Doctor Johnson's observation, that to make money
requires talents, is true: a dull man cannot do it. Uncle Nate had to
remember thirty thousand articles in his business of wholesale
druggist. He was a perfect devil-fish for sucking the goodness from
every business he was concerned in--banking, railroading, and so on. He
belonged to the Chicago Board of Trade, and was particularly useful in
getting those fellows in Indianapolis on a string, sending the wheat
up, up, until the Hoosiers had made a few hundred thousands, and then,
when they thought they were going to make millions, letting it down and
scooping them. My habit of listening intently to Uncle Nate's
telegrammatic style of talk caused him to like me. I resembled King
Lear: I talked with those who were wise, and said little, and Nathan's
aphorisms about trade and politics made good paragraphs when boiled
down to the crisp cracklins.
While I worked and Lydia entertained we were waltzing like the wind
down to ruin. No use to cry, "Ho! great gods! Hilloa! you're wanted
here!" On we went.
Worrying over pecuniary affairs gradually sapped my mind. To lose one's
eyes or all one's relations, or to be bitten by a mad dog, will not
unhinge the brain so completely as pecuniary anxiety.
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