University of Virginia Library

AN APOLOGUE.

Upon a time, Love, Death and Reputation entered
into a compact to traverse the world together. They
came beside a smoothly-flowing river, where they
paused, for Love had already become weary of his
companions, and he discovered a shepherdess tending
her flocks, on the sunny side of a grassy knoll,
on the opposite bank of the stream.

“Here let us part for a time,” said Love, “and
I will tarry with that simple girl and her sheep, until
you seek me there.”

“She is a favourite of mine,” replied Reputation,
“and I shall certainly soon be there.”

“I mark the spot well, said Death, “and trust me,
ere long you shall find me there.”

“I shall await your coming,” said Love to Death,
and leaped into a light skiff on the shore of the
stream, and laughed aloud as he spread his rainbow
wings to the breeze. The shepherdess played merrily
on her rural pipe, while from the high hills beyond
the grassy knoll, the shrill notes of a huntsman's
horn were heard, and suddenly a stag, pursued
by the full-mouthed pack, broke cover. Close
in the rear, followed the eager huntsman. Love
clapped his little wings and shouted, as he beheld
the wearied stag shape his course towards the spot
where the peaceful sheep were browsing.

Death and Reputation pursued their journey.
They had not proceeded far when they were overtaken
by a warrior, armed for the fight.—He was
clad in royal robes; his turban was over-shadowed

by flowing plumes, and his gallant steed foamed and
champed the bit with impatience.

“Ho! ho!” cried Death; “thou lookest like my
emissary. Whither in such haste?”

“The Monguls and the Persians are in the field,”
replied the warrior, “and I must be there.”

“And what canst thou do without my aid?” said
Death, and leaped behind the warrior, and they
dashed madly onward.

“I will meet you there,” said Reputation, meekly;
but her voice was lost in the clatter of arms, and the
neighing of the steed.

As the sun was descending in the west, Reputation
arrived weary and dejected at the field of battle.
Every thing denoted that Death had not been idle.
The Monguls and the Persians were strewed in indiscriminate
masses over the plain; and as she pursued
her search for the plumed warrior, she touched
scarcely one of the many thousand human carcasses
who had fallen to minister to his ambition. At length
she found him surrounded by heaps of slain. His
white plumes and costly robes were torn and soiled
with blood. The gallant steed and his rider lay a
ghastly spectacle in the pale moonlight, and the
figure of Death bestrode them with his fatal spear
upraised, still dripping with human gore.

“Where have you loitered so long?” cried Death.
“Behold, my work is done, and I am impatient to
be gone.”

“I am permitted,” replied Reputation, “to remain
with but few that you have not first visited. This
gallant warrior long courted my favours, but the
clamorous voices of whole nations drove me violently
away. Those voices are now hushed in eternal silence,
and I will now fulfil my promise, and linger
with him as long as I may.”

“The hyenas and the birds of prey will pay little
respect to thy watchfulness,” cried Death. “But I
must see the simple shepherdess on the grassy knoll,
where Love awaits my coming. When you have

become weary of making a Golgotha your dwelling-place,
meet us there.”

He arose and departed, and Reputation seated
herself on the breast of the dead warrior. When the
morn came, she was still there, sad and disconsolate,
and she continued throughout the following day;
but as night again approached, she became sickened
at the scenes of horror, and arose and fled, convinced
that she could not long exist in a field of carnage.
She had many thousand times visited similar scenes,
and endeavoured to remain, but her stay had invariably
been but a few short days, and no more.—
How brief is the stay of Reputation with both the
living and the dead!

Death sought the shepherdess, and he found her
alone. Her flock was straying without protection,
and her rural pipe lay by her side, silent and neglected.

“Where is Reputation?” demanded Death.—
“She promised to meet me here.”

The shepherdess hung her head, and replied, “I
have not seen her since Love first came, though, till
then, she had been my constant companion from
childhood.”

“And where is the huntsman whose jocund horn
made the hills speak as if with a voice of life, as we
passed by but a few days since?”

“He is gone, and I know not whither.”

“And where is Love, with his rainbow wings? He
has not flown too?—He promised to remain in this
peaceful spot until Death should arrive.”

“He made the same promise to me over and
over.”

“And where is the truant boy?”

“I have endeavoured to conceal him,” replied the
shepherdess, blushing, “ever since the huntsman deserted
me.”

“It is well,” said Death. “Their promises are
lightly made and as lightly broken; but I never deceive.”

He laid his bony hand upon the pale brow of the

shepherdess, and she faded and shrunk like the
spring-flower, when the night frost touches it, and
with her last sigh she said—“When Love and Reputation
have both left me, what can be more welcome
than the touch of Death!”

Death now espied on the opposite side of the
stream his two former companions, and immediately
joined them, and found they were reproaching each
other.

“How often,” said Reputation, “have you, in a
moment of levity, driven me with shame from those
who have been my choicest care; and by your blandishments
and promises, never designed to be fulfilled,
destroyed, in one instant, the labour of my hands for
years?”

“And how often,” replied Love, laughing, “have
your prudish precepts imposed on me the labour of
years, when my task, otherwise, would have been
but the sport of an hour?”

“And I,” cried Death, “too frequently thwart the
views of both. So forbear your mutual reproaches,
and I will take my leave of you. But before I go,
I would recommend to you, young Love, quit not
Reputation; for if she once leave you, she is so coy
a damsel, no wooing on earth will win her back again;
and rest assured, wherever you visit without her. I
soon shall follow your footsteps. Away, both of
you,” he continued, “and take up your abode with
the young poet Selim, and the dark-haired Biribi.
Years, many years, shall elapse before I molest your
repose there: and even then, when I call to summon
the virtuous couple to their last repose, Reputation
will have become so enamoured of their society, that
long will she continue to hover with affection over
their graves. For my part, the Sophi of Persia awaits
my coming.—Neither of you ever crossed his palace-gate,
nor can you reproach me with having deprived
you of a votary in him. Farewell.”

Love and Reputation, hand in hand, sought out
the poet Selim, and Death hastened to the palace of
the Persian monarch, where every thing denoted his

arrival was expected. Many years after he sought
out his former companions, and he found them still
in the humble cottage of the happy Selim and Biribi.
As they reluctantly led the aged pair to the grim
visitant, he opened his arms to receive them, who
smiled upon each other as he pressed them together
to his bosom. The prediction of Death was verified,
for Reputation for ages hovered around the peaceful
grave of the poet Selim.