The child privileged to develop amid such surroundings absorbs poetry and romance with the air he breathes, assimilates history and tradition as he gazes around.  These become to him his real world in childhood—­the ideal is the ever-present real.  The actual has yet to come when, later in life, he is launched into the workaday world of stern reality.  Even then, and till his last day, the early impressions remain, sometimes for short seasons disappearing perchance, but only apparently driven away or suppressed.  They are always rising and coming again to the front to exert their influence, to elevate his thought and color his life.  No bright child of Dunfermline can escape the influence of the Abbey, Palace, and Glen.  These touch him and set fire to the latent spark within, making him something different and beyond what, less happily born, he would have become.  Under these inspiring conditions my parents had also been born, and hence came, I doubt not, the potency of the romantic and poetic strain which pervaded both.

As my father succeeded in the weaving business we removed from Moodie Street to a much more commodious house in Reid’s Park.  My father’s four or five looms occupied the lower story; we resided in the upper, which was reached, after a fashion common in the older Scottish houses, by outside stairs from the pavement.  It is here that my earliest recollections begin, and, strangely enough, the first trace of memory takes me back to a day when I saw a small map of America.  It was upon rollers and about two feet square.  Upon this my father, mother, Uncle William, and Aunt Aitken were looking for Pittsburgh and pointing out Lake Erie and Niagara.  Soon after my uncle and Aunt Aitken sailed for the land of promise.

At this time I remember my cousin-brother, George Lauder ("Dod"), and myself were deeply impressed with the great danger overhanging us because a lawless flag was secreted in the garret.  It had been painted to be carried, and I believe was carried by my father, or uncle, or some other good radical of our family, in a procession during the Corn Law agitation.  There had been riots in the town and a troop of cavalry was quartered in the Guildhall.  My grandfathers and uncles on both sides, and my father, had been foremost in addressing meetings, and the whole family circle was in a ferment.

I remember as if it were yesterday being awakened during the night by a tap at the back window by men who had come to inform my parents that my uncle, Bailie Morrison, had been thrown into jail because he had dared to hold a meeting which had been forbidden.  The sheriff with the aid of the soldiers had arrested him a few miles from the town where the meeting had been held, and brought him into the town during the night, followed by an immense throng of people.[6]

[Footnote 6:  At the opening of the Lauder Technical School in October, 1880, nearly half a century after the disquieting scenes of 1842, Mr. Carnegie thus recalled the shock which was given to his boy mind:  “One of my earliest recollections is that of being wakened in the darkness to be told that my Uncle Morrison was in jail.  Well, it is one of the proudest boasts I can make to-day to be able to say that I had an uncle who was in jail.  But, ladies and gentlemen, my uncle went to jail to vindicate the rights of public assembly.” (Mackie.)]