IV.Trewey is a mimicpar excellence. He is past master in the art of pantomime and facial expression. One of his particular acts, which has given rise to numerous imitations, is entitled, “Tabarin, or Twenty-five Heads Under One Chapeau.” Thanks to a piece of black felt cloth, circular in shape, with a hole cut in the center, Trewey is able to manufacture in a few minutes all the varieties of headgear required for the Tabarin. For example: Napoleon—A couple of twists of the cloth, and lo! you have a representation ofle chapeau de Marengo, the little cocked hat which Napoleon made famous, and about which so many legends cluster. With this hastily improvised hat on his head, Trewey assumes the Napoleonic attitude—one hand thrust into his vest, the other behind his back. His physiognomy is that of the great Emperor, as depicted by the painters of the Imperial régime. The likeness is perfect. And so with fat French priests, soldiers, bonnes, landladies, artists, diplomats, etc. It is a portrait gallery of French types; Gavarni lives for us again. And just here, let me digress a moment to explain the origin of the curious wordTabarin, which, as all lovers of French comedy know, has passed into the repertory of the national theatre. In the seventeenth century, that bridge of memories, the old Pont Neuf of Paris, was the rendezvous of quacksalvers and mountebanks. Booths for the sale of various articles lined the sides of the bridge. People flocked there to see the sights, to laugh, chat, make love and enjoy life as only Parisians can. Students and grisettes of theQuartier Latinelbowed ladies and gentlemen of the court. Bourgeois families came to study the flippant manners of their superiors. Poodle clippers plied their trade; jugglers amused thequid nuncswith feats of dexterity; traveling dentists pulled teeth and sold balsams; clowns tumbled, and last, but not least, pickpockets lifted purses and silk handkerchiefs with impunity. Says Augustus J. C. Hare (Walks in Paris): “So central an artery is the Pont Neuf, that it used to be a saying with the Parisian police, that if, after watching three days, they did not see a man cross the bridge, he must have left Paris.” Any popular witticism in verse was long known asun Pont-Neuf. One of the principal{342}vendors of quack nostrums of the Pont Neuf was Montdor. He was aided by a buffoon named Tabarin, who made facetious replies to questions asked by his master, accompanied with laughable grimaces and grotesque gestures. The modern ringmaster and clown of the circus have similar scenes together, minus the selling of medicines. Tabarin was celebrated for his wit. Some of hisbon motshave descended to our time. He performed the feat of making some ten different hats out of the brim of a felt hat, giving appropriate facial portraits beneath each, and using wigs and beards to enhance the effect. Such, in brief, is the story of the famous Merry Andrew whose name has become a by-word in France for buffoonery and broad humor. The biographies of such men would make interesting reading for the student of history. But Dame Clio has eyes only for tremendous battles, diplomatic intrigues, the doings of royalty and great folk. The little world of everyday life, that busy ant hill where the human comedy is so ardently played, is beneath her notice. The life and adventures of quacksalvers, minor poets, wandering jugglers, faugh!—that is asking too much of the Muse of History. Says Guizot: “History has no room for all those who throng about her gates without succeeding in getting in and leaving traces of their stay.”But occasionally a man or woman rises from the dregs of the people and compels recognition; and, sad to relate, nine times out of ten, through the commission of crimes. Have we not Cagliostro and Madame de la Motte, thorough-paced scoundrels and charlatans, but, nevertheless, very delightful folk, who have added a tinge of romance to history? I for one, with Thackeray, confess a weakness for the tittle-tattle of court gossip and backstairs diplomacy. Behind the scenes with Louis XV and XVI, Frederick the Great and Catherine II is far more entertaining than the battles of the period. Casanova gives one a better picture of eighteenth century morals and manners than any of the great historians of the time. History is the dry bones of an epoch; the memoir writers are the Ezekiels who behold the bones clothed with flesh and thrilling with life-blood.THETABARIN.Wandering one morning across the old Pont Neuf, all these thoughts came to my mind. Once again, as in the days of long{344}ago, I saw, in my imagination, the bridge crowded with people. There came to me the faint rustling of silk skirts, the clatter of high-heeled shoes upon the paving stones. Boom! boom! goes the drum. I hear the strident voice of Montdor shouting out his wares, and the unctuous notes of the comical Tabarin uttering abon mot.
