I set
sail from Liverpool on the old Lucciania in the
middle of October 1907. Nance did not feel any too good in health at that
time and cried off the trip. Tom, my inseparable henchman and companion,
was ill with rheumatic fever in London and could not accompany me. So I
took my son John, then a boy of sixteen and due to go up to Cambridge in a
month or two. He had been over the water to Canada with his mother a year
before; he was by way of being an old sailor and knew the ropes.
Poor John! I can scarcely bear to think about that
trip with him and the fine times we had together on board. He was very
young but he was very wise and among his other accomplishments he could
play the piano beautifully and sing a good sentimental song. What a
favourite he was with the passengers! Little did he or I dream then of a
world war which was to bring desolation and unending sorrow into our home
and into millions of others. How glad I am now that I took him with me on
that first American trip! It was the longest time we had ever been
together; we only got to know each other properly during that two months'
holiday. Remembering always my first trip across the Atlantic with my dear
boy John I never miss a chance of telling parents who are blessed with
boys and girls to spend all the time they can
with them when the bairns are young because if they don't do so then, they
will be missing one of the purest joys of life in what Burns describes as
"this melancholy vale."
As the ship drew
nearer and nearer to New York I became quite nervous. I was about to
launch another Scots "invasion." I knew well enough
that America was the happy hunting-ground of thousands of my countrymen
who had gone there before me; I was perfectly well aware of the fact that
it was a magnificent land blessed by nature with a bountiful array of
natural resources and inhabited by teeming and prosperous peoples drawn
from every corner of the globe. I was fairly well acquainted with its
history. George Wash ington and Abraham Lincoln ranked second only in my
estimation to Robert Burns and Walter Scott; one of the greatest and
grandest books I had read In my life up till then was "From Log Cabin to
White House." Would there be a spotlight somewhere in this wonderful
country for little Harry Lauder? What chance had I of competing with the
cleverest entertainers in the vaudeville firmament of the mighty U. S. A.?
Could I deliver the goods? Honestly, I felt dubious. I mentioned my doubts
and fears to John, sitting with me in our stateroom two nights out from
Sandy Hook. In language, and with an outlook far beyond his years, he
replied:
"Dad,
you'll be a riot! Don't you worry! I know America and the Americans (he
had been in Canada for six weeks the previous year!) and they'll eat you
up, bones an' all! But if you don't go down very well there are always
plenty of ships home. My opinion is that you were right to come over here
because if you can get away with it (he had all the little professional
touches, you see) there's a bit of money to be cleaned up in the States.
We'll do our best, anyhow!"
This "considered opinion" of John's cheered me up
greatly. But next day I happened on something which sent my spirits slap
down to zero. This was an old New York paper which I casually lifted up in
the saloon and in glancing through which I came across a criticism of
myself and my work written by a man signing himself Alan Dale. It was not
only unkind; it was vitriolic. It not only criticised my art but it
villified my personal appearance. It vomited scorn on my songs, my singing
of them, on my legs and the way I walked with them, my nose and how I
breathed through it; it slashed, stabbed, and excoriated the British
people for laughing at me and wound up by asserting that the free and
discerning people of America would have none of "this Scots buffoon who
had the insolence to call himself a comedian"—or words to that effect.
Grinding my teeth with rage I
went in search of John. You will remember that earlier in my memoirs I
made the statement that I have seldom or ever read a newspaper criti cism
of my stage work. This is absolutely true. I have never been on the books
of a Press Cutting Agency. Had I, like so many celebrities, been in the
habit of reading everything said or written about me over a period of
years, this snappy column by Mr. Dale might have amused me immensely. As
it was it came to me like a blow on the jaw—and I saw red. Moreover I was
in a highly nervous condition on the very eve of my inaugural performance
in New York. I don't think I ever saw a boy laugh so much as John did when
he read the Alan Dale criticism.
"Fa, this is splendid," said John. "It's the funniest
thing I've read in my life!" And he started to laugh all over again.
