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VOL. I.
THK CABIN KI
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Select Tales.
Darby O'Rcily and widow Fleming.
£ I'he following amusing tale is abridged
from anew work by Mr. Crocker, author
of Irish Legends’ entitled Legeuds of the
takes, &c.
‘ln the good old times, there exist
ed in Ireland a race of mortals, who
under the denomination of'pmr scho
lars* used to travel from parish to pa
rish, and county to county, iu order
to increase their stock of knowledge.
These poor scholars were for the most
part men. of from twenty to live-and
twenty years of age; and as they
were also agreeable social fellows,
who during their peregrinations had
a < quired a fund of anecdotes, could
tell a good story, and never refused
to lend a helping hand in any business
that was going forward, they were re.
ceived with a caed milk faidtha [a
hundred thousand] at every farmer’s
house throughout the country, where
they were welcome to stay as long as
they pleased,—lt happened one eve-
Bing in the month of July, that one
©f these peripatetics, a stout platter
faced mortal, by name Darby O'Rei
ly, (the very same it was who invent
ed the famous stone soup) made his
appearance at the house of the Widow
Fleming, who dwelt not far from the
old church of Kilcumtnin. Now the wi
dow Fleming, who since her husbands
death, bad taken the entire manage
ment of a large farm upon herself,
was very glad to see Darby o‘Rrily
for a variety of reasons. In the first
place, it was the hay harvest, and
Darby would lend a helping hand and
keep the men in good humor at their
work with his merry stories; then he
could teach the children great ABC
of an evening, and then she was a
lone woman, aud D trby was a pleas
ant companion, and an old acquain
fance moreover. Whether the last
idea was of a deeper root than the oth
ers, it is not for me to say, but certain
it is that Darby received on the pre
sent occasion more than a common
welcome from the widow Fleming.
After having partaken of the good
cheer which the widow set before him
in the greatest profusion, and having
renewed the acquaintance with the
inmates of the house, even to Darby,
(the dog that was called after him)
and the cat, he proposed to step down
to the parish jig house; just to shuttle
the brogue with his old sweethearts,
hear the news, and see how the neigh
bors were getting on—for it was near
a twelvemonth since he bad been in
that part of the country.
[This proposition was not agreea
ble to the widow, whether because
sweethearts had been mentioned* does
not appear; but was finally assented
to on a charge to be home at an early
hour. Darby, however, between
dancing and drinking, and the atten
tions he received, became ‘as comfor
table as any gentleman could wish to
he,* and totally forgot the kind wid
ow and her advice; but at length the
party broke up and Darby was com
pelled to set off for his lodgings,*]
He was so much in the wind,* that
he did not well know which way he
was going; and as bad luck would
have it, he went every way but the
right, for instead of keeping the
straight road, by way of making a
short cut lie turned off through the
Judds* and after wandering about for
Rural Cabinet.
Warrenton, .March 21, 1829.
as good a an hour, v%u rc mi uu n*
find himself but in the old fort at
Claunteeng. A bad place it is to get
into at the dead hour of night, when
the good people are going their rounds
and making merry—as Darby soon
found; for though it was easy enough
to get into the fort, he could not get
out again for the life of him; it even
appeared to him as if the fort had in
creased its dimensions to a boundless
extent. He wandered up and down
and round about for a long time,
without ever being’ able to get out, aud
was obliged at last to content himself
w here he was; so down he sat upon a
stone. There‘B small fun sitting on a
cowld stone in the moon-shine,’ rant,
tered Darby, ‘and sure it‘s a pitiful
case to be bewitched by the fairies—
the good people 1 mane— and stuck
fast in the middle of an owld fort, but
there‘B no help for‘t, so what can’t be
cured most be endured.* No sooner
had he come to this very wise con
rlusion, than he heard a most tremen
dous hammering under the very
stone he wa9 sitting on. ‘0 Darby!’
cried he, ‘what will become of you
now?’ Plucking up his courage, he
boldly took a prep beneath the stone,
when what should lie see but a cluri
caunc sitting under a projecting ledge
of what had been bis seat, and ham
mering as hard as be could at the heel
<>f an old shoe. Although Darby was
very much afraid of the fairies, he
wasn‘t a bit afraid of the rluriraune:
for they say if you catch a rluriraune
and keep him fast, hedl show you
where his purse is hid, pnd make a
very rich man of you, But it wasn‘t
thinking of purses Darby was; he’d
rather be out of the fort than to get
all the purses in the world. So when
he saw the rluriraune, it came into
his head that may be hc‘d lend him a
helping hand, for they say the little
fellow is fond of a drop himself. ‘Suc
cess to you, my boy, you are a good
hand at a shoe any how,* said Darby
addressing himself to the cluricaune.
