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(Eclectic of lUit.
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O'CONNELL AND MRS. MORIARTT.
It was in an Irish court of justice that Mr
(TConnell could be seen to greatest advantage.
Every quality of the lawyer and the advocate i
he displayed. He showed research and per
fect mastery of his profession, and lie exhibit
ed his own great and innate qualities. Who
that ever beheld him on the Munster circuit, j
when he was in the height of his fame, but
must have admired his prodigious versatility
of formidable powers. Jlis pathos was often
admirable: his humor flowed without effort or
art. What jokes lie uttered !—what sar
casms ! How well he worked his case
through, never throwing away a chance, nev
er relaxing his untiring energies.
Pity that a man of such splendid talents
and commanding eloquence should have ad
dicted himself so much to abuse.
From his earliest days, O'Connell had the
reputation of being a proficient in the art of
vituperation. No public man in any country
ever stooped so much to abuse—he enjoyed
throwing dirt. In classical severity, and in
genuine satiric power, he never could be com
pared to either Curran, Grattan, or Plunket.
The invectives against Flood and Corry could
never have been spoken by O'Connell; he
had no pretensions to the masterly talent for
wielding the weapon of poignant scorn and
polished satire possessed by Grattan. There
was more of the genius for invective in Cur
ran’s famous dissection of Lord Clare’s char
acter (in his own presence) than in all the
coarse tirades which fell from O’Connell’s
lips. Nor was he comparable to Lord Plun
ket, as a master of invective. The withering
denunciation of Lord Castlereagh, in the Irish
House of Commons: the clwistisement of the
late Master Ellis, in the English House of
Commons ; and the ludicrous castigation of
the present Marquis of Londonderry in the
House of Lords, in 1832; these were speci
mens of oratorical satire which O'Connell
could never equal. When, indeed, he attempt
ed a regular invective, he wars sure to shock
by the foulness of his language ; or, by some
gross unfairness, he would probably suggest
feelings of sympathy for the object of his at
tack. Even in his favorite eloquence of Bil
lingsgate, he was matched, if not surpassed by
Cobbett.
Many, indeed, of O’Connell’s tirades were
not in talent beyond the ordinary leaders of a
scurrilous newspaper. His abuse derived its
force from his personal station, from his rank
at the bar, and from his prominence, as the
acknowledged leader of the Catholics of Ire
land.
But for a round volley of abusive epithets
nobody could'surpass him. One of his droll
comic sentences was often worth a speech of
an hour, in putting down an opponent, or in
gaining supporters to his side. At Nisi Pri
us he turned his mingled talent for abuse and
drollery to great effect. He covered a witness
with ridicule, or made a cause so ludicrous,
that the real groundsof complaint became in
vested with absurdity. One of the best things
he ever said was in an assize town on the
Munster circuit. The attorney of the side
opposite to that on which O'Connell was re
tained, was a gentleman remarkable for his
combative qualities—he delighted in being in
a fight, and was foremost in many of the po
litical scenesof excitement in his native town.
His person was indicative of his disposition.
His face was bold, menacing, and scornful in
its expression. He had stamped on him the
defiance and resolution of a pugilist. Upon
either temple there stood erect a lock of hair,
which no brush could smooth down. These
locks looked like horns, and added to the
combative expression of his countenance. —
Ho was fierv in his nature, excessively spirit
ed, and ejaculated, rather than spoke, to an
audience, his speeches consisting of a series
of short, hissing, spluttering sentences, by no
means devoid of talent, of a certain kind.—
Add to all this, that the gentleman was an
Irish attorney, and an Orangeman, and the
reader may suppose that he was “ a charac
ter.”
Upon the occasion referred to this gentle
man gave repeated annoyance to O’Connell—
by interrupting him in the progress of the
cause —by speaking to the witnesses—and by
interfering in a manner altogether improper,
and unwarranted by legal custom. But it
was no easy matter to make the combative
attorney hold his peace —he, too, was an agi
tator in his own fashion. In vain did the
counsel engaged with O’Connell in the cause
sternly rebuke him ; in vain did the judge ad
monish him to remain quiet; up he would
jump, interrupting the proceedings, hissing
out his angry remarks and vociferations with
vehemence. While O’Connell was in the act
of pressing a most important question, he
§©® ir a imsi a. airsb ais y SA&sir-'irs.
jumped up again, undismayed, solely for the
purpose of interruption. O'Connell losing all
patience, suddenly turned round, and scowling
at the disturber, shouted in a voice of thun
der, “sit down, you audacious, snarling, pug
nacious ram-cat.” Scarcely had the words
fallen from his lips, when roars of laughter
rang through the court. The judge himself
laughed outright at the happy and humorous
description of the combative attorney, who,
pale with passion, gasped in inarticulate rage.
