The same entertainment has gone on ever since our childhood, and since the infancy of your father and grandfather. And, as it would be difficult to believe that the head cook is a sexagenarian, we must conclude that a whole generation of actors have worn the apron and carried the candle without our remarking any change. To satisfy myself on this point, I questioned M. Corvi himself on the subject. [Illustration] “My show,” he kindly answered, “is really a permanent entertainment. As it entirely consists of scenes in which goats, monkeys, poodles, and ponies are the sole actors, I keep a reserve staff, behind the scenes, of understudies of [p119] every part. In the pantomime called _The Deserter_, you will no longer find one single artist belonging to the original caste. I have already replaced the judge, the gendarmes, the [p120] prisoner, and the gravediggers, just as consumption or gout made vacancies in my troupe. The actors pass, the play remains. No one here is absolutely necessary. If I lost my first leading gentleman to-morrow—he is a baboon named Coquelin _aîné_—the play would not be interrupted for one single day. We should replace him by his understudy—she is called Coquelin _cadet_—and neither the nurses nor the babies, who are our subscribers for Tuesdays, would ever discover the change of performer.” M. Corvi is one of the last representatives of the old-fashioned trainers, who wore evening dress or a frock-coat, like M. Loyal, when they exhibited their pupils in the arena. Modern trainers prefer a clown’s dress, and their intentionally grotesque appearance is very effective when accompanied by ridiculous animals like the pig and the donkey. The terrible Onos, compared by Homer to the divine Ajax, the ass himself, is now drawn by the ears into the arena by a clown. Perhaps you already know that the male ass is a dangerous animal. He may be chosen from a small race, but his bite will still be formidable, and therefore the halter, which only seems to decorate his head, is really a strong muzzle, and his hoofs are never shod. In spite of these precautions the clown must be very agile to evade the kicks showered full at his chest, and must be careful not to miss his spring over the bench when Master Aliboron charges at him across the arena like a bull rushing at a picador. The appearance even of the pig has the power of delighting the crowd, and who can resist laughing when the clown approaches his pupil and shouts: “Come here, pig!” [p121] “Eh?” asks M. Loyal. “I’m not talking to you.” Although the training of the pig may still seem imperfect, the education of this animal requires extreme patience from its teacher. An Irish proverb quoted to me by Billy Hayden says: “Beat your wife with a cudgel and your pig with a straw.” And, truly, the pig’s bristling skin is so sensitive that the least touch of the whip covers it with blisters, and disgusts the animal with all work for ever. Only coaxing and kindness must be used.