Delphi Complete Works of Jerome K. Jerome (Illustrated) (Series Four) (510 page)

In addition to the family of five, there were also Mrs. Jerome’s unmarried sister and a servant to be kept; and the business being unprofitable, the outlook was gloomy indeed.

Poplar was a dreary, poverty-stricken quarter of the great city; but little Jerome’s mother looked after him with unremitting devotion. She was a sincerely pious woman, and, like most Nonconformists of that period, brought up her children largely on “Foxe’s Book of Martyrs”. That religious instinct, which later inspired his most famous play (“The Passing of the Third Floor Back”), was already strong in Jerome as a child.

Mr. T. Ackland, mentioned in Chapter I, informs the writer that he was working as a ship’s carpenter on the steamer
Cinderella,
which called at London in 1865. The captain and his wife, who had known the Jeromes at Appledore, sent Ackland with a note inviting them to tea on board. “Young J. K. J.,” he states, “would not walk over the gangway. I picked him up in my arms and carried him. They spent a pleasant afternoon and I carried him ashore again.”

When Jerome was eight years old he was taken by his mother, together with his two sisters, on a visit to Appledore. It must have been twelve years since Mrs. Jerome left there; and she looked forward with great delight to seeing again the place of her husband’s triumphs as a preacher and lecturer and to meeting many old friends whom she held in very great esteem. When she arrived they overwhelmed her with their love and hospitality. To little Jerome it was an entirely new experience. Mr. Ackland, who was at the time in Appledore, states that “the young fellow was delighted with everything, especially the steep hill.” He said: “I like this. I have never seen such a big hill before, but it makes me tired!” They stayed at their old home, which they themselves had built, but through an unfortunate speculation was now lost to them. The memory of this must have saddened their visit, but, nevertheless, it was a time of great happiness and enjoyment.

On their way back to London Jerome was left behind at a station where they got out for refreshments. His mother thought he was with his sisters, and his sisters thought he was with his mother. But he was taken care of by a lady who happened to be travelling to London. Stories were beginning to shape themselves in his mind at this early age, for he confided to the lady that the incident would be useful to be put in a book  he thought of writing. The lady was much interested in his talk and did not leave him until he had found his mother at Paddington.

He was now allowed to go about the ugly, sordid streets of Poplar, and in time became a typical London boy. The average London boy is proudly conscious of the fact that he lives in the biggest city in the world, and that his city is the capital of the greatest Empire the world has ever known. The London boy is probably the most wide-awake, fearless youngster yet produced by civilization. Dante Gabriel Rosetti has said that “the learned London children know more than is good for them”. Later in life J. K. J. himself claimed in his humorous way to have been a model boy in Poplar, but he learned King David’s knack of throwing stones with a sling. He aimed at birds and cats but rarely hit them, being more successful with windows.

Jerome was now parting with his childhood. In “Paul Kelver” he recalls the time when he was “standing upon Barking Bridge watching the river; he turned from the river, and passed through a white toll-gate, he had a sense of leaving himself behind on the bridge. So vivid was the impression that he looked back, half expecting to see himself still leaning over the iron parapet watching the sunlit water.” He was looking back upon his childhood with vague feelings of regret; an emotion common to humanity, which has been finely expressed by R. L. Stevenson:

“Ah, never to return again!

The eternal dawn, beyond a doubt,

Shall break on hill and plain,

And put all stars and candles out

Ere we be young again.”

CHAPTER III. SCHOOL DAYS

“Cheerily, then, my little man,

Live and laugh as boyhood can.”

WHEN Jerome was about ten years old, there was great excitement throughout the country over Mr. W. E. Forster’s Education Bill. Joseph Chamberlain was then making things more lively than usual. Although he had not entered Parliament, as a member of the Birmingham Education League he was a great force in his advocacy of free education. When the Bill had become law, Jerome’s parents were eager that he should take full advantage of it. He accordingly commenced his school life in the Philological School, at the corner of Lisson Grove, having passed the preliminary examination, according to his mother’s diary, “with flying colours”. He entered school with much advice from his mother as to his choice of companions, and from his father about learning to take his own part.

