The Story of Baden-Powell 'The Wolf That Never Sleeps'. Harold Begbie
sails, how to splice, how to reeve gear, how to moor a ship, and make all ready for scrubbing the bottom. It was a fine sight to see the healthy younkers, with trousers rolled over the knee, ankles well under slate-coloured oozing mud, scrubbing away at the bottom of the ship, and laughing and singing among themselves, while the reflective Warington, pipe in mouth, looked on and encouraged the toilers.
All round the English coast sailed the Baden-Powells, fighting their way to glory in regattas, and enjoying themselves from sunrise to sunset. On racing days it was a case of "strictly to business," and each boy had his proper station and knew well how to pull or slack out ropes. On other days it was a case of fun and frolic, and here, of course, B.-P. was the life and soul of the party. There were no squabbles, no petty jealousies; never did the brothers throughout their boyhood come to fisticuffs. But while there was perfect equality among them and no favouritism was ever shown, Ste was regarded as the prime comedian, and there was never any question that when theatricals were the order of the day he should reign in supreme command.
One of the houses taken by Mrs. Baden-Powell for the holidays was Llandogo Falls, a most romantic place on the Wye, the property of Mr. Gallenga, the Italian correspondent of the Times, who had previously got mixed up in a deep political plot in Italy, whereby he gained many useful secrets, but whereby, at the same time, he was obliged to flee out of Italy and return to England. We fancy this story in its full details must have appealed strongly to the imagination of Baden-Powell, whose after-life, could it be fully written, would satisfy the keenest appetite for daring, excitement, and romance. But to return to Llandogo Falls. Mrs. Baden-Powell, her daughter, and all the servants made the journey from London by means of the railway; but to the boys the fastest of express trains would have seemed slow, and accordingly Warington made ready his collapsible boat, and, rowing by day and sleeping on board by night, these indefatigable youngsters left London behind them, crossed the Severn, and, pulling up the Wye, arrived at Llandogo Falls, the first intimation of their arrival to Mrs. Baden-Powell being the sight of them dragging the boat over the lawn to the stables. This feat succeeded in endearing them to the Welsh people in the neighbourhood, who were greatly struck by the courage of the boys in crossing the Severn in a collapsible boat.
Here, at Llandogo Falls, the boys spent a great deal of time in riding practically wild ponies, and even in those days Ste was famous for his graceful seat, his quiet patience with an untractable steed, and his daring in attempting difficult jumps. Besides riding, the boys were fond of wandering about the country, making friends with the natives, shooting birds to be presently stuffed by themselves and put in the family museum, collecting rare insects, examining old ruins, and rowing up the Wye to spend the afternoon in bathing or in fishing, sometimes in both.
In this simple, healthy, and thoroughly English fashion the Baden-Powells spent their holidays, and in their home-life grew up devoted to each other, and to the mother whose controlling influence was over all their sports and occupations. It is interesting to note, ere we leave the subject of early training, that no infliction of punishment in any shape or form was permitted by Mrs. Baden-Powell. Whether such a rule would work for good in all families is a question that I for one, as a father of a young family, will never imperil my reputation for consistency by answering with a dogmatic affirmative. Nevertheless, one recognises the truth of Nietzsche's warning, "Beware of him in whom the impulse to punish is powerful." In the case of the Baden-Powells the proof of the pudding is in the eating, and you will get none of them to say that their childhood was not a joyous period, while Mrs. Baden-Powell will contend with any mother under Heaven that never before were such honourable, straightforward, and gentle-minded children. This home-life has never lost its charm, and though the sons may be scattered over the world on the Queen's service, they come back to exchange memories with each other under their mother's roof as often as the exigencies of their professions will allow. And when B.-P. is in the house, though his hair begins to flourish less willingly on his brow, he is just like the boy of old, springing up the stairs three steps at a time, and whistling as he goes with a heartiness and a joyousness that astonishes the decorous ten-year-old sparrow Timothy as he flits about the house after Miss Baden-Powell.
I have in my possession a copy of Mr. Russell's monograph on Mr. Gladstone, which had fallen into the hands of a grand old Tory parson. The margins of those pages bristle with the vehement annotations of my old friend. Against the statement that Mr. Gladstone had "a nature completely unspoilt by success and prominence and praise," there is a vigorous "OH!" Where it is recorded how in 1874 Mr. Gladstone promised to repeal the income-tax, I find a pencil line and the contemptuous comment, "A bribe for power!" Mr. Forster's resignation of office in 1882 is hailed with a joyful "Bravo, Forster!" and so on throughout Mr. Russell's interesting book. But on the last page of all there are three pencil lines marking a sentence, and by the side of the lines the concession, "Yes—true." The sentence is this: "But the noblest natures are those which are seen at their best in the close communion of the home."
CHAPTER IVToC
CARTHUSIAN
A gentleman once wrote to the late headmaster of Charterhouse, Dr. William Haig-Brown, saying that he wished to have his son "interred" at that school. The headmaster wrote back immediately saying he would be glad to "undertake" the boy. The same headmaster being shown over a model farm remarked of the ornamental piggery, built after the manner of a Chinese Pagoda, that if there was Pagoda outside there was certainly pig odour inside.
Such a man as this is sure to have been impressed by the personality of Master Ste, who, in 1870, came to him in the old Charterhouse, that hoary, venerable pile which seems to shrink into itself, as if to shut out the unpoetic and modern atmosphere of Smithfield Meat Market. B.-P. went to Charterhouse as a gown boy, nominated by the Duke of Marlborough, and owing to the ease with which his infant studies had been conducted, was obliged to enter by a low form. But he had, as we have already said, an enquiring mind. He had also a clear brain, all the better for not having been crammed in childhood; and, therefore, strong in body, full of health and good spirits, and just as keen to get knowledge as to get a rare bird's egg, he began his school-days with everything in his favour. The result was that 1874 found him in the sixth, and one of the brilliant boys of his time.
Dr. Haig-Brown, as we have said, was sure to have been impressed by B.-P., and there is no need for his assurance that he remembers the boy perfectly. Of course, when one sits in his medieval study and asks the Doctor to discourse of B.-P., he begins by recalling Ste's love of fun; indeed, it is with no great willingness that he leaves that view of his pupil. But the boy's inflexibility of purpose, his uprightness and his eagerness to learn are as equally impressed upon the headmaster's mind, and he likes to talk about the exhilarating effect which B.-P.'s virile character had upon the moral tone of the school. "I never doubted his word," Dr. Haig-Brown told me, and by the tone of the headmaster's voice one realised that B.-P. was just one of those boys whose word it is impossible to doubt. A clean, self-respecting boy.
He was the life of the school in those entertainments for which Charterhouse has always been famous, and his reputation as a wit followed him from the stage into the playground. B.-P. was a keen footballer, and whenever he kept goal there was always a knot of grinning boys round the posts listening with huge delight to their hero's facetiæ. He also had the habit, such were his animal spirits, of giving the most nerve-fluttering war-whoop imaginable when rushing the ball forward, and this cry is said to have been of so terrifying a nature as to fling the opposing side into a state of fear not very far removed from absolute panic. By the way, it is interesting in the light of after-events to read in the school's Football Annual (1876, p. 30) that "R.S.S. B.-P. is a good goalkeeper, keeping cool, and always to be depended upon."
But it was not only at football that Baden-Powell spent his time in the playground, although it was only in football that he shone. Into every game he threw himself with zest and