many pages of the early builders' guides were devoted to interior and external details. The 6th edition (1827) of Asher Benjamin's book, The American Builder's Companion, includes a dozen pages with diagrams of handrails for circular stairs, and many more than that on pediments, capitals, cornices, windows, and doors. Windows and doors are a particularly fruitful topic, but like steeples, belfries and cupolas, each deserves more extended treatment, and will be subjects of subsequent articles [see, for example, "Not so wide as a churchdoor" and "Mine is larger than yours"]. There is a wealth of architectural elements one might focus on: patterns in the brick masonry, the cornices and barge boards of the mid-to-late nineteenth century, and even window mullions that in colonial times were quite graceful if not usually very elaborate. I now wish I had paid more attention to the weather vanes atop the steeples and cupolas of the early Protestant churches for I suspect there are denominational and folk or ethnic traditions (roosters, fish, angels, arrows) that could be teased out of a sufficient sample. In most cases, I concentrated on architectural elements in the narrowest sense because they were significant and often made for a good image. In my early work I had no thought of a comprehensive catalog of weather vanes, or of door and window surrounds, steeples, or anything other than the plan of the church, a preconception I now frequently regret. In writing about some of the buildings, I find that the most arresting image is of what I had initially regarded as a minor detail. So this month's feature is in homage to such details, or if you prefer, done in partial expiation of my early neglect.

We'll begin our examination in High Bridge (Hunterdon County) at the front entrance to the Reformed church, a building I consider one of the gems in the state. It was designed by famed New York architect George Post, better known for his work on that city's skyscrapers, and is listed on the National Register. Post had some sort of west Jersey connection, for he also worked on the renovation of the Presbyterian church in Mendham. Wrought iron hinges of this kind were much more common on Anglican churches than Reformed ones; elaborate ironwork was an element of late medieval churches in England, and therefore adopted as a characteristic, but not a liturgical element in that denomination's emphasis on historical accuracy in Episcopal building that swept the state in the mid-century. Although ironwork is a generally reliable clue that the church is Episcopal, one can find elaborate hinges on other upscale late 19th century churches, which I suspect was due to architects who were much influenced by the Arts and Crafts Movement as much as by archeological correctness. That movement was not merely a fashionable statement, but a resistance to the mass produced furniture and architecture of the period. Decorative hinges are now stamped out in the thousands, and grace doors and kitchen cabinets in sprawling subdivisions from coast to coast. In previous centuries, they would have been hand-made by blacksmiths and other ironworkers toiling over small forges, perhaps assisted by young apprentices working the bellows. Thus, in an apparently insignificant architectural element one may discover traces of our incredibly rich artistic and industrial traditions.

Capitals have been treated by innumerable authors since the Renaissance, when Vitruvius, the only important writer on architecture from ancient times, was translated. It is from his work that we have derived the Doric, Ionic, Corinthian, Tuscan, and Composite terms that make up what is known as the Five Orders—basically a way of organizing a much wider variety of capitals that could be found in Greek and Roman buildings. Purists in the last century often judged the merit of a building largely on how true-to-form the architect used one of the classic orders. Raphael was probably one of the first to depart from strict adherence (in a loggia he designed for one of the popes, as I recall), but most architects in this country worked within the Orders fairly closely until we get to Henry Hobson Richardson and what is called the Romanesque Revival. The Romanesque made use of specially shaped brick, rusticated stone, and elaborately carved arches and capitals to give a rich texture to the surfaces of buildings. There is a dearth of really good Romanesque Revival churches in the state (it was often expensive and many designs required more than ordinary skills in stone carving). Here and there we can find tolerably good Romanesque Revival buildings, but much more common are elements that were picked up from that idiom. Among those details are the capitals of some late 19th century buildings. Pictured above is a portion from the main entrance to the First Methodist church in Trenton. I cannot tell whether it was carved or is simply a concrete casting, but I assume the former. Many times these elaborately carved capitals accentuated columns of polished granite, as we can see in the entrance to St. John the Evangelist Catholic church in Lambertville (Hunterdon). Notice the difference in the depth of the carving; the Gothic St. John's is much more fully realized than the stylized Romanesque of the Trenton church. I don't want to push that distinction too far, but it seems to me an appropriate generalization, or at least a reasonable working hypothesis.

