Drury Lane and a side of a West End
drawing-room run on at the same time.

At the further end of the Library we have the Church, very High 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. These
are separated by red ropes and some red tape; the latter I cut with my
self-written passport--my note to the Q.C. who still addresses the
Court.

[Illustration: THE BISHOP OF LINCOLN'S TRIAL. (_From "Punch."_)]

I have come here to see the Bishop of Lincoln, and I roam about in the
fog to find him. Ah, that figure! there he is! I immediately sketch him,
only to find out that the individual in question is the Clerk of the
Court, or whatever the title of that functionary's equivalent may be in
Lambeth Palace. What vexes me is that whenever I enquire the whereabouts
of the Bishop, a warning finger is raised to the lips to denote silence.
The Bishops sit round three tables, on a raised platform. In the centre
is the Archbishop of Canterbury; on his right the mysterious Judge, in
full wig and red robes; here 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 presenting the appearance of
being blown about by a strong draught, while his hand is raised to his
face, suggesting that the draught had caused toothache. The portly
Bishop of Oxford on his right, like the other corner man, the Bishop of
Salisbury, 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 interrogates the Counsel, and evidently relishes
acting the schoolmaster once more. The Bishop of Rochester, sitting on
London's left, supplies the element of comedy as far as facial
expression goes, and his wide-open mouth and papers held in front of him
lead me to expect him to burst into song at any moment. But where is
_the_ Bishop--the Bishop of Lincoln? Ah, now I see him, in one of those
side courts, and I forthwith sketch him, marvelling at my stupidity in
not identifying him before. I write his name under the sketch, and show
it to one of the reporters. He scribbles "Wrong man" across it. Done
again! I write, "Then where is he?" He waves me away, as Mr.