Complete Fictional Works of Washington Irving (Illustrated)

by Washington Irving

  Andreas

  Wonders! Yes, by my faith, but with all your infernal confectionery don’t you see that Albert hits the mark as clear as if he also had been cooking overnight in the Wolf’s Glen? And now, i’faith, all my balls are gone — not another shot have I in the locker. So the next bout he wins the prize, and there’s the Devil to pay, without joking.

  Caspar

  Sure — but you forget that there is still a seventh ball. Seven we cast. Six I gave you, but the seventh I kept as my own.

  Andreas

  Hold, comrade! Let me think a moment. Was there not something said about that being the fatal ball? I don’t like to meddle with that ball.

  Caspar

  Pish, man! that’s the very best of the whole —— worth all the rest — and therefore have I kept it for myself. It is endowed with wondrous magic power and will return to the pouch of the owner however often he fires it. But had it ten times its power I’d give it thee, for I’ve conceived a wondrous friendship for thee. With that ball you may task Albert’s skill till Doomsday — though he had all the powers of witchcraft to befriend him.

  Andreas

  Say you so? Why then, i’faith, give me the ball, and the day is mine!

  Caspar

  Here it is; but hark ye, do not fire until I give the signal. The ball depends upon my will.

  Andreas

  ’Tis well.

  ENTER HUNTER

  Hunter

  The time for the second round is arrived. The Duke and all the Court are already in the meadow. You are asked for, Andreas.

  Andreas

  I’ll be there in a twinkling. Caspar, when I am Ranger of the forest you know where to look for a venison party — a pretty girl and a jolly bottle. (Exit with an air of exultation).

  Caspar

  Now for my master stroke! (Horns sound cheerfully in the distance). Aye, sound your horns and fill the air with music! I for once can bear it. Yes, I can even join the nuptial throng and swell the strain that greets a rival’s triumph. Aye, aye — prepare your wreaths; bring forth the bride and strew her path with flowers; but have a care there’s not a serpent under them. The seventh ball must fly at my command, and Bertha’s heart shall be its fatal mark! Help, Urian, for my master stroke! Bertha, thou’st slighted me. Enough! — no hated rival shalt thou ever bless. Thy wedding morn shall be a scene of horror; thy nuptial wreath shall be a funeral crown; thy bridal song shall be a death shriek!

  (Exit)

  LAST SCENE — AFTER GRAND CHORUS

  [The final scene of the opera shows, in its most recent representations, the following picture as the curtain rises: an attractive landscape with the tents of the Duke on one side, the courtiers and hunters drinking and enjoying themselves in the tents. With the Duke is his Chief Forester, Conrad, while Albert, outside the Duke’s tent, leans upon his rifle. Behind a tree on the opposite side, Caspar the villain is watching the proceedings. Later Bertha and Nina, with the bridesmaids, the good Hermit and various country people, enter. Irving’s version necessitates the appearance of Andreas from the very beginning of the scene. The Grand Chorus mentioned in Irving’s MS. is the “Huntsmen’s Chorus” with which the scene opens. The lines are as follows: —

  The joy of the hunter on earth all surpasses,

  The fountain of pleasure for him doth abound.

  Thro wood and thro flood where the stag flits and passes,

  He flies in pursuit while the horns gayly sound. ]

  Duke

  ’Tis well. And now for the last trial of skill. Never did I see a closer match, nor better shooting. I wish to be impartial, but somehow or other, Albert has my good will. I like not the saucy swaggering air of this opponent; and there’s a pretty love story whose sequel hangs upon the fortunes of the day.

  Conrad

  Your Grace!

  Duke

  This is a worthy youth — this Albert.

  Conrad

  A trustier heart, my lord, beats not in any bosom of Bohemia. And for a shot there’s none could e’er match him in these forests.

  Duke

  Still, methinks he’s met his match today. That strutting scapegrace keeps even shot with him. But where’s your pretty daughter, Conrad?

