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AUTOBIOGRAPHY

OF

ANDREW CARNEGIE

WITH ILLUSTRATIONS

[Illustration: [signature] Andrew Carnegie]

London
CONSTABLE & CO. LIMITED
1920

COPYRIGHT, 1920, BY LOUISE WHITFIELD CARNEGIE
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

PREFACE

After retiring from active business my husband yielded to the earnest
solicitations of friends, both here and in Great Britain, and began to
jot down from time to time recollections of his early days. He soon
found, however, that instead of the leisure he expected, his life was
more occupied with affairs than ever before, and the writing of these
memoirs was reserved for his play-time in Scotland. For a few weeks
each summer we retired to our little bungalow on the moors at
Aultnagar to enjoy the simple life, and it was there that Mr. Carnegie
did most of his writing. He delighted in going back to those early
times, and as he wrote he lived them all over again. He was thus
engaged in July, 1914, when the war clouds began to gather, and when
the fateful news of the 4th of August reached us, we immediately left
our retreat in the hills and returned to Skibo to be more in touch
with the situation.

These memoirs ended at that time. Henceforth he was never able to
interest himself in private affairs. Many times he made the attempt to
continue writing, but found it useless. Until then he had lived the
life of a man in middle life--and a young one at that--golfing,
fishing, swimming each day, sometimes doing all three in one day.
Optimist as he always was and tried to be, even in the face of the
failure of his hopes, the world disaster was too much. His heart was
broken. A severe attack of influenza followed by two serious attacks
of pneumonia precipitated old age upon him.

It was said of a contemporary who passed away a few months before Mr.
Carnegie that "he never could have borne the burden of old age."
Perhaps the most inspiring part of Mr. Carnegie's life, to those who
were privileged to know it intimately, was the way he bore his "burden
of old age." Always patient, considerate, cheerful, grateful for any
little pleasure or service, never thinking of himself, but always of
the dawning of the better day, his spirit ever shone brighter and
brighter until "he was not, for God took him."

Written with his own hand on the fly-leaf of his manuscript are these
words: "It is probable that material for a small volume might be
collected from these memoirs which the public would care to read, and
that a private and larger volume might please my relatives and
friends. Much I have written from time to time may, I think, wisely be
omitted. Whoever arranges these notes should be careful not to burden
the public with too much. A man with a heart as well as a head should
be chosen."

Who, then, could so well fill this description as our friend Professor
John C. Van Dyke? When the manuscript was shown to him, he remarked,
without having read Mr. Carnegie's notation, "It would be a labor of
love to prepare this for publication." Here, then, the choice was
mutual, and the manner in which he has performed this "labor" proves
the wisdom of the choice--a choice made and carried out in the name of
a rare and beautiful friendship.

LOUISE WHITFIELD CARNEGIE

_New York_
_April 16, 1920_

EDITOR'S NOTE

The story of a man's life, especially when it is told by the man
himself, should not be interrupted by the hecklings of an editor. He
should be allowed to tell the tale in his own way, and enthusiasm,
even extravagance in recitation should be received as a part of the
story. The quality of the man may underlie exuberance of spirit, as
truth may be found in apparent exaggeration. Therefore, in preparing
these chapters for publication the editor has done little more than
arrange the material chronologically and sequentially so that the
narrative might run on unbrokenly to the end. Some footnotes by way of
explanation, some illustrations that offer sight-help to the text,
have been added; but the narrative is the thing.

This is neither the time nor the place to characterize or eulogize the
maker of "this strange eventful history," but perhaps it is worth
while to recognize that the history really was eventful. And strange.
Nothing stranger ever came out of the _Arabian Nights_ than the story
of this poor Scotch boy who came to America and step by step, through
many trials and triumphs, became the great steel master, built up a
colossal industry, amassed an enormous fortune, and then deliberately
and systematically gave away the whole of it for the enlightenment and
betterment of mankind. Not only that. He established a gospel of
wealth that can be neither ignored nor forgotten, and set a pace in
distribution that succeeding millionaires have followed as a
precedent. In the course of his career he became a nation-builder, a
leader in thought, a writer, a speaker, the friend of workmen,
schoolmen, and statesmen, the associate of both the lowly and the
lofty. But these were merely interesting happenings in his life as
compared with his great inspirations--his distribution of wealth, his
passion for world peace, and his love for mankind.

