After dinner, to kill time, we went to the court-house, and were
fortunate enough to find room in a position where we could see and hear
all that was going on.
The judge was seated upon a chair, the frame of which he was whittling
with such earnestness that he appeared to have quite forgotten where he
was. On each side of him were half a dozen of jurymen, squatted upon
square blocks, which they were also whittling, judge and jurymen having
each a cigar in the mouth, and a flask of liquor, with which now and
then they regaled themselves. The attorney, on his legs, addressing the
jury, was also smoking, as well as the plaintiff, the defendant, and all
the audience. The last were seated, horseback-fashion, upon parallel low
benches, for their accommodation, twenty feet long, all turned towards
the judge, and looking over the shoulders of the one in front of him,
and busily employed in carving at the bench between his thigh and that
of his neighbour. It was a very singular _coup d'oeil,_ and a new-comer
from Europe would have supposed the assembly to have been a
"whittling club."
[Illustration: "The attorney, on his legs, addressing the jury, was also
smoking."]
Having surveyed the company, I then paid attention to the case on trial,
and, as I was just behind the defendant, I soon learned how justice was
executed in Texas, or, at least, in Texan Boston.
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