Autobiography of Andrew Carnegie | Page 8

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 monarchs in a certain place upon the
walls of the room performing the act for which he was well known.
Thus for me King John sits to this day above the mantelpiece signing
the Magna Charta, and Queen Victoria is on the back of the door with
her children on her knee.
[Footnote 9: The Lauder Technical College given by Mr. Carnegie to
Dunfermline was named in honor of this uncle, George Lauder.]
It may be taken for granted that the omission which, years after, I found
in the Chapter House at Westminster Abbey was fully supplied in our
list of monarchs. A slab in a small chapel at Westminster says that the
body of Oliver Cromwell was removed from there. In the list of the
monarchs which I learned at my uncle's knee the grand republican
monarch appeared writing his message to the Pope of Rome, informing
His Holiness that "if he did not cease persecuting the Protestants the
thunder of Great Britain's cannon would be heard in the Vatican." It is

needless to say that the estimate we formed of Cromwell was that he
was worth them "a' thegither."
It was from my uncle I learned all that I know of the early history of
Scotland--of Wallace and Bruce and Burns, of Blind Harry's history, of
Scott, Ramsey, Tannahill, Hogg, and Fergusson. I can truly say in the
words of Burns that there was then and there created in me a vein of
Scottish prejudice (or patriotism) which will cease to exist only with
life. Wallace, of course, was our hero. Everything heroic centered in
him. Sad was the day when a wicked big boy at school told me that
England was far larger than Scotland. I went to the uncle, who had the
remedy.
"Not at all, Naig; if Scotland were rolled out flat as England, Scotland
would be the larger, but would you have the Highlands rolled down?"
Oh, never! There was balm in Gilead for the wounded young patriot.
Later the greater population of England was forced upon me, and again
to the uncle I went.
"Yes, Naig, seven to one, but there were more than that odds against us
at Bannockburn." And again there was joy in my heart--joy that there
were more English men there since the glory was the greater.
This is something of a commentary upon the truth that war breeds war,
that every battle sows the seeds of future battles, and that thus nations
become traditional enemies. The experience of American boys is that of
the Scotch. They grow up to read of Washington and Valley Forge, of
Hessians hired to kill Americans, and they come to hate the very name
of Englishman. Such was my experience with my American nephews.
Scotland was all right, but England that had fought Scotland was the
wicked partner. Not till they became men was the prejudice eradicated,
and even yet some of it may linger.
Uncle Lauder has told me since that he often brought people into the
room assuring them that he could make "Dod" (George Lauder) and me
weep, laugh, or close our little fists ready to fight--in short, play upon
all our moods through the influence of poetry and song. The betrayal of

Wallace was his trump card which never failed to cause our little hearts
to sob, a complete breakdown being the invariable result. Often as he
told the story it never lost its hold. No doubt it received from time to