Autobiography of Andrew Carnegie
is that General Thomas should succeed."
"Yes, I know that," he said, "but I know the men and Thomas will be
the first to say that Sherman is the man for the work. There will be
no trouble about that. The fact is the western end is pretty far down,
and the next thing we must do is to push the eastern end down a
little."
[Footnote 21: Mr. Carnegie gave to Stanton's college, Kenyon, $80,000,
and on April 26, 1906, delivered at the college an address on the
great War Secretary. It has been published under the title _Edwin M.
Stanton, an Address by Andrew Carnegie on Stanton Memorial Day at
Kenyon College_. (New York, 1906.)]
That was exactly what he did. And that was Grant's way of putting
strategy into words. It was my privilege to become well acquainted
with him in after years. If ever a man was without the slightest trace
of affectation, Grant was that man. Even Lincoln did not surpass him
in that: but Grant was a quiet, slow man while Lincoln was always
alive and in motion. I never heard Grant use a long or grand word, or
make any attempt at "manner," but the general impression that he was
always reticent is a mistake. He was a surprisingly good talker
sometimes and upon occasion liked to talk. His sentences were always
short and to the point, and his observations upon things remarkably
shrewd. When he had nothing to say he said nothing. I noticed that he
was never tired of praising his subordinates in the war. He spoke of
them as a fond father speaks of his children.
The story is told that during the trials of war in the West, General
Grant began to indulge too freely in liquor. His chief of staff,
Rawlins, boldly ventured to tell him so. That this was the act of a
true friend Grant fully recognized.
"You do not mean that? I was wholly unconscious of it. I am
surprised!" said the General.
"Yes, I do mean it. It is even beginning to be a subject of comment
among your officers."
"Why did you not tell me before? I'll never drink a drop of liquor
again."
He never did. Time after time in later years, dining with the Grants
in New York, I have seen the General turn down the wine-glasses at his
side. That indomitable will of his enabled him to remain steadfast to
his resolve, a rare case as far as my experience goes. Some have
refrained for a time. In one noted case one of our partners refrained
for three years, but alas, the old enemy at last recaptured its
victim.
Grant, when President, was accused of being pecuniarily benefited by
certain appointments, or acts, of his administration, while his
friends knew that he was so poor that he had been compelled to
announce his intention of abandoning the customary state dinners, each
one of which, he found, cost eight hundred dollars--a sum which he
could not afford to pay out of his salary. The increase of the
presidential salary from $25,000 to $50,000 a year enabled him, during
his second term, to save a little, although he cared no more about
money than about uniforms. At the end of his first term I know he had
nothing. Yet I found, when in Europe, that the impression was
widespread among the highest officials there that there was something
in the charge that General Grant had benefited pecuniarily by
appointments. We know in America how little weight to attach to these
charges, but it would have been well for those who made them so
recklessly to have considered what effect they would produce upon
public opinion in other lands.
The cause of democracy suffers more in Britain to-day from the
generally received opinion that American politics are corrupt, and
therefore that republicanism necessarily produces corruption, than
from any other one cause. Yet, speaking with some knowledge of
politics in both lands, I have not the slightest hesitation in saying
that for every ounce of corruption of public men in the new land of
republicanism there is one in the old land of monarchy, only the forms
of corruption differ. Titles are the bribes in the monarchy, not
dollars. Office is a common and proper reward in both. There is,
however, this difference in favor of the monarchy; titles are given
openly and are not considered by the recipients or the mass of the
people as bribes.
When I was called to Washington in 1861, it was supposed that the war
would soon be over; but it was seen shortly afterwards that it was to
be a question of years. Permanent officials in charge would be
required. The Pennsylvania Railroad Company was unable to spare Mr.
Scott, and Mr. Scott, in turn, decided that I must return to
Pittsburgh, where my services were urgently needed, owing to the
demands made upon the Pennsylvania by the Government. We therefore
placed the department at Washington in the hands of others and
returned to our respective positions.
After my return from Washington reaction followed and I was taken with
my first serious illness. I was completely broken down, and after a
struggle to perform my duties was compelled to seek rest. One
afternoon, when on the railway line in Virginia, I had experienced
something like a sunstroke, which gave me considerable trouble. It
passed off, however, but after that I found I could not stand heat and
had to be careful to keep out of the sun--a hot day wilting me
completely. [That is the reason why the cool Highland air in summer
has been to me a panacea for many years. My physician has insisted
that I must avoid our hot American summers.]
Leave of absence was granted me by the Pennsylvania Railroad Company,
and the long-sought opportunity to visit Scotland came. My mother, my
bosom friend Tom Miller, and myself, sailed in the steamship Etna,
June 28, 1862, I in my twenty-seventh year; and on landing in
Liverpool we proceeded at once to Dunfermline. No change ever affected
me so much as this return to my native land. I seemed to be in a
dream. Every mile that brought us nearer to Scotland increased the
intensity of my feelings. My mother was equally moved, and I remember,
when her eyes first caught sight of the familiar yellow bush, she
exclaimed:
"Oh! there's the broom, the broom!"
