A Practical Man.  I dessay it’s a fine collection enough, but it’s a pity the things ain’t more perfect. I should ha’ thought, with so many odds and ends and rubbish lying about as is no use to nobody at present, they might ha’ used it up in mending some that only requires a arm ’ere, or a leg there, or a ’ed and what not, to make ’em as good as ever.  But ketch them (he means the Officials) taking any extra trouble if they can help it!

His Companion.  Ah, but yer see it ain’t so easy fitting on bits that belonged to something different.  You’ve got to look at it that way!

The P.M. I don’t see no difficulty about it.  Why, any stonemason could cut down the odd pieces to fit well enough, and they wouldn’t have such a neglected appearance as they do now.

A Group has collected round a Gigantic Arm in red granite.

First Sightseer.  There’s a arm for yer!

Second S. (a humorist).  Yes; ’ow would yer like to ’ave that come a punching your ’ed?

Third S. (thoughtfully).  I expect they’ve put it up ’ere as a sample, like.

The Moralising Matron.  How it makes one realise that there were giants in those days!

Her Friend.  But surely the size must be a little exaggerated, don’t you think?  Oh, is this the God Ptah?

    [The M.M. says nothing, but clicks her tongue to express a
    grieved pity, after which she passes on.

The Intelligent Artisan and his Fiancee have entered the Nineveh Gallery, and are regarding an immense human-headed winged bull.

The I.A. (indulgently).  Rum-looking sort o’ beast that ere.

Fiancee.  Ye-es—­I wonder if it’s a likeness of some animal they used to ’ave then?

The I.A. I did think you was wider than that!—­it’s on’y imaginative.  What ‘ud be the good o’ wings to a bull?

Fiancee (on her defence).  You think you know so much—­but it’s got a man’s ’ed, hain’t it? and I know there used to be ’orses with ’alf a man where the ’ed ought to be, because I’ve seen their pictures—­so there!

The I.A. I dunno what you’ve got where your ’ed ought to be, torking such rot!

IN THE UPPER GALLERIES; ETHNOGRAPHICAL COLLECTION.

A Grim Governess (directing a scared small boy’s attention to a particularly hideous mask).  See, HENRY, that’s the kind of mask worn by savages!

Henry.  Always—­or only on the fifth of November, Miss GOOLE?

    [He records a mental vow never to visit a Savage Island on
    Guy Fawkes’ Day, and makes a prolonged study of the mask, with
    a view to future nightmares.

A kind, but dense Uncle (to Niece).  All these curious things were made by cannibals, ETHEL—­savages who eat one another you know.