SEVERAL days had passed ere we again introduce the reader to the cell of the imprisoned stewards. The captain of the Janson had been assured by Mr. Grimshaw that every thing was comfortable at the jail, and Manuel would be well cared for. Confiding in this, the activity of the consul to bring the matter before the proper authorities-and the manner in which his own time was engrossed with his business-left him no opportunity to visit Manuel at the jail. Tommy and one of the sailors had carried him his hammock, and a few things from the ship's stores; and with this exception, they had but little to eat for several days. Copeland had but a few days more to remain, and, together with those who were with him, had exhausted their means, in providing from day to day, during their imprisonment. The poor woman who did their washing, a generous-hearted mulatto, had brought them many things, for which she asked no compensation. Her name was Jane Bee, and when the rules of the jail made every man his own washerwoman, she frequently washed for those who had nothing to pay her. But her means were small, and she worked hard for a small pittance, and had nothing to bring them for several days. They were forced to take the allowance of bread, but could not muster resolution to eat the sickly meat.

Those who had suffered from it before, took it as a natural consequence, looking to the time of their release, as if it was to bring a happy change in their lives. But Manuel felt that it was an unprecedented outrage upon his feelings, and was determined to remonstrate against it. He knocked loudly at the door, and some of the prisoners hearing it, reported to the jailer, who sent Daley to answer it. As soon as the door was opened, he rushed past, and succeeded in gaining the iron door that opened into the vestibule, where he could converse with the Jailer, through the grating, before Daley could stop him.

The jailer seeing him at the grating, anticipated his complaint. “Well, Pereira,—what's the matter up-stairs?” said he.

“For God's sake, jailer, what am I put in here for-to starve? We cannot eat the meat you send us, and we have had little else than bread and water for three days. Do give us something to eat, and charge it to consul, or Captain, an' I'll pay it from my wages when I get out, if I ever do,” said he.

“My dear fellow!” said the jailer, “no one knows your case better than I do; but I am poor, and the restrictions which I am under allow me no privileges. You had all better take your meat in the morning-if you won't take soup-and try to cook it, or get Jane to do it for you. I will give you some coffee and bread from my own table, to-night, and you better say as little about it as possible, for if Grimshaw hears it, he may lock you up.”

“Do, I shall be very thankful, for we are really suffering from hunger, in our cell, and I pay you when I get money from Captain,” said Manuel, manifesting his thankfulness at the jailer's kindness.

“I will send it up in a few minutes, but you needn't trouble yourself about pay-I wouldn't accept it!” said the jailer; and as good as his word, he sent them up a nice bowl of coffee for each, and some bread, butter, and cheese. They partook of the humble fare, with many thanks to the donor. Having despatched it, they seated themselves upon the floor, around the faint glimmer of a tin lamp, while Copeland read the twentieth and twenty-first chapters of the Acts of the Apostles. Copeland was a pious negro, and his behaviour during his imprisonment enlisted the respect of every one in jail. Singular as the taste may seem, he had his corner in the cell decorated with little framed prints. Among them we noticed one of the crucifixion, and another of the Madonna. After reading the chapters, they retired to their hard beds. About nine o'clock the next morning, Daley came to the door with a piece of neck meat, so tainted and bloody that its smell and looks more than satisfied the stomach.

“Here it is, boys,” said he; “yer four pound, but ye's better take soup, cos ye'll niver cook that bone, anyhow.”

“Do you think we're like dogs, to eat such filth as that? No! I'd rather starve!” said Manuel.

“Indeed, an' ye'll larn to ate any thing win ye'd be here a month. But be dad, if ye don't watch number one about here, ye's won't get much nohow,” replied Daley, dropping the bloody neck upon the floor, and walking out.

“Better take it,” said Copeland. “There's no choice, and hunger don't stand for dainties, especially in this jail, where everybody is famished for punishment. If we don't eat it, we can give it to some of the poor prisoners up-stairs.”

“While I have good ship-owners, and a good Captain, I never will eat such stuff as that; oh! no,” returned Manuel.

The meat was laid in a corner for the benefit of the flies; and when dinner time arrived, the same hard extreme arrived with it-bread and water. And nobody seemed to have any anxieties on their behalf; for two of them had written notes to their Captains, on the day previous, but they remained in the office for want of a messenger to carry them. Fortunately, Jane called upon them in the afternoon, and brought a nice dish of rice and another of homony.

