Sheridan, Newton, and Macaulay--children of divine genius, that here mingled with the earth. The grim Edward, who so long ravaged Scotland; the blunt, chivalrous Henry, who conquered France; the lovely, lamentable victim at Pomfret, and the harsh, haughty, astute victor at Bosworth; James with his babbling tongue, and William with his impassive, predominant visage--they would all mingle with the spectral multitude and vanish into the gloom. Gentler faces, too, might here once more reveal their loveliness and their grief--Eleanor de Bohun, brokenhearted for her murdered lord; Elizabeth Claypole, the meek, merciful, beloved daughter of Cromwell; Matilda, Queen to Henry the First, and model of every grace and virtue; and sweet Anne Neville, destroyed--if his enemies told the truth--by the politic craft of Gloster. Strange sights, truly, in the lonesome Abbey to-night! In the sombre crypt beneath St. Paul's cathedral how thrilling now must be the heavy stillness! No sound can enter there. No breeze from the upper world can stir the dust upon those massive sepulchres. Even in day-time that shadowy vista, with its groined arches and the black tombs of Wellington and Nelson and the ponderous funeral-car of the Iron Duke, is seen with a shudder. How strangely, how fearfully the mind would be impressed, of him who should wander there to-night! What sublime reflections would be his, standing beside the ashes of the great admiral, and thinking of that fiery, dauntless spirit--so simple, resolute, and true--who made the earth and the sea alike resound with the splendid tumult of his deeds. Somewhere beneath this pavement is the dust of Sir Philip Sidney--buried here before the destruction of the old cathedral, in the great fire of 1666--and here, too, is the nameless grave of the mighty Duke of Lancaster, John of Gaunt. Shakespeare was only twenty-two years old when Sidney fell, at the battle of Zutphen, and, being then resident in London, he might readily have seen, and doubtless did see, the splendid funeral procession with which the body of that heroic gentleman--radiant and immortal example of perfect chivalry--was borne to the tomb. Hither came Henry of Hereford--returning from exile and deposing the handsome, visionary, useless Richard--to mourn over the relics of his father, dead of sorrow for his son's absence and his country's shame. Here, at the venerable age of ninety-one, the glorious brain of Wren found rest at last, beneath the stupendous temple that himself had reared. The watcher in the crypt tonight would see, perchance, or fancy that he saw, those figures from the storied past. Beneath this roof--the soul and the perfect symbol of sublimity!--are ranged more than fourscore monuments to heroic martial persons who have died for England, by land or sea. Here, too, are gathered in everlasting repose the honoured relics of men who were famous in the arts of peace. Reynolds and Opie, Lawrence and