“Therefore, oh, my sire, let us not, for our temperance, be gluttonous of self-praise. Seeing that fleas are the crowning work of the world; seeing that as sheep, and bullocks, and fish and fowl are made for man, and man for us; let us be charitable towards our labouring servant,—poor biped; our cook and butler.” “My son, true it is, man feeds for us, drinks for us. Man is the labouring chemist for the fleas; for them he turns the richest meats and spiciest drinks to flea wine. Nevertheless, and I say it with much pain, man is not what he was. He adulterates our tipple most wickedly.” “I felt it with the last lodgers,” said the younger flea. “They drank vile spirits: their blood was turpentine, with, I fear me, a dash of vitriol. How they lived at all, I know not. I always had the head-ache in the morning. Here, however”—and the juvenile looked steadfastly down upon the plain of flesh, the wide champain beneath him—“here, we have promise of better fare.” “The soil is woundily hot; hard, and dry, and hot as a volcano; and—mercy me,” cried the elder, “how it throbs and heaves. Hark!”—and the flea inclined its right ear—“the fellow’s brain sings like a kettle. Now is he going off into a galloping dream. Our ancestors—some of whom, my son, as I have often told you, lived the bosom friends of conjurors and soothsayers—were, as many of their descendants are at the present day, to be met with amongst fortune-tellers and gypsies—our ancestors had the gift of following a dream in all its zig-zag mistiness. And the wisdom of our ancestors”—and here the flea raised itself upon its legs, and looked with a serene pride about it—“the wisdom of our ancestors has come down in its fullness upon myself; to be left, my dear child, whole and unimpaired, and I may add, unimproved to you.” “What a sight is this,” cried the young flea, staring at Jericho’s face. “What an earthquake must be tumbling and rumbling in the fellow’s heart; and how his teeth clang together! Is that thunder? No. But did you ever hear such snoring?” “In a minute, my son, and he’ll be in the thick of it. Attend; and I’ll follow him through the maze; showing you all the odd things that shower up and down in his brain, just as the golden air-bubbles of yesterday sparkled in his wine-glass. But first, my child, let us drink.” Saying this, the elder flea, raising itself pretty well upright, and with its strong claws taking a firm hold of the flesh beneath, for better purchase, struck its lance home, and opening its shoulders, drew up, with its sucker, such a hearty draught of drink, that Jericho, the unconscious cup-bearer, gave a sudden twist, so deep and hearty was the pull of the drinker. “Very good; very good, indeed,” said the flea. “There’s a fine delicate bouquet in it.” “Humph,” cried the younger flea, “for my part, I think ’twould bear a little more body. But, my sire, as I’ve heard you say, there’s no judging truly from the first cup. Here goes again. Why, how the fellow kicks!”