“And now, as the dream’s over, father—what say you to another drink?” asked the young flea.
“In a minute, for ’tisn’t over yet. No. The place is changed, and the sleeper is carried to see what appears to him Gold’s Grand Review in the Bank cellars.”
“What do you mean by Gold’s Review?” demanded the junior.
“The imp and the dreamer are in the Bank Cellars. Here, my son, in mighty bars—in bars that can break even the backs of emperors—is gold. The imp takes a new sovereign piece from its bosom, and holds it above its head. Like a small golden sun, it illumines the place. Whereupon, all the bars of gold become pigmy shapes, and all in action. Here we have a whole army—all in gold—marching, wheeling, forming into lines and squares. Here we have little golden shipwrights hammering at golden craft; here, cooks of gold sweating at golden dainties; here, in the cellar, all the works and labours, the commands and services of the world, are shown by the imp in action—drawn into life, for a brief space, from what was a moment before bars of inert metal. It is, my son, as if all the world outside of the walls of the Bank, was imitated by the world’s masters down in the Bank cellars. I can see the Lord Mayor and Court of Aldermen in little men of gold not bigger than an Alderman’s thumb: and here they act in the metal itself what the metal makes acted in the flesh outside.”
“And for what purpose—I don’t see the use of it,” said the young flea.
“As a farewell show to our dreamer here. And he is mightily pleased with it,—for he rubs his hands, and then rubs his heart as though he found all happiness there.”
“And has he found it, think you?” asked the youngster.
“Humph! That will be seen,” said the old one.