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456     DOUGLASS' MONTHLY.     May, 1861.
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THE REIGN OF RUFFIANISM.
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THE BRUTAL, OPPRESSIVE AND BLOOD-STAINED SOUTH.
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LIFE IN THE LAND OF CHIVALRY.
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The defenders of slavery are forever vaunting the superiority of slave society over free society, contending that slavery is the natural social basis for the highest development of refinement and civilization!  For an illustration of the peculiar manners, temper and morals of our slaveholding society, we commend to our readers the following chapter of horrors, gathered from our exchanges.  We undertake to say that barbarous and bloody as is this terrible record of crime, it fails to convey anything more than the faintest impression of the real condition of slaveholding society.  The policy of the South is to conceal from the eye of the world the ten thousand abominations of every day occurrence within the borders of slavery.  But read the record.  Mrs. Bottsford tells the following plain and unvarnished story of her treatment while in Charleston, which we find in the N.Y. Tribune:

Without claiming any distinction as a martyr, I wish to make a plain statement of the facts respecting my arrest and confinement in the jail at Charleston, S.C., during the months of October and November last, which I feel is due to many friends who have kindly interested themselves in my behalf, and who are desirous of more satisfactory information concerning my case.

I left New York for Charleston on the first day of December, 1859; when I arrived in the latter city, I was not aware of any ill-feeling or prejudice against the Northern people, but I soon learned of cruel outrages and violent threats against strangers from the North, and these called forth the indignation I could not always conceal, as I was quite unprepared for such developments, in a civilized community.  For this reason I confined myself quietly and closely to my business, seeking no acquaintances.  I had gone thither with the most peaceable and friendly intentions, harboring no purpose of meddling with local institutions, though my sentiments were by no means favorable to slavery.  The summer passed quietly away, and I had no more to fear there than if I had been living in my Northern home.

It was on the 27th of September that, as I was alone in my room, having hardly recovered from a severe illness, a large and coarse man presented himself before me, without permission or announcement.  He demanded my name; I told him, and asked what he wished.  He stated that he was one of the Vigilant Police, and ordered me to go with him to the Mayor's Court, that officer having sent for me.  I said I would not go, and asked him what right he had to insult and molest me; whether he had any written authority to demand my presence.  He said No.  Then followed this conversation-—I beginning it by asking:

'What does the Mayor want of me?'

'I understand you are an Abolitionist.'

'Yes; and what of that?'

'You must come with me or I will take you by force,' said he, angrily.

I considered for a moment, and decided on the whole it was best to go with him quietly.  I thought it probable the Mayor had been imposed upon by some idle reports, and that after hearing what I had to say, he would dismiss me with an apology for being the occasion of this unwonted intrusion.  I immediately made myself ready, and went with the man to the Guard House.  I was ushered into the common court room, where several idlers were assembled, who seemed to have no other business than to await my coming, but the Mayor was not there.  I waited an hour, expecting
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every moment he would make his appearance, those around me in the meantime whispering among themselves, though they said nothing to me.  I took no notice of them, but began to get very impatient for my expected interview.  A ruffianly-looking man soon came in, carrying a bunch of keys.  'Step this way, Madam,' said he.  I followed him without the least apprehension, supposing the Mayor would be respectful enough to hear me in his own room rather than before a crowd, for I had done nothing, and had nothing to fear.-—I was led through two or three large rooms, and through an infirmary, where there were several sick people in bed.

'Where are you going?' said I to the man.

'This way, ma'ma,' said he, opening a door that led by a flight of steps to a long, dark passage; on each side were the underground cells.  I looked around me.  Two or three rough looking fellows stood by me ready to do the jailer's bidding, while he opened one of these dirty dismal cells.

'Come down,' said he, 'and go in there.'—-I asked in surprise, 'what does this mean?'—-'It means that you are to be put in here; it is the Mayor's orders.'

I was thrust in and locked up.  Shortly after, the same man opened the door and wished me to give my name in full.  I told him I should not answer his question; I wished to see the Mayor immediately.  He said I must wait until I was called for, and then locked the door.  I saw no one again that day.  Night came—-9 o'clock.  I grew very sick and faint from breathing the foul air; I had scarcely recovered from recent sickness.  The poor wretches dragged in from the streets, screaming and groaning, were thrown into cells around me, from which I was separated only by a thin board partition.-—No place could be more painfully disagreeable to pass a night in than that.

In the morning, a pail of water was put in the cell, but nothing else.  At 2 o'clock the door was unlocked by an officer, who told me the Mayor was ready to see me.  There were many people stationed along the passages, but they did not say a word as I walked through to the Mayor's room, which was filled with respectable looking men.  The Mayor read the charges he had written down.  No witness was called; no one appeared against me.  The examination was as follows:

'Mrs. Bottsford, you are accused of treason and sedition?'

