He has not an Umbrella, well
It is no matter, while it's fine;
But when the rain comes down pell-mell,
Why, then he's wetted to the spine! . . . .
Certainly one ought to write a physiological monograph of these black
mushrooms, which to-day protect humanity, just as one ought to rhyme
a poem of the dainty Sunshade, that pretty rosy cupola, which is one
of the most charming coquetries of a Frenchwoman.
We write this /one ought/ with a vague sadness, with the
discouragement which makes us wish for the future, what we should
have been so glad to bury in the past. In beginning our work, we
experienced a careless joy, we thought the end was near on our very
entry into the field, and that we should quickly attain it, with
the satisfaction of having created a little work, both complete
and altogether graceful; but once on our way, ferreting without
relaxation in all the literary thickets where some Parasol might lie
buried, in the fold of a phrase, in the middle of a story, of an
anecdote, or of a dissertation, of some fact, we have gathered so
ample a harvest, our sheaf has become so large, so very large, that
it was impossible for us to bind our arms about it, after having
co-ordinated its various parts. It is but a few poor strays then
which lie stranded here, the flotsam and jetsam of our hope, sole
vestiges of a project which, like all projects, became Homeric as it
grew great in the workshop of the imagination.
We end this essay, therefore, with a sentiment of ridicule, in which
we laugh at our own selves, that of having dreamed of making a
perfect monograph, and of having produced nothing more than a little
tumbled fantasy, which ironically steals away out of sight, like
that minuscular mouse, of which the mountain was once upon a time
delivered in much moaning.
What matter! We must end. Let us hide our melancholy retreat
by humming this last lovely burden of a poet of the school of
Clairville--
'Tis called a /Pépin/, a /Riflard/,
And other viler names there are;
Not one of all the Umbrella moves.
Wisely it counts them no disgrace;
Since--child of April's art--the loves
Oft make their quivers of its case!