LOOKING back on these days in dear old Arbroath I
think the one thing that stands out in my memory was the wonderful spirit
of my dear mother. Never a word of com plaint crossed her lips. She was
leal to the core of her in- trepid Scottish heart. How she fed us and
clothed us and kept a roof over our heads I cannot imagine. But she did
it. If ever there was what the Bible calls a "mother in Israel" she was
one. Brave soul! Thank God she lived long enough to share in my success
and spend a few years in real comfort.
I
had to work hard at the mill every other day, but the days in between were
glorious—after school hours! One task, and one only, I hated with all my
soul. Each week my mother and I had to tease a hundred-weight of old ropes
and string, ship's rigging, etc., into "tow." This stuff was sent round
from one or other of the factories to the houses of the very poorest
people. When teased out into yarn it was mixed up with the flax and woven
into canvas or other material. The price allowed was one shilling and
sixpence a hundred weight It took my mother and I an hour or two every
night of the week, with the exception of Saturday, to reduce this dreadful
stuff into tow. Both her fingers and mine were often bleeding. Many and
many a time I cried with the pain and the awful monotony of the job. But
my mother's cheery, indomitable, uncomplaining nature was a great
encouragement to us both and always, when the night's proportion was
tackled—sometimes very late in the evening when the ropes and hawsers had
been more difficult to tease than usual—we kissed each other and "cuddled
up" out of sheer thankfulness.
It was while we were living in Arbroath that I
started to sing. Like many more people in the world I have always been
rather fond of hearing my own voice! Even as a very small boy I used to
imitate my father when he hummed or sang some of the old Scottish lyrics.
I cannot say that my father was a good vocalist because I don't remember.
But he was aye croonin' awa' at some snatch of melody. One day he turned
to my mother and said, "This wean's going to be a singer, Isa !" And he
thereupon began to teach me the words and melody of "Draw the Sword,
Scotland." I had as much idea of what drawing a sword for Scotland meant
as of Greek Iambics—and if I was on the scaffold today I couldn't tell you
what these are, but I saw the words in a book I happened to pick up
yesterday! So I learned this song and one or two others, including a most
melancholy ditty entitled, "I'm a Gentleman Still." The tune to which this
song was set had an extremely sorrowful wail about it and it became a sort
of obsession with me. It never left me for years. I would start singing or
humming it at any time and in any circumstances. You know the sort of
thing I mean—a tune takes hold of you to such an extent that you simply
can't get it out of your head. You begin to hate the damnable iteration of
its cadences. You try your best to forget it. But it is impossible. That's
how it was with me so far as this song was concerned. And one night an
event happened which was to focus this dreadful song even more firmly in
my mind. My mother had insisted on my
joining the Band of Hope. Probably she had noted very early symptoms of
depravity in me in the way of an affection for tobacco And thought that I
would be safeguarded from other vices by "signing the pledge" and coming
under the influence of the Blue Ribbon Army. In these days the Scottish
teetotallers and the Band of Hope boys all wore a blue ribbon to
demonstrate to the world their detestation of strong drink. If you
were an abstainer you were a member of the Blue Ribbon Army, as it was
then called.
The
Band of I-lope meetings I loved. They were bright and colourful. The
officials were good men and women, full of high ideals. The singing at the
meetings appealed to me from the start. Moody and Sankey, the American
evangel ists, had left a deeply religious effect all over Britain and the
hymns they sang at their revival meetings had taken a powerful grip of the
people of Scotland. Their melodies were simple but swinging; they lent
themselves admirably to com munity singing. I forget many of the hymns we
sang at the Band of Hope, but such favourites as "Shall We Gather At the
River?" "Throw Out the Life-Line," and similar haunting airs stand out in
my memory. I loved every note of them and yelled them out most lustily.
The old Scottish psalm tunes we occasionally sang at the Band of Hope, and
also at the Sunday School I attended, likewise made an extraordi nary
appeal to me. "All People That On Earth Do Dwell," to the tune of the Old
Hundred; "O, God of Bethel By Whose Hand," to the tune of Martyrdom, and
"Do Thou With Hysop Sprinkle Me," to the tune of St. Kilda, were among my
favourites. The last mentioned melody is in a most un usual minor key. It
was written by a young Scottish musician named Bloomfield who died early
in life and whose body, I have often been told, is lying in an ancient
cemetery in Aberdeen.
Middle-aged and elderly Scots who may happen to be
reading my memoirs will remember this tune of St. Kilda and how whole
congregations used to sway from side to side as they were singing its
plaintive ear-haunting rhythms. And they will remember the old Precentor
with his pitch- fork—before the "chists o' whistles" (the organs and
harmoniums) were introduced—searching for the key and then leading off the
psalmody for the assembled worshippers. His was a job second only in
importance to that of the "meenister" himsel'! Other old hymns which I
loved to hear announced were "Art Thou Weary, Art Thou Languid," by J. M.
