Mr. Frederic Frivell (to his wife, whom he takes a marital pleasure in shocking).  What fun those old fellows must have had in those days, mustn’t they?

Mrs. Frivell (a serious lady).  I don’t think fun is at all the right word, FREDERIC.  I do wish you wouldn’t take these things so lightly.  I’m sure it’s melancholy enough to look at all these horrid machines, and think—­

Mr. F. That Torture is a lost art?  Isn’t that what you were going to say?  But it’s not, you know; we’ve refined it—­that’s all.  Look at the Photographer, and the Interviewer, and the Pathetic Reciter, and the—­

    [Mrs. F. endeavours to convince him that she didn’t mean that
    at all, and that he is comparing totally different things.

An Aphoristic Uncle (to an irreverent Nephew).  No. 89.  “A Long-spiked Wooden Roller, known as a ‘Spiked Hare.’” You see, TOM, my boy, the victim was—­(Describes the process.) “Some of the old writers describe this torture as being most fearful,” so the Catalogue tells us.

Tom-my-boy (after inspecting the spikes).  Well, do you know, Uncle, I shouldn’t be at all surprised if the old Johnnies weren’t so far out.

The Aph.  Uncle. Another illustration, my boy, of “Man’s inhumanity to Man”!

Tom-my-boy. Not bad for you, Uncle—­only you cribbed it out of the Catalogue, you know! [The A.U. gives him up.

    An Indulgent Parent enters, leading a small boy in a tall
    hat, and is presently recognised by the A.U.

The A.U. So you’ve brought your son to see this collection, hey?  Well, it’s of the greatest educational value to a thoughtful youth—­rich in moral and historical instruction!

The I.P. Well, it was like this, you see.  I had to take him to the dentist’s, and, finding we should have half-an-hour or so to spare before he could attend to him, I thought we’d just drop in here and amuse ourselves—­eh, BOBBY?  Wonderfully ingenious, you know, in their way, some of these things!  Now, here’s a thing—­“A Spanish mouth-pear, made of iron.”  You see, BOBBY, they forced it into the mouth and touched a screw, and it sprang open, preventing the victim from screaming.

Bobby.  Y-yes, father.  Should you think Mr. Fawcepps will have one of those?

The I.P. (annoyed).  Now, what is the use of my taking you to a place of this sort to divert your thoughts, if your mind is running on something else all the time?  I won’t have it, do you hear.  Enjoy yourself like a sensible boy!

Bobby.  Y-yes, Father, I am.  It—­it’s quite cured my toothache already—­really it has!

Mrs. Frivell (reading from Catalogue).  “A Penitent’s Girdle, made of barbed wire, which, when worn next to the flesh, caused the most unpleasant and uncomfortable irritation.”  Oh, FREDERIC, just fancy that!