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.