Part 1

Produced by Bryan Ness and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net (This file was produced from images generously made available by the Library of Congress)

Transcribers Notes

1. The original spellings of words have been retained. 2. Typos or suspected typos have been noted by [_sic_.]. 3. The long "s", which appears as an "f" with the right part of the cross missing, has been replaced with "s". 4. Lines joined with brackets in the original have been indented three additional spaces. 5. Quote marks at the beginning of successive lines have been changed to the modern convention of one opening double quote and one ending double quote at the end of the quoted text. 6. Footnotes appear as lower-case letters in parentheses. They are alphabetical from (a) to (oo) and have been grouped at the end of the book.

_S H E A' S_

_EARLY SOUTHERN TRACTS._

_No. II._

THE

Sot-weed Factor:

Or, a Voyage to

MARYLAND.

A

SATYR.

In which is describ'd

The Laws, Government, Courts and Constitutions of the Country, and also the Buildings, Feasts, Frolicks, Entertainments and Drunken Humours of the Inhabitants of that Part of _America_.

In Burlesque Verse.

By _Eben. Cook_, Gent.

LONDON:

Printed and Sold by _D. Bragg_, at the _Raven_ in _Pater-Noster-Row_. 1708. (Price 6d.)

We have no means of knowing the history of Master "Ebenezer Cook, Gentleman," who, one hundred and forty-six years ago, produced the Sot-Weed Factor's Voyage to Maryland. He wrote, printed, published, and sold it in London for sixpence sterling, and then disappeared forever. We do not know certainly that Mr. Cook himself was the actual adventurer who suffered the ills described by him "in burlesque verse." Indeed, "Eben: Cook, Gent." may be a myth--a _nom de plume_. Yet, there is a certain personal poignancy and earnestness about the whole Story that almost forbid the idea of a secondhand narrative. Nay, I think it extremely probable that it was "Eben: Cook, Gent." or, some other equally afflicted gentleman assuming that name, who--

"_Condemn'd by Fate to wayward Curse, Of Friends unkind and empty purse_,"--

fled from his native land to become a Sot-Weed factor in America.[1]

The adventures and manners described are ludicrous and certainly very unpolished. Although Mr. Cook calls his poem "_A Satyr_," there is, in his account of early habits in Maryland, so much resemblance to what we observe in the rude society of all new settlements, that it is possible the story is not so much a Satire as a hightened description of what an unlucky traveler found in certain quarters of the colony, Anno Domini, 1700. When "Mr. Cook," with an anathema in his mouth, makes a final bow to his readers, he expressly adds, in a note, on the last page, that "the Author does not intend by this any of the _English_ Gentlemen resident there;" still, excepting even all these select personages, he doubtless found _un_-gentlefolk enough among the rough farmers and fishermen of obscure "Piscato-way" and the adjacent country, to justify his discontent. At all events, we may, I imagine, very reasonably suppose "Eben: Cook" to have been a London "Gent:" rather decayed by fast living, sent abroad to see the world and be tamed by it, who very soon discovered that Lord Baltimore's Colony was not the court of her Majesty Queen Anne, or its taverns frequented by Addison and the wits; and whose disgust became supreme when he was "finished" on the "Eastern-Shoar,"[2] by

"A pious, Concientious Rogue"

who, taking advantage of his incapacity for trade, cheated him out of his cargo and sent him home without a leaf of the coveted "Sot-weed!" This poem is, very likely, the result of that homeward voyage. With proper allowance for breadth and burlesque, angry exaggeration and the discomforts of such a "Gentleman" as we may fancy Master Cook to have been, it is well worth preservation as hinting, if not photographing, the manners and customs of the ruder classes in a British Province a century and a half ago.

The "Sot-Weed Factor" was first printed in London, in 1708, in a folio of twenty-one pages. It was reprinted, with a poem on Bacon's Rebellion, by Mr. Green, at Annapolis, Maryland, in 1731. Mr. Green cautiously reminds the reader that it was a description written twenty years before, and "did not agree with the condition of Annapolis at the time of its publication!"

The edition, now published, is taken from the London copy of 1708, as "Printed and sold by B. Bragg, at the Raven, in Pater-Noster-row (price 6d.)"

In Stevens's _Bibliotheca Americana_, 1861, we find the following title: "Sot-Weed Redivivus; or the Planters Looking-Glass. In Burlesque Verse, Calculated for the Meridian of Maryland, by E. C. Gent: _Annapolis_; _William Parks_, for the Author. 1730. viii and text 28 pp. 4°." Mr. Stevens describes the book as "alike curious as an early specimen of printing in Maryland, and as an example of American poetry."

"E. C. _Gent_:" of 1730, at Annapolis, may be the

"Ebenezer Cook, Gent:" of London, 1708,--"_redivivus_,"--returned to America and turned Author again at Annapolis, under the auspices of our early Colonial printer, William Parks. But we have never seen this rare book, published twenty-two years after the _Sot-Weed Factor_ was first issued in England, and know nothing of its character or authorship.

