Autobiography of Andrew Carnegie
I remember as if it were yesterday being awakened during the night by
a tap at the back window by men who had come to inform my parents that
my uncle, Bailie Morrison, had been thrown into jail because he had
dared to hold a meeting which had been forbidden. The sheriff with the
aid of the soldiers had arrested him a few miles from the town where
the meeting had been held, and brought him into the town during the
night, followed by an immense throng of people.[6]
[Footnote 6: At the opening of the Lauder Technical School in October,
1880, nearly half a century after the disquieting scenes of 1842, Mr.
Carnegie thus recalled the shock which was given to his boy mind: "One
of my earliest recollections is that of being wakened in the darkness
to be told that my Uncle Morrison was in jail. Well, it is one of the
proudest boasts I can make to-day to be able to say that I had an
uncle who was in jail. But, ladies and gentlemen, my uncle went to
jail to vindicate the rights of public assembly." (Mackie.)]
Serious trouble was feared, for the populace threatened to rescue him,
and, as we learned afterwards, he had been induced by the provost of
the town to step forward to a window overlooking the High Street and
beg the people to retire. This he did, saying: "If there be a friend
of the good cause here to-night, let him fold his arms." They did so.
And then, after a pause, he said, "Now depart in peace!"[7] My uncle,
like all our family, was a moral-force man and strong for obedience to
law, but radical to the core and an intense admirer of the American
Republic.
[Footnote 7: "The Crown agents wisely let the proceedings lapse....
Mr. Morrison was given a gratifying assurance of the appreciation of
his fellow citizens by his election to the Council and his elevation
to the Magisterial Bench, followed shortly after by his appointment to
the office of Burgh Chamberlain. The patriotic reformer whom the
criminal authorities endeavored to convict as a law-breaker became by
the choice of his fellow citizens a Magistrate, and was further given
a certificate for trustworthiness and integrity." (Mackie.)]
One may imagine when all this was going on in public how bitter were
the words that passed from one to the other in private. The
denunciations of monarchical and aristocratic government, of privilege
in all its forms, the grandeur of the republican system, the
superiority of America, a land peopled by our own race, a home for
freemen in which every citizen's privilege was every man's
right--these were the exciting themes upon which I was nurtured. As a
child I could have slain king, duke, or lord, and considered their
deaths a service to the state and hence an heroic act.
Such is the influence of childhood's earliest associations that it was
long before I could trust myself to speak respectfully of any
privileged class or person who had not distinguished himself in some
good way and therefore earned the right to public respect. There was
still the sneer behind for mere pedigree--"he is nothing, has done
nothing, only an accident, a fraud strutting in borrowed plumes; all
he has to his account is the accident of birth; the most fruitful part
of his family, as with the potato, lies underground." I wondered that
intelligent men could live where another human being was born to a
privilege which was not also their birthright. I was never tired of
quoting the only words which gave proper vent to my indignation:
"There was a Brutus once that would have brooked
Th' eternal devil to keep his state in Rome
As easily as a king."
But then kings were kings, not mere shadows. All this was inherited,
of course. I only echoed what I heard at home.
Dunfermline has long been renowned as perhaps the most radical town in
the Kingdom, although I know Paisley has claims. This is all the more
creditable to the cause of radicalism because in the days of which I
speak the population of Dunfermline was in large part composed of men
who were small manufacturers, each owning his own loom or looms. They
were not tied down to regular hours, their labors being piece work.
They got webs from the larger manufacturers and the weaving was done
at home.
These were times of intense political excitement, and there was
frequently seen throughout the entire town, for a short time after the
midday meal, small groups of men with their aprons girt about them
discussing affairs of state. The names of Hume, Cobden, and Bright
were upon every one's tongue. I was often attracted, small as I was,
to these circles and was an earnest listener to the conversation,
which was wholly one-sided. The generally accepted conclusion was that
there must be a change. Clubs were formed among the townsfolk, and the
London newspapers were subscribed for. The leading editorials were
read every evening to the people, strangely enough, from one of the
pulpits of the town. My uncle, Bailie Morrison, was often the reader,
and, as the articles were commented upon by him and others after being
read, the meetings were quite exciting.
These political meetings were of frequent occurrence, and, as might be
expected, I was as deeply interested as any of the family and attended
many. One of my uncles or my father was generally to be heard. I
remember one evening my father addressed a large outdoor meeting in
the Pends. I had wedged my way in under the legs of the hearers, and
at one cheer louder than all the rest I could not restrain my
enthusiasm. Looking up to the man under whose legs I had found
protection I informed him that was my father speaking. He lifted me on
his shoulder and kept me there.
