in oils, and sold in tincases. Great reduction (at lunch time) on taking
a quantity.

* * * * *

[Illustration: THE GREAT LINCOLN TRIAL STAKES AT LAMBETH. (_As seen by
Mr. Punch's Artist in a Fog._)]

* * * * *

THE GREAT LINCOLN TRIAL STAKES.

Lambeth is in darkness. A Policeman with a bull's-eye prevents my
driver's energetic endeavours to drive through the Palace wall. I
stumble into the large hall known as the Library. "Here," said I to
myself, "is taking place the historic trial of the Bishop of LINCOLN."
The weird scene strongly resembles the Dream Trial in _The Bells_, where
the judges, counsel, and all concerned, are in a fog. Will the limelight
flash suddenly upon the chief actor, the Bishop of LINCOLN, as he takes
the stage and re-acts the part that has caused the trial? Archbishop
BANCROFT founded this library, so theatrical associations are natural.
The only lights in the long and lofty library (excepting the clerical
and legal) are a dozen or two wax candles and a few oil-lamps, but of
daylight, gaslight, or electric, nothing. I can hear the voice of JEUNE,
Q.C., the JEUNE _premier_ of this ecclesiastical drama.

They have commenced proceedings. In this, the Archbishop's Court, they,
very properly, begin with prayer. So does the House of Commons. "Any
special form of orison?" I ask in a whisper of the JEUNE _premier_, Q.C.
"Yes," he answers in a subdued tone. "Look in your prayer-book for 'form
of prayer to be used by those at sea.' That's it." Then he has to
continue his argument.

At the further end of the library we have the Church, represented by an
Archbishop and five Bishops; also a Judge, in a full-bottomed wig, who
has evidently got in by mistake. Then we have the Law, represented by a
row of Q.C.'s, their juniors, and attendants; and then a chorus of
ordinary people, and common, or Thames Policemen. But where's the Bishop
of LINCOLN? Not among the Thames Policemen? Not in the Dock? Where? Aha!
I see him. I focus him. I sketch him. _Veni, vidi, vici!_ I show result
on paper to Official. "Oh, no," he says; "that's not the Bishop, that's
THINGUMMY," a Clerk of the Court, or something. Hang THINGUMMY! Official
disappears. Lights, ho! a link on Lincoln! I determine to find him. The
Bishops sit round three tables, on a raised platform. The Archbishop of
CANTERBURY sits in the centre; on his right is the mysterious Judge, in
full wig,