BRANTZ MAYER.

Baltimore, October 20, 1865.

[Footnote 1: Sot-Weed, i. e. the sot making or inebriating weed; a name for _tobacco_, used at that time. A Sot-weed Factor, was a tobacco agent or supercargo.]

[Footnote 2: The "eastern shoar" of the Chesapeake bay: this portion of Maryland is still familiarly called so in that state.]

THE Sot-Weed Factor; Or, a Voyage to Maryland, &c.

Condemn'd by Fate to way-ward Curse, Of Friends unkind, and empty Purse; Plagues worse than fill'd _Pandora's_ Box, I took my leave of _Albion's_ Rocks: With heavy Heart, concerned that I Was forc'd my Native Soil to fly, And the _Old World_ must bid good-buy But Heav'n ordain'd it should be so, And to repine is vain we know: Freighted with Fools from _Plymouth_ sound To _Mary-Land_ our Ship was bound, Where we arrived in dreadful Pain, Shock'd by the Terrours of the Main; For full three Months, our wavering Boat, Did thro' the surley Ocean float, And furious Storms and threat'ning Blasts, Both tore our Sails and sprung our Masts; Wearied, yet pleas'd we did escape Such Ills, we anchor'd at the (a) _Cape_; But weighing soon, we plough'd the Bay, To (b) Cove it in (c) _Piscato-way_, Intending there to open Store, I put myself and Goods a-shoar: Where soon repair'd a numerous Crew, In Shirts and Drawers of (d) _Scotch-cloth Blue_ With neither Stockings, Hat nor Shooe. These _Sot-weed_ Planters Crowd the Shoar, In hue as tawny as a Moor: Figures so strange, no God design'd, To be a part of Humane kind: But wanton Nature, void of Rest, Moulded the brittle Clay in Jest. At last a Fancy very odd Took me, this was the Land of _Nod_; Planted at first, when Vagrant _Cain_, His Brother had unjustly slain; Then Conscious of the Crime he'd done From Vengeance dire, he hither run, And in a hut supinely dwelt, The first in _Furs_ and _Sot-weed_ dealt. And ever since his Time, the Place, Has harbour'd a detested Race; Who when they cou'd not live at Home, For refuge to these Worlds did roam; In hopes by Flight they might prevent, The Devil and his fell intent; Obtain from Tripple-Tree reprieve, And Heav'n and Hell alike deceive; But e're their Manners I display, I think it fit I open lay My Entertainment by the way: That Strangers well may be aware on, What homely Diet they must fare on. To touch that Shoar where no good Sense is found, But Conversation's lost, and Manners drown'd. I cros't unto the other side, A River whose impetuous Tide, The Savage Borders does divide; In such a shining odd invention, I scarce can give its due Dimention. The _Indians_ call this watry Waggon (e) _Canoo_, a Vessel none can brag on; Cut from a _Popular-Tree_ or _Pine_, And fashion'd like a Trough for Swine: In this most noble Fishing-Boat, I boldly put myself afloat; Standing erect, with Legs stretch'd wide, We paddled to the other side: Where being Landed safe by hap, As _Sol_ fell into _Thetis'_ Lap. A ravenous Gang bent on the stroul, Of (f) Wolves for Prey, began to howl; This put me in a pannick Fright, Least I should be devoured quite; But as I there a musing stood, And quite benighted in a Wood, A Female Voice pierc'd, thro' my Ears, Crying, _You Rogue drive home the Steirs_. I listen'd to th' attractive sound, And straight a Herd of Cattel found Drove by a Youth, and homeward bound; Cheer'd with the fight, I straight thought fit, To ask where I a Bed might get. The surley Peasant bid me stay, And ask'd from whom (g) I'de run away. Surprized at such a saucy Word, I instantly lugg'd out my Sword; Swearing I was no Fugitive, But from _Great-Britain_ did arrive, In hopes I better there might Thrive. To which he mildly made reply, _I beg your Pardon, Sir, that I Should talk to you Unmannerly; But if you please to go with me, To yonder House, you'll welcome be_. Encountring soon the smoaky Seat, The Planter old did thus me greet: "Whether you come from Goal or Colledge, You're welcome to my certain Knowledge; And if you please all Night to stay, My Son shall put you in the way." Which offer I most kindly took, And for a Seat did round me look; When presently amongst the rest, He plac'd his unknown _English_ Guest, Who found them drinking for a whet, A Cask of (h) Syder on the Fret, Till Supper came upon the Table, On which I fed whilst I was able. So after hearty Entertainment, Of Drink and Victuals without Payment; For Planters Tables, you must know, Are free for all that come and go. While (i) Pon and Milk, with (k) Mush well stoar'd, In Wooden Dishes grac'd the Board; With (l) Homine and Syder-pap, (Which scarce a hungry dog wou'd lap) Well stuff'd with Fat from Bacon fry'd, Or with _Mollossus_ dulcify'd. Then out our Landlord pulls a Pouch, As greasy as the Leather Couch On which he sat, and