We will here insert a letter we received from a very worthy friend, who, though he had done much for the Charleston people, and been repaid in persecutions, was thrown into jail for a paltry debt by a ruthless creditor. Cleared by a jury of twelve men, he was held in confinement through the wretched imperfection of South Carolina law, to await nearly twelve months for the sitting of the “Appeal Court,” more to appease the vindictiveness of his enemies than to satisfy justice, for it was well understood that he did not owe the debt. His letter speaks for itself. Charleston Jail, March 31, '52.

MY DEAR FRIEND,—I could not account for your absence during the last few days, until this morning, when Mr. F***** called upon me for a few moments, and from him I learnt that you had been quite unwell. If you are about to-morrow, do call upon me; for a more dreary place, or one where less regard is paid to the calls of humanity, cannot be found among the nations of the earth.

Such is the ordinary condition of suffering within this establishment, that men, and even women, are forced to all kinds of extremes to sustain life; and, to speak what experience has taught me, crime is more increased than reduced by this wretched system. There seems to be little distinction among the prisoners, and no means to observe it, except in what is called Mount Rascal on the third story. Pilfering is so common, that you cannot leave your room without locking your door. The jailer is a good, kind-hearted old man, very often giving from his own table to relieve the wants of debtors, many of whom repay him with ingratitude. I have suffered many privations from shipwreck and cold, but never until I came to South Carolina was I compelled to endure imprisonment and subsist several days upon bread and water.

Talk about chivalry and hospitality! How many men could join with me and ask, “Where is it?” But why should I demur, when I see those abroad who have been driven from this State to seek bread; when I hear the many voices without tell of struggling to live, for want of system in mechanical employment, and when I look upon several within these sombre walls who are even worse than me. Here is a physician, with a wife and large family, committed for a debt which he was unable to pay. His father's name stands among the foremost of the State—a General of distinction, who offered his life for her in time of war, and whose name honors her triumphs, and has since graced the councils of state.

General Hammond, whose name occupies such a conspicuous place in the military history of South Carolina. The father's enthusiasm for his country's cause led him to sacrifice his all, and by it he entailed misfortune upon his descendants. When I consider the case of Shannon, whose eleven years and seven months' imprisonment for debt, as it was called, but which eventually proved to be a question turning upon technicalities of law, gave him, body and soul, to the vindictiveness of a persecutor, whose unrelenting malignity was kept up during that long space of time. It was merely a breach of limitation between merchants, the rights of which should be governed by commercial custom. Shannon had, amassed about twenty thousand dollars by hard industry; his health was waning, and he resolved to retire with it to his native county. The gem proved too glaring for the lynx eye of a “true Carolinian,” who persuaded him to invest his money in cotton. Moved by flattering inducements, he authorized a factor to purchase for him upon certain restrictions, which, unfortunately for himself, were not drawn up with regard to legal enforcement-one of those singular instruments between a merchant and an inexperienced man which a professional quibbler can take advantage of. Cotton was at the tip-top, and very soon Shannon was presented with an account of purchase, and draft so far beyond his limits, that he demurred, and rejected the purchase entirely; but some plot should be laid to entrap him. The factor undertook the force game, notified him that the cotton was held subject to his order, and protested the draft for the appearance of straightforwardness. Cotton shortly fell to the other extreme, the lot was “shoved up” for sale on Shannon's account, Shannon was sued for the balance, held to bail, and in default committed to prison. His confinement and endurance of it would form a strange chapter in the history of imprisonment for debt. Carrying his money with him, he closed the door of his cell, and neither went out nor would allow any one but the priest to enter for more than three years; and for eleven years and seven months he paced the room upon a diagonal line from corner to corner, until he wore the first flooring, of two-and-a-quarter-inch pine, entirely through.

I might go on and tell of many others, whose poverty was well known, and yet suffered years of imprisonment for debt; but I find I have digressed. I must relate an amusing affair which took place this morning between Manuel Pereira, the steward of the English brig Janson, which put into this port in distress, and the jailer. He is the man about whom so much talk and little feeling has been enlisted—a fine, well-made, generous-hearted Portuguese. He is olive-complexioned—as light as many of the Carolinians—intelligent and obliging, and evidently unaccustomed to such treatment as he receives here.

