Here was a confessional; there a farewell between lovers; here a wounded Boer meeting his death at the bayonet of an English dastard; there a Queen Eleanor sucking poison from her husband's arm.

A series of illuminated scenes of rapine and disaster might be studied through magnifying glasses.

The presence of a wax bust of Zola was due, I imagine, less to his illustrious career than to the untoward circumstances of his death.

The usual Sleeping Beauty heaved her breast punctually in the centre of the tent.
In one point only did the exhibition differ from the wax works of the French and Italian fairs--it was undeviatingly decent.

There were no jokes, and no physiological models.