A correspondent writes: Turning over the leaves of an eighteenth century pamphlet entitled "An Examination of Certain Abuses, Corruptions and Enormities in the City of Dublin," I came on one passage which provides an interesting contrast for those who complain of the noisy streets of the twentieth century.
"I would advise all newcomers," writes the pamphleteer, "to look out at their garret windows, and there see whether the thing that is cried be tripes or flummery, buttermilk or cowheels. For, as things are now managed, how is it possible for an honest countryman just arrived to find out what is meant, for instance, by the following words, with which his ears are constantly stunned twice a day: `Muggs, juggs, and porringers, up in the garret or down in the cellar?' I say, how is it possible for any stranger to understand that this jargon is meant as an invitation to buy a farthing's worth of milk for his breakfast or supper, unless his curiosity draws him to the window or till his landlady shall inform him?"