All this is important, vital a great deal of it; but after all what
concerns us chiefly, in this brief record, is the kind of man Thomas
Andrews was--that and the fine end he made. Everything, one supposes, in
this workaday world, must eventually be expressed in terms of character.
Though a man build the Atlantic fleet, himself with superhuman vigour of
hand and brain, and have not character, what profiteth it him, and how
much the less profiteth it the fleets maybe, at last?
Perhaps of all the manual professions that of shipbuilding is the one
demanding from those engaged in it, masters and men, the sternest
rectitude. Good enough in the shipyard is never enough. Think what
scamped work, a flawed shaft, a badly laid plate, an error in
calculation, may mean some wild night out in the Atlantic; and when next
you are in Belfast go to Queen's Island and see there, in the shops, on
the slips, how everyone is striving, or being made to strive, on your
behalf and that of all who voyage, for the absolute best--everything to a
hair's breadth, all as strong and sound as hands can achieve, each
rivet of all the millions in a liner (perhaps the most impressive thing
one saw) tested separately and certified with its own chalk mark.
Well, Andrews, to the extent of his powers and position, was responsible
for that absolute best, and the fact that he was proves his
character--but does not of itself establish his claim to a place high and
apart. Many others assuredly have succeeded as speedily and notably as
he, taking success at its material valuation, and their names are
written, or one day will be written in the sand; but irrespective of the
great work he did and the great success he achieved, Andrews was a man,
in the opinion of all who knew him, whose name deserves to be graven in
enduring characters: and why that is so has yet, to some extent at
least, to be shown.
In appearance he made a fine figure, standing nearly six feet high,
weighing some two hundred pounds, well-built, straight, with broad
shoulders and great physical development. He had dark brown hair, sharp
clean-shaven features; you would call him handsome; his brown eyes met
yours with a look of the frankest kindliness, and when he gripped your
hand he took you, as it were, to himself. Even as you see him in a
portrait you feel constrained to exclaim, as many did at first sight of
him, "Well, _that's_ a man!" He had a wonderful ringing laugh, an easy
way with him, an Irishman's appreciation of humour. He was sunny,
big-hearted, full of gaiety. He loved to hear a good story, and could
tell you one as well as another. He had the luck to be simple in his
habits and pleasures, his food, his dress, his tastes. Give him health,
plenty of friends, plenty of work, and occasionally some spare hours in
which to enjoy a good book (Maeterlinck's _Life of the Bee_ for
preference) and some good music, to go yachting on Strangford Lough, or
picnicking at the family bungalow on Braddock Island, or for a long
jolly ride with Mrs. Andrews in their little Renault round the Ards
Peninsula, and he was thoroughly content. When of a Saturday evening he
opened the door, so the servants at Ardara used to say, they like all
the rest waiting expectantly for his coming, it was as though a wind
from the sea swept into the house. All was astir. His presence filled
the place. Soon you would hear his father's greeting, "Well, my big son,
how are you?" and thereafter, for one more week's end, it was in Ardara
as though the schoolboy was home for a holiday. You would hear Tom's
voice and laugh through the house and his step on the stairs; you would
see him, gloved and veiled, out working among his bees, scampering on
the lawn with the children, or playing with the dog, or telling many a
good story to the family circle. Everyone loved him--everyone.
A distinguished writer, Mr. Erskine Childers, in an estimate of Andrews,
judges that the charm of the man lay in a combination of power and
simplicity. Others tell how unassertive he was, and modest in the finest
sense; "one of nature's gentlemen," says a foreman who owed him much, no
pride at all, ready always to take a suggestion from anyone, always
expressing his views quietly and considerately; "having of himself,"
writes Mrs. Andrews, "the humblest opinion of anyone I ever knew." And
then she quotes some lines he liked and wrote in her album:
"_Do what you can, being what you are,
Shine like a glow-worm, if you cannot as a star,
Work like a pulley, if you cannot as a crane,
Be a wheel-greaser, if you cannot drive a train_";
and goes on to say how much Judge Payne's familiar lines express the
spirit and motive of his actions throughout life, and how always he had
such a love for humanity that everyone with whom he came in contact felt
the tremendous influence of his unselfish nature. He was never so happy
as when giving and helping. Many a faltering youth on the threshold of
the world he took by the arm and led forward. A shipwright testifies "to
his frequent acknowledgment of what others, not so high as himself,
tried to do." Another calls him "a kind and considerate chief and a good
friend always." A third, in a letter full of heartbreak at his loss,
pays him fine tribute: "In the twenty years I have known him I never saw
in him a single crooked turn. He was always the same, one of the most
even-tempered men I ever worked with."
