Part 6

Attar of roses, again, she disliked. She said it reminded her of the city and of merchants’ wives, over-rich, over-heavy in its perfume. And lilies of the valley somehow fell under the same condemnation. They were most graceful and elegant to look at (my lady was quite candid about this), flower, leaf, and colour—everything was refined about them but the smell. That was too strong. But the great hereditary faculty on which my lady piqued herself, and with reason, for I never met with any person who possessed it, was the power she had of perceiving the delicious odour arising from a bed of strawberries in the late autumn, when the leaves were all fading and dying. _Bacon’s Essays_ was one of the few books that lay about in my lady’s room; and, if you took it up and opened it carelessly, it was sure to fall apart at his “Essay on Gardens.” “Listen,” her ladyship would say, “to what that great philosopher and statesman says. ‘Next to that’—he is speaking of violets, my dear—‘is the musk-rose—of which you will remember the great bush at the corner of the south wall just by the Blue Drawing-room windows; that is the old musk-rose, Shakespeare’s musk-rose, which is dying out through the kingdom now. But to return to my Lord Bacon: ‘Then the strawberry leaves, dying with a most cordial excellent smell.’ Now the Hanburys can always smell this excellent cordial odour, and very delicious and refreshing it is. You see, in Lord Bacon’s time there had not been so many intermarriages between the court and the city as there have been since the needy days of his Majesty Charles the Second; and altogether, in the time of Queen Elizabeth, the great old families of England were a distinct race, just as a cart-horse is one creature and very useful in its place, and Childers or Eclipse is another creature, though both are of the same species. So the old families have gifts and powers of a different and higher class to what the other orders have. My dear, remember that you try if you can smell the scent of dying strawberry leaves in this next autumn. You have some of Ursula Hanbury’s blood in you, and that gives you a chance.”

But when October came, I sniffed and sniffed, and all to no purpose; and my lady—who had watched the little experiment rather anxiously—had to give me up as a hybrid. I was mortified, I confess, and thought that it was in some ostentation of her own powers that she ordered the gardener to plant a border of strawberries on that side of the terrace that lay under her windows.

St. Valentine’s Day

From “Libbie Marsh’s Three Eras,” _Howitt’s Journal_, 1847

It is noticeable that all Mrs. Gaskell’s earlier stories are tales of life in and around Manchester. In 1848 they were re-published under the title _Life in Manchester_, by Cotton Mather Mills, Esq., the _nom de guerre_ under which Mrs. Gaskell tried to hide her identity.

Her idea was this; her mother came from the east of England, where, as perhaps you know, they have the pretty custom of sending presents on St. Valentine’s Day, with the donor’s name unknown, and, of course, the mystery constitutes half the enjoyment. The fourteenth of February was Libbie’s birthday too, and many a year, in the happy days of old, had her mother delighted to surprise her with some little gift, of which she more than half guessed the giver, although each Valentine’s Day the manner of its arrival was varied. Since then the fourteenth of February had been the dreariest of all the year because the most haunted by memory of departed happiness. But now, this year, if she could not have the old gladness of heart herself, she would try and brighten the life of another. She would save, and she would screw, but she would buy a canary and a cage for that poor little laddie opposite, who wore out his monotonous life with so few pleasures and so much pain.

I doubt I may not tell you here of the anxieties and the fears, of the hopes and the self-sacrifices—all, perhaps, small in the tangible effect as the widow’s mite, yet not the less marked by the viewless angels who go about continually among us—which varied Libbie’s life before she accomplished her purpose. It is enough to say it was accomplished. The very day before the fourteenth she found time to go with her half-guinea to a barber’s who lived near Albemarle Street, and who was famous for his stock of singing-birds. There are enthusiasts about all sorts of things, both good and bad, and many of the weavers in Manchester know and care more about birds than anyone would easily credit. Stubborn, silent, reserved men on many things, you have only to touch on the subject of birds to light up their faces with brightness. They will tell you who won the prizes at the last canary show, where the prize birds may be seen, and give you all the details of those funny but pretty and interesting mimicries of great people’s cattle shows. Among these amateurs, Emanuel Morris, the barber, was an oracle.