Perhaps we are too near this history to see it in proper proportions,
but in the time to come it should gain in perspective and in interest.
The generations hereafter may realize the wonder of it more fully than
we of to-day. Happily it is preserved to us, and that, too, in Mr.
Carnegie's own words and in his own buoyant style. It is a very
memorable record--a record perhaps the like of which we shall not look
upon again.

JOHN C. VAN DYKE

_New York_
_August, 1920_

CONTENTS

I. PARENTS AND CHILDHOOD 1

II. DUNFERMLINE AND AMERICA 20

III. PITTSBURGH AND WORK 32

IV. COLONEL ANDERSON AND BOOKS 45

V. THE TELEGRAPH OFFICE 54

VI. RAILROAD SERVICE 65

VII. SUPERINTENDENT OF THE PENNSYLVANIA 84

VIII. CIVIL WAR PERIOD 99

IX. BRIDGE-BUILDING 115

X. THE IRON WORKS 130

XI. NEW YORK AS HEADQUARTERS 149

XII. BUSINESS NEGOTIATIONS 167

XIII. THE AGE OF STEEL 181

XIV. PARTNERS, BOOKS, AND TRAVEL 198

XV. COACHING TRIP AND MARRIAGE 210

XVI. MILLS AND THE MEN 220

XVII. THE HOMESTEAD STRIKE 228

XVIII. PROBLEMS OF LABOR 240

XIX. THE "GOSPEL OF WEALTH" 255

XX. EDUCATIONAL AND PENSION FUNDS 268

XXI. THE PEACE PALACE AND PITTENCRIEFF 282

XXII. MATTHEW ARNOLD AND OTHERS 298

XXIII. BRITISH POLITICAL LEADERS 309

XXIV. GLADSTONE AND MORLEY 318

XXV. HERBERT SPENCER AND HIS DISCIPLE 333

XXVI. BLAINE AND HARRISON 341

XXVII. WASHINGTON DIPLOMACY 350

XXVIII. HAY AND MCKINLEY 358

XXIX. MEETING THE GERMAN EMPEROR 366

BIBLIOGRAPHY 373

INDEX 377

ILLUSTRATIONS

ANDREW CARNEGIE _Photogravure frontispiece_

ANDREW CARNEGIE'S BIRTHPLACE 2

DUNFERMLINE ABBEY 6

MR. CARNEGIE'S MOTHER 22

ANDREW CARNEGIE AT SIXTEEN WITH HIS BROTHER THOMAS 30

DAVID MCCARGO 38

ROBERT PITCAIRN 42

COLONEL JAMES ANDERSON 46

HENRY PHIPPS 58

THOMAS A. SCOTT 72

JOHN EDGAR THOMSON 72

THOMAS MORRISON CARNEGIE 118

GEORGE LAUDER 144

JUNIUS SPENCER MORGAN 156

JOHN PIERPONT MORGAN 172

AN AMERICAN FOUR-IN-HAND IN BRITAIN 210

ANDREW CARNEGIE (ABOUT 1878) 214

MRS. ANDREW CARNEGIE 218

MARGARET CARNEGIE AT FIFTEEN 240

CHARLES M. SCHWAB 256

THE CARNEGIE INSTITUTE AT PITTSBURGH 262

MR. CARNEGIE AND VISCOUNT BRYCE 270

MATTHEW ARNOLD 298

WILLIAM E. GLADSTONE 318

VISCOUNT MORLEY OF BLACKBURN 322

MR. CARNEGIE AND VISCOUNT MORLEY 326

THE CARNEGIE FAMILY AT SKIBO 326

HERBERT SPENCER 334

JAMES G. BLAINE 342

SKIBO CASTLE 356

MR. CARNEGIE AT SKIBO, 1914 370

AUTOBIOGRAPHY

OF

ANDREW CARNEGIE

CHAPTER I

PARENTS AND CHILDHOOD

If the story of any man's life, truly told, must be interesting, as
some sage avers, those of my relatives and immediate friends who have
insisted upon having an account of mine may not be unduly disappointed
with this result. I may console myself with the assurance that such a
story must interest at least a certain number of people who have known
me, and that knowledge will encourage me to proceed.

