Musée Grévin

Over in Montmartre, on the Place Blanche, is the well-known Moulin Rouge, a place suggestive, to those who have never seen it, of the quintessence of Parisian devil-me-care gaiety.

You expect it to be like those clever pen-and-ink drawings of Grevin's of the old Jardin Mabille, in its palmiest days, brilliant with lights and beautiful women extravagantly gowned and bejeweled.

you expect to see frenchmen too in pot hats crowding in a circle about fifine who is dancing some mad cancan half hidden in a swirl of point lace her small polished boots alternately poised above her dainty head and when she is finished you expect her to be carried off to supper at the maison dore by the big fierce-looking russian who has been watching her and whose victoria with its spanking team black and glossy as satin champing their silver bits outside awaiting her pleasure but in all these anticipations you will be disappointed for the famous jardin mabille is no more and the ground where it once stood in the champs elyses is now built up with private residences fifine is gone too years ago and most of the old gentlemen in pot-hats who used to watch her are buried or about to be few frenchmen ever go to the moulin rouge but every american does on his first night in paris and emerges with enough cab fare to return him to his hotel where he arrives with the positive conviction that the red mill with its slowly revolving sails lurid in crimson lights was constructed especially for him he remembers too his first impressions of paris that very morning as his train rolled into the gare st lazare his aunt could wait until to-morrow to see the tomb of napoleon but he would see the moulin rouge first and to be in ample time ordered dinner early in his expensive morgue-like hotel I remember once, a few hours after my arrival in Paris, walking up the long hill to the Place Blanche at 2 p.m. under a blazing July sun, to see if they did not give a matinee at the Moulin Rouge.

The place was closed, it is needless to say, and the policeman I found pacing his beat outside, when I asked him what day they gave a matinee, put his thumbs in his sword-belt, looked at me quizzically for a moment, and then roared.

Over in Montmartre, on the Place Blanche, is the well-known Moulin Rouge, a place suggestive, to those who have never seen it, of the quintessence of Parisian devil-me-care gaiety.

You expect it to be like those clever pen-and-ink drawings of Grevin's of the old Jardin Mabille, in its palmiest days, brilliant with lights and beautiful women extravagantly gowned and bejeweled.

you expect to see frenchmen too in pot hats crowding in a circle about fifine who is dancing some mad cancan half hidden in a swirl of point lace her small polished boots alternately poised above her dainty head and when she is finished you expect her to be carried off to supper at the maison dore by the big fierce-looking russian who has been watching her and whose victoria with its spanking team black and glossy as satin champing their silver bits outside awaiting her pleasure but in all these anticipations you will be disappointed for the famous jardin mabille is no more and the ground where it once stood in the champs elyses is now built up with private residences fifine is gone too years ago and most of the old gentlemen in pot-hats who used to watch her are buried or about to be few frenchmen ever go to the moulin rouge but every american does on his first night in paris and emerges with enough cab fare to return him to his hotel where he arrives with the positive conviction that the red mill with its slowly revolving sails lurid in crimson lights was constructed especially for him he remembers too his first impressions of paris that very morning as his train rolled into the gare st lazare his aunt could wait until to-morrow to see the tomb of napoleon but he would see the moulin rouge first and to be in ample time ordered dinner early in his expensive morgue-like hotel I remember once, a few hours after my arrival in Paris, walking up the long hill to the Place Blanche at 2 p.m. under a blazing July sun, to see if they did not give a matinee at the Moulin Rouge.

The place was closed, it is needless to say, and the policeman I found pacing his beat outside, when I asked him what day they gave a matinee, put his thumbs in his sword-belt, looked at me quizzically for a moment, and then roared.

During the late 19th century, Emile Renaud improved the zoetrope with a praxenoscope.

with inner mirrors and projected hand-painted image trips to live audiences at Paris' Musée Grévin.

And it was invented in France in 1877 by Charles-Emile Renaud.

And the name praxenoscope comes from Greek roots praxi, or from praxis meaning action, and scope from skopio meaning to look at.