I remember well, whilst riding with him on the occasion I have already referred to, we drove past a white man on horseback, who (as is common in Charleston), was correcting his negro in the street.  The poor fellow was writhing under the cruel infliction of a flagellation with a raw-hide, and rent the air with his cries.  This only increased the rage of his master, who seemed to take delight in striking his face and ears.  I eagerly watched the scene, and, as we passed, leaned over the back of the gig.  My companion, fearing, I suppose, lest the sight might provoke in me some exclamation, and thus get us into notice, nudged me violently with his elbow, saying at the same time, hurriedly, “Don’t heed, don’t heed.”  My blood was getting hot, and but for my companion, my passion would, in all probability, have got the better of my discretion, and I should without remedy have been involved in a dispute, if not immediately apprehended.  As we rode on, I adverted to this barefaced exhibition of tyranny in an open thoroughfare, which, I remarked, was sufficient proof of the iniquity of the system, in spite of the assertions made by the southerners to the contrary.  In reply to this, all my companion remarked was, “Did you never see that done before?” My answer was, I had seen negroes cruelly treated on estates, and elsewhere, but that this scene was the more revolting from its being enacted in the open highway.  Seeing that he was anxious to avoid the subject, and that the observations he had made were drawn from him by my remarks, I remained silent, and, wrapped in deep reflections on the outrage we had witnessed, at length reached his dwelling.  The occurrence I suppose somewhat affected my spirits, for soon after we got into the drawing-room, no one else being present, my friend addressed me, no doubt observing my depression, nearly as follows.  “Sir, you seem to have a tender compassion for my poor countrymen; would to God white men were all as feeling here.  The system is an accursed one, but what can we do but bear it patiently?  Every hand seems against us, and we dare not speak for ourselves.”  I told him I deeply sympathised with his oppressed countrymen, and lived in hope that before long the public mind in America would be aroused from its apathy, and the accumulated wrongs of the race be redressed.  His only reply was, “God grant it, I hope so too.”

In Charleston there exist several charitable institutions, but these, I believe, with only one exception, are for the benefit of poor white people.  The innate benevolence of the human heart is thus, in the midst of dire oppression, wont to hold its sway, notwithstanding the poisonous influences that surround.  But the pro-slavery business neutralizes these would-be benefactors, and taints all their endeavours, under the cloak of benevolence, to remove the odium it so justly incurs.  “Liberate your slaves, and then I will talk to you about religion and charity,” were the emphatic words of an eminent northern divine in his correspondence with the committee of a benevolent institution in the south, some years ago, and the admonition speaks as forcibly now as it did then.