The name of ram-cat stuck to him through all
his life.
One of the drollest scenes of vituperation
that O'Connell ever figured in, took place in
the early part of.his lile. Not long after he
was called to the bar, his character and pecu
liar talents received rapid recognition from all
who were even casually acquainted with
him. His talent for vituperative language was
perceived, and’hy some he was, even in those
davs. considered matchless as a scold. There
was however at that time in Dublin a certain
woman, Biddy Moriarty, who had a huck
ster’s stall on one of the quays nearly oppo
site the Four Courts. She was a virago of
j the first order, very able with her fist, and still
more formidable with her tongue. From one
; end of Dublin to the other she was notorious
for her powers of abuse, and even in the Prov
inces Mrs. Moriarty’s language had passed
into currency. The dictionary of Dublin slang
had been considerably enlarged by her, and
her voluble impudence had almost become
proverbial. Someof O'Connell’s friends, how
ever, thought that he could beat her at the use
of her own weapons. Os this however, he
had some doubts himself, when he had listen
ed once or twice to some minor specimens of
her Billingsgate. It was mooted once wlielh-
I er the young Kerry barrister could encounter
her, and someone of the company (in O'Con
nell’s presence) rather too freely ridiculed the
idea of his being able to meet the famous
Madam Moriarty. O'Connell never liked the
idea of being put (town, and he professed his
readiness to encounter her, and even backed
himself for the match. Bets were offered and
taken—it was decided that the match should
come off at once.
The party adjourned to the huckster’s stall,
and there was the owner herself, superintend
i ing the sale of her small wares —a few loung
j ers and ragged idlers were hanging round her
I stall—for Biddy was a “character,” and in
1 her way was one of the sights of Dublin.
O’Connell was very confident of success.
He had laid an ingenious plan for overcoming
; her, and, with all the anxiety of an ardent
experimentalist, waited to put it into practice.
He resolved to open the attack. At this time
O'Connell's own party, and the loungers about
j the place, formed an audience quite sufficient
to arouse Mrs. Moriarty, on public provoca
tion, to a due exhibition of her powers. o’-
| Connell commenced the attack :
“What’s the price of this walking-stick,
j Mrs. What’s-your-name ?”
“Moriarty, sir, is my name, and a good one
it is; and what have you got to say agen it ?
\ and one-and-sixpence’s the juice of the stick.
| Troth, it's chape as dirt—so it is.”
“One-and-sixpence for a walking-stick ;
| whew! why, you are no better than an im
; postor, to ask eighteen pence for what cost
you twopence.”
“Twoj)cnce, your grandmother,” replied
Mrs. Biddy; “do you mane to say, it’s chat
ing the peojffe lam? impostor, indeed!”
“ Ay, impostor; and it’s that I call you to
your teeth,” rejoined O’Connell.
“ Come, cut your stick, you cantankerous
jackanapes.”
“ Keep a civil tongue in your head, you old
diagonal ,” cried O'Connell; calmly.
“ Stop your jaw, you pug-nosed badger ; or
by this and that,” cried Mrs. Biddy, “I’ll make
you go quicker nor you came.”
“ Don’t be in a passion, my old radius—an
ger will only wrinkle your beauty,”
“By the hokey, if you say another word of
impudence. I’d tan your dirty hide, you baste
ly common scrub; and sorry I’d be to soil my
.fists upon your carcase.”
“Whew ! boys, what a passion old Biddy
is in; I protest, as I am a gentleman ”
“Jintleman ! jintleman! the likes of you a
jintleman; Wisha, by gar : that bangs Banag
her. Why, you potato-faced pippin-sneezer,
when did a Madagascar monkey like you pick
enough of common Christian dacency to hide
your Kerry brogue.”
“Easy, now—easy, now,” cried O’Connell,
with imperturable good humor, “don’t choke
yourself with fine language, you old whiskey
drinking parallelogram.”