Neale, "0, Love That Wilt Not Let Me Go," by Dr. Matheson, the blind
preacher, and "Lord of All Being Ti-ironed Afar"—that gorgeous bit of
poetic imagery by Oliver Wendell Holmes, who would, to my mind, have been
the greatest hymn-writer in the world had he only written some more. Yes,
all these psalms and hymns made on me a profound impression, especially on
the musical side. I feel sure they implanted in me that passion for melody
which has been the supreme thing in my life.
But to return to the incident I
mentioned. At the Band of Hope meetings it was the practice of the
superintendent to ask any of the boys or girls to stand up and sing or
recite any little thing they knew. For many weeks I was too shy to "take
the floor," but one night a companion who had evidently heard me singing
at the mill or in the school playground nudged me in the ribs, saying, "Go
on, Harry, staun' up and dae somethin'." So up I got from my seat, walked
to the little platform and modestly said that I was willing to sing a
song. I had fully intended to sing "Draw the Sword, Scotland," or "Annie
Laurie," or one of the other songs I had learned since leaving Müsselburgh.
But could I remember, facing my first audience, that any other song
existed in the world with the exception of "I'm a Gentleman Still"? No, my
mind went blank of everything but this awful song and this is what I
suddenly found myself singing in a high treble voice:
Though poverty daily looks in at
my door Though I'm hungry and footsore and ill, Thank God I can look
the whole world in the face And say, I'm a Gentleman Still!
Surely no more incongruous
spectacle could be imagined than the little bare-footed half-timer from
Gordon's Flax Mill standing there proclaiming, in song, that though poor
(God knows!) he was a gentleman still! But I got a great reception. The
Band of Hope children applauded me to the echo. There has been no sweeter
moment in my life than when I finished the song and made my way back to
the "form" with the hand-clapping and the shouting of my comrades ringing
in my ears. I wouldn't have changed places that night with Queen Victoria
or the President of the United States!
A few weeks later a travelling
concert-party gave a performance at the Oddfellows' Hall. A feature of the
evening was a "grand amateur competition for ladies and gentlemen."
Abyssinian gold (?) watches were offered as prizes. The town was plastered
with placards announcing the con cert and the contest. Two pals of mine in
the mill, Bob Hannah and Johnnie Yearnans—I remember their names quite
well because the three of us were nearly killed together in a boiler
explosion at a local sawmill—urged me to enter for the "Solid Abyssinian
gold hunter watch." We glued our eyes so persistently on the pictures of
the watch shown in a corner of the playbills that the three of us could
not sleep for thinking of it. Bob and Johnnie, who had heard my triumph at
the Band of Hope, were certain I would win the watch. I was their hero.
But their interest in the contest
was not wholly impersonal it appeared, for their idea—boldly and brazenly
announced—was that if I won we would sell the watch and divide the money.
This suggestion got me in a tender part at once! The idea of anybody
making money off me, through me, or by my efforts was highly repugnant to
me then. And, to tell the truth, I don't think my views on this point have
suffered any violent alteration up to the present day!
The upshot of the scheme,
however, was that I entered for the competition and duly won the watch
from a "field" of some ten or a dozen competitors all of whom were many
years older than the trembling little half-timer who put his whole soul
into the words and music of "I'm a Gentleman Still." One of the audience
was the manager of the mill I was employed at and at the finish of the
competition he sent round a shilling for Wee Harry Lauder. Hannah and Yea-
mans were waiting for me outside. They gave me a boisterous welcome but
before they could introduce the matter of selling my prize I told them
bluntly that I wouldn't sell the watch for any money, but that they could
have the shilling. Bob and Johnnie examined the watch most carefully, and
then decided that they would take the money! The watch went splendidly for
a week. Then it stopped, never to go again, as the old song says. But I
still have it. I handled it lovingly only a night or two ago.
In another similar competition a
month or two afterwards I again won the first prize, a six-bladed knife.
As I already had a knife—one I had found in the Abbey Path when delivering
papers early on a Saturday morning—I sold this knife to a man in the mills
for elevenpence. We argued about the price for three days; I wanted two
shillings, the purchaser offered fourpence. Ultimately, we compromised on
the price stated. Had I not been by this time a hardened smoker I do not
think I would have sold the prize so cheaply but elevenpence represented
the price of three or four ounces of Bogey Roll, now the only tobacco with
a sufficient kick in it for my thirteen-year-old palate!
