It was agreed at once that the monkey performance was something to be seen, and accordingly arrangements were made for attending it. Mr. Graham explained to the youths that while these performances were comparatively rare in America they were an old established institution in Europe. “Germany and Italy,” said he, “are famous for them, and in some of the German and Italian cities there are monkey theaters where performances are given by quadrumana throughout the entire year. They are assisted by dogs and ponies, and altogether the show is very funny and interesting.”
The exhibition which our friends attended was managed by Mr. Brockmann, a famous monkey-trainer of Vienna, who thought it would be a good speculation to bring his troupe to America. Among the members of his four-handed company were Kullman, the elegant circus rider; the fat and lovesick Lottie; Anthony, a gentleman not to be joked with with impunity; Jack, a little dandy; and George, the clown of the company, who was said to create any amount of fun by his queer antics.
Our young friends read with interest an account from a German paper of the preparations for their nightly appearance on the stage. “As soon as the operation of dressing begins,” says the writer, “the cunning little animals begin to be restless. They shuffle to and fro on their high stools; they sneeze and blow and sniffle, and make faces at the keepers and each other. But woe to him who would dare laugh at their grimaces and their fooling. He would soon make acquaintance with their teeth and nails. The comical little fellows love to carry on all sorts of fun, but they wont allow anybody to laugh at them. For this reason they are attached with little chains to their stools as long as their dressing lasts.
They like to play all sorts of tricks with the keepers who are dressing them. One of them amuses himself by tearing his brand new trousers into shreds, and when he has fully succeeded in doing so, he gives vent to his delight by loud screams. Another takes pleasure in pulling off the vest which the keeper has had the greatest difficulty in buttoning on him, and grins at the unfortunate man with truly fiendish delight. A third absolutely refuses to put his tiny little hand into the sleeves, although the keeper holds the armhole in the most inviting manner before him. The little rascal pretends not to be able to find it, pushing his hands in every direction but the right one. If the keeper at last loses his patience and pushes the arm by force into the sleeve, the indignant artist feels insulted, and replies with a ringing slap in the keeper's face.