On the first day at school some boys gathered round him and demanded to know where he was born. He told them Walsall. A shrill voice on the outskirts of the crowd sang out: “Oh, I know Walsall, just the sort of place he would be born in.” Jerome did not know whether to take it as a reflection upon Walsall or himself. This worried him, and that evening he asked his father what was wrong with Walsall. His father told him something of the history of his native town and he felt happier about Walsall, but not sure about himself.

Wm. Willett, the author of the Daylight Saving Bill, was one of his schoolmates. Another schoolfellow was Mr. H. J. Stratton, with whom the present writer has had several conversations. Mr. Stratton says that he remembers more of Jerome’s boyish characteristics than those of the other boys because his personality made a deeper and more lasting impression upon him. He also expresses the opinion that “if ever a boy was father of the man, that boy was J. K. J.”

“Jerome,” he says, “was very reserved, he made no close acquaintances and rarely volunteered a statement. He was generally dreamy, but at the same time was a pugnacious boy; he was proud and sensitive.” It did not take the other boys long to discover the kind of material he was made of. Stratton himself once, and only once, thoughtlessly tweaked Jerome’s ear. In less than two seconds he wished he hadn’t. The boys sometimes made play with his uncommon name, of which he himself was rather proud. They made rhymes and limericks with it. On one occasion a few of them were indiscreet enough to go beyond fun to a mean insult. Jerome singled out the biggest, as he always did, and went for him. His onslaught rather terrified them and took them by surprise. They never made fun of his name again.

There is a story of a school fight in “Paul Kelver”, in which Paul found himself fighting a whole crowd of boys. He was hitting out right and left, and presently found himself punching something soft. He was putting in his best work when he discovered he was punching a policeman. Mr. Stratton says this is a “Jeromian” description of the fight mentioned above, which he himself witnessed.

In later life Mr. Jerome did not think much of the system of education under which he spent four years of his life. Speaking of his school days he said it made him angry to think about them, not that he blamed his own particular school. He thought the system was wrong. He claimed to have learned more by his own efforts, by picking up food for his mind as he went about from day to day.

As this boy was destined to become famous, and to give the world a “new humour”, it may be fitting to place on record some of the mischievous inanities and adventurous pranks of boyhood in which he took a delight. He probably learned from these things more to his purpose than he did from the school curriculum. He was unconsciously, but quite naturally, educating himself for his true vocation. He learned much in the open air from that greatest of all teachers, “Nature”.

His sister Paulina had married Mr. Robert Shorland, and the family moved from Poplar and went to live at Colney Hatch, then only a small place surrounded by fields and woods.

In holiday time he would take long solitary walks in the country. Sometimes he would induce a stray dog to accompany him, but generally he went alone. He thus realized the truth of Goethe’s words that “talents are best nurtured in solitude”. Or, perhaps, he felt the satisfaction of solitude, as expressed by the poet Milne:

“I can think whatever I like to think,

There’s nobody here but me.”

Fishing was another favourite pastime. All the brooks, ponds and lakes in the neighbourhood that contained fish were known to him. He had his own method of catching trout and pike. He also became skilled in snaring rabbits.

He got mixed up, to quote his own words, “with a bad set, which included the Wesleyan minister’s two sons, also the only child of the church organist.” These youngsters were no sooner out of one scrape than they were in another.

Jerome was spoken of as “a plucky little devil”, “a fair ‘ot un”, and was acknowledged to be very clever in evading the police or the keepers when on trespass. Before going on a poaching expedition he would first ascertain from the milk boy or the cowman’s boy how the land lay. Those were the days when trespassers were “prosecuted with the utmost rigour of the law”, the days of mantraps, spring-guns, and dog-catchers; but these things had no terrors for mischievous boys who were out for fish, rabbits, mushrooms or blackberries. A farm bailiff, after fruitlessly chasing Jerome, whom he took to be the ringleader, remarked: “They do mischief out of sheer devilment; but my word, I wish my lads had half the guts of that young hound.” On another occasion, a big policeman was chasing Jerome, when someone was heard to remark: “As well might an elephant try to corner a flea as to catch him.”