After we had lived in Arbroath
for about two years a brother of my mother's who had settled in the Black
Country, as the coal-mining district of the west of Scotland is termed,
wrote urging that she and her family should nil- grate to Hamilton. There
would be more opportunities there, he pointed out, for the boys and also
for the girls when they grew up a bit. With seven hungry young mouths to
feed and bodies to clothe the problem that faced my poor mother at this
period must have been dire indeed. I was still the only breadwinner, apart
from her own tireless efforts, and my pay was only about three shillings a
week. In order to add to the family income I tried several times to get em
ployment as a full-timer in the mills. By telling the different managers I
was over fourteen I got started more than once, but I was always caught
out by the factory inspector and packed hack to half-time. How I hated
that interfering official! More than once I hid myself among the bales of
flax when I knew he was in the building, but if I escaped detection one
day, discovery was certain sooner or later. The inspector seemed to have a
special "down" on me because I once heard him asking if that damned young
singin' rascal Harry Lauder was workin' here?
So it came about that when I was
asked my opinion as to the suggested move to the west I was all for it. We
were sorry to leave "dear old St. Tammas," as the town of Ar broath is
affectionately known to its natives throughout the world, but needs must
when the devil drives and the next chapter in my life begins at Hamilton,
some ten or twelve miles from Glasgow. Hamilton is the centre of one of
the greatest coal areas in Britain. There are dozens and dozens of pits
within a mile or two of the town, or of the surround ing towns and
villages such at Coatbridge, Airdrie, Cambuslang, Shotts, Larkhall,
Bothwell, etc.
The Lauder family settled down in an exceedingly humble habitation in one
of the poorer quarters of the town. My Uncle Sandy was a "bottomer" in
Eddiewood Colliery and one of his mates agreed to give me a start as his
"boy" in one of the seams of this famous colliery. My wages were to be ten
shillings a week—to me an unheard-of sum and almost too good to be true.
As a matter of fact, it was too good to be true, because my "gaffer"
disappeared with all the money at the end of the first week, and was never
seen in Hamilton again. That Saturday night I cried myself to sleep. My
first week's work in the damp, dark depths of the mine had left me sore in
every limb and muscle of my body. And to be done out of my week's wages to
which I had been looking forward with feverish eagerness was the last
straw. My mother sat on the edge of my bed and cried with me! I was a
broken-hearted laddie. But we got over this terrible disaster as we had
surmounted many more serious.
I went back to the pit-head on the Monday morning to
look for another job. The first man I met was Gibbie (Gilbert) Pitcairn,
the general manager at Eddlewood. I told him of my experience with the
fraudulent miner and he clapped rue on the back, telling me to keep a
stout heart and saying I would be a good collier yet. Under a rough
exterior Gibbie was a splendid man; he stood four-square to the world and
feared neither owner nor miner. He started me right away to help shift the
wagons at the pithead Later in the day he was passing that way. He stood
and watched me for a few minutes. I was evidently doing my work in a slip
shod or frightened manner. "Here, you," he cried in a voice like a
fog-horn, "Come here !" I advanced in terror. Looking rue up and down he
asked, "Do ye ken a' that ye need, ma lad?" "No, sir," I replied. "The
horns, by God !" he growled —and passed on. This indication that I was
full brother to a goat left me in great tribulation, but I learned from
one of the men that Gibbie's bark was far worse than his bite. In after
years he was one of my greatest friends and admirers.
That week I earned nine
shillings. I ran all the way home and proudly placed the money in my
mother's lap. What a different Saturday night that was from the previous
one! My mother and I counted the money over and over again. My brothers
and sisters all had a look at it and said with bated breaths—"Harry's pey!"
A shilling of the money went on 2d. Mince pies, a whole one each for the
four oldest and a half each for the little ones! I was now the real head
of the family, the principal breadwinner for the eight of us. My age at
this time was thirteen and a half.
After a week or two at the pit-head Gibbie Pitcairn
found a job for me down below as a trapper. The trapper's duty is to open
and shut the wooden trap-doors controlling the air supply to admit of the
hutches passing out and in. It would take too long to describe just what
these air-course "traps" stand for in the matter of safety and a proper
current of air hundreds of fathoms below the surface of the soil. In any
case the trapper is supposed never to leave his post of duty for a moment.
Occasionally, however, I helped the pony drivers with their "tubs" over
bad bits of road or round awkward bends and switches. You see I was
anxious to be promoted pony-driver myself and I took every opportunity of
becoming versed in their work and in the control of the brave and
tremendously wise little horses who were doomed to spend their lives in
the black deeps of a coalmine.
