Among my earliest recollections are the struggles of Dunfermline to obtain the rights of the town to part of the Abbey grounds and the Palace ruins.  My Grandfather Morrison began the campaign, or, at least, was one of those who did.  The struggle was continued by my Uncles Lauder and Morrison, the latter honored by being charged with having incited and led a band of men to tear down a certain wall.  The citizens won a victory in the highest court and the then Laird ordered that thereafter “no Morrison be admitted to the Glen.”  I, being a Morrison like my brother-cousin, Dod, was debarred.  The Lairds of Pittencrieff for generations had been at variance with the inhabitants.

The Glen is unique, as far as I know.  It adjoins the Abbey and Palace grounds, and on the west and north it lies along two of the main streets of the town.  Its area (between sixty and seventy acres) is finely sheltered, its high hills grandly wooded.  It always meant paradise to the child of Dunfermline.  It certainly did to me.  When I heard of paradise, I translated the word into Pittencrieff Glen, believing it to be as near to paradise as anything I could think of.  Happy were we if through an open lodge gate, or over the wall or under the iron grill over the burn, now and then we caught a glimpse inside.

Almost every Sunday Uncle Lauder took “Dod” and “Naig” for a walk around the Abbey to a part that overlooked the Glen—­the busy crows fluttering around in the big trees below.  Its Laird was to us children the embodiment of rank and wealth.  The Queen, we knew, lived in Windsor Castle, but she didn’t own Pittencrieff, not she!  Hunt of Pittencrieff wouldn’t exchange with her or with any one.  Of this we were sure, because certainly neither of us would.  In all my childhood’s—­yes and in my early manhood’s—­air-castle building (which was not small), nothing comparable in grandeur approached Pittencrieff.  My Uncle Lauder predicted many things for me when I became a man, but had he foretold that some day I should be rich enough, and so supremely fortunate as to become Laird of Pittencrieff, he might have turned my head.  And then to be able to hand it over to Dunfermline as a public park—­my paradise of childhood!  Not for a crown would I barter that privilege.

When Dr. Ross whispered to me that Colonel Hunt might be induced to sell, my ears cocked themselves instantly.  He wished an extortionate price, the doctor thought, and I heard nothing further for some time.  When indisposed in London in the autumn of 1902, my mind ran upon the subject, and I intended to wire Dr. Ross to come up and see me.  One morning, Mrs. Carnegie came into my room and asked me to guess who had arrived and I guessed Dr. Ross.  Sure enough, there he was.  We talked over Pittencrieff.  I suggested that if our mutual friend and fellow-townsman, Mr. Shaw in Edinburgh (Lord Shaw of Dunfermline) ever met Colonel Hunt’s agents he could intimate that their client might some day regret not closing with me as another purchaser equally anxious to buy might not be met with, and I might change my mind or pass away.  Mr. Shaw told the doctor when he mentioned this that he had an appointment to meet with Hunt’s lawyer on other business the next morning and would certainly say so.