Ponteach; Or, The Savages of America

Upbraid me not, nor lay my Guilt to Heart;
You and these Fruits of our past Morning Love
Are innocent. I feel the Smart and Anguish,
The Stings of Conscience, and my Soul on Fire.
There's not a Hell more painful than my Bosom,
Nor Torments for the Damn'd more keenly pointed.
How could I think to murder was no Sin?
Oh, my lost Neighbour! I seduc'd him too.
Now death with all its Terrors disappears,
And all I fear 's a dreadful Something-after;
My Mind forebodes a horrid, woful Scene,
Where Guilt is chain'd and tortur'd with Despair.

Mrs. Honnyman.

The Mind oppress'd with Guilt may find Relief.

Honnyman.

Oh, could I reach the pitying Ear of Heaven,
And all my Soul evaporate in Sound,
'T would ask Forgiveness! but I fear too late;
And next I'd ask that you and these dear Babes
Might bear no Part in my just Punishment.
Who knows but by pathetic Prayers and Tears
Their savage Bosoms may relent towards you,
And fix their Vengeance where just Heaven points it?
I still will hope, and every Motive urge.
Should I succeed, and melt their rocky Hearts,
I'd take it as a Presage of my Pardon,
And die with Comfort when I see you live.

[Death halloo is heard without.

Mrs. Honnyman.

Hark! they are coming—Hear that dreadful Halloo.

Honnyman.

It is Death's solemn Sentence to us all;
They are resolv'd, and all Entreaty's vain.
Oh horrid Scene! how shall I act my Part?
Was it but simple Death to me alone!
But all your Deaths are mine, and mine the Guilt.

Enter Indians with stakes, hatchets, and firebrands.

Oh, horrid Preparation, more than Death!

Ponteach.

Plant down the Stakes, and let them be confin'd:

[They loose them from each other.

First kill the Tygers, then destroy their Whelps.

Philip.

This Brat is in our Way, I will dispatch it.

[Offering to snatch the sucking infant.

Mrs. Honnyman.

No, my dear Babe shall in my Bosom die;
There is its Nourishment, and there its End.

Philip.

Die both together then, 'twill mend the Sport;
Tie the other to his Father, make a Pair;
Then each will have a Consort in their Pains;
Their sweet Brats with them, to increase the Dance.

[They are tied down, facing each other upon their knees, and their backs to the stakes.

Warrior.

All now is ready; they are bound secure.

Philip.

Whene'er you please, their jovial Dance begins.

[To Ponteach.

Mrs. Honnyman.

Oh, my dear Husband! What a Sight is this!
Could ever fabling Poet draw Distress
To such Perfection! Sad Catastrophe!
There are not Colours for such deep-dyed Woe,
Nor words expressive of such heighten'd Anguish.
Ourselves, our Babes, O cruel, cruel Fate!
This, this is Death indeed with all its Terrors.

Honnyman.

Is there no secret Pity in your Minds?
Can you not feel some tender Passion move,
When you behold the Innocent distress'd?
True, I am guilty, and will bear your Tortures:
Take your Revenge by all the Arts of Torment;
Invent new Torments, lengthen out my Woe,
And let me feel the keenest Edge of Pain:
But spare this innocent afflicted Woman,
Those smiling Babes who never yet thought Ill,
They never did nor ever will offend you.

Philip.

It cannot be: They are akin to you.
Well learnt to hunt and murder, kill and rob.

Ponteach.

Who ever spar'd a Serpent in the Egg?
Or left young Tygers quiet in their Den?

Warrior.

Or cherishes young Vipers in his Bosom?

Philip.

Begin, begin; I'll lead the merry Dance.

[Offering at the woman with a firebrand.

Ponteach.

Stop: Are we not unwise to kill this Woman?
Or Sacrifice her Children to our Vengeance?
They have not wrong'd us; can't do present Mischief.
I know her Friends; they're rich and powerful,
And in their Turn will take severe Revenge:
But if we spare, they'll hold themselves oblig'd,
And purchase their Redemption with rich Presents.
Is not this better than an Hour's Diversion,
To hear their Groans, and Plaints, and piteous Cries?

Warriors.

