" was rebuked for its
daring progress, and the building is marked by the singular cognomen
of "Hutchinson's Folly." What is somewhat singular, this magnificent
building is exclusively for negroes. One fact will show how progressive
has been the science of law to govern the negro, while those to which
the white man is subjected are such as good old England conferred upon
them some centuries ago. For felonious and burglarious offences, a white
man is confined in the common jail; then dragged to the market-place,
stripped, and whipped, that the negroes may laugh "and go see buckra
catch it;" while a negro is sent to the workhouse, confined in his cell
for a length of time, and then whipped according to modern science,--but
nobody sees it except by special permission. Thus the negro has the
advantage of science and privacy.

The jail is a sombre-looking building, with every mark of antiquity
standing boldly outlined upon its exterior. It is surrounded by a
high brick wall, and its windows are grated with double rows of bars,
sufficiently strong for a modern penitentiary. Altogether, its dark,
gloomy appearance strikes those who approach it, with the thought and
association of some ancient cruelty. You enter through an iron-barred
door, and on both sides of a narrow portal leading to the right are four
small cells and a filthy-looking kitchen, resembling an old-fashioned
smoke-house. These cells are the debtors'; and as we were passing out,
after visiting a friend, a lame "molatto-fellow" with scarcely rags to
cover his nakedness, and filthy beyond description, stood at what was
called the kitchen door. "That poor dejected object," said our friend,
"is the cook. He is in for misdemeanor-one of the peculiar shades of
it, for which a nigger is honored with the jail." "It seems, then, that
cooking is a punishment in Charleston, and the negro is undergoing the
penalty," said we. "Yes!" said our friend; "but the poor fellow has a
sovereign consolation, which few niggers in Charleston can boast of-and
none of the prisoners here have-he can get enough to eat."

The poor fellow held out his hand as we passed him, and said, "Massa,
gin poor Abe a piece o' 'bacca'?" We freely gave him all in our
possession.

On the left side, after passing the main iron door, are the jailer's
apartments. Passing through another iron door, you ascend a narrow,
crooked stairs and reach the second story; here are some eight or nine
miserable cells-som