It was during his school days that Jerome talked with a gentleman in Victoria Park, whom he always believed to be Charles Dickens. He afterwards gave an account in “Paul Kelver” of this, which, he said, was a fairly true record of what took place.

Things at home were, perhaps, less desperate than they had been for some time past. Nevertheless, the fight against poverty was continuous. Mr. Jerome, senior, was suffering from ill-health, and went to Cheddar for a short holiday. Three of his old Walsall friends, Edward Holden, Henry Hateley and Charles Hawley, hearing of his illness, collected the sum of fifty pounds and took it to him as a mark of their affection and sympathy. His remark on receiving the gift was: “Friends in need are friends indeed.” His health improved and he returned to London.

The following is an account contributed by Jerome later in life to the magazine “Home Chimes” of a little comedy that took place at school:

It is not my nature to do anything in the regular orthodox way. It was just the same, I remember, at school. I used to work away at the “Scalp Hunters” while the rest of the class were revelling in Ovid’s “Metamorphoses”. I was generally absorbed in “Jack Sheppard” or the “Arabian Nights” when the mathematical lesson was on, and they would drop down upon me, out of my turn (a mean trick), and want to know what isosceles triangles and other absurd things were, when I had not even heard the question.

“Me, sir?” I would reply bewilderedly, with the usual schoolboy air of injured innocence.

“Yes, sir; you, sir. Well, what is it?”

“What is it, sir?” (Pause.) “Me, sir?” (desperately). “Samson, sir.”

“Samson, Samson! What about Samson?”

“He was the wisest man that ever lived, sir.”

“And you are the biggest idiot.”

“Go down to the bottom, sir, and after school write ‘Solomon was a wise man, Samson was a strong man, and I am an ass’ two hundred times.”

Jerome loved a joke, even when it was against himself. This account may be slightly “touched up”, or it may not; in any case there is something in it that marks him as being out of the ordinary run of boys. George Meredith wrote that “comedy is the foundation of common-sense”. This aphorism is full of meaning. The talk of the ordinary schoolboy is hardly ever worth recording, but this is a bit of comedy which stamps the boy — to quote the words of his old school-fellow — as being “father of the man”.

The same magazine has also a contribution in reference to his studies at home:

I did not care for literature at home, except, maybe, when I was wanted to go an errand, and then it was found that I was deep in some good book, such as “Sandford and Merton” or the “Evangelical Rambler”.

“Oh, don’t disturb him if he is reading,” my poor dear mother would say. “Jane can go.” But when I was wanted to read I was not nearly so enthusiastic about it.

“Why don’t you get a book and read!” my aunt would ask in a tone expressive more of irritation than inquiry.

“Can’t read just now, aunt, it makes my head ache so.”

“No, you never can do anything when you’re wanted to,” she would exclaim exasperatedly, “that’s just like you.” And like everybody else, too, the old lady might have added.

When he was twelve years old his father died of heart failure. This was Jerome’s first great sorrow. It naturally cast the shadow of a profound sorrow over the home. There was, no doubt, much truth in what Jerome afterwards wrote in “Paul Kelver”: “I looked up into my father’s face, and the peace that shone from it slid into my soul and gave me strength.” After Mr. Jerome’s death the family removed from Colney Hatch to Finchley, and the boy’s schooldays came to an end when he was fourteen years of age. His mother for a number of years past had called him “Luther”, to distinguish him from her husband, whose Christian name was also Jerome. There are many entries in her diary which show that her affection for “Luther” deepened as time went on. The sacrifices she made on his behalf will never be fully known, because she never spoke of them.