nerally to be heard. I
remember one evening my father addressed a large outdoor meeting in
the Pends. I had wedged my way in under the legs of the hearers, and
at one cheer louder than all the rest I could not restrain my
enthusiasm. Looking up to the man under whose legs I had found
protection I informed him that was my father speaking. He lifted me on
his shoulder and kept me there.

To another meeting I was taken by my father to hear John Bright, who
spoke in favor of J.B. Smith as the Liberal candidate for the Stirling
Burghs. I made the criticism at home that Mr. Bright did not speak
correctly, as he said "men" when he meant "maan." He did not give the
broad _a_ we were accustomed to in Scotland. It is not to be wondered
at that, nursed amid such surroundings, I developed into a violent
young Republican whose motto was "death to privilege." At that time I
did not know what privilege meant, but my father did.

One of my Uncle Lauder's best stories was about this same J.B. Smith,
the friend of John Bright, who was standing for Parliament in
Dunfermline. Uncle was a member of his Committee and all went well
until it was proclaimed that Smith was a "Unitawrian." The district
was placarded with the enquiry: Would you vote for a "Unitawrian"? It
was serious. The Chairman of Smith's Committee in the village of
Cairney Hill, a blacksmith, was reported as having declared he never
would. Uncle drove over to remonstrate with him. They met in the
village tavern over a gill:

"Man, I canna vote for a Unitawrian," said the Chairman.

"But," said my uncle, "Maitland [the opposing candidate] is a
Trinitawrian."

"Damn; that's waur," was the response.

And the blacksmith voted right. Smith won by a small majority.

The change from hand-loom to steam-loom weaving was disastrous to our
family. My father did not recognize the impending revolution, and was
struggling under the old system. His looms sank greatly in value, and
it became necessary for that power which never failed in any
emergency--my mother--to step forward and endeavor to repair the
family fortune. She opened a small shop in Moodie Street and
contributed to the revenues which, though slender, nevertheless at
that time sufficed to keep us in comfort and "respectable."

I remember that shortly after this I began to learn what poverty
meant. Dreadful days came when my father took the last of his webs to
the great manufacturer, and I saw my mother anxiously awaiti