He took Libbie into his little back room, used for private shaving of modest men, who did not care to be exhibited in the front shop decked out in the full glories of lather; and which was hung round with birds in rude wicker cages, with the exception of those who had won prizes, and were consequently honoured with gilt-wire prisons. The longer and thinner the body of the bird was, the more admiration it received, as far as external beauty went; and when, in addition to this, the colour was deep and clear, and its notes strong and varied, the more did Emanuel dwell upon its perfections. But these were all prize birds; and, on inquiry, Libbie heard, with some little sinking at heart, that their price ran from one to two guineas.

“I’m not over-particular as to shape and colour,” said she. “I should like a good singer, that’s all!”

She dropped a little in Emanuel’s estimation. However, he showed her his good singers, but all were above Libbie’s means.

“After all, I don’t think I care so much about the singing very loud; it’s but a noise after all, and sometimes noise fidgets folks.”

“They must be nesh folks as is put out with the singing o’ birds,” replied Emanuel, rather affronted.

“It’s for one who is poorly,” said Libbie deprecatingly.

“Well,” said he, as if considering the matter, “folk that are cranky often take more to them as shows ’em love than to them as is clever and gifted. Happen yo’d rather have this’n,” opening a cage door and calling to a dull-coloured bird, sitting moped up in a corner. “Here—Jupiter, Jupiter!”

The bird smoothed its feathers in an instant, and, uttering a little note of delight, flew to Emanuel, putting his beak to his lips, as if kissing him, and then, perching on his head, it began a gurgling warble of pleasure, not by any means so varied or so clear as the song of the others, but which pleased Libbie more; for she was always one to find out she liked the gooseberries that were accessible, better than the grapes that were beyond her reach. The price, too, was just right, so she gladly took possession of the cage, and hid it under her cloak, preparatory to carrying it home. Emanuel meanwhile was giving her directions as to its food, with all the minuteness of one loving his subject.

“Will it soon get to know anyone?” asked she.

“Give him two days only, and you and he’ll be as thick as him and me are now. You’ve only to open his door and call him, and he’ll follow you round the room; but he’ll first kiss you, and then perch on your head. He only wants larning, which I have no time to give him, to do many another accomplishment.”

“What’s his name? I did not rightly catch it.”

“Jupiter—it’s not common; but the town’s overrun with Bobbies and Dickies, and as my birds are thought a bit out o’ the way, I like to have better names for ’em, so I just picked a few out o’ my lad’s school-books. It’s just as ready, when you’re used to it, to say Jupiter as Dicky.”

“I could bring my tongue round to Peter better; would he answer to Peter?” asked Libbie, now on the point of departing.

“Happen he might, but I think he’d come readier to the three syllables.”

On Valentine’s Day, Jupiter’s cage was decked round with ivy leaves, making quite a pretty wreath on the wicker-work; and to one of them was pinned a slip of paper, with these words, written in Libbie’s best round hand:

“From your faithful Valentine. Please take notice his name is Peter, and he’ll come if you call him, after a bit.”

But little work did Libbie do that afternoon; she was so engaged in watching for the messenger who was to bear her present to her little Valentine, and run away as soon as he had delivered up the canary, and explained to whom it was sent.

At last he came; then there was a pause before the woman of the house was at liberty to take it upstairs. Then Libbie saw the little face flush up into a bright colour, the feeble hands tremble with delighted eagerness, the head bent down to try and make out the writing (beyond his power, poor lad, to read), the rapturous turning round of the cage in order to see the canary in every point of view, head, tail, wings, and feet; an intention in which Jupiter, in his uneasiness at being again among strangers, did not second, for he hopped round so as continually to present a full front to the boy. It was a source of never-wearying delight to the little fellow, till daylight closed in; he evidently forgot to wonder who had sent it him, in his gladness at his possession of such a treasure; and when the shadow of his mother darkened on the blind, and the bird had been exhibited, Libbie saw her do what, with all her tenderness, seemed rarely to have entered into her thoughts—she bent down and kissed her boy, in a mother’s sympathy with the joy of her child.

