HERVE RIEL BY ROBERT BROWNING Into a quiet middle-class home in a London suburb, Robert Browning, one of the greatest of poets, was born in 1812. The poetic strain can not be directly traced, but intelligent sympathy in the parents did much to foster the boy's early and unmistakable bent. He received a rounded education by private tutors, and odd hours were rapturously spent in the overflowing library. Not far away was a picture-gallery, "a green halfhour's walk across the fields," which he often visited and of which he always spoke gratefully. Love of life and action, of "something to do," and above all, some living thing to play with, was strong in him. Owls and monkeys, magpies and hedgehogs, eagles and snakes, formed his queer company of pets. He was quick to learn and to write. "I never can recollect not writing rhymes," he says, and at twelve he had written a little book of poems. The first book which he bought for himself was a collection of verse. When, one day at a book-stall, he came by. chance on a volume of Shelley, his desire to be a poet received vital impulse. and ran, "The Boy sprang up His poems, published at intervals, attracted critical attention, but public appreciation was slow. In 1846 Browning married Elizabeth Barrett, herself an exquisite poet, whom he took from years of secluded invalidism in London to comparative health in the sunshine of Italy. Their letters and the record of their years together in Italy, which both loved, are among the world's heritages. Browning's poems are usually less musical than those of Tennyson, but they are bolder in thought and of a rugged strength. As Tennyson had a passion for nature, Browning had a passion for men. He died at Venice in 1889. On the sea and at the Hogue, sixteen hundred ninetytwo, Did the English fight the French,-woe to France! And, the thirty-first of May, helter-skelter through the blue, Like a crowd of frightened porpoises a shoal of sharks pursue, Came crowding ship on ship to Saint Malo on the Rance, With the English fleet in view. 'Twas the squadron that escaped, with the victor in full chase; First and foremost of the drove, in his great ship, Close on him fled, great and small, Twenty-two good ships in all; And they signaled to the place, "Help the winners of a race! Get us guidance, give us harbor, take us quick or, quicker still, Here's the English can and will!" Then the pilots of the place put out brisk and leaped on 66 board; Why, what hope or chance have ships like these to pass?" laughed they: "Rocks to starboard, rocks to port, all the passage scarred and scored, Shall the Formidable here, with her twelve and eighty guns, Think to make the river mouth by the single narrow way, Trust to enter where 'tis ticklish for a craft of twenty tons, And with flow at full beside? Now, 'tis slackest ebb of tide. Reach the mooring? Rather say, While rock stands or water runs, Not a ship will leave the bay!" Then was called a council straight. "Here's the English at our heels; would you have them take in tow All that's left us of the fleet, linked together stern and bow, For a prize to Plymouth Sound? Better run the ships aground!" (Ended Damfreville his speech). "Not a minute more to wait! Let the Captains all and each Shove ashore, then blow up, burn the vessels on the beach! France must undergo her fate. "Give the word!" But no such word Was ever spoke or heard; For up stood, for out stepped, for in struck amid all these -A Captain? A Lieutenant? A Mate-first, second, third? No such man of mark, and meet With his betters to compete! But a simple Breton sailor pressed by Tourville for the fleet, A poor coasting-pilot he, Hervé Riel the Croisickese. And "What mockery or malice have we here?" cries Hervé Riel: "Are you mad, you Malouins? Are you cowards, fools, or rogues? Talk to me of rocks and shoals, me who took the sound ings, tell On my fingers every bank, every shallow, every swell 'Twixt the offing here and Grève where the river disembogues? Are you bought by English gold? Is it love the lying's for? Morn and eve, night and day, Have I piloted your bay, Entered free and anchored fast at the foot of Solidor. "Burn the fleet and ruin France? That were worse than fifty Hogues! Sirs, they know I speak the truth! Sirs, believe me there's a way! Only let me lead the line, Have the biggest ship to steer, Get this Formidable clear, Make the others follow mine, And I lead them, most and least, by a passage I know well, Right to Solidor past Grève, And there lay them safe and sound; And if one ship misbehave, -Keel so much as grate the ground, Why, I've nothing but my life,-here's my head!" cries Hervé Riel. Not a minute more to wait. 66 Steer us in, then, small and great! Take the helm, lead the line, save the squadron!" cried its chief. Captains, give the sailor place! He is Admiral, in brief. |