example, when, despite her obedience, she refuses to receive that unlucky schemer, her own daughter, returned in ruins, without insulting her by the sallies of a kitchen sarcasm.
She plots with her daughters the most disastrous fortune hunt. She has given them a teaching so effectual that the Vicar has no fear lest the paltry Sophia should lose her heart to the good, the sensible Burchell, who had saved her life; for he has no fortune. Mrs. Primrose begins grotesquely, with her tedious histories of the dishes at dinner, and she ends upon the last page, anxious, amid the general happiness, in regard to securing the head of the table. Upon these feminine humours the author sheds his Vicar's indulgent smile. What a smile for a self-respecting husband to be pricked to smile! A householder would wince, one would think, at having opportunity to bestow its tolerance upon his cook.
Between these two housewifely appearances, Mrs. Primrose potters through the book; plots—always squalidly; talks the worst kinds of folly; takes the lead, with a loud laugh, in insulting a former friend; crushes her repentant daughter with reproaches that show envy rather than indignation, and kisses that daughter with