I don't suppose I was any more humane in my instincts
than the rest of the boys at Eddlewood but I well remember the first time
I came to blows with a boy a few years older than myself. As he came
through my "trap" with a load of well-filled hutches he jabbed his pony in
the ribs with an iron rod he had picked up at the foot of the shaft. The
little thing winced under the cruel blow. It was more than I could stand.
"Hughie," I said, "if I see you do that again I'll punch you in the jaw!
1-littin' a puir wee pownie that canna hit back I" The driver didn't wait
for any more "sauce" from me but landed me one on the ear. Thereon I
kicked him in the stomach. The next "rake o' hutches" came along before he
was able to proceed. We were the best of friends afterwards. My pay as a
trapper was fifteen shillings a week -half-a-crown a day. After a year
I got the chance of a job as driver in Cadzow Colliery. The wages were a
pound a week. We still lived at Eddlewood Buildings in a wee house the
rent of which was three shillings a week. I had the better part of a mile
to walk to and from my new job, but as the wages were so much better I did
not mind this in the slightest. Besides, I was delighted to be "among the
horses." What wonderful little fellows they were! Strong, game, and
brimful of intelligence, the pit ponies interested me every hour of the
day and night. Alas, they have no day or night; all their work is done by
"shifts." But they know Saturday night when it comes along as well as the
men they work beside! They are quite frisky when they are taking the last
"rake" of the week to the bottom of the shaft and I am sure they would
kick up their heels then if there was only room for them to do so.
I had one splendid little pony at
Cadzow. He was named "Captain." He and I got to be very thick. In fact,
like me and the general in "She's My Daisy," I think he was the thickest
of the two! Standing eleven hands high he was a picture of health and
strength although he had been "doon the dook" for several years. He knew
every word that was spoken to him. His face was more expressive than many
a man's I have known. I loved "Wee Captain" with my whole heart. The
tricks I taught him! And the others he had picked up before he and I
foregathered! He could count the number of times we had been to "the face"
for a load. By what process of reasoning, or instinct, he did so none of
us had the slightest idea. But if I said to him late in the shift "how
many loads, Captain?" he would paw on the ground with his right foot and
the number was never wrong! He also knew to within a minute or two when "lowsin'
time" was due; could you have got Captain to go back for another rake of
hutches after hours?—no, sir, not unless you explained to him very
thoroughly just why this extra trip was necessary!
I taught my four-footed pal to
steal, too. The place where the drivers leave their coats and caps is
called the cabin. Into this cabin I used to take Captain and give him
little tit-bits out of my own jacket and bits of bread and cheese from the
"pieces" of the men on duty in different parts of the mine. All the flasks
containing tea or coffee were left on the cabin floor and Captain soon
learned to pick out a nice full flask, put it between his fore-hoofs and
pull the cork with his teeth. This accomplished it was an easy matter for
him to raise the flask and have a "swig" of tea or cof- fee! There were
occasional rows about the miners' flasks being tampered with, but I said
nothing. Whenever "Wee Captain" was on a foraging expedition in the cabin,
he kept his ears cocked. If any other footfall than my own sounded near at
hand he was out of the door like a shot and back either to his stable or
his "road."
Once
this dear little chap saved my life. He and I were on our way to the coal
face with a "rake" of empty hutches. We had to pass a "drift"—an old
working that has fallen in and been cut through, leaving above a
fearsome-looking vaulty space twenty or thirty or forty feet high. I
always felt creepy when we came to this great, gloomy cavern, and I think
Captain did the same. In any case we always rushed it. But there came a
time when the pony stopped dead just in front of the drift. Without
thinking what I was doing I urged him to get on with the job in hand. He
still refused. I gave him a sharp cut with my little whip. Wincing, he
looked round and stared me full in the face. "What's wrong, Captain?" I
asked. Simultaneously with the question I heard the most terrifying sound
that can assail the miner's ears—the creak and groan of the world above
him before the earth and stone comes crashing down to fill the vacuum.
Captain turned completely round in his tracks, pulling one of the hutches
off the rails and sought the comparative safety of the tunnel we were just
about to leave. I did the same. Next moment five hundred tons of material
fell with a noise like thunder into the cavern in front of us. how near we
both were to disaster may be judged by the fact that the hutch pulled
round off the rails by the pony was afterwards found to be filled with
jagged stones and rock! Safe in the tunnel I turned and hugged and kissed
Captain again and again. His sensitive ears had heard the warning before I
did. He knew what to do—and in doing it he saved both our lives. Years
afterwards I would have given my right hand to have been able to buy
Captain and present him with his freedom in God's sunlight. But he died in
the pit, as he had lived in it. Brave heart! I have forgotten many men and
I'll forget many more. I shall never forget "Wee Captain!"
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