To another meeting I was taken by my father to hear John Bright, who
spoke in favor of J.B. Smith as the Liberal candidate for the Stirling
Burghs. I made the criticism at home that Mr. Bright did not speak
correctly, as he said "men" when he meant "maan." He did not give the
broad _a_ we were accustomed to in Scotland. It is not to be wondered
at that, nursed amid such surroundings, I developed into a violent
young Republican whose motto was "death to privilege." At that time I
did not know what privilege meant, but my father did.
One of my Uncle Lauder's best stories was about this same J.B. Smith,
the friend of John Bright, who was standing for Parliament in
Dunfermline. Uncle was a member of his Committee and all went well
until it was proclaimed that Smith was a "Unitawrian." The district
was placarded with the enquiry: Would you vote for a "Unitawrian"? It
was serious. The Chairman of Smith's Committee in the village of
Cairney Hill, a blacksmith, was reported as having declared he never
would. Uncle drove over to remonstrate with him. They met in the
village tavern over a gill:
"Man, I canna vote for a Unitawrian," said the Chairman.
"But," said my uncle, "Maitland [the opposing candidate] is a
Trinitawrian."
"Damn; that's waur," was the response.
And the blacksmith voted right. Smith won by a small majority.
The change from hand-loom to steam-loom weaving was disastrous to our
family. My father did not recognize the impending revolution, and was
struggling under the old system. His looms sank greatly in value, and
it became necessary for that power which never failed in any
emergency--my mother--to step forward and endeavor to repair the
family fortune. She opened a small shop in Moodie Street and
contributed to the revenues which, though slender, nevertheless at
that time sufficed to keep us in comfort and "respectable."
I remember that shortly after this I began to learn what poverty
meant. Dreadful days came when my father took the last of his webs to
the great manufacturer, and I saw my mother anxiously awaiting his
return to know whether a new web was to be obtained or that a period
of idleness was upon us. It was burnt into my heart then that my
father, though neither "abject, mean, nor vile," as Burns has it, had
nevertheless to
"Beg a brother of the earth
To give him leave to toil."
And then and there came the resolve that I would cure that when I got
to be a man. We were not, however, reduced to anything like poverty
compared with many of our neighbors. I do not know to what lengths of
privation my mother would not have gone that she might see her two
boys wearing large white collars, and trimly dressed.
In an incautious moment my parents had promised that I should never be
sent to school until I asked leave to go. This promise I afterward
learned began to give them considerable uneasiness because as I grew
up I showed no disposition to ask. The schoolmaster, Mr. Robert
Martin, was applied to and induced to take some notice of me. He took
me upon an excursion one day with some of my companions who attended
school, and great relief was experienced by my parents when one day
soon afterward I came and asked for permission to go to Mr. Martin's
school.[8] I need not say the permission was duly granted. I had then
entered upon my eighth year, which subsequent experience leads me to
say is quite early enough for any child to begin attending school.
[Footnote 8: It was known as Rolland School.]
The school was a perfect delight to me, and if anything occurred which
prevented my attendance I was unhappy. This happened every now and
then because my morning duty was to bring water from the well at the
head of Moodie Street. The supply was scanty and irregular. Sometimes
it was not allowed to run until late in the morning and a score of old
wives were sitting around, the turn of each having been previously
secured through the night by placing a worthless can in the line.
This, as might be expected, led to numerous contentions in which I
would not be put down even by these venerable old dames. I earned the
reputation of being "an awfu' laddie." In this way I probably
developed the strain of argumentativeness, or perhaps combativeness,
which has always remained with me.
In the performance of these duties I was often late for school, but
the master, knowing the cause, forgave the lapses. In the same
connection I may mention that I had often the shop errands to run
after school, so that in looking back upon my life I have the
satisfaction of feeling that I became useful to my parents even at the
early age of ten. Soon after that the accounts of the various people
who dealt with the shop were entrusted to my keeping so that I became
acquainted, in a small way, with business affairs even in childhood.
One cause of misery there was, however, in my school experience. The
boys nicknamed me "Martin's pet," and sometimes called out that
dreadful epithet to me as I passed along the street. I did not know
all that it meant, but it seemed to me a term of the utmost
opprobrium, and I know that it kept me from responding as freely as I
should otherwise have done to that excellent teacher, my only
schoolmaster, to whom I owe a debt of gratitude which I regret I never
had opportunity to do more than acknowledge before he died.
I may mention here a man whose influence over me cannot be
overestimated, my Uncle Lauder, George Lauder's father.[9] My father
was necessarily constantly at work in the loom shop and had little
leisure to bestow upon me through the day. My uncle being a shopkeeper
in the High Street was not thus tied down. Note the location, for this
was among the shopkeeping aristocracy, and high and varied degrees of
aristocracy there were even among shopkeepers in Dunfermline. Deeply
affected by my Aunt Seaton's death, which occurred about the beginning
of my school life, he found his chief solace in the companionship of
his only son, George, and myself. He possessed an extraordinary gift
of dealing with children and taught us many things. Among others I
remember how he taught us British history by imagining each of the