d inside that Ed
nobody never knowed but himself; even supposin' himself to have ever took
stock of it, which it would have been a stiff job for him to do. The
kindest little man as never growed! You never heard him give a ill name to
a giant. He did allow himself to break out into strong language respectin'
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 giv' to a
Indian, he ain't master of his actions.

He was always in love, of course; every human nat'ral phenomenon is. And
he was always in love with a large woman; I never knowed the dwarf as
could be got to love a small one. Which helps to keep 'em the curiosities
they are.

One sing'lar 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 put his name to anything. He had
been taught to write by a young man without any 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 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,
except his house and a sarser. When I say his house, I mean the box,
painted and got up outside like a reg'ler 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 sarser, I mean a Cheney sarser 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."

He had what I consider a fine mind--a poetic mind. His ideas respectin'
his property never come upon him so strong as when he sat upon a
barrel-organ and had the handle turned. Arter the wibration 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 fortun'! 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 the poetic mind. Not that he was partial
to any other music but a barrel-organ; on the con