I was no prepared at a' for what really happened. The Scots were oot-- oh, aye, and they had pipers to greet me, and there were auld friends that had settled doon in New York or other parts o' the United States, and had come to meet me. Scots ha' a way o' makin' siller when they get awa' frae Scotland, I'm findin' oot. At hame the compet.i.tion is fierce, sae there are some puir Scots. But when they gang away they've had such training that no ithers can stand against them, and sae the Scot in a foreign place is like to be amang the leaders.

But it wasna only the Scots turned oot to meet me. There were any number of Americans. And the American reporters! Unless you've come into New York and been met by them you've no idea of what they're like, yon. They made rare sport of me, and I knew they were doing it, though I think they thought, the braw laddies, they were pulling the wool over my een!

There was much that was new for me, and you'll remember I'm a Scot.

When I'm travelling a new path, I walk cannily, and see where each foot is going to rest before I set it doon. Sae it was when I came to America. I was anxious to mak' friends in a new land, and I wadna be saying anything to a reporter laddie that could be misunderstood. Sae I asked them a' to let me off, and not mak' me talk till I was able to give a wee bit o' thought to what I had tae say.

They just laughed at one another and at me. And the questions they asked me! They wanted to know what did I think of America? And o' this and o' that that I'd no had the chance tae see. It was a while later before I came to understand that they were joking wi' themselves as well as wi' me. I've learned, since then, that American reporters, and especially those that meet the ships that come in to New York, have had cause to form impressions of their ain of a gude many famous folk that would no be sae flattering to those same folk as what they usually see written aboot themselves.

Some of my best friends in America are those same reporters. They've been good tae me, and I've tried to be fair wi' them. The American press is an inst.i.tution that seems strange to a Briton, but to an artist it's a blessing. It's thanks to the papers that the people learn sae much aboot an artist in America; it's thanks tae them that they're sae interested in him.

I'm no saying the papers didn't rub my fur the wrang way once or twice; they made mair than they should, I'm thinking, o' the jokes aboot me and the way I'd be carfu' wi' ma siller. But they were aye good natured aboot it. It's a strange thing, that way that folk think I'm sae close wi' my money. I'm canny; I like to think that when I spend my money I get its value in return. But I'm no the only man i'

the world feels sae aboot it; that I'm sure of. And I'll no hand oot siller to whoever comes asking. Aye, I'll never do that, and I'd think shame to masel' if I did. The only siller that's gude for a man to have, the only siller that helps him, i' the end, is that which he's worked hard to earn and get.

Oh, gi'e'n a body's sick, or in trouble o' some sair sort, that's different; he deserves help then, and it's nae the same thing. But what should I or any other man gie money to an able bodied laddie that can e'en work for what he needs, the same as you and me? It fashes me to ha' such an one come cadging siller frae me; I'd think wrong to encourage him by gi'e'n it the him.

You maun work i' this world. If your siller comes tae you too easily, you'll gain nae pleasure nor profit frae the spending on't. The things we enjoy the maist are not those that are gi'e'n to us; they're those that, when we look at, mean weeks or months or maybe years of work.

When you've to work for what you get you have the double pleasure. You look forward for a lang time, while you're working, to what your work will bring you. And then, in the end, you get it--and you know you're beholden tae no man but yourself for what you have. Is that no a grand feeling?

Aweel, it's no matter. I'm glad for the laddies to hae their fun wi'

me. They mean no harm, and they do no harm. But I've been wishfu', sometimes, that the American reporters had a wee bit less imagination.

'Tis a grand thing, imagination; I've got it masel, tae some extent.

But those New York reporters--and especially the first ones I met!

Man, they put me in the shade altogether!

I'd little to say to them the day I landed; I needed time tae think and a.s.sort my impressions. I didna ken my own self just what I was thinking aboot New York and America. And then, I'd made arrangements wi' the editor of one of the great New York papers to write a wee piece for his journal that should be telling his readers hoo I felt.

He was to pay me weel for that, and it seemed no more than fair that he should ha' the valuable words of Harry Lauder to himself, since he was willing to pay for them.

But did it mak' a wee bit of difference tae those laddies that I had nought to say to them? That it did--not! I bade them all farewell at my hotel. But the next morning, when the papers were brought to me, they'd all long interviews wi' me. I learned that I thought America was the grandest country I'd ever seen. One said I was thinking of settling doon here, and not going hame to Scotland at a' any more! And another said I'd declared I was sorry I'd not been born in the United States, since, noo, e'en though I was naturalized--as that paper said I meant tae be!--I could no become president of the United States!

Some folk took that seriously--folk at hame, in the main. They've an idea, in America, that English folk and Scots ha' no got a great sense of humor. It's not that we've no got one; it's just that Americans ha'

a humor of a different sort. They've a verra keen sense o' the ridiculous, and they're as fond of a joke that's turned against themselves as of one they play upon another pairson. That's a fine trait, and it makes it easy to amuse them in the theatre.

