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Cranford
·
Elizabeth Cleghorn Gaskell
230
Miss
Matty,
as
I
ought
to
have
mentioned
before,
had
had
some
scruples
of
conscience
at
selling
tea
when
there
was
already
Mr
Johnson
in
the
town,
who
included
it
among
his
numerous
commodities;
and,
before
she
could
quite
reconcile
herself
to
the
adoption
of
her
new
business,
she
had
trotted
down
to
his
shop,
unknown
to
me,
to
tell
him
of
the
project
that
was
entertained,
and
to
inquire
if
it
was
likely
to
injure
his
business.
My
father
called
this
idea
of
hers
“great
nonsense,”
and
“wondered
how
tradespeople
were
to
get
on
if
there
was
to
be
a
continual
consulting
of
each
other’s
interests,
which
would
put
a
stop
to
all
competition
directly.”
And,
perhaps,
it
would
not
have
done
in
Drumble,
but
in
Cranford
it
answered
very
well;
for
not
only
did
Mr
Johnson
kindly
put
at
rest
all
Miss
Matty’s
scruples
and
fear
of
injuring
his
business,
but
I
have
reason
to
know
he
repeatedly
sent
customers
to
her,
saying
that
the
teas
he
kept
were
of
a
common
kind,
but
that
Miss
Jenkyns
had
all
the
choice
sorts.
And
expensive
tea
is
a
very
favourite
luxury
with
well-to-do
tradespeople
and
rich
farmers’
wives,
who
turn
up
their
noses
at
the
Congou
and
Souchong
prevalent
at
many
tables
of
gentility,
and
will
have
nothing
else
than
Gunpowder
and
Pekoe
for
themselves.
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