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taste for rhetoric seemed to account for Byron； and the desire of
the rhetorician to claim a taste for poetry seemed to account for
Poe。 But； after all； PATATRAS！ Who can say？
RAIN
Not excepting the falling starsfor they are far less suddenthere
is nothing in nature that so outstrips our unready eyes as the
familiar rain。 The rods that thinly stripe our landscape； long
shafts from the clouds； if we had but agility to make the arrowy
downward journey with them by the glancing of our eyes； would be
infinitely separate； units； an innumerable flight of single things；
and the simple movement of intricate points。
The long stroke of the raindrop； which is the drop and its path at
once； being our impression of a shower； shows us how certainly our
impression is the effect of the lagging； and not of the haste； of
our senses。 What we are apt to call our quick impression is rather
our sensibly tardy； unprepared； surprised； outrun； lightly
bewildered sense of things that flash and fall； wink； and are
overpast and renewed； while the gentle eyes of man hesitate and
mingle the beginning with the close。 These inexpert eyes；
delicately baffled； detain for an instant the image that puzzles
them； and so dally with the bright progress of a meteor； and part
slowly from the slender course of the already fallen raindrop； whose
moments are not theirs。 There seems to be such a difference of
instants as invests all swift movement with mystery in man's eyes；
and causes the past； a moment old； to be written； vanishing； upon
the skies。
The visible world is etched and engraved with the signs and records
of our halting apprehension； and the pause between the distant
woodman's stroke with the axe and its sound upon our ears is
repeated in the impressions of our clinging sight。 The round wheel
dazzles it； and the stroke of the bird's wing shakes it off like a
captivity evaded。 Everywhere the natural haste is impatient of
these timid senses； and their perception； outrun by the shower；
shaken by the light； denied by the shadow； eluded by the distance；
makes the lingering picture that is all our art。 One of the most
constant causes of all the mystery and beauty of that art is surely
not that we see by flashes； but that nature flashes on our
meditative eyes。 There is no need for the impressionist to make
haste； nor would haste avail him； for mobile nature doubles upon
him； and plays with his delays the exquisite game of visibility。
Momently visible in a shower； invisible within the earth； the
ministration of water is so manifest in the coming rain…cloud that
the husbandman is allowed to see the rain of his own land； yet
unclaimed in the arms of the rainy wind。 It is an eager lien that
he binds the shower withal； and the grasp of his anxiety is on the
coming cloud。 His sense of property takes aim and reckons distance
and speed； and even as he shoots a little ahead of the equally
uncertain ground…game； he knows approximately how to hit the cloud
of his possession。 So much is the rain bound to the earth that；
unable to compel it； man has yet found a way； by lying in wait； to
put his price upon it。 The exhaustible cloud 〃outweeps its rain；〃
and only the inexhaustible sun seems to repeat and to enforce his
cumulative fires upon every span of ground； innumerable。 The rain
is wasted upon the sea； but only by a fantasy can the sun's waste be
made a reproach to the ocean； the desert； or the sealed…up street。
Rossetti's 〃vain virtues〃 are the virtues of the rain； falling
unfruitfully。
Baby of the cloud； rain is carried long enough within that troubled
breast to make all the multitude of days unlike each other。 Rain；
as the end of the cloud； divides light and withholds it； in its
flight warning away the sun； and in its final fall dismissing
shadow。 It is a threat and a reconciliation； it removes mountains
compared with which the Alps are hillocks； and makes a childlike
peace between opposed heights and battlements of heaven。
THE LETTERS OF MARCELINE VALMORE
〃Prends garde e moi； ma fille； et couvre moi bien！〃 Marceline
Desbordes…Valmore； writing from France to her daughter Ondine； who
was delicate and chilly in London in 1841； has the same solicitous；
journeying fancy as was expressed by two other women； both also
Frenchwomen； and both articulate in tenderness。 Eugenie de Guerin；
that queen of sisters； had preceded her with her own complaint； 〃I
have a pain in my brother's side〃； and in another age Mme。 de
Sevigne had suffered； in the course of long posts and through
infrequent lettersa protraction of conjectured painwithin the
frame of her absent daughter。 She phrased her plight in much the
same words； confessing the uncancelled union with her child that had
effaced for her the boundaries of her personal life。
Is not what we call a lifethe personal lifea separation from the
universal life； a seclusion； a division； a cleft； a wound？ For
these women； such a severance was in part healed； made whole； closed
up； and cured。 Life was restored between two at a time of human…
kind。 Did these three women guess that their sufferings of sympathy
with their children were indeed the signs of a new and universal
healththe prophecy of human unity？
The sign might have been a more manifest and a happier prophecy had
this union of tenderness taken the gay occasion as often as the sad。
Except at times； in the single case of Mme。 de Sevigne； all three
far more sensitive than the rest of the worldwere yet not
sensitive enough to feel equally the less sharp communication of
joy。 They claimed； owned； and felt sensibly the pangs and not the
pleasures of the absent。 Or if not only the pangs； at least they
were apprehensive chiefly in that sense which human anxiety and
foreboding have lent to the word； they were apprehensive of what
they feared。 〃Are you warm？〃 writes Marceline Valmore to her child。
〃You have so little to wearare you really warm？ Oh； take care of
mecover me well。〃 Elsewhere she says； 〃You are an insolent child
to think of work。 Nurse your health； and mine。 Let us live like
fools〃； whereby she meant that she should work with her own fervent
brain for both； and take the while her rest in Ondine。 If this
living and unshortened love was sad； it must be owned that so； too；
was the story。 Eugenie and Maurice de Guerin were both to die soon；
and Marceline was to lose this daughter and another。
But set free from the condition and occasion of pain and sorrow；
this life without boundaries which mothers have undergone seems to
suggest and to portend what the progressive charity of generations
may beand is； in fact； though the continuity does not always
appearin the course of the world。 If a love and life without
boundaries go down from a mother into her child； and from that child
into her children again； then incalculable； intricate； universal；
and eternal are the union