He was a uncommon small man, he really was. Certainly not so small as he was made out to be, but where IS your Dwarf as is? He was a most uncommon small man, with a most uncommon large Ed; and what he had inside that Ed, nobody ever known but himself: even supposing himself to have ever took stock of it, which it would have been a stiff job for even him to do.
The kindest little man as never grown! Spirited, but not proud. When he travelled with the Spotted Baby though he knew himself to be a natural Dwarf, and knew the Baby’s spots to be put upon him artificial, he nursed that Baby like a mother. You never heard him give a ill-name to a Giant. He DID allow himself to break out into strong language respecting the Fat Lady from Norfolk; but that was an affair of the ‘art; and when a man’s ‘art has been trifled with by a lady, and the preference give to a Indian, he isn’t master of his actions.
He was always in love, of course; every human natural phenomenon is. And he was always in love with a large woman; I never known the Dwarf as could be got to love a small one. Which helps to keep ’em the Curiosities they are.
One single idea he had in that Ed of his, which must have meant something, or it wouldn’t have been there. It was always his opinion that he was entitled to property. He never would put his name to anything. He had been taught to write, by the young man without arms, who got his living with his toes (quite a writing master HE was, and taught scores in the line), but Chops would have starved to death, afore he’d have gained a bit of bread by putting his hand to a paper. This is the more curious to bear in mind, because HE had no property, nor hope of property, except his house and a sarsen. When I say his house, I mean the box, painted and got up outside like a regular six-roomer, that he used to creep into, with a diamond ring (or quite as good to look at) on his forefinger, and ring a little bell out of what the Public believed to be the Drawing-room winder. And when I say a sarsen, I mean a Chaney sarsen in which he made a collection for himself at the end of every Entertainment. His cue for that, he took from me: "Ladies and gentlemen, the little man will now walk three times round the Cairawan, and retire behind the curtain." When he said anything important, in private life, he mostly wound it up with this form of words, and they was generally the last thing he said to me at night afore he went to bed.
He had what I consider a fine mind – a poetic mind. His ideas respecting his property never come upon him so strong as when he sat upon a barrel-organ and had the handle turned. Arter the vibration had run through him a little time, he would screech out, "Toby, I feel my property coming – grind away! I’m counting my guineas by thousands, Toby – grind away! Toby, I shall be a man of fortune! I feel the Mint a jingling in me, Toby, and I’m swelling out into the Bank of England!" Such is the influence of music on a poetic mind. Not that he was partial to any other music but a barrel-organ; on the contrary, hated it.
He had a kind of a everlasting grudge aging the Public: which is a thing you may notice in many phenomenon that get their living out of it. What riled him most in the nature of his occupation was, that it kept him out of Society. He was continually saying, "Toby, my ambition is, to go into Society. The curse of my position towards the Public is, that it keeps me out of Society. This doesn’t signify to a low beast of a Indian; he isn’t formed for Society. This doesn’t signify to a Spotted Baby; HE isn’t formed for Society. I am." Which of the selections would make the best alternative title for this work?
A. Society Bound
B. The Unworthy Society
C. The Journey into Society
D. The Preoccupation with Society
E. Property and Society
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