O'Connell v Moriarty, An Irish 'folklore' tale from Dublin, around the 1820's.

O'Connell v Moriarty, An Irish 'folklore' tale from Dublin, around the 1820's.

There was at that time in Dublin, a certain woman, Biddy Moriarty, who had a huckster’s stall on one of the quays nearly opposite the Four Courts. She was a virago of the of the first order, very able with her fist, and still more formidable with her tongue. From one end, Dublin, the other, she was notorious for her powers of abuse, and even in the provinces, 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. Some of O'Connell's friends, however, thought that he could beat her at the use of her own weapons. Of this, however, he had some doubts himself, when he listened once or twice to some minor specimens of her barrage to a customer.

It was mooted once the young Kerry barrister was somewhat afeared of her sharp tongue, and someone of the company rather too freely ridiculed the idea of his being able to meet the famous Madame Moriarty on her own ground. O'Connell never liked the idea of being put down, and he professed his readiness to encounter her and even backed himself for the match. Bets were offered and taken, and it was decided that the matter should come off at once.

The party adjourned to the huckster's stall, and there was the owner herself, superintending the sale of her small wares--a few loungers and ragged idlers were hanging around her stall, for Biddy was a character and in her way was one of the sights of Dublin. O'Connell commenced the attack.

"What's the price of this walking stick, Mrs. What's-your-name?"

"Moriarty, sir, my name, and a good one it is, and what have you to say against it? One-and-sixpence the price of the stick. Troth, it's chape as dirt, so it is."

"One-and-sixpence for a walking stick; whew! Why, you are not better than an impostor, to ask eighteen pence for what cost you two pence.'

"Two pence, your grandmother! Do you mane to say it's chating the people am? Impostor, indeed!"

"I protest as a gentleman ..."

“Jintleman! Jintleman! The likes of you a jintleman! Witha, by gor, that bangs Banagher. Why, you potato-faced pippin sneezer, when did a Madagascar monkey like you pick up enough of common Chris- tian dacency to hide your Kerry brogue?"

"Easy now, easy now," said O'Connell with imperturbable good humour, "Don't choke yourself with fine language, you whiskey-drinking parallelogram.'

"What's that you call me, you murderin' villain?" roared Mrs. Moriarty.

"I call you," answered O'Connell, "a parallelogram, and a Dublin judge and jury
will say it's no libel to call you so”

"Oh, tare-an' ouns! Oh, Holy Saint Bridget! That an honest woman like me should be called a parrybellygrum to her face. I'm none of your parrybellygrums, you rascally gallows-bird; you cowardly. sneakin', plate-lickin' blaguard!"

"Oh, not you, indeed! Why, I suppose you'll deny that you keep a hypotenuse in your house."

"It's a lie for you. I never had such thing. ..."

"Why. All your neighbours know very well that you keep not only a hypotenuse but two diameters locked up in your garret and that you go out to walk with them every Sunday, you heartless old heptagon."

"Oh, hear that, ye saints in glory! Oh, there's bad language from the fellow that wants to pass for a jintleman. May the divil fly away with you, you, micher from Munster, and make celery sauce of your rotten limbs, you mealy-mouthed tub of guts."

"Ah, you can't deny the charge, you miserable sub-multiple duplicate ratio."

"Go, rinse your mouth in the Liffey, you nasty tickle-pincher: 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-minded old polygon to the deuce I pitch you, you blustering intersection of a superficies!"

"You saucy tinker's apprentice, if you don't your jaw, I'll……” But here she gasped for breath, unable to hawk up more words.

"While I have a tongue, I'll abuse you, you most inimitable periphery. Look at her, boys! There she stands a convicted perpendicular in petticoats! There's contamination in her circumference, and she trembles with guilt down to the extremities of her corollaries. You're found out, you rectilinealantecedent, and equiangular old hag!”
“Tis with the devil you will fly away, you porter-swiping similitude of the bisection of a vortex!"

Overwhelmed with this torrent of language, Mrs. Moriarty was silenced. Catching up a bar of scrubbin’ soap, she aimed at O'Connell's head, hitting him square behind his ear, knocking his top hat to the filth of the gutter.

"You were winning your wager, O'Connell, up to the point where the soap silenced your tongue and had final say in the matter," said the ones who proposed the contest.
O’Connell paid up, accepting defeat, he returned to chambers to nurture his injured pride and throbbing left ear.

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