Glen Collection of printed music > Printed music > British minstrel, and musical and literary miscellany

50
THE BRITISH MINSTREL ; AND
THE BROKEN FIDDLE.
A SKETCH FROM KEA.L LIFE.
Poor blind Jemmy Connor ! — he played the sweet
and plaintive melodies of our Green Isle with a
deep and touching pathos. I have listened to him
for hours with a mixture of sadness and pleasure ;
and as he drew the varying heart-touching strains
from the strings of his fiddle, I do not feel ashamed
to own that he drew the tears from my eyes. He
was taught by affliction. But, perhaps, you have
never heard the story of Jemmy Connor and his
broken fiddle ? Well, then, I will tell it you.
The calm sunshine of domestic happiness bright-
ened and made glad the young days of Jemmy Con-
nor. He had married early in life the object of his
devoted affection, whose faithful love and cheerful
attention to household duties had endeared to him
his little home. He never missed the clean and tidy
room, the comfortable and wholesome repast, and
the welcoming smile, at his return from his work ;
and his sober and industrious habits had gained for
him the esteem and confidence of his employer.
Jemmy and Mary Connor were happier in their
humble dwelling than many a lordly owner of a
proud and princely palace.
Years of peace and joy rolled over their beads ;
and, though they had wept at the grave of two of
their infant ofi'spring, still they were happy; for
their eldest, a sweet, blue eyed girl, was spared to
them ; and, shortly after, a son opened its smiling
eyes upon the glad pair. But, in giving birth to
this last child, poor Mary Connor had taken cold,
which brought on that wasting harbinger of death
that follows so many families, and was hereditary
in hers. Consumption laid its blighting hand upon
her shrinking frame, and left the heart- stricken and
inconsolable husband a young widower. How un-
certain are the enjoyments of the world! — how
fleeting are its pleasures !
In that same room, about six years after, Jemmy
Connor lay upon a sick bed; he had taken the
small-pox from his little son, who had recovered ;
but the doctor seemed to have little hope that he
would rise from that bed again. His daughter, now
twelve years of age, tended and watched him with
untiring solicitude and afl'ection; nor would she
quit him, though entreated to leave that scene of
danger. He did recover — he rose from the bed of
sickness — but his sight was gone for ever !
" Dear father !" said Mary Connor, as she sat
busily engaged at her needle — the setting sun shin-
ing upon them, and the summer breeze, as it passed
over the box of blooming mignionette at the opened
window, filling the room with fragrance— " Dear fa-
ther, I am just thinking how good the Lord has
been to us, in raising up for us such kind friends. I
would not have found it easy to get this work, were
it not for that benevolent lady, who exerted herself
amongherfiiends, and so earnestly recommended me
to them ; and how could we have managed to keep
this little room so long, but for your kind em-
ployer?"
" True, my dearest child, we have great reason to
be thankful. The Lord is good ! And though I
have met with my own share of affliction, my heart
Js resigned, and I am still happy — very, very happy
— since you are spared to me to bless my darkened
hours."
As Mary took his extended hand affectionately in
bers, he felt a tear fall upon it.
« Reach me down my fiddle, my dear child," said
he, " and I will play you one of your favourite little
airs."
Jemmy had amused many a leisure hour, in his
younger and happier days, by striving to become a
proficient on this instrument. The fiddle, which
Mary now handed down to him, was one which his
lamented wife had herself purchased for him, and
he prized it above all he possessed on earth, next
to his beloved Mary and his little Jemmy. Since
he had the misfortune of losing his sight it had
been a constant source of pleasure to him, and had
soothed away many a bitter pang.
I said that consumption was an hereditary com-
plaint in his wife's family. Alas ! it soon showed
itself in Mary's delicate frame, in the hectic flush
of her cheek, and the short oppressive cough. Poor
Jemmy Connor ! his story is a sad one. His fond,
affectionate daughter — the child of his heart — his
good, his pious Mary, was carried to an early grave ;
and it was many a day before he recovered from the
effects of this overwhelming shock !
Taking his little boy by one hand, and his fiddle
in the other, he left the home where all the ties
that bound him to earth were breaking one by one.
He could not bear to be any longer a dependant on
the generosity of his former master, and was now
determined to make his fiddle, w hich was hitherto
only his amusement, the means of his own and his
son's subsistence. Rambling through the country,
from one farm-house to another, Jemmy Connor
and his son became well known and universally
liked; and, as he played the old Irish airs sweetly
and clearly, you would scarcely see a dry eye among
those who were grouped in listening silence around
him.
It was a beautiful day in Autumn ; the sun was
shining on hill and valley, on wood and stream ;
the song of the lark was breaking from the far-off
golden clouds in strains of thrilling melody, which
the wrapt fancy might mistake for a cherub's hymn
of praise ; the rich meadows filled the air with fra-
grance; and the produce of the fields, which were
lately white with the harvest, was conveyed by the
busy husbandmen into the well filled granaries of
the farmer. All was cheerfulness, and praise, and
love. Even the very beasts seemed to partake of
the general joy. And cold must be the heart that
could gaze on such a scene without being lifted up
in thankfulness to Him who giveth the rain, and
the sunshine, and the abundance of the harvest.
There was one that passed through that scene,
and, though he saw it not, yet felt his bosom ex-
pand with gratitude. The sweet fresh air glad-
dened his upturned brow, and Jemmy Connor pass-
ed along, led by his little son. They were invited
to a farmer's house, and they were now taking a
short cut through a pathway across the fields. Sud-
denly, the joyous and exciting halloo of the hunts-
men came upon the wind, mingled with the deep-
toned yellings of the hounds. A hare, closely
pursued, darted, with the speed of desperation, past
the father and son; almost in the next instant,
the hounds and the huntsmen came thundering
on.
" Out of the way, you wandering vagabond !"
roared a hoarse voice, in startling execration.
" Hasten, dear father ! — hasten !" said the trem-
bling boy.
The father, unused to such harsh words, and
alarmed at the danger he could not see, dropped his
fiddle, and the hindmost hoofs of the flying hunter
striking against it, shivered it into pieces.