SEARSON'S POEMS.
(Vol. vii., p. 131.)
John Searson was a merchant in Philadelphia in the year 1766. A few days before seeing the inquiry respecting him, I came across his advertisement in the Pennsylvania Gazette; but not having made a note of the date, I have since been unable to find it. His stock was of a very miscellaneous character, as "Bibles and warming pans," "spelling-books and swords," figured in it in juxtaposition. He taught school at one time in Basking Ridge, New Jersey.
A copy of his poem on "Down Hill" is before me; and it is quite as curious a production as the volume of poems which he afterwards published.
He describes himself in the title-page as "Late Master of the Free School in Colerain, and formerly of New York, Merchant." The volume was printed in 1794 by subscription at Colerain.
The work is introduced by "A Poem, being a Cursory View of Belfast Town," thus commencing:
"With pleasure I view the Town of Belfast,
Where many dear friends their lots have been cast:
The Buildings are neat, the Town very clean,
And Trade very brisk are here to be seen;
Their Shipping are numerous, as I behold,
And Merchants thrive here in riches, I'm told."
Here are some farther specimens from this poem:
"I've walk'd alone, and view'd the Paper Mill,
Its walk, the eye with pleasure fill.
I've view'd the Mountains that surround Belfast,
And find they are romantic to the last.
...
The Church of Belfast is superb and grand,
And to the Town an ornament does stand;
Their Meeting Houses also is so neat,
The congregation large, fine and complete."
The volume contains a dedication to the Rev. Mr. Josiah Marshall, rector of Maghera, a preface, a table of contents, and "A Prayer previous to the Poem."
The whole book is so intensely ridiculous that it is difficult to select. The following are rather chosen for their brevity than for any pre-eminent absurdity:
"The Earl of Bristol here some time do dwell,
Which after-ages sure of him will tell."
"Down Hill's so pleasing to the traveller's sight,
And th' marine prospect would your heart delight."
"The rabbit tribe about me run their way,
Their little all to man becomes a prey.
The busy creatures trot about and run;
Some kill them with a net, some with a gun.
Alas! how little do these creatures know
For what they feed their young, so careful go.
The little creatures trot about and sweat,
Yet for the use of man is all they get."
"He closed his eyes on ev'ry earthly thing.
Angles surround his bed: to heaven they bring
The soul, departed from its earthly clay.
He died, he died! and calmly pass'd away,
His children not at home; his widow mourn,
And all his friends, in tears, seem quite forlorn."
Some of the London booksellers ought to reprint this work as a curiosity of literature. Some of the subscribers took a number of copies, and one might be procured for the purpose. The country seats of the largest subscribers are described in the poem.
The book ends with these lines (added by the "devil" of the printing-office, no doubt):
"The above rural, pathetic, and very sublime performance was corrected, in every respect, by the author himself."
This is erased with a pen, and these words written below—"Printer's error."
Uneda.
Philadelphia.