Such spontaneous testimony to character is perhaps sufficient; but one
may crown it by repeating a story told, with full appreciation of its
value, by his mother. When King Edward and Queen Alexandra made their
memorable visit to Belfast in July, 1903, the line of route passed
through the street in which Andrews lived; and to witness the procession
he invited to his rooms, all decorated for the occasion and plentifully
supplied with dainties, a large party of children. "Well, my dear," one
was asked afterwards, "and what did you think of the King?" "The King,"
answered the child--"oh, cousin Tommy was _our_ King."
Regarding his remarkable powers of application and industry, enough too
has perhaps already been written; but what must be made clear, even at
the cost of repetition, for therein lay the man's strength, was the
spirit in which he approached the great business of work.
It has been said, and doubtless will be said again, that for one to
labour as Andrews did, whatever the incentive or object, is an inhuman
process making for narrowness of manhood and a condition of drudgery.
Perhaps so. Herbert Spencer once expressed some such opinion. It is
largely a question of one's point of view, to a lesser extent perhaps a
matter of aptitude or circumstance. At all events, in this respect, it
seems wise to distinguish as between man and man, and work and work; for
with the example of Andrews before them even cavillers must admit that
what they call drudgery can be well justified.
How he would have laughed had someone, even a Herbert Spencer, called
him a drudge! Anyone less the creature, however you regarded him, you
could not easily find. Work was his nature, his life; he throve upon
it, lived for it, loved it. And think what a work it was! The noblest,
one repeats, done by men.
In his dressingroom was hung a framed copy of Henry Van Dyke's
well-known sonnet. It is worth quoting:
"_Let me but do my work from day to day
In field or forest, at the desk or loom,
In roaring market-place, or tranquil room;
Let me but find it in my heart to say,
When vagrant wishes beckon me astray,
This is my work, my blessing, not my doom;
Of all who live, I am the one by whom
This work can best be done in my own way.
Then shall I see it not too great nor small,
To suit my spirit and to prove my powers;
Then shall I cheerfully greet the labouring hours,
And cheerful turn, when the long shadows fall
At eventide, to play, and love, and rest,
Because I know for me my work is best._"
"This is my work, my blessing, not my doom ... because I know for me my
work is best": can it be said that the man who worked in the spirit of
those words, having them before him like a prayer each morning and each
night, was not fulfilling destiny in a noble way? No mean thought of
self, no small striving after worldly success, but always the endeavour
to work in his own way to suit his spirit and to prove his powers. If
that way be narrow--well, so is the way narrow that leads to eternal
life.
But, it might be said, Andrews had such opportunity and the rare good
fortune also to have his spirit suited with work that proved his powers.
It was so. Yet one knows certainly that had his opportunity been
different he would still have seized it; have been the best engine
driver in Ulster or have greased wheels contentedly and with all
diligence. One remembers the sentence from Ruskin which he had printed
on his Christmas card for 1910: "What we think, or what we know, or what
we believe, is in the end of little consequence. The only thing of
consequence is what we do."
The best doing, always and every way, one knows how that aspiration
would appeal to Andrews, good Unitarian that he was; just as one knows
how Ruskin, he who made roads and had such burning sympathy always with
honest workers, would have appreciated Andrews and agreed that the name
of such a man should not perish as have the names of most other of the
world's great Architects and Builders. "To-day I commence my
twenty-first year at the works, all interesting and happy days. I would
go right back over them again if I could": one feels that the spirit of
those words, written by Andrews to his wife on May 1st, 1909, would have
appealed to Ruskin; and had he known the man would he not have noted, as
did another observer--Professor W. G. S. Adams,[2] of Oxford--"how it was
to the human question the man's mind always turned," and been eager to
judge, "that here was one who had in him the true stuff of the best kind
of captain of industry"?
[2] It is interesting to note the circumstances which brought
these two men together. Mr. Adams, who is now Professor of
Political Theory and Institutions at Oxford, was then
Superintendent of Statistics and Intelligence in the Irish
Department of Agriculture and Technical Instruction. He went to
Andrews as the man most likely to give him reliable information
and sound opinions upon certain industrial questions of
interest to the Department. A peculiar value attaches to the
high regard in which Thomas Andrews was held by this
distinguished political and economic thinker.
A captain of industry: the phrase is happy, and convincing too is the
passage wherein Mr. Erskine Childers gives his impression of Andrews as,
towards the close of 1911, he saw him one day working in the Island
Yard.
"It was bracing to be near him," writes Mr. Childers, and then goes on:
"His mind seemed to revel in its mastery, both of the details and of
the _ensemble_, both of the technical and the human side of a great
science, while restlessly seeking to enlarge its outlook, conquer new
problems, and achieve an ever fresh perfection. Whether it was about the
pitch of a propeller or the higher problems of design, speed, and
mercantile competition, one felt the same grip and enthusiasm and, above
all perhaps, the same delight in frank self-revelation."