The canary was placed for the night between the little bed and window; and when Libbie rose once, to take her accustomed peep, she saw the little arm put fondly round the cage, as if embracing his new treasure even in his sleep. How Jupiter slept this first night is quite another thing.

Whit-Monday in Dunham Park.

From “Libbie Marsh’s Three Eras,” _Howitt’s Journal_, 1847

For years has Dunham Park been the favourite resort of the Manchester workpeople; for more years than I can tell; probably ever since “the Duke,” by his canals, opened out the system of cheap travelling. Its scenery, too, which presents such a complete contrast to the whirl and turmoil of Manchester; so thoroughly woodland, with its ancestral trees (here and there lightning-blanched); its “verdurous walls”; its grassy walks leading far away into some glade, where you start at the rabbit rustling among the last year’s fern, and where the wood-pigeon’s call seems the only fitting and accordant sound. Depend upon it, this complete sylvan repose, this accessible quiet, this lapping the soul in green images of the country, forms the most complete contrast to a town’s-person, and consequently has over such the greatest power of charm.

Presently Libbie found out she was very hungry. Now they were but provided with dinner, which was, of course, to be eaten as near twelve o’clock as might be; and Margaret Hall, in her prudence, asked a working-man near to tell her what o’clock it was.

“Nay,” said he, “I’ll ne’er look at clock or watch to-day. I’ll not spoil my pleasure by finding out how fast it’s going away. If thou’rt hungry, eat. I make my own dinner-hour, and I have eaten mine an hour ago.”

So they had their veal pies, and then found out it was only half-past ten o’clock; by so many pleasureable events had that morning been marked. But such was their buoyancy of spirits, that they only enjoyed their mistake, and joined in the general laugh against the man who had eaten his dinner somewhere about nine. He laughed most heartily of all till, suddenly stopping, he said:

“I must not go on at this rate; laughing gives one such an appetite.”

“Oh, if that’s all,” said a merry-looking man lying at full length, and brushing the fresh scent out of the grass, while two or three little children tumbled over him, and crept about him, as kittens or puppies frolic with their parents, “if that’s all, we’ll have a subscription of eatables for them improvident folk as have eaten their dinner for their breakfast. Here’s a sausage pasty and a handful of nuts for my share. Bring round the hat, Bob, and see what the company will give.”

Bob carried out the joke, much to little Franky’s amusement; and no one was so churlish as to refuse, although the contributions varied from a peppermint drop up to a veal pie and a sausage pasty.

“It’s a thriving trade,” said Bob, as he emptied his hatful of provisions on the grass by Libbie’s side. “Besides, it’s tiptop, too, to live on the public. Hark! what is that?”

The laughter and the chat were suddenly hushed, and mothers took their little ones to listen—as, far away in the distance, now sinking and falling, now swelling and clear, came a ringing peal of children’s voices, blended together in one of those psalm tunes which we are all of us so familiar with, and which bring to mind the old, old days, when we, as wondering children, were first led to worship “Our Father,” by those beloved ones who have since gone to the more perfect worship. Holy was that distant choral praise, even to the most thoughtless; and when it, in fact, was ended, in the instant’s pause, during which the ear awaits the repetition of the air, they caught the noontide hum and buzz of the myriads of insects who danced away their lives in the glorious day; they heard the swaying of the mighty woods in the soft but resistless breeze, and then again once more burst forth the merry jests and the shouts of childhood; and again the elder ones resumed their happy talk, as they lay or sat “under the greenwood tree.” Fresh parties came dropping in; some laden with wild flowers—almost with branches of hawthorn, indeed; while one or two had made prizes of the earliest dog-roses, and had cast away campion, stitchwort, ragged robin, all to keep the lady of the hedges from being obscured or hidden by the community.

