el', who are known to
the public. Folks will come to me, and when I've the time to listen,
they'll tell me their most private and sacred affairs. I dinna quite
ken why--I know I've heard things told to me that ha' made me feel as
a priest hearing confession must.

Some of the experiences are amusing; some ha' been close to being
tragic--not for me, but for those who came to me. I'm always glad to
help when I can, and it's a strange thing how often ye can help just
by lendin' a fellow creature the use o' your ears for a wee space.
I've a time or two in mind I'll be tellin' ye aboot.

But it's the queer way a crowd gathers it took me the longest to grow
used to. It was mair sae in London than I'd ever known it before. In
Scotland they'd no be followin' Harry Lauder aboot--a Scot like
themselves! But in London, and in special when I wore ma kilt, it was
different.

It wasna lang, after I'd once got ma start in London, before I was
appearing regularly in the East End halls. I was a great favorite
there; the Jews, especially, seemed to like me fine. One Sunday I was
down Petticoat Lane, in Whitechapel, to see the sichts. I never thocht
anyone there wad recognize me, and I stood quietly watching a young
Jew selling clothes from a coster's barrow. But all at once another
Jew came up to me, slapped me on the back, and cried oot: "Ach, Mr.
Lauder, and how you vas to-day? I vish there vas a kilt in the Lane--
you would have it for nothing!"

In a minute they were flocking around me. They all pulled me this way,
and that, slapped me on the back, embraced me. It was touching, but--
weel, I was glad to get awa', which I did so soon as I could wi'oot
hurtin' the feelings of my gude friends the Hebrews.

The Hebrews are always very demonstrative. I'm as fond o' them as,
thank fortune, they are o' me. They make up a fine and appreciative
audience. They know weel what they like, and why they like it, and
they let you ken hoo they feel. They are an artistic race; more so
than most others, I think. They've had sair misfortunes to bear, and
they've borne them weel.

One nicht I was at Shoreditch, playing in the old London Music Hall.
The East Enders had gi'en me a fairly terrific reception that evening,
and when it was time for me to be off to the Pavilion for my next turn
they were so crowded round the stage door that I had to ficht ma way
to ma brougham. It was a close call for me, onyway, that nicht, and I
was far frae pleased w