[Illustration: _Mr. Jericho’s Marvellous Dream._] “Such, my son,” said the elder flea, “is man: such his wastefulness upon himself, such his injustice to what—cocking his nose towards the stars—he calls the lower animals. At least, two bottles of wine, a gill or more of brandy, to say nothing of a draught or two of malt, are burning in his arteries, and in hot mist rising to his brain. Now, what work, what watching, what risk of limb and life—what multiplication of toil—to produce the various beverage he has guzzled! What digging and ploughing of the land; what vine-dressing; what sailing upon the stormy seas; what glass-blowing; what bottling, before the liquor, like a melted jewel, shone in his eye, and trickled down his throat! Yet here he lies, and with no conscious labour of his own, is at once the wine-press and distiller for the fleas. And when we seek to take our temperate draught—smallest drops; merest seed-rubies—how the miser kicks, and flounders, and when he has sense enough, what wicked words at times he pitches at us! But such”—said the elder flea, preparing itself for another stoup—“such is man.” And again the flea pierced the wine-skin, and sucked up another draught, and again Jericho plunged, and twisted. “The bin improves,” said the younger flea, drinking very hard. “And yet, I’m sure there’s burgundy in it. Now, never but twice before have I tasted burgundy; and then I suffered for it; just as if the grapes were grown on a soil of sulphur. Nevertheless, ’tis a rare cellar this, after the turpentine and vitriol of our last lodgings: so, hang the headache, and let’s have t’ other bumper.” “Not another drop,” cried the elder flea. “Let the poor wretch beneath us teach us moderation. Consider his face. How dead and stupified it looks! How it shone above the table last night; and what a piece of dirty dough it looks at this moment! What light was in the lamp, and now what dullness and smoke!” “And yet,” said the younger flea, “the dough begins again to work. Surely, he’s on with his dream now.” “Now, he’s fairly off. A while ago, and the brain was only fluttering—like a bird trying its wings—but now, yes—now it’s off. Ha! ha! A very droll dream, even so far as it goes;” and the old flea looked very wise. “Tell it, father; tell it. You never told me a dream before: surely,” said the young one, “I’m old enough to learn now.” “Listen, my son, and be instructed. The sleeping man is at this moment following his heart. The thing has been plucked out of his bosom by a laughing little creature, with painted wings: a strange creature, half-elfin half-angel. The elf, or angel, or whatever it is, hugs the heart in its plump arms, and its eyes twinkle with mischief, and its cheeks are pitted with dimples, and its lips pout as over-full of the fun that will rise to them; and still away the child carries the heart.” “And the man!—Where’s the man that owns it? Still following?” asked the young flea.