'I'll have the law of you, so I will!' is the saying of an Englishman
who expects justice. 'I'll have you before his honour,' is the threat of
an Irishman who hopes for partiality. Miserable is the life of a justice
of the peace in Ireland the day after a fair, especially if he resides
near a small town. The multitude of the KILT (KILT does not mean KILLED,
but hurt) and wounded who come before his honour with black eyes or
bloody heads is astonishing: but more astonishing is the number of those
who, though they are scarcely able by daily labour to procure daily
food, will nevertheless, without the least reluctance, waste six or
seven hours of the day lounging in the yard or court of a justice of the
peace, waiting to make some complaint about--nothing. It is impossible
to convince them that TIME IS MONEY. They do not set any value upon
their own time, and they think that others estimate theirs at less than
nothing. Hence they make no scruple of telling a justice of the peace
a story of an hour long about a tester (sixpence); and if he grows
impatient, they attribute it to some secret prejudice which he
entertains against them.
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