"Well, Ned, how d' you feel after your visit to Dublin, an' how did you like the city?"

"I feel very thankful that I'm alive at all," said Ned M'Grane, "that's how I feel; an' I may as well tell you straight out, 'ithout puttin' a gum in it—because I haven't a tooth—that I didn't like the city at all, good, bad or indifferent, an' I didn't feel aisy in me mind from the first minute I set foot in it, until the train whistled leavin' Amiens Street on the way back."

"An' how is that, Ned?"

"It's the quarest place you ever seen in your life, Denis, an' if you're wise you'll never see it. I can't make out why people are always trippin' over other runnin' up to Dublin an' half o' them 'd be better off at home if they 'd only work hard an' keep sober an' let other people's business alone. What they can see in the city to get fond of passes my understandin'. You'd want to keep one hand on your nose nearly all the time an' th' other in the pocket you had the few shillin's in, because the smell o' cabbage an' fish an' oranges an' things like that, that's qualified for th' old age pension, 'd nearly bid you the time o' day it's that strong, an' there's a lot o' professional pocket cleaners goin' about from mornin' till night, an' as soon as they get to know you're from the country—I don't know how they guess at it—they remember all of a sudden that they're sixth cousin to your mother-in-law's step-uncle, or some other relation that you never seen or heard about, an' if you open your mouth to spake to them they'll know your past history from cover to cover in five minutes an' your business an' all about you, an' if you once make friends with them the dickens a shillin' you'll have in your pocket when they get a sudden call to see a man on business outside in the street. Oh, I can tell you, 'shut your eyes and open your mouth' would not be much use to a man in Dublin.

"They don't walk at all up there—it 'd hurt their corns an' wear out their boots; but they're always runnin' after trams, an' then payin' money to be let sit in them to draw their breath. I didn't know what they were at the first time I seen them doin' it. I was walkin' down from me cousin's house to the chapel one mornin', an' not payin' much heed to anythin', when a fella darted out of a gate an' nearly knocked me down with the bump he gave into me. I was just goin' to grab hould of him or give him a kick when he muttered somethin' about bein' sorry, an' off he wint like forked lightnin' an' his hat in his hand an' he wavin' his arms like a tumblin' rake, an' he wasn't three perch runnin' when a lassie in a hobble skirt started to take buck jumps after him, like a lad in a sack race, an' then an old fat woman an' a middle-aged lad with a rheumatic hop joined in the race an' five or six more made after them as fast as they could leg it, an' they all flingin' their arms about the same as the first fella. 'Is it for a wager'? says I to a man that was walkin' in the same direction as meself. 'Is what for a wager?' says he. 'The race,' says I, pointin' to the crowd that was runnin'. He began to laugh an' looked at me in a way that said as plain as could be, 'You're a softy, anyway,' an' says he: 'Oh, they're only runnin' to catch the tram.' 'An' why wouldn't they wait for this other one that's comin' up now?' says I. 'They never wait for a tram in Dublin,' says he; 'they always run after the one that's ahead o' them, an' then if they can't catch it they spend the rest o' the day writin' letters to all the papers complainin' o' the rudeness o' the tram boys that wouldn't wait for them.' An' some o' the same people, when they were at home in the country two or three year ago wouldn't think a traneen about walkin' five mile to a football match an' five back, or trampin' into the town on a fair day or a market day, an' the dickens a bunion or a corn or a welt on their feet they had that time no more than there'd be on the leg of a creepy stool or on the spout of a kettle. I suppose if there were trams down here the women 'd want to go in them to milk or to cut nettles for the ducks an' the men 'd be runnin' after them on their way to the bog or to the hay field, an' they 'd be all writin' letters to the papers if the tram man wouldn't wait for them till they 'd be after aitin' their dinner or gettin' a drink o' buttermilk.

"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.

"If you seen the houses that some o' the swanks o' lads live in on th' edge o' the city you'd have nightmares for a week. When one o' them goes idle there's a notice about it in the papers to catch th' eye o' some lad that wants to change out o' the place he's in, an' you'd think by readin' it that it wasn't a house but a mansion that was waitin' for a tenant. You'll always read in the notices that there's a 'garden front an' rere,' but you'd want a telescope or somethin' like that to see the gardens. You could lift the front one on a good wide shovel, an' a goat couldn't turn round in the big one at the back 'ithout puttin' her feet up on the wall! An' then if you were to see the size o' the rooms in the houseen that you'd have to pay the rent of a farm o' land for. If you were sittin' in the middle o' the kitchen eatin' a pig's crubeen, an' if you came to a rale grizzly bit that wanted a good chuck to get it away from the bone, you'd soon get a whack o' the wall that 'd show you a beautiful movin' picture o' the whole sky on a starry night. An' it wouldn't do to have a dream about tumblin' the wild-cat an' you in bed in any o' them rooms, as they call them, or the same thing 'd happen you, or maybe you'd be out on top o' your head through the French winda with the Venetian blind and the Manchester curtains. An' then they call rows o' huts like that Prince o' Wales' Terrace, or Dreadnought Villa, or Empire Avenue, or somethin' like that, an' the poor foolish lads that has plenty o' room to walk an' sit an' sleep down here in the country think they'll never get away quick enough to Dublin to live in villas or terraces or avenues, and be swanks, God bless the mark!

"I could tell you a lot more about Dublin, boys, an' maybe I would, too, sometime, but you're after hearin' enough to know that it's the dickens own quare an' comical place out an' out."