Your Counsel's wise, and much deserves our Praise;
They shall be spar'd.

Ponteach.

Untie, and take them hence;

[They untie the woman and the oldest child from Honnyman, and retire a little to consult his death.

When the War ends her Friends shall pay us for it.

Philip.

I'd rather have the Sport than all the Pay.

Honnyman.

O, now, kind Heaven, thou hast heard my Prayer,
And what's to follow I can meet with Patience.

Mrs. Honnyman.

Oh, my dear husband, could you too be freed!

[Weeping.

Yet must I stay and suffer Torments with you.
This seeming Mercy is but Cruelty!
I cannot leave you in this Scene of Woe,
'Tis easier far to stay and die together!

Honnyman.

Ah! but regard our Children's Preservation:
Conduct their Youth, and form their Minds to Virtue;
Nor let them know their Father's wretched End,
Lest lawless Vengeance should betray them too.

Mrs. Honnyman.

If I must live, I must retire from hence,
Nor see your fearful Agonies in Death;
This would be more than all the Train of Torments.
The horrid Sight would sink me to the Dust;
These helpless Infants would become a Prey
To worse than Beasts, to savage, bloody Men.

Honnyman.

Leave me—They are prepar'd, and coming on—
Heav'n save you all! Oh, 'tis the last dear Sight!

Mrs. Honnyman.

Oh, may we meet where Fear and Grief are banish'd!
Dearest of Men, adieu—Adieu till then.

[Exit, weeping with her children.

Philip.

Bring Fire and Knives, and Clubs, and Hatchets all;
Let the old Hunter feel the Smart of Pain.

[They fall upon Honnyman with various instruments of torture.

Honnyman.

Oh! this is exquisite!

[Groaning and struggling.

1st Warrior.

Hah! Does this make you dance?

2nd Warrior.

This is fine fat Game!

Philip.

Make him caper.

[Striking him with a club, kicking, &c.

Honnyman.

O ye eternal Powers, that rule on high,
If in your Minds be Sense of human Woe,
Hear my Complaints, and pity my Distress!

Philip.

Ah, call upon your Gods, you faint-heart Coward!

Honnyman.

Oh, dreadful Racks! When will this Torment end?
Oh, for a Respite from all Sense of Pain!
'Tis come—I go—You can—no more torment.

[Dies.

Philip.

He's dead; he'll hunt no more; h' 'as done with Game.

[Striking the dead body, and spitting in the face.

Ponteach.

Drive hence his wretched Spirit, lest it plague us;
Let him go hunt the Woods; he's now disarm'd.

[They run round brushing the walls, &c., to dislodge the spirit.

All.

Out, Hunter, out, your Business here is done.
Out to the Wilds, but do not take your Gun.

Ponteach [to the Spirit].

Go, tell our Countrymen, whose Blood you shed,
That the great Hunter Honnyman is dead:
That we're alive, we'll make the English know,
Whene'er they dare to serve us Indians so:
This will be joyful News to Friends from France,
We'll join the Chorus then, and have a Dance.

[Exeunt omnes, dancing, and singing the last two lines.

End of the Fourth Act.

ACT V.

Scene I. The Border of a Grove, in which Monelia and Torax are asleep.

Enter Philip [speaking to himself].

As a dark Tempest brewing in the Air,
For many Days hides Sun and Moon, and Stars,
At length grown ripe, bursts forth and forms a Flood
That frights both Men and Beasts, and drowns the Land;
So my dark Purpose now must have its Birth,
Long nourish'd in my Bosom, 'tis matur'd,
And ready to astonish and embroil
Kings and their Kingdoms, and decide their Fates.
Are they not here? Have I delay'd too long?

[He espies them asleep.

Yes, in a Posture too beyond my Hopes,
Asleep! This is the Providence of Fate,
And proves she patronizes my Design,
And I'll show her that Philip is no Coward.

[Taking up his hatchet in one hand, and scalping knife in the other, towards them.]

A Moment now is more than Years to come:
Intrepid as I am, the Work is shocking.

[He retreats from them.

