Three is the hour that religious services are held in the large nave. More out of curiosity, perhaps, than anything else, we determined to remain during the service. As we sat there looking over into the Poets' Corner, the deep silence of the majestic building, growing more and more profound, there came trooping through the mind constantly changing pictures suggested by the memories awakened by the vivid recollections of the once great in literature and art, science and warfare, who are still alive in the hearts of all English-speaking people, although their bodies have been lying for years beneath the massive pillars and superb arches of Westminster. As the eye wanders upwards along the walls, covered with tablets and rare pieces of sculpture, and seeks to unravel the intricacies of the fretted roof, just discernible through the dim light, the great organ peals forth the wondrous strains of the Processional. At that instant, as though to lend a new and greater impressiveness to the scene, the clouds, which had been lowering all the afternoon, suddenly breaking with a glorious burst of sunshine, that comes streaming in through the tall, graceful windows, beautiful with their colored designs, lights up the Abbey even to its darkest recess with a light, soft, and mellow, which only intensifies the mystic feeling of reverence and joy combined. And then the boy choristers, with their fresh, innocent faces, sing in wondrous tones the Gregorian chant. Nothing more is needed; everything is complete. You are lost in a rapturous reverie, the mind is cleansed of all things earthly, and wanders unchecked and unfettered through the boundless realms of purity. One sits almost entranced; his very being filled with the wondrous power of the place. Gradually it dawns upon him that there is a discord somewhere, that something has occurred to mar the perfection of the whole. For an instant he rebels against the thought, and strives to believe that he still dreams. But the inspiration has fled. The music, which a moment before caused the tears to fill his eyes, has lost itself in the far-away cornices of the high columns, and in its stead there is the dull, monotonous chanting of a priest, who is intoning the service in a tired sort of way, as though he thought that, having done the same thing every afternoon for forty years, it was time for him to retire upon a pension, and enjoy the quiet of a pleasant home, where there was no absolute necessity of going through the ritual every afternoon at three o'clock. [Sidenote: HOW THE SERVICE IS DONE.]