A book of this kind, written years ago by my friend, Judge Mellon, of
Pittsburgh, gave me so much pleasure that I am inclined to agree with
the wise one whose opinion I have given above; for, certainly, the
story which the Judge told has proved a source of infinite
satisfaction to his friends, and must continue to influence succeeding
generations of his family to live life well. And not only this; to
some beyond his immediate circle it holds rank with their favorite
authors. The book contains one essential feature of value--it reveals
the man. It was written without any intention of attracting public
notice, being designed only for his family. In like manner I intend to
tell my story, not as one posturing before the public, but as in the
midst of my own people and friends, tried and true, to whom I can
speak with the utmost freedom, feeling that even trifling incidents
may not be wholly destitute of interest for them.

To begin, then, I was born in Dunfermline, in the attic of the small
one-story house, corner of Moodie Street and Priory Lane, on the 25th
of November, 1835, and, as the saying is, "of poor but honest parents,
of good kith and kin." Dunfermline had long been noted as the center
of the damask trade in Scotland.[1] My father, William Carnegie, was a
damask weaver, the son of Andrew Carnegie after whom I was named.

[Footnote 1: The Eighteenth-Century Carnegies lived at the picturesque
hamlet of Patiemuir, two miles south of Dunfermline. The growing
importance of the linen industry in Dunfermline finally led the
Carnegies to move to that town.]

My Grandfather Carnegie was well known throughout the district for his
wit and humor, his genial nature and irrepressible spirits. He was
head of the lively ones of his day, and known far and near as the
chief of their joyous club--"Patiemuir College." Upon my return to
Dunfermline, after an absence of fourteen years, I remember being
approached by an old man who had been told that I was the grandson of
the "Professor," my grandfather's title among his cronies. He was the
very picture of palsied eld;

"His nose and chin they threatened ither."

As he tottered across the room toward me and laid his trembling hand
upon my head he said: "And ye are the grandson o' Andra Carnegie! Eh,
mon, I ha'e seen the day when your grandfaither and I could ha'e
hallooed ony reasonable man oot o' his jidgment."

[Illustration: ANDREW CARNEGIE'S BIRTHPLACE]

Several other old people of Dunfermline told me stories of my
grandfather. Here is one of them:

One Hogmanay night[2] an old wifey, quite a character in the
village, being surprised by a disguised face suddenly thrust in at the
window, looked up and after a moment's pause exclaimed, "Oh, it's jist
that daft callant Andra Carnegie." She was right; my grandfather at
seventy-five was out frightening his old lady friends, disguised like
other frolicking youngsters.

[Footnote 2: The 31st of December.]

I think my optimistic nature, my ability to shed trouble and to laugh
through life, making "all my ducks swans," as friends say I do, must
have been inherited from this delightful old masquerading grandfather
whose name I am proud to bear.[3] A sunny disposition is worth more
than fortune. Young people should know that it can be cultivated; that
the mind like the body can be moved from the shade into sunshine. Let
us move it then. Laugh trouble away if possible, and one usually can
if he be anything of a philosopher, provided that self-reproach comes
not from his own wrongdoing. That always remains. There is no washing
out of these "damned spots." The judge within sits in the supreme
court and can never be cheated. Hence the grand rule of life which
Burns gives:

"Thine own reproach alone do fear."

