These were times of intense political excitement, and there was frequently seen throughout the entire town, for a short time after the midday meal, small groups of men with their aprons girt about them discussing affairs of state.  The names of Hume, Cobden, and Bright were upon every one’s tongue.  I was often attracted, small as I was, to these circles and was an earnest listener to the conversation, which was wholly one-sided.  The generally accepted conclusion was that there must be a change.  Clubs were formed among the townsfolk, and the London newspapers were subscribed for.  The leading editorials were read every evening to the people, strangely enough, from one of the pulpits of the town.  My uncle, Bailie Morrison, was often the reader, and, as the articles were commented upon by him and others after being read, the meetings were quite exciting.

These political meetings were of frequent occurrence, and, as might be expected, I was as deeply interested as any of the family and attended many.  One of my uncles or my father was generally 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.”