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The scholars were dismissed from Saybrook, and
each betook himself to his home, and entered upon
the course of life which his friends or his fortune
had prescribed for him. Du Quesne, with
whom we must at present continue, repaired to
New-York, where, upon his being admitted to the
bar, as in due time he was, his mysterious supply
of money was withheld, and he was left without
relatives or connexions, to make the usual slow and
uncertain progress in the business of his profession.
He was of a temperament much too sensitive for
his own comfort, in a calling which, at that time
at any rate, however it may be at present, exposed
him to personal altercation, contradiction, and that
sharp and harsh collision which tries and strengthens
the passions of the heart, at least as much as
it does the faculties of the mind.

He had a natural and easy eloquence, and more
taste and learning than most of his associates.—
His attention to his business was strict, but it was
forced, and his occasional success embittered his
enemies more than it conciliated his friends. He
even conceited at times, that the courts before
which he practiced had their favourites, and that
he was not in the number. Sometimes neglected,
always opposed, and often mortified, he yet patiently
persevered—though he soon found himself
the object of personal enmity, and was convinced
of attempts to defeat his progress. He resolved to
exert his industry to acquire the means of support
in some place in the new settlements, as remote as
was consistent with personal security, where land
was cheap, and where independence might be

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easily purchased. This vision of comfort he cherished
in secret, and resorted to it in his day dreams
as his standing consolation. But his enemies were
too active, and shortened the period which was necessary
to his success. Some bills and papers relating
to claims in a suit to a large amount, and
which were entrusted to him, were missing, as he
found when he was preparing his cases. He
searched in vain—his anxiety amounted to distress—
he feared to ask for any accommodation, for it
was attended with the risk of disclosure. Those
who had artfully accomplished their object, by involving
him in this embarrassment, were little likely
to show him favour. There was no alternative—
after weeks of agony the term began—the suits
were defeated—the was personally liable for the
loss, and industriously exposed to censure. His
employers were advised to their remedy against
him, and the least of his troubles was the constant
expectation of being arrested.

One morning very early, with an agitated mind,
he crossed the river to the Jersey shore, for the
sake of relieving or indulging his melancholy, and
having to himself a few moments of solitude and
security. There was a retired spot at no great
distance from the shore, sheltered by trees, and
surrounded with rural beauty, which seemed to invite
the solitary, and offer its quiet scenery to
soothe the angry passions, and imperceptibly substitute
feelings of a softer kind. And yet, this is
the very spot, which from that day to this, has
been the battle-ground of wounded honour. How
often has it witnessed the worst of passions, and
how rich has been the blood that has at times been
shed there! To this spot he was unconsciously
approaching, when he was roused by the near report
of fire arms. He quickened his pace in the

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direction of the noise, and on coming to a natural
lawn among the trees, discovered a man upon the
ground, apparently wounded, and just fallen.—
Three others were hastening through the thicket,
and evidently bent on a hasty escape. The nature
of this transaction was evident. He called upon
the fugitives in vain—he followed them some distance,
till they were out of his sight, and returned,
when he found there was no hope of assistance, towards
the wounded man. He stopped in his way
only to take up a pistol which lay on the ground
about ten paces distant from the object of his attention.
On reaching the wounded man, what
was his astonishment to find his own most bitter
enemy and rival lay speechless and dying. He
looked up with an expression unutterable, when he
saw who it was that came to his assistance, made
a violent attempt to speak, gasped and died. At
this moment Du Quesne was stooping to raise the
body, already lifeless, when several men who had
been alarmed by the same noise which drew him to
the place, rushed hastily upon him, and, as he began
artlessly to ask them for help, secured him as
their prisoner, and charged him with the murder.

His surprise made his answers incoherent, and
his agitation, to their eyes, was evidence of his
guilt. In this state of mind he was re-conveyed
to the city, taken before a magistrate, and charged
with the fact. On the examination it appeared
that the pistol found in his possession had been recently
discharged; the lock was sprung, and the
smell and marks of newly burnt powder were strong
about it. A surgeon had extracted a ball from the
dead man, which exactly corresponded to the calibre
of the pistol. It was likewise in proof, that
there had been a bitter enmity between the deceased
and the accused.

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“You are a lawyer, Mr. Du Quesne,” said the
magistrate, “and know that you can answer or not
to the charge. What say you, is there any reason
why you should not be fully committed for trial?
The offence is not bailable you know.”

“And if it was,” said Du Quesne, “I have no
bail.”

“Do you choose,” continued to magistrate, “to
attempt any defence or explanation? It will be
evidence against you, you know, and not in your
favour. But you are agitated—take a moment's
time.”

This moment's time helped to compose the prisoner's
spirits. He cast his eye round a room filled
with boys and men, black and white, ragged,
dirty and vulgar. It occurred to him how absurd
it was, in the presence of such an audience, to say
to a Dutch Justice, that his morning walk was one
of sentiment, and that the scenery and silence operated
upon his mind to cross the river.

