与人相处How to deal with people

How to Deal with People Dale Carnegie On Saturday morning, April 15, 1865, Abraham Lincoln lay dying in a hall bedroom of a cheap lodging house directly across the street from Ford’s Theatre, where Booth had shot him. Lincoln’s long body lay stretched diagonally across a sagging bed that was too short for him. A cheap reproduction of Rosa Bonheur’s famous painting, “The Horse Fair,” hung above the bed, and a dismal gas jet flickered yellow light. As Lincoln lay dying, Secretary of War Stanton said, “The re lied the most perfect ruler of men that the world has ever seen.” What was the secret of Lincoln’s success in dealing with men? I studied the life of Abraham Lincoln for ten years, and devoted all of three years to writing and rewriting a book entitled Lincoln the Unknown. I believe I have made as detailed and exhaustive a study of Lincoln’s personality and home life as it is possible for any men. Did he indulge in criticism? Oh, yes. As a young man in the Pigeon Creek Valley of Indiana, he not only criticized but he wrote letters and poems ridiculing people and dropped these letters on the country roads where they were sure to be found. One of these letters aroused resentments that burned for a lifetime. Even after Lincoln had become a practicing lawyer in Springfield, Illinois, he attacked his opponents openly in letters published in newspapers. But he did this just once too often. In the autumn of 1842, he ridiculed a vain, pugnacious Irish politician by the name of James Shields. Lincoln lampooned him through an anonymous letter published in the Springfield Journal. The town roared with laughter. Shields, sensitive and proud, boiled with indignation. He found out who wrote the letter, leaped on his horse, started after Lincoln, and challenged him to fig ht a duel. Lincoln didn’t want to fight. He was opposed to dueling; but he couldn’t get out of it and safe his honor. He was given the choice of weapons. Since he had very long arms, he chose cavalry broad swords, took lessons in sword fighting from a West Point graduate; and, on the appointed day, he and Shields met on a sand bar in the Mississippi River, prepared to fight to the death; but, at the last, their seconds interrupted and stopped the duel. That was the most lurid personal incident in Lincoln’s life. It taught him an invaluable lesson in the art of dealing with people. Never again did he write an insulting letter. Never again did he ridicule anyone. And from that time on, he almost never criticized anybody for anything. Time after time, during the Civil War, Lincoln put a new general at the head of the Army of the Potomac, and each one in turn – McClellan, Pope, Burnside, Hooker, Meade –blundered the nation savagely condemned these incompetent generals, but Lincoln, “with malice towards none, wit h charity for all,” held his peace. One of his favorite quotations was “Judge not, that ye be not judged.” And when Mrs. Lincoln and others spoke harshly of the Southern people, Lincoln replied: “Don’t criticize them; they are just what we would be under s imilar circumstances.” Yet, if any man ever had occasion to criticize, surely it was Lincoln. Let’s take just one illustration: The Battle of Gettysburg was fought during the first three days of July, 1863. During the night of July 4, Lee began to retreat southward while storm clouds deluged the country with rain. When Lee reached the Potomac with his defeated army, he found a swollen, impassable rive in front of him, and a victorious Union army behind him. Lee was in a trap. He couldn’t escape. Lincoln saw that. Here was golden, heaven-sent opportunity –the opportunity to capture Lee’s army and end the war immediately. So, with a surge of high hope, Lincoln ordered Meade not to call a council of war but to attack Lee immediately. Lincoln telegraphed his order and then sent a special messenger to Meade demanding immediate action. And what did General Meade do? He did the very opposite of what he was told to do. He called a council of war in direct violation of Lincoln’s orders. He hesitated. He procrastinate d. He telegraphed all manner of excuses. He refused point blank to attack Lee. Finally the waters receded and Lee escaped over the Potomac with his forces. Lincoln was furious. “What does this mean?” Lincoln cried to his son Robert. “Great God! What does t his mean? We had them within our grasp, and had only to stretch forth our hands and they were ours; yet nothing that I could say or do could make the army move. Under the circumstances, almost any general could have defeated Lee. If I had gone up there, I could have whipped him myself.” In bitter disappointment, Lincoln sat down and wrote Meade this letter. And remember, at this period of his life he was extremely conservative and restrained in his phraseology. So this letter coming form Lincoln in 1863 was tantamount to the severest rebuke. “My dear General, “I do not believe you appreciate the magnitude of the misfortune involved in Lee’s escape. He was within our easy grasp, and to have closed upon him would, in connection with our other late success, have ended the war. As it is, the war will be prolonged indefinitely. If you could not safely attack Lee last Monday, how can you possibly do so south of the river, when you can take with you very few – no more than two-thirds of the