Autobiography of Andrew Carnegie
saying it was well he had looked them over. He had found John
Burroughs and Ernest Thompson Seton were side by side, and as they
were then engaged in a heated controversy upon the habits of beasts
and birds, in which both had gone too far in their criticisms, they
were at dagger's points. Gilder said it would never do to seat them
together. He had separated them. I said nothing, but slipped into the
dining-room unobserved and replaced the cards as before. Gilder's
surprise was great when he saw the men next each other, but the result
was just as I had expected. A reconciliation took place and they
parted good friends. Moral: If you wish to play peace-maker, seat
adversaries next each other where they must begin by being civil.
Burroughs and Seton both enjoyed the trap I set for them. True it is,
we only hate those whom we do not know. It certainly is often the way
to peace to invite your adversary to dinner and even beseech him to
come, taking no refusal. Most quarrels become acute from the parties
not seeing and communicating with each other and hearing too much of
their disagreement from others. They do not fully understand the
other's point of view and all that can be said for it. Wise is he who
offers the hand of reconciliation should a difference with a friend
arise. Unhappy he to the end of his days who refuses it. No possible
gain atones for the loss of one who has been a friend even if that
friend has become somewhat less dear to you than before. He is still
one with whom you have been intimate, and as age comes on friends pass
rapidly away and leave you.
He is the happy man who feels there is not a human being to whom he
does not wish happiness, long life, and deserved success, not one in
whose path he would cast an obstacle nor to whom he would not do a
service if in his power. All this he can feel without being called
upon to retain as a friend one who has proved unworthy beyond question
by dishonorable conduct. For such there should be nothing felt but
pity, infinite pity. And pity for your own loss also, for true
friendship can only feed and grow upon the virtues.
"When love begins to sicken and decay
It useth an enforced ceremony."
The former geniality may be gone forever, but each can wish the other
nothing but happiness.
None of my friends hailed my retirement from business more warmly than
Mark Twain. I received from him the following note, at a time when the
newspapers were talking much about my wealth.
DEAR SIR AND FRIEND:
You seem to be prosperous these days. Could you lend an
admirer a dollar and a half to buy a hymn-book with? God
will bless you if you do; I feel it, I know it. So will I.
If there should be other applications this one not to count.
Yours
MARK
P.S. Don't send the hymn-book, send the money. I want to
make the selection myself.
M.
When he was lying ill in New York I went to see him frequently, and we
had great times together, for even lying in bed he was as bright as
ever. One call was to say good-bye, before my sailing for Scotland.
The Pension Fund for University Professors was announced in New York
soon after I sailed. A letter about it from Mark, addressed to "Saint
Andrew," reached me in Scotland, from which I quote the following:
You can take my halo. If you had told me what you had done
when at my bedside you would have got it there and then. It
is pure tin and paid "the duty" when it came down.
Those intimate with Mr. Clemens (Mark Twain) will certify that he was
one of the charmers. Joe Jefferson is the only man who can be conceded
his twin brother in manner and speech, their charm being of the same
kind. "Uncle Remus" (Joel Chandler Harris) is another who has charm,
and so has George W. Cable; yes, and Josh Billings also had it. Such
people brighten the lives of their friends, regardless of themselves.
They make sunshine wherever they go. In Rip Van Winkle's words: "All
pretty much alike, dem fellers." Every one of them is unselfish and
warm of heart.
The public only knows one side of Mr. Clemens--the amusing part.
Little does it suspect that he was a man of strong convictions upon
political and social questions and a moralist of no mean order. For
instance, upon the capture of Aguinaldo by deception, his pen was the
most trenchant of all. Junius was weak in comparison.
The gathering to celebrate his seventieth birthday was unique. The
literary element was there in force, but Mark had not forgotten to ask
to have placed near him the multi-millionaire, Mr. H.H. Rogers, one
who had been his friend in need. Just like Mark. Without exception,
the leading literary men dwelt in their speeches exclusively upon the
guest's literary work. When my turn came, I referred to this and asked
them to note that what our friend had done as a man would live as long
as what he had written. Sir Walter Scott and he were linked
indissolubly together. Our friend, like Scott, was ruined by the
mistakes of partners, who had become hopelessly bankrupt. Two courses
lay before him. One the smooth, easy, and short way--the legal path.
Surrender all your property, go through bankruptcy, and start afresh.
This was all he owed to creditors. The other path, long, thorny, and
dreary, a life struggle, with everything sacrificed. There lay the two
paths and this was his decision:
"Not what I owe to my creditors, but what I owe to myself is the
issue."
There are times in most men's lives that test whether they be dross or
pure gold. It is the decision made in the crisis which proves the man.
Our friend entered the fiery furnace a man and emerged a hero. He paid
his debts to the utmost farthing by lecturing around the world. "An
amusing cuss, Mark Twain," is all very well as a popular verdict, but
what of Mr. Clemens the man and the hero, for he is both and in the
front rank, too, with Sir Walter.