  Conrad

  She will be here anon, my lord. I feared to bring her earlier to the field — her heart was too full of anxiety for the event of this trial. But now that Albert has his usual luck I fear no longer.

  Duke

  He has my hearty wishes. But when is the wedding, good Conrad?

  Conrad

  This very day, my lord, should Albert be successful. The shot that makes him Ranger of the forest and proves him worthy to succeed me in my hereditary office gives him my daughter’s hand.

  Duke

  He must succeed — Cupid will guide the ball. And now give signal with the horn for the candidates to make ready. (Horns. Albert advances to the front of the stage, pauses for a moment, looks upward, lays his hand upon his heart: “Now Bertha!” Shoots. A shout:—”He has hit the mark! He has hit the mark close to the centre!”).

  Conrad

  ‘Twill puzzle Andreas to equal that.

  Andreas

  (Comes forward, with a swaggering, self-confident air)

  That’s yet to be seen. Now magic, do your duty. ‘S-blood! how heavy the ball feels in my hand — heavier than all the others put together. No matter, it has the magic in it of ten thousand; so here goes. (Puts it in the rifle). But first I must see Caspar give the signal, for unless he directs the ball it will miss the mark.

  Caspar

  Where can the bride be lingering? I fear she will come too late for my plan. (Gets up on a rock) — Ah — there I see her at a distance, with her wedding train winding through the trees. Urian, thou makest all happen pat to the purpose.

  [Here Caspar gives Andreas the signal to shoot. The magic ball seems to strike Bertha, casting her to the ground; but the blessed wreath she wears changes its course and it lands in the breast of Caspar. The Powers of Evil have been foiled by the Powers of Good.]

  Albert

  (Wildly)

  Bertha! Bertha! My love, look up! Speak to your wretched Albert. (Puts aside her hair which has fallen over her eyes). She lives! She lives! Oh God, oh God, I thank Thee!

  All

  She lives! She lives!

  Bertha

  My Father — my Albert!

  Albert

  But art thou wounded, love?

  Bertha

  I scarce can tell. It seemed as if a flash of lightning struck me. I feel no pain, but I am wondrous faint.

  Nina

  Dear Bertha, lean on me. (They place her in the Duke’s chair, and Caspar is led tottering forward between two hunters).

  Hunter

  My Lord, this man is wounded. The ball has pierced him in the breast.

  Duke

  How can that be, he stood not in the range of fire — yet ’tis most true, the man is wounded.

  Caspar

  Stand off and let me gaze upon my victim. Ah (with malignant joy), have I reach’d thy heart, thou scorner? Nay then, I care not for myself. Now Albert, take thy bride and boast thy triumph, but spare your pains. No power on earth can save her—’twas a charm’d ball, and faithful to its errand.

  Albert

  Horrible wretch, what hast thou done?

  Hermit

  (Who has been near Bertha)

  Almighty Providence, I thank Thee. My prayers were heard — the lamb preserved from danger. See here, my friends (pointing to the roses), these holy flowers have saved her spotless heart; their leaves are scorched and withered. The magic ball has struck them, but being repelled by their sacred power, has winged its mischief to the murderer’s breast.

  Caspar

  What! caught in my own snare — defeated —— lost? And is thy power so frail, thou mighty Spirit of air, that a poor rose can foil thee? Must I then fall and pull no ruin with me? (To Andreas) — Ah, trembling coward,
thou at least must bear me company. (Gasps). Let me get hence — the day grows black around me — the air is thick and stifling. What sulphurous steams are these that choke me? Stand off and let me breathe! (Pants). Further, further! (Tears open his bosom). Oh — scorching — scorching hell is within me! Ah, these flames, these flames! Water! Water! Plunge me in the fountain! Ah, Urian here? Oh let me live another year — a little, little month — a day — an hour! Oh save me, save me! (Staggers among the crowd and seizes upon one of the hunters).

