"You won't get a hand's turn done in Dublin 'ithout payin' for it. If you send a lad for a farthin' box o' matches you must give him a ha'penny for goin' an' maybe his tay when he comes back, an' if you haven't any change till the next day he'll charge you interest on it, an' if you don't pay him he'll make it hot for you the next time you go out, unless you ask a peeler to go along with you an' give him half-a-crown for mindin' you.
"Quare is no name for it. It bates out all that ever came across me, an' I seen some strange holes an' corners in me day. Why, the town over there, the biggest fair day ever it seen, or the finest day of a races 'd be no more to Dublin any day in the week than a tin whistle 'd be to the double-barrelled bugle of a brass band! You'd think that every man, woman an' child in Dublin took a pledge every mornin' to make somebody bothered before night with the fair dint o' noise, or die in the attempt. Such screechin' an' yellin' an' creakin' an' groanin' from old women an' young childre an' dogs an' cats an' drays an' fowls an' motors an' trams an' everythin' was never heard this side o' London or the place beyond it, where Ould Nick keeps his furnace in full blast night an' day. Why, a whisper in Dublin 'd call a man home from the bog to his dinner down here, it has to be that loud, an' if you don't screech for anythin' you want you won't get it at all. I don't wonder that the half of them up there is hoarse, an' th' other half bothered in both ears, an' that not one in every hundred has an inch o' win' to blow out a candle with. I suppose that's why they have the gas an' electric light an' keep the win' for blowin' them out under tap. I think if a man in Dublin had to quench six candles every night he'd die of heart disease in less than a week.
"The looks o' the peelers that they have for keepin' up the corners o' the streets in Dublin 'd make you laugh only you wouldn't like to be seen makin' a fool o' yourself in a crowd. They're for all the world like packs o' wool tied in the middle, an' whenever they have to run after a bould gossoon or a mad dog or a flyin' machine or anythin' like that, you'd see them shakin' like a movin' bog or a dish o' that flip-flop stuff they do have at weddin's an' dinners an' parties an' places like that--I think it's jelly they call it. I suppose the poor fellas never get anythin' to eat an' less to drink, an' the win' comin' round the corners gets into them an' blows them out like the bladder of a football. If a man was comin' to after sickness it'd put him to the pin of his collar to walk round one o' them. I'd like to see them wheelin' turf on a bog one o' these hot days. You could catch as much ile as 'd grease your brogues an' the' axle o' th' ass's dray for a twelve-month. It must take a quare lot o' stuff to make a suit o' clothes for one o' them.