One after another drew near to Franky, and looked on with interest as he lay sorting the flowers given to him. Happy parents stood by, with their household bands around them, in health and comeliness, and felt the sad prophecy of those shrivelled limbs, those wasted fingers, those lamp-like eyes, with their bright, dark lustre. His mother was too eagerly watching his happiness to read the meaning of those grave looks, but Libbie saw them and understood them; and a chill shudder went through her, even on that day, as she thought on the future.

“Ay! I thought we should give you a start!”

A start they did give, with their terrible slap on Libbie’s back, as she sat idly grouping flowers, and following out her sorrowful thoughts. It was the Dixons. Instead of keeping their holiday by lying in bed, they and their children had roused themselves, and had come by the omnibus to the nearest point. For an instant the meeting was an awkward one, on account of the feud between Margaret Hall and Mrs. Dixon, but there was no long resisting of kindly mother Nature’s soothings, at that holiday time, and in that lonely tranquil spot; or if they could have been unheeded, the sight of Franky would have awed every angry feeling into rest, so changed was he since the Dixons had last seen him; and since he had been the Puck or Robin Goodfellow of the neighbourhood, whose marbles were always rolling under other people’s feet, and whose top-strings were always hanging in nooses to catch the unwary. Yes, he, the feeble, mild, almost girlish-looking lad had once been a merry, happy rogue, and as such often cuffed by Mrs. Dixon, the very Mrs. Dixon who now stood gazing with the tears in her eyes. Could she, in sight of him, the changed, the fading, keep up a quarrel with his mother?

“How long hast thou been here?” asked Dixon.

“Welly on for all day,” answered Libbie.

“Hast never been to see the deer, or the king and queen oaks? Lord! how stupid!”

His wife pinched his arm, to remind him of Franky’s helpless condition, which, of course, tethered the otherwise willing feet. But Dixon had a remedy. He called Bob, and one or two others; and, each taking a corner of the strong plaid shawl, they slung Franky as in a hammock, and thus carried him merrily along, down the wood paths, over the smooth, grassy turf, while the glimmering shine and shadow fell on his upturned face. The women walked behind, talking, loitering along, always in sight of the hammock; now picking up some green treasure from the ground, now catching at the low-hanging branches of the horse-chestnut. The soul grew much on this day, and in these woods, and all unconsciously, as souls do grow. They followed Franky’s hammock-bearers up a grassy knoll, on the top of which stood a group of pine trees, whose stems looked like dark red gold in the sunbeams. They had taken Franky there to show him Manchester, far away in the blue plain, against which the woodland foreground cut with a soft clear line. Far, far away in the distance, on that flat plain, you might see the motionless cloud of smoke hanging over a great town, and that was Manchester—ugly, smoky Manchester—dear, busy, earnest, noble-working Manchester; where their children had been born, and where, perhaps, some lay buried; where their homes were, and where God had cast their lives, and told them to work out their destiny.

“Hurrah! for oud smoke-jack!” cried Bob, putting Franky softly down on the grass, before he whirled his hat round, preparatory to a shout. “Hurrah! hurrah!” from all the men. “There’s the rim of my hat lying like a quoit yonder,” observed Bob quietly, as he replaced his brimless hat on his head with the gravity of a judge.

“Here’s the Sunday-school children a-coming to sit on this shady side, and have their buns and milk. Hark! they’re singing the infant-school grace.”