'I am not guilty of treason or sedition.'

'I understand you have been tampering with slaves?'

'It is utterly false, Sir; I have had nothing to say to the slaves.'

'You are an Abolitionist?'

'Yes?'

'An admirer of John Brown?'

'Yes.'

'You have expressed Abolition sentiments?

'I have on a few occasions when asked; I can name all I ever conversed with, and what I said to them I will say here.  I lived here nearly a year, attending closely to my own business; I have not injured or offended any one, and have been well treated until now; I cannot see why I should be subjected to this outrage.'

'You say you have been well treated?'

'Yes, until now.'

'Then I think you have been very ungrateful: you have been well treated, been profitably employed, and have received our money while you hated us?'

'I have not hated the people; I am no friend to slavery; I have not seen anything in Charleston to give me a more favorable impression of it; quite otherwise.  I have paid for all I have had here.  I have received what I have earned.  I owe you no gratitude.'

'I would advise you to go home.'

'I shall certainly do so as soon as I can settle my business.  I have no desire to stay a moment longer.'

The Mayor then said he had not heard anything against my character.  'You are spoken of,' said he, 'as quiet and respectable.  But I require bail for your good conduct.  If you
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can find any one to be your bail for three hundred dollars, I can dismiss you.'

I was ordered to the cell again, and locked up.  In an hour or so an officer opened the door and said I must go with him, as the Mayor had given me over to the State's Attorney.  We crossed the Citadel Park to the office of Magistrate Kanepaux, who said that the Mayor had been too lenient; he raised my bail to $2,000, in default of which I must go to jail—-and to jail I went.  During this time two men were sent to search my room; they broke open my trunks and bundles, unrolled every parcel, trying to find papers or letters; but they found nothing they wanted, though they carried off one or two of my letters.  When I got to jail I was faint and exhausted; it was now 6 o'clock on the second day; I had not had a morsel of food for nearly forty-eight hours.  I sent to my friends at the house which I had left, and just before the jail was to be shut for the night, the lady of the house appeared at the door.  She had not been allowed to see me before, though she had tried repeatedly.  If she had not come just then, I should not have had anything until the next day, when prison rations would be served.  The jailer had strict orders to show me no favors; I was to be lodged with the common prisoners of the female ward; no one outside the walls was allowed to give me aid or comfort; I was to remain here four months, and then take my trial for treason and sedition.  The jailer told me I must take leave of my friend, and to my quarters with the rest, as he was to lock the jail for the night.  The lady asked him if I should be comfortable?  He said yes; I should fare like the rest; he could make no distinction without orders.  So then I was to be a prisoner again, and not alone, but with such poor creatures as are the usual inmates of such places; two drunken, abandoned women were to occupy the room with me.

'This is a jail, Madam,' said the jailer, as he opened the door of the miserable cell; 'you cannot expect much here.'  I thought he was indeed right; there was not the least comfort of any kind; not an article of furniture; nothing but a dirty blanket on the floor to sleep on.  Locked in here with such company, with the roar of the blood hounds that were loosed for the night to guard the yard, with the yellings and clanking of chains of the male prisoners, I passed another terrible night.  I am certain I could not have endured all the privations of this place had the orders of the magistrate been strictly carried out.  The Sheriff visited the jail, after two or three days.  He was quite a different man, and seemed anxious to do all he could for me.  I afterwards had a room to myself, and my friends and the Sisters of Charity were allowed to visit me.  To these good women I feel that I owe my life.  They used their influence to effect my release, procured me counsel, and did all they could to serve me; they also sent one of their friends, with a petition for my release, to the State Attorney, Judge Wayne, but he would not listen to it.  A German gentleman offered to procure bail, and spoke warmly in my behalf than it suited these honorable gentlemen to hear.  No amount of bail need now be offered, they said; I should stay in jail and stand my trial.  Before night four warrants were out for his arrest; he had to leave even his clothing, and steal out of the city, or he too would have gone to jail.

As for myself, I sent no petition, wanted no favors.  But justice and my liberty I demanded.  The Rev. Dr. Howe of the St. Phillip's Church visited me with Judge Pringle, on hearing I was a member of his church.-—The minister advised me to send a petition to the Mayor and State's Attorney.  If I would go home immediately, he would see what he could do for me.  I positively refused to send any petition, as I had suffered, and had been most shamefully wronged.  I would not consent to be smuggled off in disgrace.-—I would be very glad to go as soon as I could leave honorably.  I turned to Judge Pringle and asked him if he would grant me a writ of
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