ence and guide society, if not to govern it. Besides the clergy, I see many titled and influential persons among the more devout laity of the Church of England: I notice, for example, a nobleman whose name is identified with the well-known sayings: "Victory or Westminster Abbey;" "England expects every man to do his duty."
But the clock strikes ten. A burst of music peals on high through the vaulted arches, announcing that the Bishops are approaching. Every eye is turned to the entrance to the choir. And now the procession slowly enters. And what a procession! Such a procession as the Anglican Church has never before witnessed. Jerusalem and Michigan; Bombay and Sodor and Man; Madras and Western New York; Ripon and St. Asaph; Edinburgh and Gloucester; Oxford and Argyll Salisbury and Glasgow and Moray and Ross; his Grace of Canterbury closing the line of the apostolic brotherhood. As they advance, the assembled thousands rise up in token of respect. Well may they show respect. Men that have hazarded their lives for the Gospel; men that have spent their early days in patient study; men that have faced an angry world for Christ's sake, are in that goodly company. Two of these Bishops belong to the once persecuted Church of Scotland—a Church persecuted under the same authority which legalized the Church in England. Two of these Bishops are citizens of the United States, republicans by education as well as by allegiance, and free from what are considered by some the trammels of Royal Supremacy, and the union of Church and State. Some of them are Colonial Bishops, who endure the disadvantages of both the voluntary system and of an
