A man made of money

by Douglas William Jerrold

“Perfectly well; many years ago—for what a vulgar error it is to think fleas short-lived—many years ago, I walked on a Lord Mayor’s day.”

“Walked!” cried the young flea.

“Walked; that is, was carried in the miniver fur of the alderman of the Fishmongers’ Company; and upon my life, a very noble sight it was. Yes, my child, I think I ought to remember that show, for it was on that very day, in that very miniver, I first met your poor mother. Ha! that was a happy day—and we saw all the fun from the beginning to the end; for we contrived to get upon the alderman, and sitting close and keeping quiet—for that’s an art fleas have to learn, if they would see, and not in the end be seen—sitting close in the nape of the alder man’s neck, we were present at the banquet. I shall never forget the beautiful sight we had, when the alderman got upon his legs to make a speech. Well, we were carried home and put to bed with the alderman, and from that time”—

“Never mind the alderman,” cried the pert young flea, “but get on from Ludgate-Hill.”

“While I’ve talked, the imp and the man have gone round St. Paul’s, and are now crossing into Cheapside. Shall I ever forget how, when we came to Cheapside, the giants—well, I won’t think of that now. The imp with the load of paper on his head runs by Bow-Church, and the dreamer here stretches after him. My son, both imp and man,” said the flea solemnly, “both imp and man have now entered the Bank of England.”

“The Bank of England!” repeated the young flea, impressed by the sudden seriousness of its parent.

There was a short pause. The elder flea, a little dry in the mouth with so much talking, again inserted its piercer in the skin beneath it, and drew up another glass of flea wine. And in this the son dutifully imitated the father.

“The imp,” continued the elder flea, much refreshed by the draught, “the imp has entered the Bank printing-office. The man without the heart, the poor wretch wriggling and moaning under our feet, resignedly drops upon a stool. He sits wringing his hands for his lost heart; and now his veins tingle, for he hears the creaking of presses. Their motion seems, strangely enough, his motion. And now, the imp that had vanished, comes back again, bringing in his arms the poor man’s heart.”

“It can’t be of any use to him, now,” said the younger flea.

“Of the best use, my child, as he thinks it. The imp jumps upon the man’s knee, and the heart—it has lost its red colour, and its flesh-like look, and as though all the blood had been discharged from it, is white as a rag, save that the veins show through it all black—yes, black as ink; the heart, nicely fitted by the imp, beats again in its place inside the sleeper. You see! how he smiles—and how his whole body heaves with the chuckle—as he again feels the old acquaintance. And now he can’t make too much of the imp; he throws his arms about him, and paws his little cheeks in drunken fondness. You hear! You hear, how the laugh gurgles in the fool’s throat,—and all because he’s got his heart back again.”