  Hunter

  (Dismayed )

  Heaven have mercy on thee!

  Caspar

  I have no hopes of Heaven! (Falls and dies). Duke Horrible! horrible! Haste! — take this dreadful object from my sight! Where is the hunter Andreas?

  Andreas

  (Amazed and overwhelmed by the preceding events, comes forward completely crestfallen) Here, my good lord.

  Duke

  What was the meaning of those dreadful words which Caspar uttered? Wert thou accomplice in his crime?

  Andreas

  Alas my lord, I scarce know what to say. Last night, when foolish with vanity and wine, this man beset me — betalked me of magic balls by which I could make my fortune; and of the Wild Huntsman; and so bewildered my poor brain that I agreed to meet him in the Wolf’s Glen when he cast these balls which I have used today.

  Duke

  Hast thou then dealt in magic?

  Andreas

  I hope not, my lord. I meant no such thing —— whatever Caspar meant. There were strange sights and sounds, but then I crossed myself and prayed. I meant no harm today, whate’er I’ve done. I hope I have not sinned past all forgiveness.

  Duke

  Thy free confession and thy penitence obtain my mercy. To this good father’s keeping I commit thee. Follow his councils — fast and pray, and seek to make thyself a better man.

  Andreas

  My lord, I’ve had a lesson today that I shall not easily forget. I feel that I am more an ass than I had any idea of. Henceforth I renounce all vanity and vainglory. Wine, women and play I abjure. If bread and water have any efficacy I’ll take them ten times a day. Go on, holy father, I’ll follow thee. (Aside, going out)—’S-blood, I long to be at my prayers, if it’s only to pay the Devil for the trick he’s played me. (Exeunt Andreas and Hermit).

  Duke

  And now to turn our thoughts to happier objects. Albert, be thine the place of Ranger. Well hast thou won it by thy skill, but full more by thy virtue. (To Conrad) — I know thy will, excuse me if I play your part. (Advances to Bertha and takes her hand, which he places in Albert’s). Thus let me recompense thee, lovely maid, for all thy troubles past. Continue to be virtuous, my friends, and Heaven will bless you. (Tableau).

  THE END

  The Poetry

  Irving, c.1830

  POETRY INTRODUCTION by William R. Langfeld

  THE poems of Washington Irving have received little attention — perhaps because they form a relatively unimportant part of his work, and, because, scattered throughout his prose writings (often in works printed privately and in small editions) or in the “albums” of friends, many of them are not readily accessible even to students of Irving’s life and writings. They were brought together by the compiler as a part of his Bibliography of Washington Irving, which The New York Public Library plans to publish in its Bulletin and in separate form, some time in 1931. The volumes in which the poems appear are fully identified in this bibliography under the appropriate classifications. Later it was felt to be more appropriate to print the poems by themselves and in advance of the publication of the bibliography. They have never before been printed as a collection.

  Doubtless Irving refused to consider his own poetic efforts with too much seriousness, realizing that his talent, as his inclination, lay in the field of prose writing. Yet he was undoubtedly interested in poetry, as is shown by his efforts in introducing Bryant to the English and Campbell to the Americans, and by his friendship with Rogers.

  Irving’s poetry, written in the somewhat sentimental, somewhat artificial style then largely in vogue, displays not infrequently a certain charm and dexterity of touch, an awareness of natural beauty, a genial and kindly sentiment in harmony with the tone of his prose writings. Much of it is of the vers de société type.

  Some poems appear to have been written on the spur of the moment, with jocular unconventionality of rhyme and metre. Even the more serious poems give little indication of any final polishing before publication. The greater part is light-hearted, careless verse, written for the pleasure of friends or in honor of some special occasion, private or semi-public.

  The Library and the compiler gratefully acknowledge the courtesy of the following copyright holders in granting permission to reprint certain of the poems: George S. Heilman, of New York; The Grolier Club of New York; The Bibliophile Society of Boston; and Henry Holt and Company of New York.

