THIS is the Pantheon of England's Greatest Dead. As I stand here under the groined roof of this vast and glorious Nave, with the sunbeams streaming in through rose windows, and falling softly on sculptured figures and tombs of Kings and Queens long mouldering in the dust, their bodies recumbent in monumental brass, their hands clasped as in prayer, with heroes, and poets, and statesmen, law-givers, and royal murderers, lying silently around me on either hand, and under my feet beneath the worn and antique stones which form the pavement, I realize that I am in the Valhalla of the Anglo-Norman Race, a race that has been prolific of strong wills, great minds, and heroic deeds. This is the most sacred spot in all Great Britain, this spot enclosed by the four walls of Westminster Abbey. It does not seem an edifice raised by human hands, rather would it appear, as I look to the roof, supported by most marvelous pillars, resembling an interlaced avenue of royal forest trees, that it had been constructed by beings of another world. It was a grand faith that inspired Westminster Abbey, a faith that believed in sacrificing all earthly aspirations for the honor and glory of God. Thus musing I am interrupted by a tap on the shoulder, as I stand leaning against a pillar in the gloom of the vast pile. "Would you like to see the Habbey, sir?--its sixpence to see the Chapels--there's nine on 'em: the Hambulatory, the Nave, Transept, Choir, Chapels, and Cloisters, are free--beautiful sights--only sixpence, sir." I turned, and saw a man in a black fustian gown, bareheaded, with a tall thin stick in his right hand; he was old, and seemed to need its frail support. This was a prebendary's "Verger," a sort of a porter or Abbey guide, whose main object was to collect as many sixpences as possible, but ostensibly he was a cicerone of the monuments and architectural beauties of the Cathedral Church of St. Peter's, Westminster. Numbers of visitors were straying in and out of the Abbey, looking at the monuments, criticising the works of art, the mural tablets, or gossiping over the ashes of dead Kings, as if they were in a concert room, while here and there might be seen some scholar or learned man delving for facts, and poring over the musty Latin of the crumbling tombs. In Westminster Abbey rival statesmen rest in peace, the tongue of the orator is mute, side by side rest the Crowned head and the Chancellor with his great seal, the Archbishop and the Play-actor, the philanthropist and the seaman, who died by his guns on the deck of the vessel of war, the divine and the physician, the Princess and the Soubrette, all mingle common dust together. In Westminster Abbey, the powerful, spiritual, Roman Catholic prelate has celebrated High Mass with more than Eastern magnificence, the Introit has issued forth from his lips, and the acolytes have answered his "Dominus Vobiscum" with their "Amen;" and here the stern Puritan has knelt in his less formal prayer.