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.