“What’s that you call me, you murderin’
villain ?” roared Mrs. Moriarty, stung into
fury.
“I call you,” answered O'Connell, “a par
allelogram : and a Dublin judge and jury will
say that it’s no libel to call you so!”
“Oh, tare-an-ouns! Oh, holy Biddy! that
an honest woman like me should be called a
parry bell ygrum to her face. I’m nane of yur
jtarrybellygrums, you rascally gallows-bird ;
you cowardly, sneaking, plate-licking blig
gard !”
“Oh, not you, indeed!” retorted O’Connell;
“why I suppose you'll deny that you keep a
hypotheneuse in your house.”
“It’s a lie for you, you b—v robber; I
never had such a thing in my house, you
swindling thief.”
“Why, sure all the neighbors know very
well that you keep not only a hypotheneuse,
but that you go. out to walk with him every
Sunday, you heartless old heptagon.*’
“ Oh, hear that, ye saints of glory! Oh,
there’s bad language from a fellow that wants
to pass for a jintleman. May the devil fly
away with you, you michel from Munster,
and make celery-sauce of your rotten limbs,
you mealy-mouthed tub of guts.”
“Ah, you can’t deny the charge, you mis
erable submultiple of a duplicate ratio.”
“ Go, rinse your mouth in the Liffey, you
nasty tickle-pitcher; after all the bad words
you speak, it ought to be filthier than your
face, you dirty chicken of Beelzebub.”
“ Rinse your own mouth, you wicked-mind
ed old polygon—to the deuse I pitch you, you
blustering intersection ot a st —ng superficies.
“ You saucy tinker’s apprentice, if you don't
cease your jaw, I’ll .” But here she gasp
ed for breath, unable to hawk up any more
words, for the last volley of O'Connell had
nearly knocked the wind out of her.
While I have a tongue, I'll abuse you, you
most inimitable perijthery. Look at her, boys!
there she stands —a convicted perpendicular
in peticoats! There’s contamination in her
circumference, and she trembles with guilt,
dowm to the extremities of her corollaries.—
Ah! you’re found out, you rectilineal antece
dent, and equiangular old hag! ’Tis with
you the devil will fly away, you poiter-swip
ing similitude of the bisection of a vortex.”
Overwhelmed with this torrent of language,
Mrs. Moriarty was silenced. Catching uj> a
saucejian, she was aiming at O'Connell's head
■which he very prudently made a timely re
treat.
“ You have won the wager, O’Connell, here’s
your bet,” cried the gentleman who proposed
the contest.
O’Connell knew well the use of sound in
vituperation ; and, having to deal with an ig
norant scold, determined to overcome her in
volubility, by using all the sesquipedalia ver
ba which occur in Euclid. With these, and a
few r significant epithets, and a scoffing impu
dent demeanor, he had, for once, imposed si
lence on Biddy Moriarty— From Madden's
“ Revelations of Ireland .”
<EI)c toorkintj illan.
A TASTE FOR READING.
We have frequently heard mechanics com
plain that they have no leisure to acquire a
taste for reading —and we conceive that they
labor under the great mistake of supposing
that such leisure belongs only to the profes
sional man. A glance, however, at the pres
ent condition of the workingman in this
country and in England, will suffice to refute
this notion. We are satisfied that the me
chanic has quite as much time as the mer
chant, and generally, as the professional
man, for instructive reading. The great ‘ack
is not of time, but of taste for improvement—
it would be difficult to set bounds to the at
tainments which might be made by the hum
ble day-laborer, under the most discouraging
circumstances. In illustration of this, and to
incite our working men to a diligent pursuit
of knowledge, we present to their attention
some portions of a letter addressed to a friend
by the celebrated Elihu Burritt, the “learned
blacksmith.”—[Ed. S. L. G.
“ I was the youngest,” says the writer, “ of
many brethren, and my parents were poor.