Is it their Innocence that shakes my Purpose?
No; I can tear the Suckling from the Breast,
And drink their Blood who never knew a Crime.
Is it because my Brother's Charmer dies?
That cannot be, for that is my Revenge.
Is it because Monelia is a Woman?
I've long been blind and deaf to their Enchantments.
Is it because I take them thus unguarded?
No; though I act the Coward, it's a Secret.
What is it shakes my firm and fix'd Resolve?
'Tis childish Weakness: I'll not be unman'd.

[Approaches and retreats again.

There's something awful in the Face of Princes,
And he that sheds their Blood, assaults the Gods:
But I'm a Prince, and 'tis by me they die;

[Advances arm'd as before.

Each Hand contains the Fate of future Kings,
And, were they Gods, I would not balk my Purpose.

[Stabs Monelia with the knife.

Torax.

Hah! Philip, are you come? What can you mean?

[Torax starts and cries out.

Philip.

Go learn my Meaning in the World of Spirits;

[Knocks him down with his hatchet, &c.

'Tis now too late to make a Question of it.
The Play is ended [Looking upon the bodies], now succeeds the Farce.
Hullo! Help! Haste! the Enemy is here.

[Calling at one of the doors, and returning.

Help is at Hand—But I must first be wounded:

[Wounds himself.

Now let the Gods themselves detect the Fraud.

Enter an Indian.

Indian.

What means your Cry? Is any Mischief here?

Philip.

Behold this flowing Blood; a desperate Wound!

[Shewing his wound.

And there's a Deed that shakes the Root of Empires.

[Pointing to the bodies.

2nd Indian.

Oh, fatal Sight! the Mohawk Prince is murder'd.

3rd Indian.

The Princess too is weltering in her Blood.

Philip.

Both, both are gone; 'tis well that I escap'd.

Enter Ponteach.

Ponteach.

What means this Outcry, Noise, and Tumult here?

Philip.

Oh see, my Father! see the Blood of Princes,
A Sight that might provoke the Gods to weep,
And drown the Country in a Flood of Tears.
Great was my Haste, but could not stop the Deed;
I rush'd among their Numbers for Revenge,
They frighted fled; there I receiv'd this Wound.

[Shewing his wound to Ponteach.

Ponteach.

Who, what were they? or where did they escape?

Philip.

A Band of English Warriors, bloody Dogs!
This Way they ran from my vindictive Arm,

[Pointing, &c.

Which but for this base Wound would sure have stopp'd them.

Ponteach.

Pursue, pursue, with utmost Speed pursue,

[To the Warriors present.

Outfly the Wind till you revenge this Blood;
'Tis royal Blood, we count it as our own.

[Exeunt Warriors in haste.

This Scene is dark, and doubtful the Event;
Some great Decree of Fate depends upon it,
And mighty Good or Ill awaits Mankind.
The Blood of Princes cannot flow in vain,
The Gods must be in Council to permit it:
It is the Harbinger of their Designs,
To change, new-mould, and alter Things on Earth:
And much I fear, 'tis ominous of Ill,
To me and mine; it happen'd in my Kingdom.
Their Father's Rage will swell into a Torrent—
They were my Guests—His Wrath will centre here;
Our guilty Land hath drunk his Children's Blood.

Philip.

Had I not seen the flying Murderers,
Myself been wounded to revenge their Crime,
Had you not hasten'd to pursue the assassins,
He might have thought us treacherous and false,
Or wanting in our hospitable Care:
But now it cannot but engage his Friendship,
Rouse him to Arms, and with a Father's Rage
He'll point his Vengeance where it ought to fall;
And thus this Deed, though vile and dark as Night,
In its Events will open Day upon us,
And prove of great Advantage to our State.

Ponteach.

Haste then; declare our Innocence and Grief;
Tell the old King we mourn as for our own,
And are determin'd to revenge his Wrongs;
Assure him that our Enemies are his,
And rouse him like a Tyger to the Prey.

Philip.

I will with Speed; but first this bleeding Wound
Demands my Care, lest you lament me too.

[Exit, to have his wound dress'd.

Ponteach [solus].

Pale, breathless Youths! Your Dignity still lives:

[Viewing the bodies.