[Footnote 3: "There is no sign that Andrew, though he prospered in his
wooing, was specially successful in acquisition of worldly gear.
Otherwise, however, he became an outstanding character not only in the
village, but in the adjoining city and district. A 'brainy' man who
read and thought for himself he became associated with the radical
weavers of Dunfermline, who in Patiemuir formed a meeting-place which
they named a college (Andrew was the 'Professor' of it)." (_Andrew
Carnegie: His Dunfermline Ties and Benefactions_, by J.B. Mackie,
F.J.I.)]

This motto adopted early in life has been more to me than all the
sermons I ever heard, and I have heard not a few, although I may admit
resemblance to my old friend Baillie Walker in my mature years. He was
asked by his doctor about his sleep and replied that it was far from
satisfactory, he was very wakeful, adding with a twinkle in his eye:
"But I get a bit fine doze i' the kirk noo and then."

On my mother's side the grandfather was even more marked, for my
grandfather Thomas Morrison was a friend of William Cobbett, a
contributor to his "Register," and in constant correspondence with
him. Even as I write, in Dunfermline old men who knew Grandfather
Morrison speak of him as one of the finest orators and ablest men they
have known. He was publisher of "The Precursor," a small edition it
might be said of Cobbett's "Register," and thought to have been the
first radical paper in Scotland. I have read some of his writings, and
in view of the importance now given to technical education, I think
the most remarkable of them is a pamphlet which he published
seventy-odd years ago entitled "Head-ication versus Hand-ication." It
insists upon the importance of the latter in a manner that would
reflect credit upon the strongest advocate of technical education
to-day. It ends with these words, "I thank God that in my youth I
learned to make and mend shoes." Cobbett published it in the
"Register" in 1833, remarking editorially, "One of the most valuable
communications ever published in the 'Register' upon the subject, is
that of our esteemed friend and correspondent in Scotland, Thomas
Morrison, which appears in this issue." So it seems I come by my
scribbling propensities by inheritance--from both sides, for the
Carnegies were also readers and thinkers.

My Grandfather Morrison was a born orator, a keen politician, and the
head of the advanced wing of the radical party in the district--a
position which his son, my Uncle Bailie Morrison, occupied as his
successor. More than one well-known Scotsman in America has called
upon me, to shake hands with "the grandson of Thomas Morrison." Mr.
Farmer, president of the Cleveland and Pittsburgh Railroad Company,
once said to me, "I owe all that I have of learning and culture to the
influence of your grandfather"; and Ebenezer Henderson, author of the
remarkable history of Dunfermline, stated that he largely owed his
advancement in life to the fortunate fact that while a boy he entered
my grandfather's service.

I have not passed so far through life without receiving some
compliments, but I think nothing of a complimentary character has ever
pleased me so much as this from a writer in a Glasgow newspaper, who
had been a listener to a speech on Home Rule in America which I
delivered in Saint Andrew's Hall. The correspondent wrote that much
was then being said in Scotland with regard to myself and family and
especially my grandfather Thomas Morrison, and he went on to say,
"Judge my surprise when I found in the grandson on the platform, in
manner, gesture and appearance, a perfect _facsimile_ of the Thomas
Morrison of old."

My surprising likeness to my grandfather, whom I do not remember to
have ever seen, cannot be doubted, because I remember well upon my
first return to Dunfermline in my twenty-seventh year, while sitting
upon a sofa with my Uncle Bailie Morrison, that his big black eyes
filled with tears. He could not speak and rushed out of the room
overcome. Returning after a time he explained that something in me now
and then flashed before him his father, who would instantly vanish but
come back at intervals. Some gesture it was, but what precisely he
could not make out. My mother continually noticed in me some of my
grandfather's peculiarities. The doctrine of inherited tendencies is
proved every day and hour, but how subtle is the law which transmits
gesture, something as it were beyond the material body. I was deeply
impressed.

My Grandfather Morrison married Miss Hodge, of Edinburgh, a lady in
education, manners, and position, who died while the family was still
young. At this time he was in good circumstances, a leather merchant
conducting the tanning business in Dunfermline; but the peace after
the Battle of Waterloo involved him in ruin, as it did thousands; so
that while my Uncle Bailie, the eldest son, had been brought up in
what might be termed luxury, for he had a pony to ride, the younger
members of the family encountered other and harder days.

