The Peters referred to was the celebrated Hugh Peters, Cromwell's chaplain. Our author vindicates this clergyman from certain scandalous charges, declaring that he had asked of his daughter, Miss Peters, if they were so, which she had utterly denied! Less credulous is he as regarded 'William Pen' (with whom he seems to have been on terms of great personal intimacy), since he hints very broadly in one passage, that he put no faith whatever in a certain assertion of 'Pen' as to his own (Penn's) good behavior when amiably smiled on by a _belle sauvage_, who, as the French would say, was not savage at all. 'Scandal, scandal all,' we doubt not. There are gossipers in every age, tattlers in every corner of history, and who escapes them? Cato did not, Washington could not, and 'Mr Pen' even must fill his place with the great maligned. Let us trust that our incautious dip from the old work may not, suggest to any novel maker 'Penn and the Princess,--a Tale of the Olden Time.' * * * * * The following poem, which we find in the Philadelphia _Press_, is among the best of the many sad lyrics which the war has inspired. The music of the refrain is remarkable: DIRGE FOR A SOLDIER. By George H. Boker Close his eyes; his work is done! What to him is friend or foeman, Rise of moon, or set of sun, Hand of man, or kiss of woman? Lay him low, lay him low, In the clover or the snow: What cares he? he cannot know: Lay him low! As man may, he fought his fight, Proved his truth by his endeavor; Let him sleep in solemn night, Sleep forever and forever. Lay him low, lay him low, In the clover or the snow: What cares he? he cannot know: Lay him low! Fold him in his country's stars; Roll the drum and fire the volley! What to him are all our wars, What but death bemocking folly? Lay him low, lay him low, In the clover or the snow: What cares he? he cannot know: Lay him low! Leave him to God's watching eye; Trust him to the Hand that made him. Mortal love weeps idly by: God alone has power to aid him. Lay him low, lay him low, In the clover or the snow: What cares he? he cannot know: Lay him low! * * * * * Much has been said of the high price paid to opera singers. The celebrated BERLIOZ once reduced it to details in the following word: 'The first tenor,' he said, 'has 100,000 frcs. per annum, and he sings for it about seven times during the month, or eighty-four times during the year. This would be about 1,100 francs per evening. Admitted then that his part would contain 1,100 notes or syllables, the price of each syllable would be 1 franc. Consequently in William Tell: