The Story of St Michaels in Charleston SC

The Story of St Michaels in Charleston SC

by | Feb 21, 2026 | History

St Michaels and the Story of Colonial Charleston

St MichaelsYou may have seen St Michaels at the corner of Broad Street and Meeting Street in downtown Charleston – but did you know the little things about the church that make it such a unique part of Charleston’s story.

In colonial Charleston, churches were more than places of worship—they were civic anchors, social stages, and symbols of stability in a fast-growing port city. St Michaels rose into that world as a public landmark and a community heartbeat. With its state-supported construction and its prominent “Governor’s Pew,” St Michaels reflected how closely religion, government, and public life were intertwined in the Lowcountry during the eighteenth century. Even today, the building’s materials, layout, and long-standing traditions preserve a living record of colonial Charleston’s priorities: order, craftsmanship, music, and reputation.

From the moment you step inside St Michaels, the architecture speaks with purpose. The interior measures 71 feet long and 51 feet wide, a spacious footprint for gatherings that once included not only worshippers but also Charleston’s decision-makers and leading families. The 31-foot-high ceiling lifts the eye upward, giving the sanctuary a sense of calm grandeur—exactly the kind of atmosphere colonial Charlestonians associated with permanence and authority. Much of that strength comes from the building’s essential materials: all pews and columns are made of cypress, a practical coastal wood that resists humidity and insects, and a reminder that colonial builders used what the region could best provide.

Colonial status and revenue were literally built into the seating. In the eighteenth century, pews in St Michaels were purchased or rented—a system that helped fund operations while also reinforcing social hierarchy. To sit in a particular pew was to be seen. This is why Pew 43, known as the Governor’s Pew, carries special meaning. It honors the state funding that helped build the church, and it became a seat of historic visibility. On May 8, 1791, President George Washington occupied that pew, turning St Michaels into a stage for the young nation’s public memory. The same pew later hosted the Marquis de Lafayette in 1825 and Robert E. Lee in 1862, showing how this single space connected Charleston’s colonial roots to later chapters of American history.

st michaels bellsFor colonial Charleston, sound mattered. Bells structured time, and sacred music shaped identity. St Michaels holds one of the most powerful sound traditions in early American church life: eight bells that have chimed since 1764. Their story mirrors Charleston’s turbulence and resilience. In 1782, a British lieutenant removed the bells and sent them to London. In 1783, a Charleston merchant named Rhyner, living in London, purchased them and arranged their return—an act that feels like a post-war restoration of civic pride. During the Civil War, the bells were again removed in 1862 for safekeeping in Columbia; they were destroyed in the burning of the city, then fragments were sent to London in 1866 to be recast and returned in 1867. The bylaws still require the bells to be played 10 minutes before midnight on New Year’s Eve and 10 minutes after midnight, a ritual that keeps St Michaels tied to Charleston’s public calendar. And the devotion behind that sound is personal: Washington McLean Gadsden rang the bells for over 61 continuous years (1837–1898), embodying the steady continuity a historic church represents.

Music inside the sanctuary mattered just as much. The organ, imported from London in 1768, is believed to be the oldest organ still used in the United States—a direct line to the soundscape of colonial worship. St Michaels is also believed to have had the first boys’ choir in the U.S., documented in the vestry book as early as 1794. Together, these details show how colonial Charleston invested in excellence, ceremony, and shared cultural experience, using worship to shape community identity.

Many “small” details inside St Michaels are actually large historical clues. The hinges on pew doors are called H-hinges because they form the letter H when opened—an old-world craft touch that signals careful design. The double leaf main doors are 12 feet tall, open six feet wide, and weigh about 700 pounds, a physical reminder that the church was built to endure and to impress. Worshippers once warmed themselves with foot stoves, an intimate picture of daily life in a time before modern heating. Near the altar (behind the prayer rail), are the graves of Bishop Theodore Dehon (2nd Bishop of the Episcopal Diocese of South Carolina) and Bishop Bowen (3rd Bishop of South Carolina) beneath the altar ties leadership and sacred space together, echoing how colonial congregations viewed church authority as foundational.

st michaels interior imagesIf colonial Charleston was about building permanence, later history tested that promise—and St Michaels survived. The 1886 earthquake caused the steeple to sink by eight inches, forcing builders to add an extra step at the main entry. The sanctuary floor, covered in red English tiles, needed extensive repair; many replacement tiles had to be specially made to match those damaged. The great window on the north wall, titled “Easter Morning,” was unveiled on Easter morning, 1898—a Tiffany creation installed to replace a window harmed by the quake. Even the pulpit tells a recovery story: the IHS monogram panel on the pulpit was removed during looting after the Civil War occupation, then returned anonymously years later and reinstalled where it stands today. Above it, the mahogany sounding board with oak inlays reflects both beauty and function—designed to carry the spoken word across a full, crowded room.

Ultimately, St Michaels mattered in colonial Charleston because it held the city together—socially, politically, and spiritually. It organized status through pew ownership, elevated public life through ceremonial moments like Washington’s visit, and shaped the rhythms of the community through bells, choir, and organ music. And in every repair after crisis, St Michaels kept proving what Charlestonians first built it to be: a landmark of endurance, identity, and shared memory in the heart of an ever-changing city.