The second daughter, Margaret, was my mother, about whom I cannot
trust myself to speak at length. She inherited from her mother the
dignity, refinement, and air of the cultivated lady. Perhaps some day
I may be able to tell the world something of this heroine, but I doubt
it. I feel her to be sacred to myself and not for others to know. None
could ever really know her--I alone did that. After my father's early
death she was all my own. The dedication of my first book[4] tells the
story. It was: "To my favorite Heroine My Mother."

[Footnote 4: _An American Four-in-Hand in Great Britain._ New York,
1888.]

[Illustration: DUNFERMLINE ABBEY]

Fortunate in my ancestors I was supremely so in my birthplace. Where
one is born is very important, for different surroundings and
traditions appeal to and stimulate different latent tendencies in the
child. Ruskin truly observes that every bright boy in Edinburgh is
influenced by the sight of the Castle. So is the child of Dunfermline,
by its noble Abbey, the Westminster of Scotland, founded early in the
eleventh century (1070) by Malcolm Canmore and his Queen Margaret,
Scotland's patron saint. The ruins of the great monastery and of
the Palace where kings were born still stand, and there, too, is
Pittencrieff Glen, embracing Queen Margaret's shrine and the ruins of
King Malcolm's Tower, with which the old ballad of "Sir Patrick Spens"
begins:

"The King sits in Dunfermline _tower_,[5]
Drinking the bluid red wine."

[Footnote 5: _The Percy Reliques_ and _The Oxford Book of Ballads_
give "town" instead of "tower"; but Mr. Carnegie insisted that it
should be "tower."]

The tomb of The Bruce is in the center of the Abbey, Saint Margaret's
tomb is near, and many of the "royal folk" lie sleeping close around.
Fortunate, indeed, the child who first sees the light in that romantic
town, which occupies high ground three miles north of the Firth of
Forth, overlooking the sea, with Edinburgh in sight to the south, and
to the north the peaks of the Ochils clearly in view. All is still
redolent of the mighty past when Dunfermline was both nationally and
religiously the capital of Scotland.

The child privileged to develop amid such surroundings absorbs poetry
and romance with the air he breathes, assimilates history and
tradition as he gazes around. These become to him his real world in
childhood--the ideal is the ever-present real. The actual has yet to
come when, later in life, he is launched into the workaday world of
stern reality. Even then, and till his last day, the early impressions
remain, sometimes for short seasons disappearing perchance, but only
apparently driven away or suppressed. They are always rising and
coming again to the front to exert their influence, to elevate his
thought and color his life. No bright child of Dunfermline can escape
the influence of the Abbey, Palace, and Glen. These touch him and set
fire to the latent spark within, making him something different and
beyond what, less happily born, he would have become. Under these
inspiring conditions my parents had also been born, and hence came, I
doubt not, the potency of the romantic and poetic strain which
pervaded both.

As my father succeeded in the weaving business we removed from Moodie
Street to a much more commodious house in Reid's Park. My father's
four or five looms occupied the lower story; we resided in the upper,
which was reached, after a fashion common in the older Scottish
houses, by outside stairs from the pavement. It is here that my
earliest recollections begin, and, strangely enough, the first trace
of memory takes me back to a day when I saw a small map of America. It
was upon rollers and about two feet square. Upon this my father,
mother, Uncle William, and Aunt Aitken were looking for Pittsburgh and
pointing out Lake Erie and Niagara. Soon after my uncle and Aunt
Aitken sailed for the land of promise.

At this time I remember my cousin-brother, George Lauder ("Dod"), and
myself were deeply impressed with the great danger overhanging us
because a lawless flag was secreted in the garret. It had been painted
to be carried, and I believe was carried by my father, or uncle, or
some other good radical of our family, in a procession during the Corn
Law agitation. There had been riots in the town and a troop of cavalry
was quartered in the Guildhall. My grandfathers and uncles on both
sides, and my father, had been foremost in addressing meetings, and
the whole family circle was in a ferment.

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.)]

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