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257
Cranford
·
Elizabeth Cleghorn Gaskell
233
I
left
Miss
Matty
with
a
good
heart.
Her
sales
of
tea
during
the
first
two
days
had
surpassed
my
most
sanguine
expectations.
The
whole
country
round
seemed
to
be
all
out
of
tea
at
once.
The
only
alteration
I
could
have
desired
in
Miss
Matty’s
way
of
doing
business
was,
that
she
should
not
have
so
plaintively
entreated
some
of
her
customers
not
to
buy
green
tea—
running
it
down
as
a
slow
poison,
sure
to
destroy
the
nerves,
and
produce
all
manner
of
evil.
Their
pertinacity
in
taking
it,
in
spite
of
all
her
warnings,
distressed
her
so
much
that
I
really
thought
she
would
relinquish
the
sale
of
it,
and
so
lose
half
her
custom;
and
I
was
driven
to
my
wits’
end
for
instances
of
longevity
entirely
attributable
to
a
persevering
use
of
green
tea.
But
the
final
argument,
which
settled
the
question,
was
a
happy
reference
of
mine
to
the
train-oil
and
tallow
candles
which
the
Esquimaux
not
only
enjoy
but
digest.
After
that
she
acknowledged
that
“one
man’s
meat
might
be
another
man’s
poison,”
and
contented
herself
thence-forward
with
an
occasional
remonstrance
when
she
thought
the
purchaser
was
too
young
and
innocent
to
be
acquainted
with
the
evil
effects
green
tea
produced
on
some
constitutions,
and
an
habitual
sigh
when
people
old
enough
to
choose
more
wisely
would
prefer
it.
I
went
over
from
Drumble
once
a
quarter
at
least
to
settle
the
accounts,
and
see
after
the
necessary
business
letters.
And,
speaking
of
letters,
I
began
to
be
very
much
ashamed
of
remembering
my
letter
to
the
Aga
Jenkyns,
and
very
glad
I
had
never
named
my
writing
to
any
one.
I
only
hoped
the
letter
was
lost.
No
answer
came.
No
sign
was
made.
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