‘All. Darby, my jolly buck, is that
you?* said the cluricaune getting up
from his work and lo"king him full
in the fare. ‘The very same at you*
honor‘s sarvice’ answered Dirby.
‘What brought you here?’ said the
clauricauue; *l‘m thinking you‘vc go
yourself into a bit of a s* rape.*—
Fakes, then, your honor, Im think
ing the very same,* said Darby, ‘if
your honor doesn't lend me a helping
hand,’ So he told him how he stop*
ped at the widow Fleming's how he
went down to the jig house, and be
ing a little overtaken in liquor, how
he wandered through the fields until
lie found hirnself in the old fort, and
wasn‘t able to make his way out a
gain. ‘You‘re in a bad case, Darby
said the claoricane, ‘for the good peo
ple will be here directly, and if they
find you before them, Darby, they‘ll
play the puck with you.’ ‘Oh, mur
thur!’ cried Darby, ‘I throw my lif*
upon the heel of your honor’s shoe.’
•Well,’ said the cluricaune. you‘re a
rollocking lad as ever tipped a can,
and its a pity any harm should ever
come of taking a drop of good drink;
so give me your hand, to me or mine,
HI do more than that for you, and
HI save you; and as you never did
any hurt to me or mine, I‘II do more
than that for you Darby. Here,
take this charm, and you are made
forever, my man.* ‘And what‘s the
nathur of it?* inquired Darby, at the
same time putting it into his right
hand breeches pocket, and buttoning
it up tight. ‘HI tell you that,’ re
plied the cluricaune;‘if you only pin
it to the petticoat of the first woman
in the land, shedl follow you the wide
! world over,—-and that‘ no bad thing
loi* a poor scholar. So sujaig, tin
cluricune took him out of the fort,'put
him on the straight road, and wishing
him success with the ( harm, burst in
to a fit of laughter, and disappeared.
Good riddance of you any how 7 , but
it‘s an ugly laugh you have with you,’
said Darby, as he made the best of his
way to the widow Fleming's, who was
in no great humor; and, no wonder, to
he kept up so late by such a drunken
blctkv.um as Darby. Now when he
saw the widow in a hit of a fret,
‘Ho, by my sowl,’ said he, *l‘ve got
the cure in my breeches, pocket!’ So
with tint* he. outs with the charm and
pinned it slyly to the widow's gown.
•I’ve charmed her now,’ said Darby,
‘it there's any truth in that little chap
of a cluricaune.’ And certainly there
w 7 as soon a wonderful change in the
widow, who, from being as glum as a
misty morning, became as soft as but
ter. S > very careful was she if Dar
by, that lato as it was, she made a
good fire, lest he should he cold after
the night, brought him a supper of
the best the house could afford, and
had as much cooram about him as if
he was lord of the land. Darby
grinned with delight at ’he success of
his charm, but he was soon made to
grin at the wrong side of Ids mouth;
for the widow, in the midst of her love,
chanced to discover the charm that
was pinned to the tail of her gown.—
What's this you‘vc pinned to my
gown, you rogue you?* said she, at the
same time flinging it into the Hire.
•Botheration,’ roared Darby,‘ I’m set
tled for now!* and no wonder lie
should roar, for the charm took in
stant effect and the fire jumped nolus
bolus after Darby, who made for the
I door and away he went as fast as bis
legs couldj-arry him; but if he did, the
fiee. came after him roaring and bla
zing as if there were a thousand tar
barrels in the middle of it. Away he
ran for the bare life, across the coun
try; over hedge and ditch, for as good
as two miles; neither stopping nor
staying till he came to a deep well oil
h high farm, between Tullig and Gle
nn a Hcelah, when who should he meet
but his old friend the cluricaune, ‘Ar
rah. Darby!* says the little fellow,
you seem to be in a wond rful hurry;
where are you going so fast, man,
?iat you don,t stop to spake to an old
* quaintance?’ ‘Bad luck to you,
you deceitful hop-o my thumb!* said
Darby; ‘for sure it‘s all along of you
nod y our charm that I am in the nate
way I am this blessed night.* ‘And
that's my thanks for saving you from
the good people, says the cluricaune:
very w II Mister Darby, tliere‘B the
fire at your heels and who's to save
you now?’ ‘O! thunder alive* sure
you wou‘dn‘t be after sarving Darby
hat way.’ ‘Well,’ said the cluri
•aune, ‘HI take compassion on you
his once, so here's my advice,—leap
into the well, and youdl be safe.
