dices and petty notions," says Andrew Carnegie.
The famous Pittsburgh Orchestra was first made possible by his
encouragement, and without Carnegie we would have had no Damrosch, or at
least a different Damrosch.

From almost its inauguration, Mr. Carnegie has been President of the New
York Oratorio, and for many years President of the Philharmonic Society.

I was once present at a meeting of this Society when a memorial volume
of thanks from "The Philharmonic" was presented to Mr. Carnegie. The
book contained the autographs of every member, working and honorary, of
the association. Among the rest I added my name to the list. Shortly
after the presentation exercises I met Mr. Carnegie on the stairs. He
had the book under his arm. He graciously thanked me for adding my name,
and spoke of how he prized my autograph. I replied somewhat loftily,
"Oh, don't mention it--it is nothing--it is nothing!" And then I felt
how feeble my attempted pleasantry was. To Mr. Carnegie it was no joke.
In fact, he was as tickled with his book of names, and its assurance of
affection, as a girl who has just been presented by her lover with a
volume of Ella Wheeler Wilcox's poems. Then I saw how sensitive and
tender is the heart of this most busy man, and how precious to him is
human fellowship. This is a side of his nature that was new to me.

Shakespeare says, "Sad is the lot of princes." They are pushed out and
away from the common heart of humanity. Most of the men they meet want
something, and as these folks want the thing they want awful bad, they
never tell the prince the truth. In his presence they are like brass
monkeys, or, more properly, like monkeys filled with monkey desires.
They are shorn of all human attributes. Pity the lot of the
multimillionaire who has most incautiously allowed it to become known
that he considers it "a disgrace for any man to die rich."

Five hundred letters a day are sent to Andrew Carnegie, with suggestions
concerning the best way in which he can escape disgrace. The lazzaroni
of America are as bad as the same tribe in Italy, only they play for
bigger stakes. The altruistic graft is as greedy as the grab of
commercialism, that much-berated thing.

Mr. Carnegie can not walk a block on Broadway without being beset by
would-be philanthropists who offer to pit their time against his money,
and thereby redeem the world from its sin and folly. And these
philanthropists do not realize for a moment that they