THE LITTLE GREAT AND THE GREAT LITTLE
Extraordinary is the mind of man! He sails in mid-air; he compasseth the globe; he blunts the lightning; he writeth Hamlet, Paradise Lost, the Principia, and he chaineth a flea by the leg. He maketh the strong elephant to bend his joints, and he subdueth a flea, if not to “hew wood,” at least to draw water. These, the later triumphs of the human essence, are now on exhibition somewhere in that long ark for modern monsters, Regent Street! Yes, the “Industrious Fleas” at once delight and shame fashionable idlers, sending them to their beds to ruminate on the sagacity of the living world about them.
We love a monster as much as ever did Trinculo; hence we have been bitten; that is, we have made acquaintance with the “Industrious Fleas.” Let us shortly enumerate their separate capabilities. One flea, a fine muscular fellow, worthy, did fairies die, to be mourning coach horse at the funeral of Queen Titania (how long since the fairies had a coronation!), draws a very splendid carriage, constructed from the pith of elder. He curvets, and bounds, and shows his blood (he must have been fed in some royal stable—he has surely fattened on kings) with the proudest royal coach-horse, on—as they say at public dinners—“the proudest day of its life.” Having seen its legs, we shall think more seriously of the kick of a flea ever after. Then, to talk of a “flea bite,” as a proverb for a wife—a mere nothing; let those who speak thus vainly contemplate the terrible proboscis of the aforesaid chariot flea, and then think of the formidable weapon, plunged through one’s tender skin, and sucking up by quarts (we saw, we looked through a microscope) our hearts’ best blood! To go to bed appears no wonder, but to be able to rise again after what we have beheld, seems to us a daily miracle! To proceed. Another of the “industrious” takes the air with a chain and a weight to his leg, the wonder consisting in its resignation to its destiny. A third flea, also manacled, draws water. A fourth flea has a more awful duty—to bear Napoleon Bonaparte, late of France, but now of St Helena—there he is, the victor of a hundred fights, majestically seated on flea back. An enthusiastic Frenchman may, if he have good eyes, see in the miniature emperor, the sallow, thoughtful face, the “brassy eye” (vide Haydon’s account) of the original despot—could the figure take snuff, the illusion would be perfect. Two other fleas, soldiers, fight a desperate combat, affording in their proper persons a triumphant refutation to the celebrated dogma of the philosopher, that “fleas are not lobsters.” We understood from the Cicerone that their deadly enmity was excited towards each other by a mutual tickling. We were also informed that one of the fleas (“epicurean animal!”) had the honour to sup off the hand of the Princess Augusta. This fact was shamefully hushed up by the magas of the Court Circular, else how would it have astonished the world to have read that “last night Her Royal Highness the Princess Augusta gave a supper to the fleas!” Certain it is, the document contains at times news of less interest.[[8]] This condescension on the part of her Highness, though it speaks much for her affability, has been the cause of grievous heartburnings and bickerings among the society. It is extraordinary the airs that every flea gives himself about “his blood.” However, it is to be hoped that a herald will be appointed to settle the claims of each disputant, and to favour the whole with a genealogical tree. Who knows whether one of these fleas’ ancestors did not bite Sancho Panza, or the Dulcinea del Toboso, or the Carters, who were “bitten like a tench”? Speaking on our own responsibility, we are afraid that each of these little creatures, after all its vanity about pure blood, has been somewhat capricious in its appetite; a fault, by the by, which often puzzles the heralds in their labours, for certain other little animals are very angry, when they speak of blood, too.
[8]. Her Majesty the Queen, and Prince George of Cumberland, stood the whole of the sermon!!—Court Circular, April 8, 1832.
We quitted the exhibition, and walking at a melancholy pace, with our long, lean visage bent towards the earth, we were accosted by a man—an odd-looking person, with a box at his back—who begged we would stop and see his show. We were in a sight-seeing humour, and at once consented. The box was placed on a trestle, our eye was at the glass, and our ears open, when the man commenced his description:—
“The first view presents you with a grand state coach of the Great Mogul; it is drawn by a thousand curious animals; they are, as you will perceive, very finely dressed in rich harness, tall feathers, and flying ribbons; they come and tie themselves to the coach, and feel it an honour to be bridled; they snort, and caper, and kick mud into the eyes of the bystanders.
“The next view shows you one of these animals with a long chain and a heavy log. This chain was fixed upon his leg when he was born; and though he has sometimes tried to file away the links, he has had his knuckles so smartly rapped, and been called so many names—been so preached to that the chain and log were for his own good, and that it would ruin him to take them from him—that ’tis likely he will, for the public benefit, be made to wear them to the end of his days.
“The animal in the next view, that is chained and draws water, is one of the Great Mogul’s million of slaves. Although he draws bucket after bucketful for the Mogul’s house and his household, for his horses and his dogs, and his kitchen, and his flower garden, he is often perishing himself for one half mouthful; his lips are blistered, and his tongue black, with the water drawn by his own hands, running about him.