That this is the original bill of sale, from one Silenus to Hugh Marston, has been fully established.  However painful the issue, nothing remained but to give the case to the jury.  All is silent for several minutes.  The judge has rarely sat upon a case of this kind.  He sits unnerved, the pen in his hand refusing to write as his thoughts wander into the wondrous vortex of the future of slavery.  But the spell has passed; his face shades with pallor as slowly he rises to address the jury.  He has but few words to say; they fall like death-knells on the ears of his listeners.  Some touching words escape his hesitating lips; but duty, enforced by the iron rod of slave power, demands him to sustain the laws of the land.  He sets forth the undisputed evidence contained in the bill of sale, the unmistakeable bond, the singular and very high-handed attempt to conceal it from the honest creditors, and the necessity of jurymen restraining their sympathies for the children while performing a duty to the laws of the land.  Having thus made his brief address, he sits down; the sheriff shoulders his tip-staff, and the august twelve, with papers provided, are marched into the jury-room, as the court orders that the case of Dunton v.  Higgins be called.

Five minutes have intervened; the clerk calling the case s interrupted by a knocking at the jury-room door; he stops his reading, the door is opened, and the sheriff conducts his twelve gentlemen back to their seats.  Not a whisper is heard; the stillness of the tomb reigns over this high judicial scene.  The sheriff receives a packet of papers from the foreman’s hands, and passes them to the clerk.

“Gentlemen of the jury will please stand up,” says that very amiable functionary.  “Have you agreed on your verdict?” The foreman bows assent.

“Guilty or not guilty, gentlemen?”

“Guilty,” says the former, in tones like church-yard wailings:  “Guilty.  I suppose that’s the style we must render the verdict in?” The foreman is at a loss to know what style of verdict is necessary.

“Yes,” returns the clerk, bowing; and the gentlemen of the jury well complimented by the judge, are discharged until to-morrow.  The attorney for the defence made a noble, generous, and touching appeal to the fatherly twelve; but his appeal fell like dull mist before the majesty of slavery.  Guilty!  O heavens, that ever the innocent should be made guilty of being born of a mother!  That a mother-that name so holy-should be stained with the crime of bearing her child to criminal life!

Two children, fair and beautiful, are judged by a jury of twelve-perhaps all good and kind fathers, free and enlightened citizens of a free and happy republic-guilty of the crime of being born of a slave mother.  Can this inquiring jury, this thinking twelve, feel as fathers only can feel when their children are on the precipice of danger?  Could they but break over that seeming invulnerable power of slavery which crushes humanity, freezes up the souls of men, and makes the lives of millions but a blight of misery, and behold with the honesty of the heart what a picture of misery their voice “Guilty!” spreads before these unfortunate children, how changed would be the result!