He had a heroine in his wife. She it was who sustained him and
traveled the world round with him as his guardian angel, and enabled
him to conquer as Sir Walter did. This he never failed to tell to his
intimates. Never in my life did three words leave so keen a pang as
those uttered upon my first call after Mrs. Clemens passed away. I
fortunately found him alone and while my hand was still in his, and
before one word had been spoken by either, there came from him, with a
stronger pressure of my hand, these words: "A ruined home, a ruined
home." The silence was unbroken. I write this years after, but still I
hear the words again and my heart responds.
One mercy, denied to our forefathers, comes to us of to-day. If the
Judge within give us a verdict of acquittal as having lived this life
well, we have no other Judge to fear.
"To thine own self be true,
And it must follow, as the night the day,
Thou canst not then be false to any man."
Eternal punishment, because of a few years' shortcomings here on
earth, would be the reverse of Godlike. Satan himself would recoil
from it.
CHAPTER XXII
MATHEW ARNOLD AND OTHERS
The most charming man, John Morley and I agree, that we ever knew was
Matthew Arnold. He had, indeed, "a charm"--that is the only word which
expresses the effect of his presence and his conversation. Even his
look and grave silences charmed.
He coached with us in 1880, I think, through Southern England--William
Black and Edwin A. Abbey being of the party. Approaching a pretty
village he asked me if the coach might stop there a few minutes. He
explained that this was the resting-place of his godfather, Bishop
Keble, and he should like to visit his grave. He continued:
"Ah, dear, dear Keble! I caused him much sorrow by my views upon
theological subjects, which caused me sorrow also, but notwithstanding
he was deeply grieved, dear friend as he was, he traveled to Oxford
and voted for me for Professor of English Poetry."
We walked to the quiet churchyard together. Matthew Arnold in silent
thought at the grave of Keble made upon me a lasting impression. Later
the subject of his theological views was referred to. He said they had
caused sorrow to his best friends.
"Mr. Gladstone once gave expression to his deep disappointment, or to
something like displeasure, saying I ought to have been a bishop. No
doubt my writings prevented my promotion, as well as grieved my
friends, but I could not help it. I had to express my views."
I remember well the sadness of tone with which these last words
were spoken, and how very slowly. They came as from the deep. He had
his message to deliver. Steadily has the age advanced to receive it.
His teachings pass almost uncensured to-day. If ever there was a
seriously religious man it was Matthew Arnold. No irreverent word ever
escaped his lips. In this he and Gladstone were equally above
reproach, and yet he had in one short sentence slain the supernatural.
"The case against miracles is closed. They do not happen."
He and his daughter, now Mrs. Whitridge, were our guests when in New
York in 1883, and also at our mountain home in the Alleghanies, so
that I saw a great deal, but not enough, of him. My mother and myself
drove him to the hall upon his first public appearance in New York.
Never was there a finer audience gathered. The lecture was not a
success, owing solely to his inability to speak well in public. He was
not heard. When we returned home his first words were:
"Well, what have you all to say? Tell me! Will I do as a lecturer?"
I was so keenly interested in his success that I did not hesitate to
tell him it would never do for him to go on unless he fitted himself
for public speaking. He must get an elocutionist to give him lessons
upon two or three points. I urged this so strongly that he consented
to do so. After we all had our say, he turned to my mother, saying:
"Now, dear Mrs. Carnegie, they have all given me their opinions, but I
wish to know what you have to say about my first night as a lecturer
in America."
"Too ministerial, Mr. Arnold, too ministerial," was the reply slowly
and softly delivered. And to the last Mr. Arnold would occasionally
refer to that, saying he felt it hit the nail on the head. When he
returned to New York from his Western tour, he had so much improved
that his voice completely filled the Brooklyn Academy of Music. He had
taken a few lessons from a professor of elocution in Boston, as
advised, and all went well thereafter.
He expressed a desire to hear the noted preacher, Mr. Beecher; and we
started for Brooklyn one Sunday morning. Mr. Beecher had been apprized
of our coming so that after the services he might remain to meet Mr.
Arnold. When I presented Mr. Arnold he was greeted warmly. Mr. Beecher
expressed his delight at meeting one in the flesh whom he had long
known so well in the spirit, and, grasping his hand, he said:
"There is nothing you have written, Mr. Arnold, which I have not
carefully read at least once and a great deal many times, and always
with profit, always with profit!"
"Ah, then, I fear, Mr. Beecher," replied Arnold, "you may have found
some references to yourself which would better have been omitted."
"Oh, no, no, those did me the most good of all," said the smiling
Beecher, and they both laughed.
Mr. Beecher was never at a loss. After presenting Matthew Arnold to
him, I had the pleasure of presenting the daughter of Colonel
Ingersoll, saying, as I did so:
"Mr. Beecher, this is the first time Miss Ingersoll has ever been in a
Christian church."
He held out both hands and grasped hers, and looking straight at her
and speaking slowly, said:
"Well, well, you are the most beautiful heathen I ever saw." Those who