straight begun To load with Weed his _Indian_ Gun; In length, scarce longer than one's Finger. His Pipe smoak'd out with aweful Grace, With aspect grave and solemn pace; The reverend Sire walks to a Chest, Of all his Furniture the best, Closely confined within a Room, Which seldom felt the weight of Broom; From thence he lugs a Cag of Rum, And nodding to me, thus begun: I find, says he, you don't much care For this our _Indian_ Country Fare; But let me tell you, Friend of mine, You may be glad of it in time, Tho' now your Stomach is so fine; And if within this Land you stay, You'll find it true what I do say. This said, the Rundlet up he threw, And bending backwards strongly drew: I pluck'd as stoutly for my part, Altho' it made me sick at Heart, And got so soon into my Head I scarce cou'd find my way to Bed; Where I was instantly convey'd By one who pass'd for Chamber-Maid, Tho' by her loose and sluttish Dress, She rather seemed a _Bedlam-Bess_: Curious to know from whence she came, I prest her to declare her Name. She Blushing, seem'd to hide her Eyes, And thus in Civil Terms replies; In better Times, e'er to this Land, I was unhappily Trapann'd; Perchance as well I did appear, As any Lord or Lady here, Not then a Slave for twice two (m) Year. My Cloaths were fashionably new, Nor were my Shifts of Linnen Blue; But things are changed, now at the Hoe, I daily work, and Bare-foot go, In weeding Corn or feeding Swine, I spend my melancholy Time. Kidnap'd and Fool'd, I hither fled, To shun a hated Nuptial (n) Bed, And to my cost already find, Worse Plagues than those I left behind. Whate'er the Wanderer did profess, Good-faith I cou'd not chuse but guess The Cause which brought her to this place, Was supping e'er the Priest laid Grace. Quick as my Thoughts, the Slave was fled, (Her Candle left to shew my Bed) Which made of Feathers soft and good, Close in the (o) Chimney-corner stood; I threw me down expecting Rest, To be in golden Slumbers blest: But soon a noise disturb'd my quiet, And plagu'd me with nocturnal Riot; A Puss which in the ashes lay, With grunting Pig began a Fray; And prudent Dog, that feuds might cease, Most strongly bark'd to keep the Peace. This Quarrel scarcely was decided, By stick that ready lay provided; But _Reynard_, arch and cunning Loon, Broke into my Appartment soon: In hot pursuit of Ducks and Geese, With fell intent the same to seize: Their Cackling Plaints with strange surprize, Chac'd Sleep's thick Vapours from my Eyes; Raging I jump'd upon the Floar, And like a Drunken Saylor Swore; With Sword I fiercely laid about, And soon dispers'd the Feather'd Rout The Poultry out of Window flew, And _Reynard_ cautiously withdrew: The Dogs who this Encounter heard, Fiercely themselves to aid me rear'd, And to the Place of Combat run, Exactly as the Field was won. Fretting and hot as roasting Capon, And greasy as a Flitch of Bacon; I to the Orchard did repair, To Breathe the cool and open Air; Expecting there the rising Day, Extended on a Bank I lay; But Fortune here, that fancy Whore, Disturb'd me worse and plagu'd me more, Than she had done the night before: Hoarse croaking (p) Frogs did 'bout me ring, Such Peals the Dead to Life wou'd bring, A Noise might move their Wooden King. I stuffed my Ears with Cotten white, For fear of being deaf out-right, And curst the melancholy Night; But soon my Vows I did recant, And Hearing as a Blessing grant; When a confounded Rattle-Snake, With hissing made my Heart to ake: Not knowing how to fly the Foe, Or whither in the Dark to go; By strange good Luck, I took a Tree, Prepar'd by Fate to set me free; Where riding on a Limb a stride, Night and the Branches did me hide, And I the Devil and Snake defy'd. Not yet from Plagues exempted quite, The curst Muskitoes did me bite; Till rising Morn' and blushing Day, Drove both my Fears and Ills away; And from Night's Errors set me free. Discharg'd from hospitable Tree; I did to Planter's Booth repair, And there at Breakfast nobly Fare On rashier broil'd of infant Bear: I thought the Cub delicious Meat, Which ne'er did ought but Chesnuts eat; Nor was young Orsin's flesh the worse, Because he sucked a Pagan Nurse. Our Breakfast done, my Landlord stout, Handed a Glass of Rum about; Pleas'd with the Treatment I did find, I took my leave of Oast so kind; Who to oblige me, did provide, His eldest son to be my Guide, And lent me Horses of his own, A skittish Colt, and aged Rhoan, The four-leg'd prop of his Wife _Joan_: Steering our Barks in Trot or Pace, We sail'd directly for a place In _Mary-Land_, of high renown, Known by the Name of Battle-Town. To view the Crowds did there resort, Which Justice made, and Law their sport, In that sagacious County Court: