"Thus this record of absolute verity declares that Hiram Fowler had
died before April, 1818, and the plaintiff and defendant both prove
that he was alive, after Cole came into this State. Beyond the
possibility of doubt then, Cole came to the possession of this land in
1817, and his title is perfect in law, equity and morality."
When he closed this part of his case, a murmur almost of open applause
ran through the densely packed house. Here he rested the argument.
In a rapid _resume_ of the case, he seemed to have stumbled upon the
two little grass-grown graves of Cole's children, up under the old
maples. He paused, hesitated, faltered, and stopped, tears came to his
eyes, and his lips quivered. No art could have produced this effect,
and a sob broke from many in the court room. Suddenly resuming, he
finished his grouping in a saddened voice, and paused for a moment,
sending his eager glance through the court room, till it finally
rested on the face of Sam Ward. Looking at him, in half a dozen
sentences, he pilloried him for the scorn and derision of the jury;
and then turning to them, in a voice of wonderful sweetness, half sad
and regretful, he committed the case to them, and sat down.
A great hum like that of swarming bees, ran through the court house,
and men who had looked often into each other's eyes, looked again,
with a joyous sense of relief.
During some parts of his speech, which occupied an hour and a half,
men at times leaned from all parts of the room towards him, open-eyed
and open-mouthed.
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