•Is it into the well you mane?’ says
Darby; ‘why then do you take me for
a fool entirely?* ‘O, yornre a very
wise man to be sure, seeing you‘re a
scholar, Darby, so you may take your
own way if you like, and welcome,
good night to you, Darby o‘R* ily,*
laid the spiteful little fellow, slapping
his cocked hat on his he td, and walk
ing off with a most malicious grin.
•Good nigrlit to you, Darby o‘Rcily.’
•Murther! Murther!’ shouted Darby,j
f>r by this time the lire had come,
so near that it began to scorch him;
when seeing there was no alterna-j
tive, and thinking it better to be
drowned than burned, he made a des-
D-rate plunge into the well. Souse
he went into the well and •■ousc went
lie fire after him. Immediately the
water bubbled, sparkled, growled,
and rose above the verge of the well,
Hilling with the velocity ofligtning all
the adjacent hollow gronnd until it
formed one of those little sparkling
lakes, which are so numerous in this
hilly country. Darby was borne with
the speed of a whirlwind on the top of
a curling billow, and cast senslcss on
the shore. The first thing he saw on
awaking from his trance, was the sun
shining over him, the first voice he
heard was that of the widow Fleming,
who had travelled far and near in
seal ch of him and the first word that
Darby uttered, upon thoroughly re
covering himself was, ‘bad luck to
the good people, for sure it*s the/
that have been playing tricks upon me
all the night!’ Then he got up and
told the widow Fleming and the neigh
bors the whole history of his niglit‘B
adventure. *lt‘s drunk you were,
Darby, and you know it,’ said the
widow; ‘you're a bad boy, Darby.*
But whatever was the cause, whether
Darby got the charm from the clurl
raune or not, it is certain tho widow
Fleming not long after became Mrs.
o‘lteily, and that Loch Bran, or the
lake of the Burning Coal, is to be seen
to this day.
Code ov Instruction for Hu'bakdb.
(Wives need not show this to their
husbands, but if it fall in their way—very
well.)
1. Let every husband be persuaded
that, in the government of his family,
his authority is paramount to every oth
er, and that hi.s responsibility is therefore
weightier than that of his wife. Let him
recollect that one word from him will go
farther than stripe* inflicted by her; and
that whilst she sinks into gentleness and
good nature, he must support govern
ment.
2. Be careful to act with such discre
tion and good temper towards your wive 9,
as to allow them no occasion to contra*
diet you. When we play the lion, it is
not wonderful that they should act the ti
ger.
3. Be careful to bestow upon the
standing and rapacity of your wives, that
respect and affection, which may seem to
be applied in their admission to a partici
pation in your plans and transactions.
By thus consulting them you will relieve
them from the necessity of giving their
advice unsolicited.
4. Exhibit that unexceptionable mo
rality which no censor, much less an af
fectionate wife, could condemn. It is
the duty of husband* to he an example of
patience, goodness and sobriety to their
families.
5. Remember that the condition of a
wife with every possible alleviation is one
of incessant care, of nameless inquiet
udes, and of peculiar suffering.
6. Remember also, that whilst the
wife is compelled to use the most con
summate and self-denying address, to
perpetuate the affection of her husband,
he secures and perpetuates hers at a ve*
ry small expense of pains and attention.
7 . Exact no more from your wives
than you will be willing to accord under
similar circumstances.
8. Submit to this code, and your wives
will either conform to the foregoing, or
else are incurable Xantippes, and conse
quently not to be conciliated by any con
cession.—’Col. Star.
From the Berkshire American.
DANCING PEASE.
A long shanked, luroberfooted fellow,
by the name of Pease, came to this vil
lage some weeks since, and stuck up ad
vertisements offering to teach, ‘dancing
and manners.’ How he succeeded in the
latter branch will be seen by and by. At
first, we confess, we were not a little puz
zled to understand what connexion danc
ing had with manners—especially if good
manners were meant. Not so our more
sagacious neighbors; the thing took admi
rably, and many parents were all agog to
have their sons and daughters instructed
in the art of ‘hop, skip and jump’ by a son
No. 42.