and red robes; this is the Vicar-General, Sir JAMES PARKER
DEANE, Q.C.; next to him sits Assessor Dr. ATLAY, Bishop of HEREFORD,
who looks anything but happy; his hair has the appearance of being
impelled by a strong draught, and his hand is to his face, as if the
draught had produced toothache. The portly Bishop of OXFORD is on his
right, and like the other corner man, the Bishop of SALISBURY, he
scribbles away at a great rate in a huge manuscript book, or roll of
foolscap. On the left of the Archbishop sits the Bishop of LONDON, who
severely questions the Counsel, and evidently relishes acting the
school-master over again. The Bishop of ROCHESTER sitting on LONDON'S
left, supplies the comedy element, so far as facial expression goes; his
mouth is wide open, and he holds some papers in front of him in an
attitude which suggests that he will presently break forth into song.
But where, oh where, is the Bishop of LINCOLN? Ah, I see him. I sketch
him. I write his name under sketch, and show it to one of the Reporters.
He scribbles across it, "Wrong." I write, "Where is he?" He waves me
away. I believe the Bishop is at the other side of the long table, by
his Counsel. There is a candle in front of him. I make my way to the
other side. I find the Bishop is an old lady! I write, "Where does the
Bishop of LINCOLN sit?" on a piece of paper, and take it to an Official.
He cannot see to read it, so some time is lost while he finds a
convenient candle. He looks towards me, and points to a corner.

Good! At last! There is an old gentleman, in plain clothes it is true,
but still otherwise every inch a Bishop or a Butler, or perhaps both in
one,--say Bishop BUTLER. I have just finished a careful study of him,
when he turns round and whispers, "Please, Sir, can you tell me which is
the Bishop of LINCOLN?" I shake my head angrily, and move away. I'll
bide my time. JEUNE _premier_ is answering the hundred-and-seventh
question of the Bishop of LONDON, and is being "supported" by Sir WALTER
PHILLIMORE. It amuses me to hear these two clever Counsel, in this
natural and ecclesiastical fog, carrying on an animated legal
conversation with each other, ignoring the Bishops; not that the latter
seem to mind, as they scribble merrily away at their folios. Are their
Right Reverend Lordships engaged in writing their Sunday sermons?

But where is _the_ Bishop? He ought to be near his Counsel. The severe
Sir HORACE DAVEY sits writing letters; next t