Business and romance are like oil and water that I use for a
night-lamp, with a little cork dipsey. They oughtn't to be mixed, but
each to be separate, or they spoil each other. The tumbler should be
nearly full of water, then pour a little oil on the top, and put in
your tiny wick and floater, and ignite it. The water goes to the
bottom--that's business you see, solid and heavy. The oil and its
burner lies on the top--and that's romance. It's a living flame, not
enough to illuminate the room, but to cheer you through the night, and
if you want more, it will light stronger ones for you. People have a
wrong idea of romance, Sam. Properly understood, it's a right keen,
lively appreciation of the works of nature, and its beauty, wonders,
and sublimity. From thence we learn to fear, to serve, and to adore
Him that made them and us. Now, Sam, you understand all the wheels,
and pullies, and balances of your wooden clocks; but you don't think
anything more of them, than it's a grand speculation for you, because
they cost you a mere nothing, seeing they are made out of that which
is as cheap as dirt here, and because you make a great profit out of
them among the benighted colonists, who know little themselves, and
are governed by English officials who know still less. Well, that's
nateral, for it is a business view of things.1 Now sposen you lived in
the Far West woods, away from great cities, and never saw a watch or a
wooden clock before, and fust sot your eyes on one of them that was as
true as the sun, wouldn't you break out into enthusiasm about it, and
then extol to the skies the skill and knowledge of the Yankee man that
invented and made it? To be sure you would.
Pages:
242
243
244
245
246
247
248
249
250
251
252
253
254
255
256
257
258
259
260
261
262
263
264
265
266