Manuel appeared before the jailer's office this morning with two junks of disgusting-looking meat, the neck-bones, tainted and bloody, in each hand. His Portuguese ire was up. “Mister Poulnot, what you call dis? In South Carolina you feed man on him, ah? In my country, ah yes! we feed him to dog. What you call him? May-be somethin' what me no know him. In South Carolina, prison sailor when he shipwreck, starve him on nosin', den tell him eat this, ah! I sails 'round ze world, but never savage man gives me like zat to eat! No, I starve 'fore I eat him, be gar! Zar, you take him,” said he, throwing the pieces of meat upon the floor in disdain.

“Meat! Yes, it's what's sent here for us. You mustn't grumble at me; enter your complaints to the sheriff, when he comes,” said the jailer, with an expression of mortification on his countenance.

“Meat, ah! You call dat meat in South Carolina? I call him bull-neck, not fit for dog in my country. I see, when Capitan come, vat he do,” said Manuel, turning about and going to his room in a great excitement.

“You'd better be careful how you talk, or you may get locked up when the sheriff comes.”

It seems that the Captain had received a note from him, addressed by one of the white prisoners on the same floor, and reached the jail just as Manuel had ascended the stairs. He rang the bell and requested to see Manuel.

“Manuel Pereira?” inquired the jailer.

“Yes,” said the Captain, “he is my steward.”

He heard the Captain's voice, and immediately returned to the lobby. The tears ran down his cheeks as soon as he saw his old protector. “Well, Manuel, I am glad to see you, but sorry that it is in imprisonment. Tell me what is the matter. Don't they use you well here?” inquired the Captain.

Stepping within the office door, he caught up the pieces of meat, and bringing them out in his hands, held them up. “There, Capitan, that no fit for man, is it?” said he. “Law send me prison, but law no give not'ing to eat. What I do dat people treat me so? Ah, Capitan, bull neck, by gar, yes-bull born in South Carolina, wid two neck. Ils sont reduits l'extremit,” said he, concluding with broken French.

“That cannot be; it's against the law to kill bulls in South Carolina,” interrupted the jailer jocosely.

“Must be. I swear he bull-neck, 'cas he cum every day just like him. Bull born wid one neck no cum so many. What I get for breakfast, Capitan, ah?—piece bad bread. What I get for dinner, ah?—bull-neck. Yes, what I get for supper, too?—piece bread and bucket o' water. May-be he bad, may be he good, just so he come. You think I live on dat, Capitan?” said he, in reply to the Captain's questions.

The Captain felt incensed at such treatment, and excused himself for not calling before; yet he could not suppress a smile that stole upon his countenance in consequence of Manuel's quaint earnestness.

“That is certainly strange fare for a human being; but the supper seems rather a comical one. Did you drink the bucket of water, Manuel?” inquired the Captain, retaining a sober face.

“Capitan, you know me too well for dat. I not ask 'em nozin' what he no get, but I want my coffee for suppe'. I no eat him like zat,” throwing the putrid meat upon the floor again.

“Hi, hi! That won't do in this jail. You're dirtying up all my floor,” said the jailer, calling a negro boy and ordering him to carry the bull-necks, as Manuel called them, into the kitchen.

“You call him dirt, ah, Miser Jailer? Capitan, just come my room; I shown him,” said Manuel, leading the way up-stairs, and the Captain followed. A sight at the cell was enough, while the sickly stench forbid him to enter beyond the threshold. He promised Manuel that he would provide for him in future, and turning about suddenly, retreated into the lower lobby.

“Jailer, what does all this mean? Do you allow men to starve in a land of plenty, and to suffer in a cell like that?” asked the Captain in a peremptory tone.

“I feel for the men, but you must enter your complaints to the sheriff-the ration of the jail is entirely in his hands.”

“But have you no voice in it, by which you can alleviate their situation?”

“Not the least! My duty is to keep every thing-every thing to rights, as far as people are committed. You will find the sheriff in his office, any time between this and two o'clock,” said the jailer. And the Captain left as suddenly as he came.

You will think I have written you an essay, instead of a letter inviting you to come and see me. Accept it for its intention, and excuse the circumstances. Your obedient servant,