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 OEdipus_." 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. * * * * * [Illustration: LIKELY--VERY! "CONFOUND THESE BLACKS! THEY FOLLOW ME EVERYWHERE!" "YES, MY DEAR FELLOW; THEY TAKE YOU FOR A MISSIONARY!"] * * * * * THE LITTLE DUC AND HIS BIG BILL. The _restaurateur_ evidently considered that he "didn't kill a pig every day," when he stuck _Le Petit Duc_ for this now historic bill, which, as given in full by the _Figaro_, _Mr. Punch_ reproduces here for general edification:--