"I'm glad you think it funny,
son," I growled. "It doesn't sound at all funny to me. And if I meet this
bloke Alan Dale I'll plaster him up against the wa like an Answers
poster," I meant it, too.
I was still smarting under the sting and injustice of
Mr. Dale's venom when we arrived at New York. As usual an army of
newspaper men came aboard and they all wanted to interview me at once.
Somehow or other I got it into my head that one of the bunch must be the
Dale bird! So T refused to be interviewed until he stepped forward and
confessed. "And I give him fair warning that I'll kill him on the spotI" I
added. The press boys all laughed, assuring me that they had never heard
of such an individual; in any case, he wasn't one of the regular gang and
I need not worry my head about him. But I was in no humour to be chatty
that afternoon on the Lucania and I am afraid I made a very bad impression
on the first crowd of New York pressmen to come in contact with Harry
Lauder. One of the boys, in fact, pointedly told me that I was "a sour
little guy," that I should "ease up on this fightin' stuff an' come across
with a story or two," otherwise I would be "handed the frozen mitt in lii'
ole New York!"
Kiaw and Erlanger had sent down one or two representatives to the boat to
meet me. But I think that in view of my stormy passages with the reporters
they kept in the background. I heard afterwards that one of them went
straight back to the office and gave a most disheartening account of my
appearance and conduct. "Boss," he is reported to have said, "this guy
Lauder has arrived all right. But he looks to me to be more a tragedy than
a comedy. He's roarin' at the pier porters an' generally playin' hell with
the noospaper men. Threatens to kill every critic in the States that don't
stand for his act an' boost Scotland as the king nation of the universe!
He's four foot nothin' in height, so shortsighted that he has to wear
telescopes for eye-glasses, an' looks all of a cheap emigrant. Boss, you
should see his old coat an' baggy trousers; I'll tell the world he ain't
no snappy dresser. If this poor boob is a barnstormer, it throw in on an
ace-full!" Naturally this news rather disconcerted the taff at Kiaw and
Erlanger's and I have no doubt the princi pals were already regretting
their bargain. All the same they gave me a most kindly reception when we
actually met next day.
If I had proved anything but a gold-mine to the
reporters on the ship they got plenty of copy about me and my arrival in
other directions. A very old British friend in Peter Dewar—then resident
in New York and doing bright business in the sale of a Scots product now,
alas, absolutely unknown in the States!—had arranged for several pipers in
full Highland dress to "blaw me ashore" and lead the way from the pier to
a tartan-draped motor-car in which I drove to the Knickerbocker Hotel.
Hundreds of expatriated Scots had
also turned up at the harbour; they gave tongue to vociferous cries,
Hielan' hoochs and shouts of welcome. This was all a surprise to me
indeed. I had not expected anything like it. My intention had been all
along to land in America very quietly, do my best to make a hit and, if I
failed, to get away home again at once and regard my trip as an
experience. We arrived on the Friday. On the Sunday I was so homesick that
if there had been a steamer leaving New York that day I honestly think I
would have booked a passage. But when Monday came I was on my toes—I had
the I'll-show'em feeling all right. John and I were at the New York
Theatre, Times Square, an hour before I was due to go on at the matinee.
The people rolled up all serene. When the programme opened the house was
full. My number going up was the signal for a tremendous outburst of
cheering, led, I have no doubt whatever, by my good Scottish friends and
admirers.
Once
again it was old "Tobermory" that did the trick. I had not been on the
stage more than a minute before I realized that I was going to make good.
At the end of my first song the applause was terrific. I forgot all about
Old Man Dale, my doubts and forebodings of failure, and played as well as
I have ever done in my professional career. "If this is New York I am
going to love you," said I to myself. That was twenty years ago. I have
never had the slightest reason to revise my decision.