  LIST OF POEMS

  ON PASSAIC FALLS

  THE DULL LECTURE

  RHYMED ADDRESS

  WRITTEN IN THE DEEP DENE ALBUM

  TO MISS EMILY FOSTER ON HER BIRTHDAY

  ECHO AND SILENCE

  SONG

  SIGNS OF THE TIMES

  UNTITLED POEM I.

  UNTITLED POEM II.

  THE LAY OF THE SUNNYSIDE DUCKS

  UNTITLED POEM III.

  EXTRACTS FROM ABU HASSAN

  SONG FROM THE WILD HUNTSMAN

  ON PASSAIC FALLS

  WRITTEN IN THE YEAR 1806.

  Published in the Atlantic Souvenir, 1827, Philadelphia [cop. 1826], p. 146-148. This poem was later published in The New-York Book of Poetry, New-York: George Dearborn, 1837, pages 105-106, omitting stanzas 5, 6, 7 and 10, and with some slight changes in punctuation.

  In a wild, tranquil vale, fringed with forests of green,

  Where nature had fashion’d a soft sylvan scene,

  The retreat of the ring-dove, the haunt of the deer,

  PASSAIC in silence roll’d gentle and clear.

  No grandeur of prospect astonish’d the sight,

  No abruptness sublime mingled awe with delight;

  There the wild flowret blossom’d, the elm proudly waved,

  And pure was the current the green bank that laved.

  But the spirit that ruled o’er the thick-tangled wood,

  And had fixed in its gloomy recess his abode,

  Loved best the rude scene that the whirlwinds deform,

  And gloried in thunder, and lightning and storm.

  All flush’d from the tumult of battle he came,

  Where the red-men encounter’d the children of flame,

  While the noise of the warhoop still rung in his ears,

  And the fresh, bleeding scalp as a trophy he wears.

  Oh! deep was the horror, and fierce was the fight,

  When the eyes of the red-men were shrouded in night;

  When by strangers invaded, by strangers destroy’d,

  They ensanguined the fields which their fathers enjoy’d.

  Lo! the sons of the forest in terror retire,

  Pale savages chase them with thunder and fire;

  In vain whirls the war-club, in vain twangs the bow,

  By thunder and fire are the warriors laid low.

  From defeat and from carnage the fierce spirit came,

  His breast was a tumult, his passions were flame,

  Despair swells his heart, fury maddens his ire,

  And black scowls his brow o’er his eyeballs of fire.

  With a glance of disgust he the landscape survey’d,

  With its fragrant wild flowrets, its wide-waving shade,

  Its river meand’ring through margins of green,

  Transparent its waters — its surface serene.

  He rived the green hills — the wild woods he laid low,

  He turn’d the still stream in rough channels to flow,

  He rent the rude rock, the steep precipice gave,

&
nbsp; And hurl’d down the chasm the thundering wave.

  A scene of strange ruin he scatter’d around,

  Where cliffs piled on cliffs in wild majesty frown’d —

  Where shadows of horror embrown the dark wood,

  And the rainbow and mist mark the turbulent flood.

  Countless moons have since roll’d — in this long lapse of time,

  Cultivation has soften’d those features sublime,

  The axe of the white man enliven’d the shade,

  And dispell’d the deep gloom of the thicketed glade.

  Yet the stranger still gazes, with wondering eye,

  On rocks rudely torn and groves mounted on high —

  Still loves on the cliff’s dizzy border to roam,

  Where the torrent leaps headlong embosom’d in foam.

  THE DULL LECTURE

  The following poem was written at the request of Irving’s friend, Gilbert Stuart Newton, and is descriptive of a painting by the latter. The lines appeared in The Atlantic Souvenir, 1828, Philadelphia [cop. 1827], page 294. An engraving of this painting forms the frontispiece of the volume. The poem was later published in Irvingiana, New York: C. B. Richardson, 1860, page lxiii.

  Frostie age, frostie age!