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 brass
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 cockles 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.
Often there'd be some laddie I'd known when we were boys together;
once or twice I'd shake the hand o' one had worked wi' me in the pit.
Man, is there anything like coming upon an old friend far frae hame I
didna think sae. It's a feeling that you always have, no matter how
oft it comes to you. For me, I know weel, it means a lump rising in my
throat, and a bit o' moisture that's verra suspicious near my een, so
that I maun wink fast, sometimes, that no one else may understand.
I'm a great one for wearing kilts. I like the Scottish dress. It's the
warmest, the maist sensible, way of dressing that I ken. I used to
have mair colds before I took to wearing kilts than ever I've had
since I made a practice of gie'in up my troosers. And there's a
freedom aboot a kilt that troosers canna gie ye.
I've made many friends in America, but I'm afraid I've made some
enemies, too. For there's a curious trait I've found some Americans
have. They've an audacity, when they're the wrang sort, I've never
seen equalled in any other land. And they're clever, tae--oh, aye--
they're as clever as can be!
More folk tried tae sell me things I didna want on that first tour o'
mine. They'd come tae me wi' mining stocks, and tell me how I could
become rich overnicht. You'd no be dreaming the ways they'd find of
getting a word in my ear. I mind times when men wha wanted to reach
me, but couldna get to me when I was off the stage, hired themselves
as stage hands that they micht catch me where I could not get away.
Aye, they've reached me in every way. Selling things, books,
insurance, pictures; plain begging, as often as not. I've had men
drive cabs so they could speak to me; I mind a time when one, who was
to drive me frae the car, in the yards, tae the theatre, took me far
oot of ma way, and then turned.
"Now then, Harry Lauder!" he said. "Give me the thousand dollars!"
"And what thousand dollars wi' that be, my mannie?" I asked him.
"The thousand I wrote and told you I must have!" he said, as brash as
you please.
"Noo, laddie, there's something wrang," I said. "I've had nae letter
from you aboot that thousand dollars!"
"It's the mails!" he said, and cursed. "I'm a fule to trust to them.
They're always missending letters and delaying them. Still, there's no
harm done. I'm telling you now I need a thousand dollars. Have you
that much with you?"
"I dinna carrie sae muckle siller wi' me, laddie," I said. I could see
he was but a salt yin, and none to be fearing. "I'll gie you a dollar
on account."
And, d'ye ken, he was pleased as Punch? It was a siller dollar I gie'd
him, for it was awa' oot west this happened, where they dinna have the
paper money so much as in the east.
That's a grand country, that western country in America, whichever
side of the line you're on, in Canada or in the States. There's land,
and there's where real men work upon it. The cities cannot lure them
awa'--not yet, at any rate. It's an adventure to work upon one of
those great farms. You'll see the wheat stretching awa' further than
the een can reach. Whiles there'll be a range, and you can see maybe
five thousand head o' cattle that bear a single brand grazing, wi' the
cowboys riding aboot here and there.
I've been on a round up in the cattle country in Texas, and that's
rare sport. Round up's when they brand the beasties. It seems a cruel
thing, maybe, to brand the bit calves the way they do, but it's
necessary, and it dosna hurt them sae much as you'd think. But ot's
the life that tempts me! It's wonderfu' to lie oot under the stars on
the range at nicht, after the day's work is done. Whiles I'd sing a
bit sang for the laddies who were my hosts, but oft they'd sing for me
instead, and that was a pleasant thing. It made a grand change.
I've aye taken it as a great compliment, and as the finest thing I
could think aboot my work, that it's true men like those cowboys, and
like the soldiers for whom I sang sae much when I was in France, o'
all the armies, who maist like to hear me sing. I've never had
audiences that counted for sae much wi' me. Maybe it's because I'm
singing, when I sing for them, for the sheer joy of doing it, and not
for siller. But I think it's mair than that. I think it's just the
sort of men they are I know are listening tae me. And man, when you
hear a hundred voices--or five thousand!--rising in a still nicht to
join in the chorus of a song of yours its something you canna forget,
if you live to any age at a'.