force you then had in hand? It would be unreasonable to expect and I do not expect that you can now effect much. Your golden opportunity is gone, and I ma distressed immeasurably because of it.” What do you suppose Meade did when he read that letter? Meade never saw that letter. Lincoln never mailed it. It was found among Lincoln’s papers after his death. My guess is – and this is only a guess – that after writing that letter, Lincoln looked out of the window and said to himself, “Just a minute. Maybe I ought not to be so hasty. It’s easy enough for me to sit here in the quiet of the White House and order Meade to attack; but if I had been up at Gettysburg, and if I had seen as much blood as Meade has seen during the last week, and if my ears had been pierced with the screams and sh rieks of wounded and dying, maybe I wouldn’t be so anxious to attack either. If I had Meade’s timid temperament, perhaps I would have done just what he has done. Anyhow, it is water under the bridge now. if I send this letter, it will relieve my feeling but it will make Meade try to justify himself. It will make him condemn me. It will arouse hard feelings, impair all his further usefulness as a commander, and perhaps force him to resign from the army.” So, as I have already said, Lincoln put the letter aside, for he had learned by bitter experience that sharp criticism and rebukes almost invariably end in futility. Theodor Roosevelt said that when he, as President, was confronted with some perplexing problem, he used to lean back and look up at a large painting of Lincoln that hung above his desk in the White House and ask himself, “What would Lincoln do fi he were in my shoes? How would he solve this problem?” The next time we are tempted to give somebody “hail Columbia,” let’s pull a five-dollar bill out o f our pocket, look at Lincoln’s picture on the bill, and ask, “How would Lincoln handle this problem if he had it?” Do you know someone you would like to change and regulated and improve? Good! That is fine. I am all in favor of it. But why not begin on yourself? From a purely selfish standpoint, that is a lot more profitable than trying to improve others – yes, and a lot less dangerous. “When a man’s fight begins within himself,” said Browning, “he is worth something.” It will probably take from now unti l over the holidays and devote the New Year to regulating and criticizing other people. But perfect yourself first. “Don’t complain about the snow on your neighbor’s roof,” said Confucius, “when your own doorstep is unclean.” When I was still young and trying hard to impress people, I wrote a foolish letter to Richard Harding Davis, an author who once loomed large on the literary horizon of America. I was preparing a magazine article authors; and I asked Davis to tell a me about his method of work. A few week earlier, I had received but not read.” I was quite impressed. I felt the writer must be very big and busy and important. I wasn’t the slightest bit busy; but I was eager to make an impression on Richard Harding Davis so I e nded my short note with the words: “Dictated but not read.” He never troubled to answer the letter. He simply returned it to me with his scribbled across the bottom: “Your bad manners are exceeded only by your and manners.” True, I had blundered, and perha ps I deserved his rebuke. But, being human, I resented it. I resented it so sharply that when I read of the death of Richard Harding Davis ten years later, the one thought that still persisted in my mind – I am ashamed to admit – was the hurt he had given me. If you had and I want to stir up a resentment tomorrow that may rankle across the decades and endure until death, just let us indulge in a little stinging criticism- no matter how certain we are that it is justified. When dealing with people, let us remember we are not dealing with creatures of logic. We are dealing with creatures of emotion, creatures bristling with prejudices and motivated by pride and vanity. And criticism is a dangerous spark – a spark that is liable to cause an explosion in the powder magazine of pride –an explosion that sometimes hastens death. For example, General Leonard Wood was criticized and not allowed to go with the arm to France. That blow to his pride probably shortened his life. Bitter criticism caused the sensitive Thomas Hardy, one of the finest novelists that ever enriched English literature, to give up the writing of fiction forever. Criticism drove Thomas Hardy, the English poet, to suicide. Benjamin Franklin, tactless in his youth, became so diplomatic, so adroit at handling people that was made American Ambassador to France. The secret of his success? “I will speak ill of no man,” he said, “…and speak all the good I know of everybody.” Any fool can criticize, condemn, and complain – and most fools do. But it takes character and self-control to be understanding and forgiving. “A great man shows his gentleness,” said Carlyle, “by the way he treats little men.” Instead of condemning people, let’s try to understand them. Let’s try to figure out why they do what they do. That’s a lot more profitable and intriguing than criticism; and it breeds sympathy, tolerance, and kindness. “to know all is to forgive all.” As Dr. Johnson said: “God Himself, sir, does not propose to judge man until the end of his days.” Why should you and I?