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, 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 to him the affable Dr. Tristram, then the rubicund Mr. Dankwerts, but no Bishop. One o'clock! The Bishops rise for Lunch and Levée. "Where, oh where! is the Bishop of Lincoln?" I ask Jeune premier. "Quick—I want to sketch him before he leaves!"
"The Bishop!" returns the First Ecclesiastical Young Man, smiling. "Oh, he never comes near the place." Exit Jeune premier. I appeal to the austere Sir Horace Davey. "I can't tell you," says sir Horace—"Davey sum, non Œdipus." And off he goes, to argue another sort of a case about Baird language and the Pelican Club. He will say no more. On this occasion only, Horace is Tacitus. I do not find the Bishop, and quit Lambeth.
