THE FAMILY


Baden-Powell had certain advantages in birth. We will not violently
uproot the family tree, nor will we go trudging over the broad acres
of early progenitors. I refer to the fact that his father was a
clergyman. To be a parson's son is the natural beginning of an
adventurous career; and, if we owe no greater debt to the Church of
our fathers, there is always this argument in favour of the
Establishment, that most of the men who have done something for our
Empire have first opened eyes on this planet in some sleepy old
rectory where roses bloom and rooks are blown about the sky.

[Illustration: Professor Baden Powell.
From a Painting by Hartmann.]

Mr. Baden-Powell, the father of our hero, was a man of great 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