Dwelling Place Page 40

  Later, on the evening of Jack’s death, Charles and the family sat around the fire in the parlor. They had secured someone to sit up with Marcia during the night, and plans had been made for Jack’s funeral the next day. He lay in the servants’ house wearing in death “that smile of life” which was “so natural and constant with him.” The family stayed up late, talking and grieving together. They all went to their rooms. Charlie banked the fire and went to bed. About half past one in the morning there was a cry: “Fire! Fire! Wake them! You will all be burnt up! Come out! Come out!” Charles and Mary leaped out of bed, and there followed a great rushing to the outside. Charles picked up the sick Mary Sharpe to carry her out. “We were gasping for air,” Charles remembered, “and hurried to the front door.”

  The boys had come down, and we all went out together. As I came to the door a man met me who I knew not and said: “You cannot come out this way.” I was startled for a second. I knew it was the only way. I told him to stand aside, and thrusting him aside, we hastened down the front steps. I was so overcome with the suffocation that I could not hold up my child, but let her fall on her feet. At that instant John was there and said: “master, give her to me.” And he took up his young mistress, and Mary and Louisa went over across the street to Mr. Thompson’s.

  Charles rushed to the back to the servants’ quarters, where Jack was lying smiling in his coffin, and with others “bore him out of the servants’ house and carried him across the street and laid him down on the sidewalk. Others took up poor Marcia (almost in a dying state) and put her, cot and all, through the window farthest from the fire; and she was covered with blankets and carried over to Mr. Thompson’s also.” The fire did its work, and the house was soon nothing but smoldering ashes. Rats had evidently loosened the mortar around the chimney in the parlor, providing the source of the fire.41

  The family lost almost all of their Columbia possessions. Most serious were the loss of Charles’s papers and library. Some years later Mary wrote that the fire consumed “much that was truly valuable of our earthly substance.”

  It destroyed totally the priceless treasures of my beloved husband’s manuscripts, comprising works for the press, missionary journals, embracing a period of 16 years labour for the Religious Instruction of the Negroes, in Liberty County, Georgia, and throughout the Southern States—Theological Lectures—Church History—sermons—Addresses, Letters, etc. etc. together with his valuable library.42

  She was surely right with regard to his missionary journals, for these detailed descriptions of his work and the people of the settlements could not be replaced. Fortunately, some excerpts had been published in the Charleston Observer in the 1830s.

  A few days after the fire, Marcia died and was buried beside Jack. Charles made an inventory of their possessions that had been saved: Marcia had thirteen dresses, ten handkerchiefs, one shawl, underclothes, two pair of sheets, six blankets, and one quilt. Jack had nine coats, three overcoats, one cloak, fourteen pantaloons, seven vests, one jacket, four new shirts, and three hats.43 Charles had a tombstone cut and engraved and placed over their final resting place so far from Carlawter and the Retreat:

  John Anderson Jones

  A Servant of God

  A. 60

  And Marcia his Wife

  A. 55

  Of Liberty County, Ga.

  Died

  April 17th and 20th 1850

  Our Kind and Faithful

  Friends

  John 6:39–4044

  22

  PHILADELPHIA

  Three weeks after the fire and Jack’s death, Charles received a letter from the Presbyterian Board of Domestic Missions in Philadelphia. Charles, the letter said, had been unanimously elected to be the board’s new executive. The letter astonished Charles, for he had not sought the position—he did not even know that the board was considering him. Moreover, the position was one of great responsibility, for the board had oversight of more than four hundred Presbyterian missionaries scattered across the United States. The invitation seemed providential.1

  The letter of invitation and the others that followed from Philadelphia reflected both the confidence and the concerns of a Protestant establishment that had emerged in the United States since the revivals of the Second Great Awakening at the beginning of the century. The United States, it was believed, had a great destiny. That destiny, however, was dependent upon the nation being a Christian nation, and more specifically, a Christian nation imbued with the faith and experience of evangelical Protestantism and the values of a democratic society. Presbyterians—together with their New England cousins, the Congregationalists—believed they had a distinct role in the evangelical campaign for the nation’s destiny. They were to bring to the enthusiasm of other evangelicals not only sound theology but also order, learning, and appreciation for the cultural traditions of British and North American Protestantism. Such perspectives—and they were, of course, resented by many—had provided the context for Charles’s work as a missionary to slaves. His labors in Liberty County had been within the peculiar confines of slavery. The offer from Philadelphia, on the other hand, was an invitation to a broader field in the cause of evangelizing the nation and providing the moral foundations for a democratic society.2