Your Murderers were blind, or they'd have trembled,
Nor dar'd to wound such Majesty and Worth;
It would have tam'd the savage running Bear,
And made the raging Tyger fondly fawn;
But your more savage Murderers were Christians.
Oh, the distress'd good King! I feel for him,
And wish to comfort his desponding Heart;
But your last Rites require my present Care.

[Exit.

Scene II. The Senate-House.

Ponteach, Tenesco, and others.

Ponteach.

Let all be worthy of the royal Dead;
Spare no Expense to grace th' unhappy Scene,
And aggrandize the solemn, gloomy Pomp
With all our mournful, melancholy Rites.

Tenesco.

It shall be done; all Things are now preparing.

Ponteach.

Never were Funeral Rites bestow'd more just;
Who knew them living, must lament them dead;
Who sees them dead, must wish to grace their Tombs
With all the sad Respect of Grief and Tears.

Tenesco.

The Mourning is as general as the News;
Grief sits on every Face, in every Eye,
And gloomy Melancholy in Silence reigns:
Nothing is heard but Sighs and sad Complaints,
As if the First-born of the Realm were slain.

Ponteach.

Thus would I have it; let no Eye be dry
No Heart unmov'd, let every Bosom swell
With Sighs and Groans. What Shouting do I hear?

[A shouting without, repeated several times.

Tenesco.

It is the Shout of Warriors from the Battle;
The Sound of Victory and great Success.

[He goes to listen to it.

Ponteach.

Such is the State of Men and human Things;
We weep, we smile, we mourn, and laugh thro' Life,
Here falls a Blessing, there alights a Curse,
As the good Genius or the evil reigns.
It's right it should be so. Should either conquer,
The World would cease, and Mankind be undone
By constant Frowns or Flatteries from Fate;
This constant Mixture makes the Potion safe,
And keeps the sickly Mind of Man in Health.

Enter Chekitan.

It is my Son. What has been your Success?

Chekitan.

We've fought the Enemy, broke thro' their Ranks,
Slain many on the Spot, pursu'd the rest
Till Night conceal'd and sav'd them from our Arms.

Ponteach.

'Tis bravely done, and shall be duly honour'd
With all the Signs and Marks of public Joy.

Chekitan.

What means this Gloom I see in every Face?
These smother'd Groans and stifled half-drawn Sighs;
Does it offend that I've return'd in Triumph?

Ponteach.

I fear to name—And yet it must be known.

[Aside.

Be not alarm'd, my Son, the Laws of Fate
Must be obey'd: She will not hear our Dictates.
I'm not a Stranger to your youthful Passion,
And fear the Disappointment will confound you.

Chekitan.

Has he not sped? Has ill befell my Brother?

Ponteach.

Yes, he is wounded but—Monelia's slain,
And Torax both. Slain by the cowardly English,
Who 'scap'd your Brother's wounded threat'ning Arm,
But are pursued by such as will revenge it.—

Chekitan.

Oh wretched, wretched, wretched Chekitan!

[Aside.

Ponteach.

I know you're shock'd—The Scene has shock'd us all,
And what we could, we've done to wipe the Stain
From us, our Family, our Land and State;
And now prepare due Honours for the Dead,
With all the solemn Pomp of public Grief,
To shew Respect as if they were our own.

Chekitan.

Is this my Triumph after Victory?
A solemn, dreadful pompous Shew:
Why have I 'scap'd their Swords and liv'd to see it?

[Aside.

Monelia dead! aught else I could have borne:
I'm stupefy'd: I can't believe it true;
Shew me the Dead; I will believe my Eyes,
But cannot mourn or drop a Tear till then.

Tenesco.

I will conduct you to them—Follow me—

[Exeunt Tenesco and Chekitan.

Ponteach.

This is a sad Reception from a Conquest,
And puts an awful Gloom upon our Joy;
I fear his Grief will overtop his Reason;
A Lover weeps with more than common Pain.
Nor flows his greatest Sorrow at his Eyes:
His Grief is inward, and his Heart sheds Tears,
And in his Soul he feels the pointed Woe,
When he beholds the lovely Object lost.
The deep-felt Wound admits no sudden Cure;
The festering Humour will not be dispers'd,
It gathers on the Mind, and Time alone,
That buries all Things, puts an End to this.