At my first matinee I sang six
songs in place of the three I had anticipated. But in the evening my
reception was so warm that I had to sing ten numbers before I was allowed
to leave the stage. Altogether I was "on" for just over two hours, a
physical ordeal which had me completely groggy at the finish. But I was
happy in the knowledge that I had won out and that the gloomy prophecies
of my friend Mr. Dale had been falsified. Long before I woke the next
morning John went out and secured copies of the leading New York dailies.
He roused me up and insisted on reading the very flattering and flowery
comments of the theatrical and vaudeville critics on my performance and my
triumph. There seemed to me to be as many inches of headings as there was
text to the laudatory criticisms and one streamer cross-line remains in my
mind. It read—Harry Lauder, great artiste, captivates America. As he laid
down the last of the papers John turned to me and said,
"Pa, dear, I knew you would
paralyze them!"
I
kissed John, turned over in my bed and went to sleep again.
These first five weeks in America
seem like a dream to me now. Actually I was in dreamland most of the time.
Everything was so new and strange and vast and breath less that senses
were in a "dwam" most of the time. I must have met hundreds and hundreds
of people whose names I forget now but they were all very kind to me. I
had invitations to lunch, dinner, supper, and even break- fast. Prominent
New Yorkers asked me to receptions, dances, and functions of all kinds. I
was completely rushed off my feet. I began to think that life in New York
was a bit too strenuous for me and to weary for the peace and quiet of
working four halls a night in London! Whenever I did manage to get an hour
or two to myself I spent the time wandering through the streets of New
York, taking stock of the immense buildings, watching the people hurrying
and scurrying hither and yon, taking trips on the subway and in the street
cars and generally trying to grasp what New York stood for in the life of
the new and wonderful world that had been opened up for me as if by magic.
Here let me make a confession. After a week or two in the turmoil and
frenzy I made up my mind that I liked the folks very much indeed but that
I would sooner die than spend the rest of my days in New York! It "deaved"
me to death. A sense of oppression came over me. I felt that of a
certainty one or other of the big buildings would fall on me. The
cumulative effect of all this was a sense of choking--I was always
fighting for breath, as it were.
Two friendships I made on this visit which meant much
to me then, and they have become stronger and stronger with the passage of
time. Colonel Walter Scott swam into my ken the first week I opened at the
New York Theatre. His breezy, straightforward, generous personality, added
to the fact that he seemed to be more Scottish than I was myself, appealed
to me at once. We fell for each other right away and have been "sworn
brithers" for twenty years. An amazing man is Wattie Scott. A native-born
American, and proud of it, he is yet the most perfervid lover of Scotland
and all things Scottish that the world has ever seen. His affection for
the land of his forebears is a religion with him. He is qualified to take
a post as a professor of Scottish history and character in any university.
The lore of Scotland from time immemorial is an open book to him; he
sleeps with a copy of Burns beneath his pillow.
Walter is the perpetual president
of a thousand St. An- chews' Societies and Burns' Clubs scattered
throughout every state in the union; no Scottish Clan association is
"worth a docken" if Wattie's name is not on its list of office bearers and
financial supporters, All America knows what the colonel did in raising
Scottish-American troops for the front in the time of the world war. Not
content with his purely Scottish activities he is in the foreground of all
good and charitable works in the United States; if there can be found
anywhere in America half a dozen men or women willing to found a patriotic
society to commemorate the Revolution, to perpetuate the name and fame of
some illustrious poet, or writer or citizen or soldier or sailor or
humanitarian or benefactory generally Wattie has only to be approached and
all things are made smooth. If a bill has to be footed, he'll pay. If a
speech is to be delivered he'll either do it himself or get the President
to do it. If a thousand mile journey has to be undertaken in connection
with any of his organizations he'll do it overnight and get back to his
business in Broadway by the first available train. Where and how he finds
time for one tenth part of the work he does has always been one of the
monumental puzzles of America to me.
