THE FOX AND HIS BURROWES.

George Fox digg'd out of his Burrowes, or an Offer of Disputation on fourteen Proposalls made this last Summer, 1672 (so call'd), unto G. Fox then present on Rhode Island, in New England, by R. W. As also how (G. Fox slyly departing) the Disputation went on, being managed three Dayes at Newport on Rhode Island, and one Day at Providence, between John Stubbs, John Burnet, and William Edmundson, on the one Part, and R. W., on the other. In which many Quotations out of G. Fox and Ed. Burrowes Book in Folio are alleged. With an Appendix, of some Scores of G. F., his simple lame answers to his Opposites in that Book quoted and replied to, by R. W. of Providence in N. E.

ILLIS, NATHANIEL PARKER, an American

a

poet and essayist, born at Portland, Me., January 20, 1806; died at Idlewild-on-theHudson, N. Y., January 20, 1867. While a student at Yale College, where he was graduated in 1827, he wrote several poems, mainly of a religious character, which gained for him no little reputation. For several years after leaving college he was engaged in literary work, finally forming a connection with the New York Mirror, to which he contributed a series of letters under the title of Pencillings by the Way, describing his observations in Europe, whither he went in 1833. Returning to the United States he took up his residence at a pretty little estate which he purchased in the valley of the Susquehanna, and named "Glenmary," for his wife, whom he had married in England. Here he wrote his Letters from Under a Bridge, which contains his best prose. After

five years he was compelled to offer Glenmary for sale. He then, in conjunction with Dr. Porter, established the Corsair, a weekly journal of literature. During a second stay in England he published Loiterings of Travel, produced two plays, Bianca Visconti and Tortesa the Usurer, and wrote the descriptive matter for an illustrated work, The Scenery of the United States. The publication of the Corsair was abandoned, and Willis aided George P. Morris in establishing the Evening Mirror, a daily newspaper. His health broke down, and he again went abroad, having been made an attaché of the American Legation at Berlin. He now proposed to make Germany his permanent residence; but finding the climate unfavorable to him, he returned to New York. The Evening Mirror was given up, and the weekly Home Journal took its place.. He took up his residence at Idlewildon-the-Hudson, near Newburgh, where he died on his sixty-first birthday.

The prose writings of Willis consist mainly of letters and other articles furnished to periodicals. They include Pencillings by the Way; Letters From Under a Bridge; Rural Letters; People I Have Met: Life Here and There; Hurry-graphs; A Summer Cruise in the Mediterranean; Fun-jottings; A Health Trip to the Tropics; Out-doors at Idlewild; Famous Persons and Places; The Rag Bag; Paul Fane, a novel; The Canvalescent- the last being written in 1859. His Poems, most of them being short pieces, of varying character, have been published collectively.

THE MISERERE.

The procession crept slowly up to the church, and I left them kneeling at the tomb of St. Peter, and went

to the side chapel, to listen to the miserere. The choir here is said to be inferior to that in the Sistine chapel, but the circumstances more than make up for the difference, which, after all, it takes a nice ear to detect. I could not but congratulate myself, as I sat down on the base of a pillar, in the vast aisle, without the chapel where the choir were chanting, with the twilight gathering in the lofty arches, and the candles of the various processions creeping to the consecrated sepulchre from the distant parts of the church.

It was so different in that crowded and suffocating chapel of the Vatican, where, fine as was the music, I vowed positively never to subject myself to such annoyance again.

It had become almost dark, when the last candle but one was extinguished in the symbolical pyramid, and the first almost painful note of the miserere wailed out into the vast church of St. Peter. For the next half hour, the kneeling listeners around the door of the chapel seemed spellbound in their motionless attitudes.

The darkness thickened, the hundred lamps at the far-off sepulchre of the saint looked like a galaxy of twinkling points of fire, almost lost in the distance, and from the now perfectly obscured choir poured, in evervarying volume, the dirge-like music, in notes inconceivably plaintive and affecting.

The power, the mingled mournfulness and sweetness, the impassioned fulness, at one moment, and the lost, shrieking wildness of one solitary voice at another, carry away the soul like a whirlwind. I never have been so moved by anything. It is not in the scope of language to convey an idea of another of the effect of the miserere. It was not till several minutes after the music had ceased, that the dark figures rose up from the floor about

me.

As we approached the door of the church, the full moon, about three hours risen, poured broadly under the arches of the portico, inundating the whole front of the lofty dome with a flood of light such as falls only in Italy.

There seemed to be no atmosphere between. Day