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Rh part—its only fault is, that it is impossible. In the pleasant little comedy of Charles the Second, the Page complains to Rochester of the many miseries his passion entails upon him. "Your own fault," says the lively Earl; "I told you to skim over the surface like a swallow—you have gone bounce in like a goose." Authors now-a-days are held responsible for all the sentiments of their various characters, no matter how much they differ. I therefore give Mr. Howard Paine great credit for the above philosophical remark. Winter was now setting in, and the bright charcoal burnt on the hearths of the larger rooms was as comfortable as it was cheerful—even "the glad sun of Italy" is not the worse for a little occasional aid. Lord Mandeville and Cecil were one morning pacing the large saloon, whose walls, inlaid with a many-coloured mosaic of marble, and floor of white stone, were sufficiently chilly to make the fire very acceptable. To this end Cecil's attention was frequently attracted. In a large black oak arm-chair, whose back and sides were heavy with rich and quaint carving, her small feet supported on a scarlet cushion, which brought out in strong contrast the little