Her heart was so full she could not restrain her tears, and the more I
tried to make light of it or to soothe her, the more she was overcome.
For myself, I felt as if I could throw myself upon the sacred soil and
kiss it.[22]
[Footnote 22: "It's a God's mercy I was born a Scotchman, for I do not
see how I could ever have been contented to be anything else. The
little dour deevil, set in her own ways, and getting them, too,
level-headed and shrewd, with an eye to the main chance always and yet
so lovingly weak, so fond, so led away by song or story, so easily
touched to fine issues, so leal, so true. Ah! you suit me, Scotia, and
proud am I that I am your son." (Andrew Carnegie, _Our Coaching Trip_,
p. 152. New York, 1882.)]
In this mood we reached Dunfermline. Every object we passed was
recognized at once, but everything seemed so small, compared with what
I had imagined it, that I was completely puzzled. Finally, reaching
Uncle Lauder's and getting into the old room where he had taught Dod
and myself so many things, I exclaimed:
"You are all here; everything is just as I left it, but you are now
all playing with toys."
The High Street, which I had considered not a bad Broadway, uncle's
shop, which I had compared with some New York establishments, the
little mounds about the town, to which we had run on Sundays to play,
the distances, the height of the houses, all had shrunk. Here was a
city of the Lilliputians. I could almost touch the eaves of the house
in which I was born, and the sea--to walk to which on a Saturday had
been considered quite a feat--was only three miles distant. The rocks
at the seashore, among which I had gathered wilks (whelks) seemed to
have vanished, and a tame flat shoal remained. The schoolhouse, around
which had centered many of my schoolboy recollections--my only Alma
Mater--and the playground, upon which mimic battles had been fought
and races run, had shrunk into ridiculously small dimensions. The fine
residences, Broomhall, Fordell, and especially the conservatories at
Donibristle, fell one after the other into the petty and
insignificant. What I felt on a later occasion on a visit to Japan,
with its small toy houses, was something like a repetition of the
impression my old home made upon me.
Everything was there in miniature. Even the old well at the head of
Moodie Street, where I began my early struggles, was changed from what
I had pictured it. But one object remained all that I had dreamed of
it. There was no disappointment in the glorious old Abbey and its
Glen. It was big enough and grand enough, and the memorable carved
letters on the top of the tower--"King Robert The Bruce"--filled my
eye and my heart as fully as of old. Nor was the Abbey bell
disappointing, when I heard it for the first time after my return. For
this I was grateful. It gave me a rallying point, and around the old
Abbey, with its Palace ruins and the Glen, other objects adjusted
themselves in their true proportions after a time.
My relatives were exceedingly kind, and the oldest of all, my dear old
Auntie Charlotte, in a moment of exultation exclaimed:
"Oh, you will just be coming back here some day and _keep a shop in
the High Street_."
To keep a shop in the High Street was her idea of triumph. Her
son-in-law and daughter, both my full cousins, though unrelated to
each other, had risen to this sublime height, and nothing was too
great to predict for her promising nephew. There is an aristocracy
even in shopkeeping, and the family of the green grocer of the High
Street mingles not upon equal terms with him of Moodie Street.
Auntie, who had often played my nurse, liked to dwell upon the fact
that I was a screaming infant that had to be fed with two spoons, as I
yelled whenever one left my mouth. Captain Jones, our superintendent
of the steel works at a later day, described me as having been born
"with two rows of teeth and holes punched for more," so insatiable was
my appetite for new works and increased production. As I was the first
child in our immediate family circle, there were plenty of now
venerable relatives begging to be allowed to play nurse, my aunties
among them. Many of my childhood pranks and words they told me in
their old age. One of them that the aunties remembered struck me as
rather precocious.
I had been brought up upon wise saws and one that my father had taught
me was soon given direct application. As a boy, returning from the
seashore three miles distant, he had to carry me part of the way upon
his back. Going up a steep hill in the gloaming he remarked upon the
heavy load, hoping probably I would propose to walk a bit. The
response, however, which he received was:
"Ah, faither, never mind, patience and perseverance make the man, ye
ken."
He toiled on with his burden, but shaking with laughter. He was hoist
with his own petard, but his burden grew lighter all the same. I am
sure of this.
My home, of course, was with my instructor, guide, and inspirer, Uncle
Lauder--he who had done so much to make me romantic, patriotic, and
poetical at eight. Now I was twenty-seven, but Uncle Lauder still
remained Uncle Lauder. He had not shrunk, no one could fill his place.
We had our walks and talks constantly and I was "Naig" again to him.
He had never had any name for me but that and never did have. My dear,
dear uncle, and more, much more than uncle to me.[23]
[Footnote 23: "This uncle, who loved liberty because it is the
heritage of brave souls, in the dark days of the American Civil War
stood almost alone in his community for the cause which Lincoln
represented." (Hamilton Wright Mabie in _Century Magazine_, vol. 64,
p. 958.)]