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257
Cranford
·
Elizabeth Cleghorn Gaskell
4
The
Cranford
ladies
have
only
an
occasional
little
quarrel,
spirited
out
in
a
few
peppery
words
and
angry
jerks
of
the
head;
just
enough
to
prevent
the
even
tenor
of
their
lives
from
becoming
too
flat.
Their
dress
is
very
independent
of
fashion;
as
they
observe,
“What
does
it
signify
how
we
dress
here
at
Cranford,
where
everybody
knows
us?”
And
if
they
go
from
home,
their
reason
is
equally
cogent,
“What
does
it
signify
how
we
dress
here,
where
nobody
knows
us?”
The
materials
of
their
clothes
are,
in
general,
good
and
plain,
and
most
of
them
are
nearly
as
scrupulous
as
Miss
Tyler,
of
cleanly
memory;
but
I
will
answer
for
it,
the
last
gigot,
the
last
tight
and
scanty
petticoat
in
wear
in
England,
was
seen
in
Cranford—
and
seen
without
a
smile.
[Picture:
A
magnificent
family
red
silk
umbrella]
I
can
testify
to
a
magnificent
family
red
silk
umbrella,
under
which
a
gentle
little
spinster,
left
alone
of
many
brothers
and
sisters,
used
to
patter
to
church
on
rainy
days.
Have
you
any
red
silk
umbrellas
in
London?
We
had
a
tradition
of
the
first
that
had
ever
been
seen
in
Cranford;
and
the
little
boys
mobbed
it,
and
called
it
“a
stick
in
petticoats.”
It
might
have
been
the
very
red
silk
one
I
have
described,
held
by
a
strong
father
over
a
troop
of
little
ones;
the
poor
little
lady—
the
survivor
of
all—
could
scarcely
carry
it.
Then
there
were
rules
and
regulations
for
visiting
and
calls;
and
they
were
announced
to
any
young
people
who
might
be
staying
in
the
town,
with
all
the
solemnity
with
which
the
old
Manx
laws
were
read
once
a
year
on
the
Tinwald
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