a privilege,
especially with secession impending. But those whom he betrayed to death
have been exempt from taxation longer than be has.

More than a third of a century has passed since the incidents of this
true story closed. It has not vanished from the memories of South
Carolinians, though the printed pages which once told it have been
gradually withdrawn from sight. The intense avidity which at first
grasped at every incident of the great insurrectionary plot was
succeeded by a distaste for the memory of the tale; and the official
reports which told what slaves had once planned and dared have now come
to be among the rarest of American historical documents. In 1841, a
friend of the writer, then visiting South Carolina, heard from her
hostess for the first time the events which are recounted here. On
asking to see the reports of the trials, she was cautiously told that
the only copy in the house, after being carefully kept for years under
lock and key, had been burnt at last, lest it should reach the dangerous
eyes of the slaves. The same thing had happened, it was added, in many
other families. This partially accounts for the great difficulty now to
be found in obtaining a single copy of either publication; and this is
why, to the readers of American history, Denmark Vesey and Peter Poyas
have been heretofore but the shadows of names.

* * * * *

NEW YORK SEVENTH REGIMENT.

OUR MARCH TO WASHINGTON.

THROUGH THE CITY.

At three o'clock in the afternoon of Friday, April 19th, we took our
peacemaker, a neat twelve-pound brass howitzer, down from the Seventh
Regiment Armory, and stationed it in the rear of the building. The twin
peacemaker is somewhere near us, but entirely hidden by this enormous
crowd.

An enormous crowd! of both sexes, of every age and condition. The men
offer all kinds of truculent and patriotic hopes; the women shed tears,
and say, "God bless you, boys!"

This is a part of the town where baddish cigars prevail. But good or
bad, I am ordered to keep all away from the gun. So the throng stands
back, peers curiously over the heads of its junior members, and seems to
be taking the measure of my coffin.

After a patient hour of this, the word is given, we fall in, our two
guns find their places at the right of the line of march, we move on
through the thickening crowd.

At a great house on the left, as we pass the Astor Library, I see a
handkerchief wa