Trewey is a mimicpar excellence. He is past master in the art of pantomime and facial expression. One of his particular acts, which has given rise to numerous imitations, is entitled, “Tabarin, or Twenty-five Heads Under One Chapeau.” Thanks to a piece of black felt cloth, circular in shape, with a hole cut in the center, Trewey is able to manufacture in a few minutes all the varieties of headgear required for the Tabarin. For example: Napoleon—A couple of twists of the cloth, and lo! you have a representation ofle chapeau de Marengo, the little cocked hat which Napoleon made famous, and about which so many legends cluster. With this hastily improvised hat on his head, Trewey assumes the Napoleonic attitude—one hand thrust into his vest, the other behind his back. His physiognomy is that of the great Emperor, as depicted by the painters of the Imperial régime. The likeness is perfect. And so with fat French priests, soldiers, bonnes, landladies, artists, diplomats, etc. It is a portrait gallery of French types; Gavarni lives for us again. And just here, let me digress a moment to explain the origin of the curious wordTabarin, which, as all lovers of French comedy know, has passed into the repertory of the national theatre. In the seventeenth century, that bridge of memories, the old Pont Neuf of Paris, was the rendezvous of quacksalvers and mountebanks. Booths for the sale of various articles lined the sides of the bridge. People flocked there to see the sights, to laugh, chat, make love and enjoy life as only Parisians can. Students and grisettes of theQuartier Latinelbowed ladies and gentlemen of the court. Bourgeois families came to study the flippant manners of their superiors. Poodle clippers plied their trade; jugglers amused thequid nuncswith feats of dexterity; traveling dentists pulled teeth and sold balsams; clowns tumbled, and last, but not least, pickpockets lifted purses and silk handkerchiefs with impunity. Says Augustus J. C. Hare (Walks in Paris): “So central an artery is the Pont Neuf, that it used to be a saying with the Parisian police, that if, after watching three days, they did not see a man cross the bridge, he must have left Paris.” Any popular witticism in verse was long known asun Pont-Neuf. One of the principal{342}vendors of quack nostrums of the Pont Neuf was Montdor. He was aided by a buffoon named Tabarin, who made facetious replies to questions asked by his master, accompanied with laughable grimaces and grotesque gestures. The modern ringmaster and clown of the circus have similar scenes together, minus the selling of medicines. Tabarin was celebrated for his wit. Some of hisbon motshave descended to our time. He performed the feat of making some ten different hats out of the brim of a felt hat, giving appropriate facial portraits beneath each, and using wigs and beards to enhance the effect. Such, in brief, is the story of the famous Merry Andrew whose name has become a by-word in France for buffoonery and broad humor. The biographies of such men would make interesting reading for the student of history. But Dame Clio has eyes only for tremendous battles, diplomatic intrigues, the doings of royalty and great folk. The little world of everyday life, that busy ant hill where the human comedy is so ardently played, is beneath her notice. The life and adventures of quacksalvers, minor poets, wandering jugglers, faugh!—that is asking too much of the Muse of History. Says Guizot: “History has no room for all those who throng about her gates without succeeding in getting in and leaving traces of their stay.”
But occasionally a man or woman rises from the dregs of the people and compels recognition; and, sad to relate, nine times out of ten, through the commission of crimes. Have we not Cagliostro and Madame de la Motte, thorough-paced scoundrels and charlatans, but, nevertheless, very delightful folk, who have added a tinge of romance to history? I for one, with Thackeray, confess a weakness for the tittle-tattle of court gossip and backstairs diplomacy. Behind the scenes with Louis XV and XVI, Frederick the Great and Catherine II is far more entertaining than the battles of the period. Casanova gives one a better picture of eighteenth century morals and manners than any of the great historians of the time. History is the dry bones of an epoch; the memoir writers are the Ezekiels who behold the bones clothed with flesh and thrilling with life-blood.
THETABARIN.
THETABARIN.
Wandering one morning across the old Pont Neuf, all these thoughts came to my mind. Once again, as in the days of long{344}ago, I saw, in my imagination, the bridge crowded with people. There came to me the faint rustling of silk skirts, the clatter of high-heeled shoes upon the paving stones. Boom! boom! goes the drum. I hear the strident voice of Montdor shouting out his wares, and the unctuous notes of the comical Tabarin uttering abon mot.