I've had strange accompaniments for my stings, mair than once. Oot
west the coyote has played an obligato for me; in France I've had the
whustling o' bullets over my head and the cooming of the big guns,
like the lowest notes of some great organ. I can always sing, ye ken,
wi'oot any accompaniments frae piano or band. 'Deed, and there's one
song o' mine I always sing alone. It's "The Wee Hoose Amang the
Heather." And every time I appear, I think, there's some one asks for
that.
Whiles I think I've sung a song sae often everyone must be tired of
it. I'm fond o' that wee song masel', and it was aye John's favorite,
among all those in my repertory. But it seems I canna sing it often
enough, for more than once, when I've not sung it, the audience hasna
let me get awa' without it. I'll ha' gie'n as many encores as I
usually do; I'll ha' come back, maybe a score of times, and bowed. But
a' over the hoose I'll hear voices rising--Scots voices, as a rule.
"Gie's the wee hoose, Harry," they'll roar. And: "The wee hoose 'mang
the heather, Harry," I'll hear frae another part o' the hoose. It's
many years since I've no had to sing that song at every performance.
Sometimes I've been surprised at the way my audiences ha' received me.
There's toons in America where maist o' the folk will be foreigners--
places where great lots o' people from the old countries in Europe ha'
settled doon, and kept their ain language and their ain customs. In
Minnesota and Wisconsin there'll be whole colonies of Swedes, for
example. They're a fine, God fearing folk, and, nae doot, they've a
rare sense of humor o' their ain. But the older ones, sometimes, dinna
understand English tae well, and I feel, in such a place, as if it was
asking a great deal to expect them to turn oot to hear me.
And yet they'll come. I've had some of my biggest audiences in such
places, and some of my friendliest. I'll be sure, whiles I'm singing,
that they canna understand. The English they micht manage, but when I
talk a wee bit o' Scots talk, it's ayant them altogether. But they'll
laugh--they'll laugh at the way I walk, I suppose, and at the waggle
o' ma kilts. And they'll applaud and ask for mair. I think there's
usually a leaven o' Scots in sic a audience; just Scots enough so I'll
ha' a friend or twa before I start. And after that a's weel.
It's a great sicht to see the great crowds gather in a wee place
that's happened to be chosen for a performance or twa because there's
a theatre or a hall that's big enough. They'll come in their motor
cars; they'll come driving in behind a team o' horses; aye, and
there's some wull come on shanks' mare. And it's a sobering thing tae
think they're a' coming, a' those gude folk, tae hear me sing. You
canna do ought but tak' yourself seriously when they that work sae
hard to earn it spend their siller to hear you.
I think it was in America, oot west, where the stock of the pioneers
survives to this day, that I began to realize hoo much humanity
counted for i' this world. Yon's the land of the plain man and woman,
you'll see. Folk live well there, but they live simply, and I think
they're closer, there, to living as God meant man tae do, than they
are in the cities. It's easier to live richtly in the country. There's
fewer ways to hand to waste time and siller and good intentions.
It was in America I first came sae close to an audience as to hae it
up on the stage wi' me. When a hoose is sair crowded there they'll put
chairs aroond upon the stage--mair sae as not to disappoint them as
may ha' made a lang journey tae get in than for the siller that wad be
lost were they turned awa'. And it's a rare thing for an artist to be
able tae see sae close the impression that he's making. I'll pick some
old fellow, sometimes, that looks as if nothing could mak' him laugh.
And I'll mak' him the test. If I canna make him crack a smile before
I'm done my heart will be heavy within me, and I'll think the
performance has been a failure. But it's seldom indeed that I fail.
There's a thing happened tae me once in America touched me mair than
a'most anything I can ca' to mind. It was just two years after my boy
John had been killed in France. It had been a hard thing for me to gae
back upon the stage. I'd been minded to retire then and rest and nurse
my grief. But they'd persuaded me to gae back and finish my engagement
wi' a revue in London. And then they'd come tae me and talked o' the
value I'd be to the cause o' the allies in America.