Watch the Video Blog about St Michael’s at Just Ask Eric 

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Charleston and Jenkin’s Ear

Charleston and Jenkin’s Ear

by | Jan 12, 2026 | History

Charleston at war with Spain when Jenkins lost his ear…

Charleston SmugglersThe War of Jenkins’ Ear (1739–1748) was fought between Great Britain and Spain, and it reached far beyond the decks of warships and the halls of Parliament. It mattered deeply to the British mainland colonies, especially Charleston, because it turned the American South into a real military frontier and made the Atlantic coastline feel suddenly vulnerable. If you’ve ever wondered why people in Charleston talked about Spain with such urgency in the 1740s, this war is a big part of the answer.

Yes, the war really does involve a man named Jenkins—and his ear. The conflict’s name comes from Robert Jenkins, a British sea captain whose ear was cut off in April 1731 by Spanish coast guards who boarded his ship while searching for contraband. The story was gruesome, easy to repeat, and politically useful. Years later, British politicians used the incident to stir public anger and build support for a wider war with Spain. For readers today, the ear is the headline. But the deeper cause was power: who controlled trade routes, who policed the seas, and who had the right to profit in the Caribbean and along Spanish America.

Under the surface, the War of Jenkins’ Ear was a struggle over trade rights, smuggling, and maritime enforcement. Britain wanted easier access to markets in the Spanish empire and resented Spanish seizures of British ships suspected of illegal commerce. Spain wanted to protect its colonial trade system and stop foreign merchants from treating Spanish waters like an open marketplace. That tug-of-war turned into a shooting war, and once it did, the map mattered. For the colonists, it wasn’t a distant “European conflict.” It was a borderlands and sea-lanes war that played out across Georgia, Spanish Florida, the Carolinas, and the Caribbean—places where the outcomes could reshape daily life in Charleston.

James OglethorpeGeorgia, Britain’s newest colony, sat on the edge of danger. It was designed as a buffer against Spanish Florida, and that meant it was always going to be involved when Britain and Spain clashed. When war began, Georgia’s founder and governor, James Oglethorpe, led colonial troops and allied Native warriors southward, aiming to pressure Spanish Florida and, if possible, strike major targets like St. Augustine. This wasn’t just a symbolic show of force. The region’s forts, rivers, barrier islands, and coastal routes made it a strategic chessboard—and everyone understood that if Spain could smash Georgia, the next attack would be Charleston.

Spain struck back hard. In 1742, Spanish forces invaded the recently created Georgia territory in a serious attempt to remove Britain’s southern outpost. Colonial defenders met them with a mix of British regulars, provincial soldiers, militia units, and Native allies. Importantly, the defense effort included South Carolina militia forces tied to Charleston, because leaders in Charleston knew the stakes. If Spain gained control of Georgia or secured a stronger hold on the coast, South Carolina’s frontier and shipping lanes would be exposed. The most famous moment of that defense was the Battle of Bloody Marsh on St. Simons Island, where Spanish momentum was blunted and the invasion ultimately failed.

That failure mattered. Spain’s inability to crush Georgia helped ensure Georgia remained British, which shaped the long-term balance of power in the Southeast. But it also sent a clear message: invasion was not a theoretical fear. People in Charleston had to assume that if Spain could land troops in Georgia, it could threaten South Carolina’s coast as well. This is where Charleston becomes central to the story. The war pushed officials and residents to think in terms of coastal defense, harbor security, and rapid mobilization. The sea was not just a trade highway—it was an approach route for an enemy.

Charleston's sea wallIn response to the escalating threat, Charleston strengthened defenses at key points on the peninsula. At the southern tip, around White Point, officials ordered practical military works: earthen walls, gun batteries, and wooden piling defenses designed to protect the waterfront and deny easy access to attackers. These measures weren’t glamorous, but they were the kind of improvements that could make the difference between a raiding force slipping in and a defense holding firm. At the same time, Charleston’s older harbor-front fortifications—often described in broad terms as the waterfront wall or “wharf wall”—did not begin because of the 1742 invasion. Most  of the sea wall had been built by that time. However, Charleston’s harbor defenses were substantially rebuilt and militarized in the late 1730s and early 1740s as war with Spain intensified. By 1741, the sea wall had roughly 130 cannon in anticipation of possible attack. In other words, Charleston prepared for the worst before the worst could arrive.

The war also reshaped the economy and emotions of the port city. On one hand, wartime conditions interrupted trade and heightened fears of raids. When rumors spread along the coast, people in Charleston didn’t just read about war—they felt it. On the other hand, conflict created opportunity, especially through privateering. Privateering was legalized prize-taking: privately owned vessels received authorization to capture enemy ships and claim valuable cargo as rewards. For Charleston merchants, sailors, and investors, privateering could be a boom. It brought money into the harbor, energized maritime activity, and fed a wartime marketplace—though it also intensified risks for ordinary commerce and heightened retaliation threats.

In American terms, the War of Jenkins’ Ear was a frontier struggle and a maritime contest that directly involved colonial troops, militias, ports, and sailors. Its biggest mainland impact was along the Georgia–Florida borderlands and the Atlantic-Caribbean economy, but its psychological impact spread even wider. It left the colonies more militarized, more entangled in imperial strategy, and more convinced that wars fought “for empire” could land on their doorstep. For Charleston, the war sharpened the city’s identity as a strategic port—prosperous, contested, and always watching the horizon.

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