They sat close at hand, so that Franky could hear the words they sang, in rings of children, making, in their gay summer prints, newly donned for that week, garlands of little faces, all happy and bright upon that green hill-side. One little “dot” of a girl came shyly behind Franky, whom she had long been watching, and threw her half-bun at his side, and then ran away and hid herself, in very shame at the boldness of her own sweet impulse. She kept peeping from her screen at Franky all the time; and he meanwhile was almost too pleased and happy to eat; the world was so beautiful, and men, women, and children all so tender and kind; so softened, in fact, by the beauty of this earth, so unconsciously touched by the spirit of love, which was the Creator of this lovely earth. But the day drew to an end; the heat declined; the birds once more began their warblings; the fresh scents again hung about plant, and tree, and grass, betokening the fragrant presence of the reviving dew, and—the boat time was near. As they trod the meadow path once more, they were joined by many a party they had encountered during the day, all abounding in happiness, all full of the day’s adventures. Long-cherished quarrels had been forgotten, new friendships formed. Fresh tastes and higher delights had been imparted that day. We have all of us our look, now and then, called up by some noble or loving thought (our highest on earth), which will be our likeness in heaven. I can catch the glance on many a face, the glancing light of the cloud of glory from heaven, “which is our home.” That look was present on many a hard-worked, wrinkled countenance, as they turned backwards to catch a longing, lingering look at Dunham woods, fast deepening into blackness of night, but whose memory was to haunt, in greenness and freshness, many a loom, and workshop, and factory, with images of peace and beauty.

That night, as Libbie lay awake, revolving the incidents of the day, she caught Franky’s voice through the open windows. Instead of the frequent moan of pain, he was trying to recall the burden of one of the children’s hymns:

“Here we suffer grief and pain, Here we meet to part again; In Heaven we part no more. Oh! that will be joyful,” etc.

She recalled his question, the whispered question, to her in the happiest part of the day. He asked Libbie: “Is Dunham like Heaven? The people here are as kind as angels, and I don’t want Heaven to be more beautiful than this place. If you and mother would but die with me, I should like to die, and live always there!” She had checked him, for she feared he was impious; but now the young child’s craving for some definite idea of the land to which his inner wisdom told him he was hastening, had nothing in it wrong, or even sorrowful, for—

“In Heaven we part no more.”

II

Novels

_Mary Barton_, _Lizzie Leigh_, _Ruth_, and _North and South_, Mrs. Gaskell’s earlier novels, were written with a purpose—“to defend the poor”—and in them she discusses some of the social problems of the day, which she tried to solve. Later she proved how well she could write in a humorous vein, as in _Cranford_, _Mr. Harrison’s Confessions_, and _My Lady Ludlow_.

As a descriptive writer she excelled, notably in _Mary Barton_, _Ruth_, _Cousin Phillis_, and _Sylvia’s Lovers_. She was always very observant, and many of her stories recall her talent for exquisite word painting.

Social Questions

Poor _versus_ Rich

From _Mary Barton_, 1848

“Thou never could abide the gentlefolk,” said Wilson, half amused at his friend’s vehemence.

“And what good have they ever done me that I should like them?” asked Barton, the latent fire lighting up his eye; and bursting forth, he continued: “If I am sick, do they come and nurse me? If my child lies dying (as poor Tom lay, with his white wan lips quivering, for want of better food than I could give him), does the rich man bring the wine or broth that might save his life? If I am out of work for weeks in the bad times, and winter comes, with black frost, and keen east wind, and there is no coal for the grate, and no clothes for the bed, and the thin bones are seen through the ragged clothes, does the rich man share his plenty with me, as he ought to do, if his religion wasn’t a humbug! When I lie on my death-bed, and Mary (bless her!) stands fretting, as I know she will fret,” and here his voice faltered a little, “will a rich lady come and take her to her own home if need be, till she can look round and see what best to do? No, I tell you it’s the poor, and the poor only, as does such things for the poor. Don’t think to come over me with th’ old tale, that the rich know nothing of the trials of the poor; I say, if they don’t know, they ought to know. We’re their slaves as long as we can work; we pile up their fortunes with the sweat of our brows, and yet we are to live as separate as if we were in two worlds; ay, as separate as Dives and Lazarus, with a great gulf between us; but I know who was best off then;” and he wound up his speech with a low chuckle that had no mirth in it.

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