When I began my tour it was in the early winter of 1917. America had
not come into the war yet, wi' her full strength, but in London they
had reason to think she'd be in before long--and gude reason, tae, as
it turned oot. There was little that we didna ken, I've been told,
aboot the German plans; we'd an intelligence system that was better by
far than the sneaking work o' the German spies that helped to mak' the
Hun sae hated. And, whiles I canna say this for certain, I'm thinking
they were able to send word to Washington frae Downing street that
kept President Wilson and his cabinet frae being sair surprised when
the Germans instituted the great drive in the spring of 1918 that came
sae near to bringing disaster to the Allies.
Weel, this was the way o' it. I'll name no names, but there were those
who knew what they were talking of came tae me.
"It's hard, Harry," they said. "But you'll be doing your country a
good service if you'll be in America the noo. There's nae telling when
we may need all her strength. And when we do it'll be for her
government to rouse the country and mak' it realize what it means to
be at war wi' the Hun. We think you can do that better than any man
we could be sending there--and you can do it best because you'll no be
there just for propaganda. Crowds will come to hear you sing, and
they'll listen to you if you talk to them after your performance, as
they'd no be listening to any other man we might send."
In Washington, when I was there before Christmas, I saw President
Wilson, and he was maist cordial and gracious tae me. Yon' a great
man, for a' that's said against him, and there was some wise men he
had aboot him to help him i' the conduct of the war. Few ken, even the
noo, how great a thing America did, and what a part she played in
ending the war when it was ended. I'm thinking the way she was making
ready saved us many a thousand lives in Britain and in France, for she
made the Hun quit sooner than he had a mind to do.
At any rate, they made me see in Washington that they agreed wi' those
who'd persuaded me to make that tour of America. They, too, thought
that I could be usefu', wi' my speaking, after what I'd seen in
France. Maybe, if ye'll ha' heard me then, ye'll ha' thought I just
said whatever came into my mind at the moment. But it was no so. The
things I said were thought oot in advance; their effect was calculated
carefully. It was necessary not to divulge information that micht ha'
been of value to the enemy, and there were always new bits of German
propoganda that had tae be met and discounted without referring to
them directly. So I was always making wee changes, frae day to day.
Sometimes, in a special place, there'd be local conditions that needed
attention; whiles I could drop a seemingly careless or unstudied
suggestion that would gain much more notice than an official bulletin
or speech could ha' done.
There's an art that conceals art, I'm told. Maybe it was that I used
in my speaking in America during the war. It may be I gave offence
sometimes, by the vehemence of my words, but I'm hoping that all true
Americans understood that none was meant. I'd have to be a bit harsh,
whiles, in a toon that hadna roused itself to the true state of
affairs. But what's a wee thing like that between friends and allies?
It's the New Year's day I'm thinking of, though. New Year's is aye a
sacred day for a' us Scots. When we're frae hame we dinna lik it; it's
a day we'd fain celebrate under our ain rooftree. But for me it was
mair so than for maist, because it was on New Year's day I heard o' my
boy's death.
Weel, it seemed a hard thing tae ha' the New Year come in whiles I was
journeying in a railroad car through the United States. But here's the
thing that touched me sae greatly. The time came, and I was alane wi'
the wife. Tom Vallance had disappeared. And then I heard the skirl o'
the pipes, and into the car the pipers who travelled wi' me came
marching. A' the company that was travelling wi' me followed them, and
they brocht wee presents for me and for the wife. There were tears in
our een, I'm telling you; it was a kindly thought, whoever amang them
had it, and ane I'll ne'er forget. And there, in that speeding car, we
had a New Year's day celebration that couldna ha' been matched ootside
o' Scotland.
But, there, I've aye found folk kindly and thoughtfu' tae me when I've
had tae be awa' frae hame on sic a day, And it happens often, for it's
just when folk are making holiday that they'll want maist to see and
hear me in their theatres, and sae it's richt seldom that I can mak'
my way hame for the great days o' the year. But I wull, before sae
lang--I'm near ready to keep the promise I've made sae often, and
retire. You're no believing I mean that? You've heard the like of that
tale before? Aye, I ken that fine. But I mean it!