For an entirely different kind of detail, but no less accomplished, we'll journey about 45 miles north of Lambertville to Oxford, in Warren County. The fine brick Presbyterian church there was erected in 1890. Churches of that period invariably rested on a stone foundation, often undressed fieldstone. Anyone who has tried to shape the stone found in west Jersey with a chisel knows how exceptionally hard it is, so you would not expect to find evidence of much fine workmanship in a basement window, but here is a remarkable exception, and one that is too easily overlooked. This is not the cheapest or easiest way to construct a basement window, and there are four of them on each side of the church. The wooden frame had to be handmade, and the keystone was an unnecessary element, but a distinctive one, although unlikely to be noticed by any but the most discerning. This single detail suggests more about the congregation, or at least the congregation's building committee and supervising architect or contractor than any other aspect of the church.

In a similar manner is the no less well-made joinery of the Quaker meetinghouses, especially the doors and shutters. Both were usually paneled, with fine beading, and invariably handmade. By the 1840s or so, there were sash-and-blind manufacturers in a hundred towns and hamlets in the state, turning out windows, doors, shutters and other exterior woodwork, but it appears to me the Quakers, like those sympathetic to the Arts and Crafts Movement, preferred the individually crafted to the manufactured. Although Quakers eschewed ostentation, they found nothing to object to in fine cabinetry and craftsmanship. The meetinghouse in Barnegat is unusual in its L-shaped design; it was erected in 1767 and is on the National Register.

Another church on the National Register was erected in the same year, but in Salem County, and by a Presbyterian congregation. By Jersey standards, The Pilesgrove (or Pittsgrove) church in Daretown is an elegant Georgian meetinghouse, although it would have been regarded as modest and perhaps even provincial by Philadelphia tastes. What drew my eye was the inscribed keystone above the entrance. The crudely carved initials NG/VDM/1767/PGC stand for Nehemiah Greenman (pastor 1753-1778)/ Verbi del Minister (minister of the word of God)/ the date erected/Pilesgrove Church. Greenman had been educated by David Brainard, the famous missionary to the Indians, and had a contentious relationship with the congregation. I am intrigued by the crudeness of the carving, which was clearly not done by an artisan who might have made headstones for the adjacent burial ground. I suspect it was done after construction of the church, perhaps even by Reverend Greenman in an assertion of his significance to his truculent congregation.

The steel railings of the Asbury Presbyterian church (Warren County) are purely functional, and may not even be contemporary with the church (erected in 1869), as it has since been converted into an apartment. Had there not been an inch of snow that morning I might not have paid particular attention to the railings, but the snow had transformed them into graceful curves, spheres and posts. I include this image mostly as a reminder that I come to this project essentially as a photographer rather than as an architectural or cultural historian, but also with a gentle suggestion to all that you look around, perhaps as a photographer might, when you are in the presence of an old building of some merit.

Let us conclude our tour by returning to Morristown and the other of the pair of faces on the Presbyterian church. Their crowns suggest secular figures—if this were a Roman Catholic church one might be St Louis; if we were in England, it could be the local lord who paid for the chapel, or perhaps even (King) Edward the Confessor. But the fact that we are confronted with a pair of serious faces who appear used to command presents a more intriguing question. Solomon and David are possibilities, for both were warrior kings. I suppose we have to rule out Nebuchadnezzar and Pharaoh, although both were pretty serious fellows and had a profound impact on the ancient Hebrews. They are idealized images, so it is doubtful they were modeled after contemporary persons. I was tempted to call the church and ask, but a firm answer would have preempted any speculation about the matter, and I find speculation is often incredibly productive. In any case, the church was built in 1893, and as the oldest congregation in a city where Catholic, Methodist, Episcopal, Baptist, and even a schismatic Presbyterian congregation had all erected aggressively prominent buildings, there was no doubt some sentiment existed that the new church had to measure up to its competitors. And none of them had sculpted figures to greet parishioners. So there it is—you are free to come up with your own speculation rergarding their identity and purpose, at least until I get an e-mail from the church historian setting me right on the matter.

Photographers' attention to architectural details is as old as photography itself. Many readers may be familiar with Charles Negre's iconic image of a gargoyle at Notre-Dame peering out over the city of Paris; Paul Strand's and Eliot Porter's powerful images of the altars, santos, and bultos in Mexican churches should come immediately to mind to anyone seriously engaged in 20th century photography. They were looking to make images that transcended their subject matter. My goal has been more modest—to find in the architectural details of the state's old churches and meetinghouses some aspect of our social and cultural history.

If the website looks a bit different on your screen it is because it has been optimized for Mozilla's Firefox browser instead of Internet Explorer. Firefox is superior in compliance to web standards, usability, performance, and is not nearly as susceptible to security problems. I have urged all my friends and relatives to make the switch. Firefox is an open source program, which means it is free. You can download it at www.mozilla.com. EWeek Magazine calls it "the best standalone browser available today and generations ahead of Microsoft's Internet Explorer."

POLICIES |  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS  |  ABOUT US

Copyright © 2005 Frank L. Greenagel