The Story of Baden-Powell | Page 3

powers.
He was a renowned professor at Oxford, celebrated for his attainments
in theology and in physical science. But the peace-loving man of letters
died ere his boys had grown to youth, and, alas, the memory of him is
blurred and indistinct in their minds. They remember a quiet,
soft-voiced, tender-hearted man who was tall and of goodly frame, yet
had the scholar's air, about whose knees they would cluster and hear
enchanting tales, the plots of which have long since got tangled in the
red tape of life. He had, what all fathers should surely have, a great love
of natural history, and on his country walks would beguile his boys
with talk of animals, birds, and flowers, implanting in their minds a
love of the open and a study of field geology which has since stood
them in excellent stead. I like to picture this learned professor, who was
attacked by the narrow-minded Hebraists of his day for showing, as one
obituary notice remarked, that the progress of modern scientific
discovery, although necessitating modifications in many of the still
prevailing ideas with which the Christian religion became encrusted in
the times of ignorance and superstition, is in no way incompatible with
a sincere and practical acceptance of its great and fundamental truths,--I
like, I say, to picture this Oxford professor on one of his walks bending
over pebbles, birds' eggs, and plants, with a troop of bright-eyed boys
at his side. One begins to think of the scent of the hedgerow, the
shimmering gossamer on the sweet meadows, the song of the invisible
lark, the goodly savour of the rich earth, and then to the mind's eye, in
the midst of it all, there springs the picture of the genial parson, tall and

spare, surrounded by his olive-branches, and perhaps with our hero, as
one of the late shoots, riding triumphant on his shoulder. It was his
habit, too, when composing profound papers to read before the Royal
Society, to let his children amuse themselves in his book-lined study,
and who cannot see the beaming face turned often from the written
sheets to look lovingly on his happy children? But, as I say, the
memory of this lovable man is blurred for his children, and the clearest
of their early memories are associated with their mother, into whose
hands their training came while our hero was still in frocks.
[Illustration: Mrs. Baden-Powell. From a Painting by Hartmann.]
Mrs. Baden-Powell's maiden name was Henrietta Grace Smyth. Her
father was a sturdy seaman, Admiral W.H. Smyth, K.S.F., and
fortunately for her children she was trained in a school where neither
Murdstone rigour nor sentimental coddling was regarded as an essential.
She was the kind of mother that rears brave men and true. For
discipline she relied solely on her children's sense of honour, and for
the maintenance of her influence on their character she was content to
trust to a never-wavering interest in all their sports, occupations, and
hobbies. Her children were encouraged to bear pain manfully, but they
were not taught to crush their finer feelings. A simple form of religion
was inculcated, while the boys' natural love for humour was
encouraged and developed. In a word, the children were allowed to
grow up naturally, and the influence brought to bear upon them by this
wise mother was as quiet and as imperceptible as Nature intended it to
be. Dean Stanley, Ruskin, Jowett, Tyndall, and Browning were among
those who were wont to come and ply Mrs. Baden-Powell with
questions as to how she managed to keep in such excellent control
half-a-dozen boys filled to the brim with animal spirits. The truth is, the
boys were unconscious of any controlling influence in their lives, and
how could they have anything but a huge respect for a mother whose
knowledge of science and natural history enabled her to tell them
things which they did not know? In those days mothers were not
content to commit the formation of their children's minds to nursemaids
and governesses.

The eldest boy became a Chief Judge in India, and lived to write what
the Times described as "three monumental volumes on the Land
Systems of British India." The second boy, Warington, of whom we
shall have more to say in the next chapter, went into the Navy, but left
that gallant Service to practise at the Bar, and now is as breezy a Q.C.
as ever brought the smack of salt-water into the Admiralty Court. The
third son, Sir George Baden-Powell, sometime member of Parliament
for Liverpool, had already entered upon a distinguished career when, to
the regret of all who had marked his untiring devotion to Imperial
affairs, his early death robbed the country of a loyal son. The other
brothers of our hero are