d, and that of every
State of the United States; and he read authorities to the Court.

He then showed pretty conclusively that Cole left Connecticut in the
spring of 1817, and was not a year and two months on the road; that
he came in in 1817, and not in 1818; and this, he said he would
demonstrate. John Fowler, Hiram Fowler's son, had sworn positively
that his father worked for Cole, repairing the fence on the north.
Ward swore to the same; he had told this one bit of truth by some
unaccountable accident; so that the plaintiff had also proven that
Hiram Fowler had worked for Cole on this land, and hence Cole was in
possession of it in the lifetime of Fowler. When did Fowler die?

"Now," said Bart, "I will read from this probate record, already put
in evidence, but not read," and he opened and read from the record
of the Court, begun and held in the court house at Chardon, for the
county of Geauga, commencing April 17, 1818, the appointment of an
administrator on the estate of "Hiram Fowler, late deceased, of the
township of Newbury, in said county," and closed the book with a clap.
"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 joyo