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 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).”
Better fortune led me at last to meet Mr. Shaw in New York City. We were
introduced to one another at Artemus Ward’s Mormon entertainment on
Broadway. I found a man rather above the middle height, sparse in build,
sharp in features, his long hair slightly turning gray, and his age
between forty and fifty, reserved in manner, a rustic, unpolished
demeanor, and looking more like a country farmer than a genial man of
letters or a professed wit and a public lecturer on playful subjects. I
can vouch for his geniality, for, on the evening of our first meeting,
we adjourned from Dodworth Hall to the St. Denis Hotel opposite, and, in
the company of a few friends, spent a mirthful hour or two. The night
was bitter cold; but warm sherry, excellent Bourbon, and jovial spirits
made the bleak wind which whistled up Broadway from the Bay, as
melodious as the music of lutes.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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