If yet you love sincerely,
The one who loves you dearly,
Then let the sigh betoken,
Love for a heart you’ve broken,

          
                                                    Dearest.

Z.

* * * * *

THE TRAGEDY OF DOUGLAS.

It may not be generally known, that the first rehearsal of this tragedy took place in the lodgings in the Canongate, occupied by Mrs. Sarah Ward, one of Digges’ company; and that it was rehearsed by, and in presence of, the most distinguished literary characters Scotland ever could boast of.  The following was the cast of the piece on that occasion:—­

Dramatis Personae. Lord Randolph, Dr. Robertson, Principal, Edinburgh. Glenalvon, David Hume, Historian. Old Norval, Dr. Carlyle, Minister of Musselburgh. Douglas, John Home, the Author. Lady Randolph, Dr. Fergusson, Professor. Anna (the maid), Dr. Blair, Minister, High Church.

The audience that day, besides Mr. Digges and Mrs. Sarah Ward, were the Right Hon. Pat.  Lord Elibank, Lord Milton, Lord Kames, Lord Monboddo, (the two last were then only lawyers,) the Rev. John Steele, and William Home, ministers.  The company (all but Mrs. Ward) dined afterwards at the Griskin Club, in the Abbey.  The above is a signal proof of the strong passion for the drama which then obtained among the literati of this capital, since then, unfortunately, much abated.  The rehearsal must have been conducted with very great secrecy; for what would the Kirk, which took such deep offence at the composition of the piece by one of its ministers, have said to the fact, of no less than four of these being engaged in rehearsing it, and two others attending the exhibition?  The circumstance of the gentle Anna having been personated by “Dr. Blair, minister of the High Church,” is a very droll one.—­Edinburgh Evening Post.

* * * * *

THE CUMBERLAND LANDLORD.

(To the Editor of the Mirror.)

During a recent excursion in Cumberland, I copied the following epitaph from the album kept at the inn at Pooley Bridge, the landlord of which is well known, as being quite an original:—­W.W.

  Will Russell was a landlord bold,
    A noble wight was he,
  Right fond of quips and merry cracks,
    And ev’ry kind of glee.

  Full five-and-twenty years agone
    He came to Pooley Height,
  And there he kept the Rising Sun,
    And drunk was ev’ry night.

  No lord, nor squire, nor serving man,
    In all the country round,
  But lov’d to call in at the Sun,
    Wherever he was bound,

  To hold a crack with noble Will,
    And take a cheerful cup
  Of brandy, or of Penrith ale,
    Or pop, right bouncing up.

  But now poor Will lies sleeping here,
    Without his hat or stick,
  Nor longer rules the Rising Sun,
    As he did well when wick.[1]