  So Charles was once again thrown into a vocational quandary. “If I know my own mind and heart,” he wrote Mary (who had returned to Maybank), “I have no objections to remaining in Columbia, no objections to going to Philadelphia, no objections to returning to Liberty County and my old work.” His only desire, he wrote, “is to know what is agreeable to God’s will. That I desire to be my guide.” Homeless as they were in Columbia, with the horror of the fire fresh in his mind, Charles was convinced that “it is vain to endeavor to look anywhere for rest and heaven on earth; we shall meet with sin and its consequences both within and without, go where we may. To go anywhere against God is folly and unhappiness. The true peace of the soul lies in loving God supremely and living to Him. His service must be our delight.” Such theological reflections, however, did not lead to easy answers in regard to the call from Philadelphia. He acknowledged that the thought of “no more returning and living at our home in Liberty is very painful.” But, he said, “if God be with us, and we are doing His will, He will make a home for us, and may make us happy as we may be in this world where our lot is cast.”3 He longed to talk with Mary: “I wish you, my dear wife,” he told her, “to give this call to Philadelphia a conscientious and candid and prayerful consideration, as I know you will, and then give your views and conclusions.” Mary wrote back immediately. She could not, she said, “pretend to interpret the divine will” but could only struggle to discern it amid swirling and conflicting issues. The point is, she wrote, “What is the divine will? Where shall you do most good? Where best glorify God? Where most advance the growing interests of our dear children in their education and the formation of their characters?” She acknowledged the importance of the position in Philadelphia and considered the advantages of having the boys enrolled in Princeton if the family should go to Philadelphia. But she also wondered what it would be like to live in the North at a time when sectional tensions were growing:

  I am Southern born and Southern reared; my hopes, my desires, my sympathies, and my interests are with the land of my nativity. I wish my children free from the prejudice of sectional feeling when carried to animosity; yet I want them to love the South and to support and defend her honest rights; and in the event of any national division (which I trust in the goodness of Providence will never take place) I hope they would be found true to the land of their birth. The liberalizing effect of a Northern education is desirable, but not alienation, leading to dishonorable and traitorous conduct.4

  Others wrote as well and gave their advice. With “so much sage counsel,” remarked his sister Susan with some amusement, “you will not be at a loss how to decide.” But Charles wanted the counsel of others, especially those close to him. From Marietta came a requested letter
from John. “I do not feel myself competent to advise,” he said, “but as you have requested my opinion, I answer ‘Go!’” He thought the Philadelphia position the most important in the church, but he also thought the growing sectional crisis was another reason Charles should accept the position in Philadelphia. Following the Mexican-American War, a fierce debate had erupted over what to do with the territories ceded by Mexico. “At the present crisis,” wrote John, “we need safe men in high places, both in the church and state. If as a country and church we hold together, we need safe men to bind the cords of love and union stronger still, and if we are broken to pieces, we will especially need safe men to direct and decide and control.” Charles was, John thought, just such a man. Even Betsy and William, who were feeling their age and wanted nothing so much as the family to return to Liberty—they too said, “Go!” “It is God’s call,” Betsy wrote Charles; “you must obey.” So after two months of reflection and listening to what others had to say, Charles accepted the call to Philadelphia.5

  The family spent the summer at Maybank preparing for their departure to the North. Their time together was like a lingering low-country evening when the shadows lengthen over the land and the marsh wind blows and brings both a sense of peace and a melancholy mood. Charles and Mary knew that they were enjoying the twilight of their life together as a family before the boys left the parental home to be on their own for the first time. Perhaps to keep the melancholy at bay as long as possible, friends and relatives were welcomed to Maybank to enjoy the summer on the island, and time was found for the boys to enjoy fishing and sailing. “This afternoon,” Mary wrote, Charlie “went to the second bluff about an hour and a half before sunset and returned with over a dozen of the finest sort of fish—young drum, bass, whiting, croaker, all of which we are going to take early in the morning to Sister Betsy,” who was at Social Bluff. And among the women at Maybank, Woodville, and Social Bluff, there was “much visiting, writing notes, sending butter, berries, and vegetables,” and a general enjoyment of one another’s company.6

  But there was also, especially for Mary, a melancholy, an unavoidable sad note—a kind of whippoorwill calling in the evening—to be heard in the midst of summer’s pleasures. She felt, as many a parent has felt, a sense of ending and nostalgia for happy days when children were young and their voices filled the house. Some days she would sit “and silently muse on the past, when our dear children like a little flock were gathered around us,” and she would remember “our pleasant friends and neighbors, our domestic school, our little social Bible class.”7 And she would remember the voices of those who were gone, who in the past had been such an important part of the life of Montevideo and Maybank. Andonone Sabbath day that summer, when her soul was quiet, she remembered what she had been taught at Midway—that the Sabbath itself with family and friends worshiping together was not a burdensome duty but a gift and a foretaste of heaven. Sabbath worship and rest taught her of what was to come—an eternal home where there would be no uprooting and no more parting. She wrote in her journal:

  Never again shall we there encounter the agonizing pains, the heaving, gasping, dying strife which has torn and lacerated our bosoms as we looked upon our beloved friends passing from time to Eternity or as we ourselves with fearful trembling have entered the dark valley and shadow of death, and felt the cold swellings of Jordan dashing upon our unsheltered souls. Oh! No! The blessed Saviour’s rod and staff hath comforted and supported them and us and together we shall sit at his feet.8

  At the end of July, Charlie and Joe left Maybank for Princeton. As they were preparing to leave, they were handed a letter of “parting counsels” from their parents as an expression of their “deep interest” in their sons’ welfare and their “sincere affection” for their dear children. The parents wrote that it gave them “pleasure to believe” that Charlie and Joe would adopt their counsel “as rules” upon which to frame their character and regulate their lives. And then Charles and Mary spelled out in detail their expectations for their sons.

