“Really, I cannot. Don’t keep me in suspense. Tell me.”
“The author is ——” and my friend paused—“the author of Josh Billings is none other than—President Lincoln!”
My informant made the communication so gravely, that for the moment I believed it; especially as some few days previous, being down in Washington, I had occasion to know that Barney Williams, the actor, was summoned to the White House on a Sunday afternoon, that he spent some hours with the President, and that on his return in the evening to Willard’s Hotel he assured me that the President had beaten him in telling funny stories, and had said the drollest things he had heard for many a day. That my information was nothing more than a hoax the xxii reader will readily suppose; but I felt bound to “pass it on” to my acquaintances, with a like injunction to secresy, until at length I had the amusement of hearing that it had reached the ears of Mr. Lincoln, who laughed heartily at the joke, and pleasantly observed that his shoulders were hardly broad enough to bear the burdens of the State, without having to carry the sins of all its wits and jesters.
Time passed on and business called me to take a trip one day up the Hudson River to the pleasant little town of Poughkeepsie. What a quiet, charming little town it is, those who have visited it can well remember. I selected the steamer Armenian for my trip up the river. The Rhine of America never was seen to more advantage than it was on that bright summer’s day, and Poughkeepsie never looked fairer than as I saw it from the middle of the stream. I landed at a town on the left bank, crossed the river, went down to Poughkeepsie by rail, and arrived there late in the evening, I knew of only two staple products of the place, and they were—whiskey and spiritualism. The whiskey I tasted, and the spiritualism I went in search of in the person of Andrew Jackson Davis, the Swedenborg of the United States, whose books on the unseen world have been introduced to the British public by Mr. Howitt. A kindly Poughkeepsian volunteered to conduct me to where the great mysticist had lived; but I found, to my disappointment, that he was then absent from the town. To console me for my ill-luck, in not being able to see so great a celebrity, my guide soothingly xxiii observed that there was another great writer resident in and belonging to Poughkeepsie.
“Who is he?” I asked.
“Why, Josh Billings!” was the reply.
Eureka! I had found him. I had unearthed my game at last and discovered my eremite in his mystic seclusion. I lost no time in inquiring who Josh Billings was and where he lived.
“His name is Shaw—Henry W. Shaw. He’s an auctioneer, and I’ll show you the way to his house,” volunteered my friendly guide.
We went to the house; but like Mr. Davis, Mr. Shaw was not at home. All that I could then learn about him was that he belonged to Poughkeepsie, that he had been the Auctioneer of the town for many years, that he was by no means a young man, that his address for the general public was “Box 467” at the Post-office, that he was a very business-like person, and that he wrote articles for the newspapers, as well as sold property by auction and acted as agent for the transfer of real estate. The reader will therefore fully comprehend how much Mr. Shaw felt himself to be in his element while writing the chapter headed “Advertizement,” in which he offers
“To sell for eighteen hundred and thirty-nine dollars a pallas, a sweet and pensive retirement, lokated on the virgin banks of the Hudson river, kontaining 85 acres. Walls ov primitiff rock, laid in Roman cement, bound the estate, while upward and downward, the eye catches far away, the magesta and slow grander ov the Hudson. As the young moon hangs xxiv like a cutting of silver from the blue brest of the ski, an angel may be seen each night dansing with golden tiptoes on the green. (N. B. The angel goes with the place).”