the work that the glass is not always used.
In no way is the performing flea mutilated;
his kangaroo-like springing legs are not cut
off, nor are his lobster-like walking legs
interfered with, a flea must be in perfect health
to perform well.

The first lesson given to the novice, is the
same as that given to a child, namely, to
walk. To effect this he is fastened to the
end of a slip of card-board, which works on a
pin as on a pivot; the moment he feels
himself free from the hands, or rather forceps, of
the harnesser, he gives a tremendous spring
forward: what is the consequence? he
advances in a circle, and the weight of the
cardboard keeps him down at the same time.
He tries it again with the same result;
finally, he finds the progress he makes, in no
way equal to his exertions; he therefore,
like a wise flea, gives it up, and walks round
and round with his card-board as quietly as
an old blind horse does in a mill. To arrive
at this state of training requires about a
fortnight; some fleas have more genius than
others, but a fortnight is the average time.

There is another mode of training fleas: to
shut them up in a small glass box which turns
easily between two upright supporters. The
flea, when first put in, hops wildly about, but
he only hits his head against the top of the box,
and at the same time gets giddy with the
turning round of his prison. We are not
aware which system of training has proved
the more successful.

Among the trained fleas already at work,
we noticed the following: there was a coach
with four fleas harnessed to it, who draw it
along a pretty good pace; and we should be
inclined to back the coach in a race with a
common garden snail. It is very heavy for
the little creatures to drag along, for one
pane of glass in the coach is equal to the
weight of one hundred fleas. There is a
large flea, whose daily task is to drag
along a little model of a man-of-war;
it is amusing to see him push and struggle
to get it along; but get it along he does,
although it is two hundred and forty
times his own weight. Again, there are two
fleas secured, one at each end of a very little
bit of gold-coloured paper. They are placed
in a reversed position to each other—one
looking one way, the other another way.
Thus tied, they are placed in a sort of
arena on the top of a musical box; at one
end of the box sits an orchestra composed
of fleas, each tied to its seat, and having
the resemblance of some musical instrument
tied on to the foremost of their legs. The
box is made to play, the exhibitor touches
each of the musicians with a bit of stick, and
they all begin waving their hands about, as
performing an elaborate piece of music.
The fleas tied to the gold paper feel the
jarring of the box below them, and begin
to run round and round as fast as their little
legs will carry them. This is called the Flea's
Waltz.

Tightly secured in a tiny chair sits a flea
facing a tiny cannon. Several times a-day
this unfortunate insect fires this cannon,
and in this wise:—One of the little slips
which form the feather of a quill pen, is
fastened on to one of his legs, and a little
detonating powder placed on its tip; the
exhibitor then presses the wand down on to the
cannon, and scratches the detonating powder,
it goes off with a sharp report, making the
lookers-on jump, but it astonishes nobody
more than the flea himself; he flourishes the
burnt remains of his firing wand madly about
in the air, his numerous legs kick about
violently, his little head bobs up and down,
and altogether he shows as many symptoms
of alarm as it is possible for a flea to exhibit.
The individual flea that we saw in this state
of trepidation did not seem to have got used
to his work, though the poor thing had been
firing his cannon about thirty times a-day for
a month.

The fleas are not kept always in harness;
every night each flea is taken out of his
harness, is fed, and placed in a private compartment
in a box for the night; before they go
to bed they have their supper, and in the
morning also their breakfasts, upon the hand
of their owner—sometimes he has nearly all
his fleas on the backs of his hands at the
same moment, all biting and sucking away.
For more than twenty years has he thus
daily fed his fleas without any detriment
to his health: the quantity of blood each
flea takes away being imperceptibly small—
one drop of blood, he considers, would feed a
flea many weeks; but it is the itching
sensation caused by the flea cutting the skin
which is unpleasant. This feeling of itching
he felt painfully when he first began
to submit himself to the tender mercies
of his little performers: now he is so
hardened that he feels them not at all,
whether biting or sucking. When, however,
there are many on his hands at the same
time, he suffers from a sensation of great
irritation all over his body, which passes away
when their supper is over. He has remarked
that fleas will not feed if his hand be not
kept perfectly motionless; the act, therefore,
of feeding and harnessing is troublesome, and
he is obliged to give up two hours in the
morning and two in the afternoon to it. His
fleas generally live a long time, provided they
are properly fed and taken care of. He once
had a flea, a patriarch, who for eighteen
months was occupied in pulling up a little
bucket from a well: this flea lived longer
than any other flea he ever had, and he
believes he died finally from pure old age; for
he was found dead one day, faithful to his post,
with his bucket drawn half-way up the well.