  Charlie and Joe were toread the Bible twice a day; keep the Sabbath holy; shun any opinion that would lead them to disbelieve or doubt the Bible; and devote themselves to their studies together with a “rigid system of diet, rest, and exercise.” They were to use their time wisely and not abuse their advantages; abstain from tobacco and ardent spirits; avoid “profane, Sabbath-breaking, idle, intemperate, immoral and dissipated young men” and “cultivate and prize the society of young gentlemen of intelligence, integrity, and piety of character.”

  Thinking, no doubt, of South Carolina College, the parents said there was to be no participation in college riots or rebellions. Charlie and Joe were encouraged always to endeavor to “respect the feelings and rights and circumstances of your fellow men,” and they were told to conduct themselves as “well-bred gentlemen, and men of character, dignity, principle, and honor.” They were specifically admonished to “refrain from familiarity with persons of low character or inferior stations in society,” and reminded to “have self-respect.”

  In regard to finances, they were to be economical and never run into debt. “If possible, borrow from none. Be careful to whom you lend. Generously give according to your means.” In regard to women, they were “to enjoy the refining influences of elevated female society,” but they were to “lay aside all flippancy of behavior and excess of manner or dress,” and they were to “form no connections” beyond those of friendship.

  As brothers, they were to be “respectful, kind, accommodating, patient, generous, and affectionate to each other; and under all circumstances of trial or necessity or suffering stand by each other as nearest friends; and promote each other’s peace, happiness, reputation, and success in life, without envy or jealousy, by every lawful and just means in your power.” Finally, they were to “remember your God and your Redeemer, and the priceless value of your immortal souls, and the near approach of death, judgment, and eternity.” As the parents sent their sons away, they concluded their letter by reminding them that they were “children of the covenant” who had been dedicated in baptism to God. They commended them to God’s “loving-kindness and tender mercy.” And they assured them “that we shall ever do all in our power to promote your welfare, and that you will ever have the prayers and true affection of your own dear father and mother.”9

  The letter was long, loving, and full of the admonitions of anxious parents sending their sons off to a distant college. But none of its many “counsels” would have come as a surprise to Charlie and Joe. The letter was rather a summary of what they had been hearing all their lives at home and in the long sermons at Midway. They knew the “counsels” reflected the hopes and values of their parents and Charles and Mary’s deep love for their children. What the boys could not have fully realized about the letter were the ways a Calvinist piety was mingled with the morality of an early Victorianism. But perhaps they were able to hear in the letter something else—the ways an elite southern Protestantism hoped to perpetuate itself by instilling in its children the values and patterns of behavior necessary “for usefulness in society.”10

  A few weeks after Charlie and Joe left Maybank, Charles decided that “all the perishable portion of the museum should perish.” Charles had found that the “animals had scarcely a hair left on them, and the birds were fast losing their feathers.” So Andrew and his son Gilbert were summoned to haul into the yard all that was destined for the flames. They went into the little museum, where a young Gilbert had watched the white children conduct their investigations, and they took the great wood ibis from its perch, carried it to a clearing, and carefully laid it on the ground as the foundation for what would follow. Around the ibis’s long legs and beside its “gaping beak with the wood rat in it,” they placed the mounted ducks and geese, the herons, and the roseate spoonbill. On top of these they arranged the curlews, plovers, and orioles and all the songbirds. They took the squirrels and rats and tucked them in the pile, leaving one with his head stuck
out of the stack “grinning with his groundnut in his mouth,” so that Charles thought he looked “determined to save his dinner if possible.” Finally the great horned owl was “placed hovering with outstretched wings upon the apex.” Then papers were stuffed here and there, and Gilbert applied the torched.

  From left: Charlie, Mary Sharpe, and Joe Jones (courtesy Hargrett Rare Book and Manuscript Library, University of Georgia)

  It was a burning! The papers roared; the feathers fried; the sealing-wax eyes of the birds wept out in melting tears. The cotton ignited; the smoke ascended; and the whole premises were fumigated with vapors of arsenic and burning legs and bills and skins and feathers and cotton and hair and snakeskins! Gilbert snorted and got himself out of the smoke, exclaiming: “Eh! De ting smell!”

  The flames marked a symbolic end to the old days when the children had been under the watchful eye of their parents, and the burning cleared the way for a new period in the children’s life and education. The museum, Charles wrote his sons, “has been good.” It had offered them “instructive employment for many an hour” that might have been spent in “idleness and folly.” If much of their work had gone up in flames, their father assured them their labors in the museum had provided them with something more permanent—it had given them “a taste for natural objects and habits of observation that will never leave you.” The school and the museum had accomplished much. Charlie and Joe were now headed for Princeton. Roswell King had already left earlier in the summer to take Fred and Willie King to Yale. And in a short time Mary Sharpe would have the advantages of “a polished Philadelphia school” for young ladies. And at Maybank, Gilbert turned for a while from driving carts and buggies to the burning of all that was perishable in the museum.11