My means of education were limited to the
advantages of a district school, and these
again were circumscribed by my father’s
death, which deprived me, at the age of fif
teen, of those scanty opportunities which I
had previously enjoyed. A few months after
his decease, I apprenticed myself to a black
smith in my native village/ Thither I car
ried an indomitable taste for reading, which 1
had jireviously acquired through the medium
of the society library; all the historical works
in which, I had at that time perused. At the
expiration of a little more than half my ap
prenticeship, I suddenly conceived the idea of
studying Latin. Through the assistance of
an elder brother, who had himself obtained a
collegiate education by his own exertions, I
completed my Virgil during the evenings of
one winter. After some time devoted to
Cicero, and a few other Latin authors, I com
menced the Greek. At this time it was nec
essary that I should devote every hour of
daylight, and a part of the evening, to the
duties of my apprenticeship. Still 1 carried
my Greek grammar in my hat, and often
found a moment, when I was heating some
large iron, when I could place my book be
fore me against the chimney of my forge, and
go through with tupto , tuptcis , tuptci, unper
ceived by my fellow apprentices, and, to my
confusion of face, with a detrimental effect to
the charge in my fire. At evening I sat
down, unassisted and alone, to the Iliad of
Homer, twenty books of which measured my
progress in that language during the evenings
of another winter. I next turned to the mo
dern languages, and was much gratified to
learn that my knowledge of the Latin fur
nished me with a key to the literature of most
of the languages of Europe. This circum
stance gave anew imjmlse to the desire of
acquainting myself with the jdiilosophy, der
ivation and affinity of the different European
tongues. I could not be reconciled to limit
myself in these investigations to a few hours
after the arduous labors of the day. I there
fore laid down my hammer, and went to New
Haven, where 1 recited to native teachers in
French, Spanish, German and Italian. I re
turned at the expiration of two years to the
forge, bringing with me such books in those
languages, as 1 could procure. When I had
read these books through, 1 commenced the
Hebrew with an awakened desire of examin
ing another field; and by assiduous ajqffica
tion, 1 was enabled in a few weeks to read
this language with such facility, that I allot
ted it to myself as a task, to read two chap
ters in the Hebrew Bible before breakfast each
morning; this, and an hour at noon, being all
the time that I could devote to myself during
the day. After becoming somewhat familiar
with this language, I looked around me for
the means of initiating myself into the fields
of Oriental literature, and to my deep regret
and concern, I found my progress in this di
rection hedged up by the want of requisite
books. 1 immediately began to devise means
of obviating this obstacle; and after many
plans, 1 concluded to seek a place as a sailor
on board some ship bound to Europe, think
ing in this way to have opportunities of col
lecting at different jiorts such works in the
modern and Oriental languages as I found
necessary for this object. 1 left the forge
and my native place to carry this plan into
execution. I travelled on foot to Boston, a
distance of more than a hundred miles, to
find some vessel bound to Europe. In this I
was disappointed; and while revolving in my
mind what steps next to take, I accidentally
heard of the hall of the American Antiqua
rian Society in Worcester. I immediately
bent my steps towards this place. I visited
the hail, and found there, to my infinite grat
ification, such a collection of ancienl, mo
dern and Oriental languages, as I never be
fore conceived to be collected in one place :
and, sir, you may imagine with what senti
ments of gratitude I was affected, when, upon
evincing a desire to examine some of these
rich and rare works, I was kindly invited to
an unlimited participation in all the benefits
ol this noble institution. Availing myself of
the kindness of the directors, I sjiend about
three hours daily at the hall, which, with an
hour at noon, and about three in the evening,
make up the portion of the day which 1 ap
propriate to my studies, the rest being occu
pied in arduous manual labor. Through the
facilities afforded by this institution, 1 have
been able to add so much to my jirevious ac
quaintance with the ancient, modern and Ori
ental languages, as to be able to read up
wards oi fifty of them with more or less fa
cility.”
NEVER TOO OLD TO LEARN.
i Socrates, at an extreme old age, learned to
play on musical instruments. This would
look ridiculous for some of the rich old men
in our time, esjmcially if they should take it
into their heads to thrum a guitar under a la
dy’s window, which Socrates did not do, but
only learned to play upon some instrument of
his time—not a guitar—for the jmrpose of re
sisting the wear and tear of old age.
Cato, at eighty years of age, thought pro
per to learn the Greek language. Many of
our young men at thirty or forty, have forgot
ten even the alphabet of a language, the
knowledge of which was necessary to enter
college, and which was made a daily exercise
through college. A fine comment upon their
love of letters truly!
Plutarch, w T hen between seventy and eighty
commenced the study of Latin. Many of our