He contented himself with a simple declaration
of his innocence, which he knew the Justiee did
not believe, and mustering his self-possession, said,
that he was without evidence and without friends.
He uttered this last word with a voice and in a manner
that would have outdone the best of actors. A
tear slid upon his long and drooping eye-lash, and
fell upon the floor—it was succeeded by another—
his face was fixed, and the last word, friends, had
recalled to his mind some strong recollections.

The Justice was looking fully at him, and felt
for his distress. He had no great opinion of the
deceased, and as far as morals were concerned,
could excuse the man who met his adversary in an
honourable way. He went up to him and led him
to the further corner of the room—

“My worthy friend,” said he, “confess the

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whole; I'll help you, if I can—he was a good-for-nothing
fellow, and I have no doubt was fairly killed—
come, tell me what you have got to say.”

“Mr. Van Erp,” said the prisoner, “upon my
soul's safety, I am not guilty.”

“Oh, I know that,” said the Justice, “it is no
great crime in a fair way to dispose of such a fellow,
especially in such a case—but don't deny the
fact; you may confide.”

“Yes I do confide, when I tell you I did not
do it.”

“What! not shoot him?”

“No, I did not.”

“Be it so,” said the Justice, incredulously shaking
his head, “you are a lawyer, and have heard
the evidence, and you know I must commit you—
delay is useless.”

The Squire, as he was termed, made out the
mittimus himself, (for in this country the magistrates
have no clerks,) and Du Quesne was followed
to the gaol by the rabble that had attended his
trial. The gaol then stood on the East River, near
the centre of that busy spot, where there are so
many slips and grocers—where the streets are so
dirty and the passing so difficult. The building
itself was made partly of stone and partly of logs;
and the gaoler's house, in which the keeper and
family lived, was a part of the building. The
gaoler too was a man of some distinction, and by
virtue of his office was a member of the city corporation.
In one of the cells of this establishment
was our high-minded and aspiring friend
locked up, and left to his meditations. It was some
time before he could regain his self-possession, and
his busy thoughts then suggested to him the certainty
of his fate, the shortness of the interval, and
the agonizing reflections with which that interval

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must be marked. The gallows would be the last
object before his closing eyes at night, and the first
thought which the mild beam of morning would
bring along with it. His very slumbers were disturbed
with dreams—dreams of the throng of faces
which would surround the place of his execution,
vacant, vulgar and unfeeling—dreams of the cart,
the hangman, and the coffin on which he should
sit, and of the awful dialogue with his ghostly confessor
about his future state—the dread memento
of the sheriff, “you have half an hour to live,”
and the grave ready dug at the foot of the scaffold.
The dreams would awake him only to the consciousness
that all was true. When awake, he meditated
on his hopes of acquittal. The law on duelling
was very severe, and the common law called
it murder. The statute, however, in those sad
times, unlike those of modern and more impartial
days, was unequally administered. Some who had
friends could transgress with impunity, while others
were left to the rigoar of the law. It was easy
for the judge to show that the law was plain, and
that conviction was inevitable. It was equally satisfactory
to hear him put analogous cases, and
show that the man, who on sudden provocation
would be guilty only of manslaughter, if he should
exercise a noble forbcarance, and give his adversary
a chance for his life, would commit a crime still
less, when he killed his man in a fair and honourable
duel.

But our friendless prisoner knew very well that
very little ingenuity from the bench would be exercised
in his favour. The most impartial direction
would be that the law should take its course.

Nearly five years had elapsed since his residence
at Saybrook. To this last peaceful period of his
life his thoughts naturally recurred, and dwelt on

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the only friendship with which his days had been
sweetened. Dudley was probably on the ocean;
and would hear of his misfortunes only to bewail
his death.

He knew well where Van Tromp lived, but
could not see how he could assist. Yet his presence,
his influence, and perhaps his council, if not
to avert, might relieve his sufferings. There was at
that time a regular communication kept up between
the Dutch settlement at New-Amsterdam, and the
French Posts on the Canada line, by the way of
the North River and Lake Champlain. To be
sure, as the residence of Van Tromp was out of
the way, and the country wild, the arrival of a letter
was uncertain. Yet as he had nothing else to
do, he determined, if only to feed his hopes, to
write letter after letter, by every return of the carrier,
and by every opportunity of sending to that
vicinity.

His letters were nearly of the same tenor, all
conversant about the same thing. The only one
preserved is the following:—

Gaol at New-Amsterdam,——.

My dear and only friend—I am here confined as
a criminal, on a capital charge, and am to be tried
in about ten months, with no hope of being acquitted.
To you it is not necessary that I should go
into detail; I know your confidence in me to be
such, that you will believe me when I say, that I
am perfectly innocent; for I would not call you to
the rescue of the guilty. My only solace now is,
that I can repose upon your friendship with perfect
security, and rely on your exertions as fully
as on my own. My thoughts are too distracted to
devise any mode of assistance; I leave that to you.

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Yet use your influence, and though it may all be
in vain, let me, if possible, see you once more.

CARLOS DU QUESNE.