One of his latest ideas was to
establish a great Scottish University on the Island of Iona in the Western
Highlands. If it wasn't his he was at least all over it. Walter asked me
if I would subscribe to this great and glorious notion. "Certainly not!" 1
told him, "I've seen Iona and a university there would have as much chance
as an ice factory leaning up against the North Pole!" But that's the sort
of man he is. Just a great big, open-hearted boy anxious and willing to
take the whole wide world into his arms and organize it on Clan
Association lines. He'll never know how much I love and respect him.
Another personal friendship I
cemented during this first visit was between myself and William Morris. No
need to tell you that Will Morris is today the greatest vaudeville agent
on both sides of the Atlantic. In those days he was KIaw and Erlanger's
chief booking man and I had a lot to do with him while at the Times Square
Theatre. Between this black-haired, handsome Jew with the little nose and
the "gripping" wee Scots comedian with the big nose a mutual affection
sprang up. We took to each other from the very outset. I always say that
Will Morris is the best Jew I have ever met and he says I am the best
Scotsman he has ever met—so what more is there to be said? Nothing! Later
he became my American manager. Under his wing I have made twenty trips to
America and he has "put me across" in practically every town and city of
any size in the States from New York to San Francisco and from Mexico to
the Canadian border. And I have never had a written contract with Morris
from the first day in Liverpool, in the year 1908, when we settled our
original bargain with a shake of the hand. For all his success and
world-wide popularity with all manner of theatrical people Will is a shy
man and I should hate to make him blush by saying just what I think of
him. Since meeting him and hooking up together I have got to know exactly
what is meant by "the chosen people." All the same, mind you, I think
Morris must have made a lot of money out of me. But, as I haven't done so
badly myself as the result of our association, I am content to let it go
at that! (Don't you think, Will, that I should have just a wee bit more
out of my next annual farewell tour in view of the fine character I have
given you in this book?)
When my engagement came to a close at the end of the
five weeks Kiaw and Erlanger were most anxious that I should either stay
on in America or sign another contract to appear under their management at
the very earliest date on which I could get released from my British
bookings. As I had had a devil of a job to get away from these bookings
for two months I did not see how I could remain a day longer. As for a new
contract, well, I wanted time to consider everything in its due
proportion. I was evidently a big hit in America—a wow! That was a fact
which admitted of no shadow of doubt. Before the end of my first week I
had been stormed at with requests to appear in every large city in the
States. Several of the big Scottish societies had even offered me as much
for one night's appearance as I had been drawing in salary at the New York
Theatre. In short, I could see that there was a rich and fallow field for
me in the New World. But I determined to gang warily in the matter of
putting my signature to legal documents. I had had bitter experience of
hasty decisions in this respect at home.
"Harry, ma lad," said I to masel',
"there's nae hurry. America's waitin' for ye an' wants ye. America is
ready tae weigh in wi' the dollars good an' plenty. Ye've sown the good
seed—awa' hame an' wait for it tae bear fruit abundantly."
Realizing that this was sound
common-sense I refused all temptations to get me to stay on. But lest my
resolution should fail me at the last moment I packed up the night before
John and I should have sailed and went down to the Carmania and locked
myself in the cabin. Two o'clock the next afternoon would have been time
enough. Urgent mes sages, letters, and telegrams continued to arrive at
the hotel many hours after the ship had sailed. And that, very briefly is
the story of how I broke into America.
It was only a flying visit,
undertaken with no great enthusiasm, and it never took me out of the
confines of New York. But it was the precursor of many wonderful and
delightful tours which have made me better acquainted with the people of
the United States than perhaps any other traveller in the world. Indeed I
must have seen, and been seen by, more citizens of the Republic than any
other man who ever lived! This seems at first blush a pretty tall
statement. But work it out for yourself and you will see that I am not far
wrong. Tom and I once sat down during a long railroad journey from North
to South and tried to calculate how many miles we had travelled in the
States together. We lost count completely after we had got to our first
hundred thousand.
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