I think I was mair nervous aboot my first appearance in New York than I'd ever been in ma life before. In some ways it was worse than that nicht in the old Gatti's in London. I'd come tae New York wi' a reputation o' sorts, ye ken; I'd brought naethin' o' the sort tae New York.

When an artist comes tae a new country wi' sae much talk aboot him as there was in America concerning me, there's always folk that tak' it as a challenge.

"Eh!" they'll say. "So there's Harry Lauder coming, is there? And he's the funniest wee man in the halls, is he? He'd make a graven image laugh, would he? Well, I'll be seeing! Maybe he can make me laugh-- maybe no. We'll just be seeing."

That's human nature. It's natural for people to want to form their own judgments aboot everything. And it's natural, tae, for them tae be almost prejudiced against anyone aboot whom sae much has been said. I realized a' that; I'd ha' felt the same way myself. It meant a great deal, too, the way I went in New York. If I succeeded there I was sure to do well i' the rest of America. But to fail in New York, to lose the stamp of a Broadway approval--that wad be laying too great a handicap altogether upon the rest of my tour.

In London I'd had nothing to lose. Gi'e'n I hadna made my hit that first nicht in the Westminster Bridge Road, no one would have known the difference. But in New York there'd be everyone waiting. The critics would all be there--not just men who write up the music halls, but the regular critics, that attend first nichts at the theatre. It was a different and a mair serious business than anything I'd known in London.

It was a great theatre in which I appeared--one o' the biggest in New York, and the greatest I'd ever played in, I think, up tae that time.

And when the nicht came for my first show the hoose was crowded; there was not a seat to be had, e'en frae the speculators.

Weel, there's ane thing I've learned in my time on the stage. You canna treat an audience in any verra special way, just because you're anxious that it shall like you. You maun just do your best, as you've been used to doing it. I had this much in my favor--I was singing auld songs, that I knew weel the way of. And then, tae, many of that audience knew me. There were a gude few Scots amang it; there were American friends I'd made on the other side, when they'd been visiting. And there was another thing I'd no gi'en a thocht, and that was the way sae many o' them knew ma songs frae havin' heard them on the gramaphone.

It wasna till after I'd been in America that I made sae many records, but I'd made enough at lime for some of my songs tae become popular, and so it wasna quite sicca novelty as I'd thought it micht be for them to hear me. Oh, aye, what wi' one thing and another it would have been my ain fault had that audience no liked hearing me sing that nicht.

But I was fairly overwhelmed by what happened when I'd finished my first song. The house rose and roared at me. I'd never seen sic a demonstration. I'd had applause in my time, but nothing like that.

They laughed frae the moment I first waggled my kilt at them, before I did more than laugh as I came oot to walk aroond. But there were cheers when I'd done; it was nae just clapping of the hands they gie'd me. It brought the tears to my een to hear them. And I knew then that I'd made a whole new countryful of friends that nicht--for after that I couldna hae doots aboot the way they'd be receiving me elsewhere.

Even sae, the papers surprised me the next morning. They did sae much more than just praise me! They took me seriously--and that was something the writers at hame had never done. They saw what I was aiming at wi' my songs. They understood that I was not just a comedian, not just a "Scotch comic." I maun amuse an audience wi' my songs, but unless I mak' them think, and, whiles, greet a bit, too, I'm no succeeding. There's plenty can sing a comic song as weel as I can. But that's no just the way I think of all my songs. I try to interpret character in them. I study queer folk o' all the sorts I see and know. And, whiles, I think that in ane of my songs I'm doing, on a wee scale, what a gifted author does in a novel of character.

Aweel, it went straight to my heart, the way those critics wrote about me. They were not afraid of lowering themselves by writing seriously about a "mere music hall comedian." Aye, I've had wise gentlemen of the London press speak so of me. They canna understand, yon gentry, why all the fuss is made about Harry Lauder. They're a' for the Art Theatre, and this movement and that. But they're no looking for what's natural and unforced i' the theatre, or they'd be closer to-day to having a national theatre than they'll ever be the gait they're using the noo!

They're verra much afraid of hurting their dignity, or they were, in Britain, before I went to America. I think perhaps it woke them up to read the New York reviews of my appearance. It's a sure thing they've been more respectful tae me ever since. And I dinna just mean that it's to me they're respectful. It's to what I'm trying tae do. I dinna care a bit what a'body says or thinks of me. But I tak' my work seriously. I couldna keep on doing it did I not, and that's what sae many canna understand. They think a man at whom the public maun laugh if he's to rate himsel' a success must always be comical; that he can never do a serious thing. It is a mistaken idea altogether, yon.

I'm thinking Wull Morris must ha' breathed easier, just as did I, the morning after that first nicht show o' mine. He'd been verra sure-- but, man, he stood to lose a lot o' siller if he'd found he'd backed the wrang horse! I was glad for his sake as well as my own that he had not.

After the start my first engagement in New York was one long triumph.