[Exeunt omnes.

Scene III. The Grove, with the dead bodies; Tenesco pointing Chekitan to them.

Tenesco.

There lie the Bodies, Prince, a wretched Sight!
Breathless and pale.

Chekitan.

A wretched Sight indeed;

[Going towards them.

Oh, my Monelia; has thy Spirit fled?
Art thou no more? a bloody, breathless Corpse!
Am I return'd full flush'd with Hopes of Joy,
With all the Honours Victory can give,
To see thee thus? Is this, is this my Welcome?
Is this our Wedding? Wilt thou not return?
Oh, charming Princess, art thou gone for ever?
Is this the fatal Period of our Love?
Oh! had I never seen thy Beauty bloom,
I had not now been griev'd to see it pale:
Had I not known such Excellence had liv'd,
I should not now be curs'd to see it dead:
Had not my Heart been melted by thy Charms,
It would not now have bled to see them lost.
Oh, wherefore, wherefore, wherefore do I live:
Monelia is not—What's the World to me?
All dark and gloomy, horrid, waste, and void:
The Light of the Creation is put out!—
The Blessings of the Gods are all withdrawn!
Nothing remains but Wretchedness and Woe;
Monelia's gone; Monelia is no more.
The Heavens are veil'd because she don't behold them:
The Earth is curs'd, for it hath drunk her Blood;
The Air is Poison, for she breathes no more:
Why fell I not by the base Briton's Sword?
Why press'd I not upon the fatal Point?
Then had I never seen this worse than Death,
But dying said, 'tis well—Monelia lives.

Tenesco.

Comfort, my Prince, nor let your Passion swell
To such a Torrent, it o'erwhelms your Reason,
And preys upon the Vitals of your Soul.
You do but feed the Viper by this View;
Retire, and drive the Image from your Thought,
And Time will soon replace your every Joy.

Chekitan.

O my Tenesco, had you ever felt
The gilded Sweets, or pointed Pains of Love,
You'd not attempt to sooth a Grief like mine.
Why did you point me to the painful Sight?
Why have you shown this Shipwreck of my Hopes,
And plac'd me in this beating Storm of Woe?
Why was I told of my Monelia's Fate?
Why wa'n't the wretched Ruin all conceal'd
Under some fair Pretence—That she had fled—
Was made a Captive, or had chang'd her Love—
Why wa'n't I left to guess her wretched End?
Or have some slender Hope that she still liv'd?
You've all been cruel; she died to torment me;
To raise my Pain, and blot out every Joy.—

Tenesco.

I fear'd as much: His Passion makes him wild—

[Aside.

I wish it may not end in perfect Frenzy.

Chekitan.

Who were the Murderers? Where did they fly?
Where was my Brother, not to take Revenge?
Show me their Tracks, I'll trace them round the Globe;
I'll fly like Lightning, ravage the whole Earth—
Kill every thing I meet, or hear, or see.
Depopulate the World of Men and Beasts,
'Tis all too little for that single Death.

[Pointing to Monelia's corpse.

I'll tear the Earth that dar'd to drink her Blood;
Kill Trees, and Plants, and every springing Flower:
Nothing shall grow, nothing shall be alive,
Nothing shall move; I'll try to stop the Sun,
And make all dark and barren, dead and sad;
From his tall Sphere down to the lowest Centre,
There I'll descend, and hide my wretched Self,
And reign sole Monarch in a World of Ruin.

Tenesco.

This is deep Madness, it hath seiz'd his Brain.

[Aside.

Chekitan.

But first I'll snatch a parting last Embrace.

[He touches and goes to embrace the corpse.

Thou dear cold Clay! forgive the daring Touch;
It is thy Chekitan, thy wounded Lover.
'Tis; and he hastens to revenge thy Death.

[Torax groans and attempts to speak.

Torax.

Oh, oh, I did not—Philip—Philip—Oh.

[Chekitan starts.

Chekitan.

What—did I not hear a Groan? and Philip call'd?

Tenesco.

Ponteach; Or, The Savages of America

About This Book

ACT V.