A little apart are twelve individuals grouped together; about half of them seated on a rough slab bench, the other half “squatted” or reclining along the grass.
It is the jury—an “institution” as germane to Texas as to England; and in Texas ten times more true to its trust; scorning to submit to the dictation of the judge—in England but too freely admitted.
Around the Texan judge and jury—close pressing upon the precincts of the Court—is a crowd that may well be called nondescript. Buckskin hunting-shirts; blanket-coats—even under the oppressive heat; frocks of “copperas stripe” and Kentucky jeans; blouses of white linen, or sky-blue cottonade; shirts of red flannel or unbleached “domestic”; dragoon, rifle, infantry, and artillery uniforms, blend and mingle in that motley assemblage.
Here and there is seen a more regular costume—one more native to the country—the jaqueta and calzoneros of the Mexican, with the broad sombrero shading his swarthy face of picaresque expression.
Time was—and that not very long ago—when men assembled in this same spot would all have been so attired.
But then there was no jury of twelve, and the judge—Juez de Letras—was a far more important personage, with death in his nod, and pardon easily obtained by those who could put onzas in his pocket.
With all its rude irregularity—despite the absence of effete forms—of white ermine, and black silk—of uniformed alguazils, or bright-buttoned policemen—despite the presence of men that, to the civilised eye, may appear uncouth—even savage I hesitate not to say, that among these red flannel-shirts and coats of Kentucky jean, the innocent man is as safe—ay far safer—to obtain justice, and the guilty to get punished, than amidst the formalities and hair-splitting chicaneries of our so-called civilisation.
Do not mistake those men assembled under the Texan tree—however rough their exterior may seem to your hypercritical eye—do not mistake them for a mob of your own “masses,” brutalised from their very birth by the curse of over-taxation. Do not mistake them, either, for things like yourselves—filled to the throat with a spirit of flunkeyism—would that it choked you!—scorning all that is grand and progressive—revering only the effete, the superficial, and the selfish.
I am talking to you, my middle-class friend, who fancy yourself a citizen of this our English country. A citizen, forsooth; without even the first and scantiest right of citizenship—that of choosing your parliamentary representative.
You fancy you have this right. I have scarce patience to tell you, you are mistaken.