I could ha' stayed much longer than I did, but there were twa reasons against making any change in the plans that had been arranged. One is that a long tour is easy to throw oot o' gear. Time is allotted long in advance, and for a great many attractions. If one o' them loses it's week, or it's three nichts, or whatever it may be, it's hard to fit it in again. And when a tour's been planned so as to eliminate so much as possible of doubling back in railway travel, everything may be spoiled by being a week or so late in starting it.

Then, there was another thing. I was sure to be coming back to New York again, and it was as weel to leave the city when it was still hard to be buying tickets for my show. That's business; I could see it as readily as could Wull Morris, who was a revelation tae me then as a manager. He's my friend, as well as my manager, the noo, you'll ken; I tak' his advice aboot many and many a thing, and we've never had anything that sounded like even the beginnings of a quarrel.

Sae on I went frae New York. I was amazed at the other cities--Boston, Philadelphia, Washington, Baltimore, Chicago, Pittsburgh--in a' o'

them the greeting New York had gi'en me was but just duplicated. They couldna mak' enough of me. And everywhere I made new friends, and found new reason to rejoice over having braved the hazardous adventure of an American tour.

Did I tell you how I was warned against crossing the ocean? It was the same as when I'd thought of trying ma luck in London. The same sort of friends flocked about me.

"Why will you be risking all you've won, Harry?" they asked me. "Here in Britain you're safe--your reputation's made, and you're sure of a comfortable living, and more, as long as you care to stay on the stage. There they might not understand you, and you would suffer a great blow to your prestige if you went there and failed."

I didna think that, e'en were I to fail in America, it would prevent me frae coming back to Britain and doing just as well as ever I had.

But, then, too, I didna think much o' that idea. Because, you see, I was so sure I was going to succeed, as I had succeeded before against odds and in the face of all the croakers and prophets of misfortune had to say.

CHAPTER XVIII

It was a hard thing for me to get used to thinking o' the great distances of travel in America. In Britain aboot the longest trip one wad be like to make wad be frae London tae Glasga or the other way around. And that's but a matter of a day or a nicht. Wull Morris showed me a route for my tour that meant travelling, often and often, five hundred miles frae ane toon tae the next. I was afraid at first, for it seemed that I'd ha' tae be travelling for months at a time. I'd heard of the hotels in the sma' places, and I knew they couldna be tae good.

It's harder than one wha hasna done it can realize the travel and gie twa shows a day for any length of time. If it was staying always a week or mair in the ane city, it would be better. But in America, for the first time, I had to combine long travelling wi' constant singing.

Folks come in frae long distances to a toon when a show they want to see is booked to appear, and it's necessary that there should be a matinee as well as a nicht performance whenever it's at a' possible.

They all told me not to fret; that I didna ken, until I'd seen for myself, how comfortable travel in America could be made. I had my private car--that was a rare thing for me to be thinking of. And, indeed, it was as comfortable as anyone made me think it could be.

There was a real bedroom--I never slept in a berth, but in a bra.s.s bed, just as saft and comfortable as ever I could ha' known in ma own wee hoose at hame. Then there was a sitting room, as nice and hamely as you please, where I could rest and crack, whiles we were waiting in a station, wi' friends wha came callin'.

I wasna dependent on hotels at all, after the way I'd been led to fear them. It was only in the great cities, where we stayed a week or mair, that I left the car and stopped in a hotel. And even then it was mair because the yards, where the car would wait, would be noisy, and would be far awa' frae the theatre, than because the hotel was mair comfortable, that we abandoned the car.

Our own cook travelled wi' us. I'm a great hand for Scottish cooking.

Mrs. Lauder will bake me a scone, noo and then, no matter whaur we are. And the parritch and a' the other Scottish dishes tickle my palate something grand. Still it was a revelation to me, the way that negro cooked for us! Things I'd never heard of he'd be sending to the table each day, and when I'd see him and tell him that I liked something special he'd made, it was a treat to see his white teeth shining oot o' his black face.

I love to sit behind the train, on the observation platform, while I'm travelling through America. It's grand scenery--and there's sae much of it. It's a wondrous sicht to see the sun rise in the desert. It puts me in mind o' the moors at home, wi' the rosy sheen of the dawn on the purple heather, but it's different.

There's no folk i' the world more hospitable than Americans. And there's no folk prouder of their hames, and more devoted to them.

That's a thing to warm the c.o.c.kles of a Scots heart. I like folk who aren't ashamed to let others know the way they feel. An Englishman's likely to think it's indelicate to betray his feelings. We Scots dinna wear our hearts upon our sleeves, precisely, but we do love our hame, and we're aye fond o' talking about it when we're far awa'.

In Canada, especially, I always found Scots everywhere I went. They'd come to the theatre, whiles I was there; nearly every nicht I'd hear the gude Scots talk in my dressing room after my turn. There'd be dinners they'd gie me--luncheons, as a rule, rather, syne my time was ta'en up sae that I couldna be wi' em at the time for the evening meal. Whiles I'd sing a bit sang for them; whiles they'd ask me tae speak to them.