“Josh Billings,” the far-famed writer of Yankee proverbs, is over
sixty years of age, yet hale and rather hearty. He was born in western
Massachusetts, and after having a hard time of it in life, working
at various times, in various places, in various states, at various
occupations, he finally settled down to the peace and quiet of an
author, with an occasional lecturing tour. This has been the life
history of Henry W. Shaw, whose eccentric mode of spelling has made him
famous. His eccentricities are not assumed and artificial, but a part
of the man, and in his daily conversations he uses the same apt and
peculiar similies that are characteristic of his pen productions.
In 1872, when asked by a friend to give some facts relative to his
life, Josh wrote the following biography, which is very characteristic
of the man:
“I was born in Berkshire county, Massachusetts, during the nineteenth
century, of highly respectable parents, and owe what little success I
have obtained to the wisdom of my father and the piety of my mother.
At the fragrant age of fifteen I set my face westward and followed it
until I stood on the banks of the wide Missouri, without any plans
for life, and but little better in feelings than a cheerful vagrant.
For twenty-five years the various wanderings of a border life made me
acquainted with scenes and experiences better calculated to cut the
character sharp, than to refine it, and if I escaped without scars, it
was simply because the susceptibility of my nature looked upon most
things in this life as simply a joke.
“In common with most all Americans who have to push early, to
test their own wings, I engaged in all the usual enterprises of a
frontiersman, having been at times a land hunter, farmer, drover,
steamboat captain, auctioneer, politician, and even pioneer, for I
partially organized an enterprise, as early as 1835, to cross the
Rocky mountains. This last named enterprise was a profound failure,
but its inception and preliminary arrangements afforded me one of
the choicest relics of my early adventures, and that in _three
letters_, now in my possession, written to me personally by Henry
Clay, John Quincy Adams, and Martin Van Buren, recommending me and
the undertaking to the kind care and patronage of all people and all
nations.
“If I may be said to ever have commenced a literary career it
certainly was much later in life than most men commit the folly, for I
had passed forty-five years before I ever wrote a line for the publick
eye. What little reputation I may have made, has been accomplished
within the last nine years, and I consider that I owe all this little
to the kindness of the world at large, who, while they have discovered
but little wit, or even humor, in what I have written, have done me
the credit to acknowledge that my productions have been free from
malice. I pin all my faith, hope, and charity upon this one impulse of
my nature, and that is, if I could have my way, there would be a smile
continually on the face of every human being on God’s footstool, and
this smile should ever and anon widen into a broad grin.
“I have not the inclination to go into an extended account of the
trials and failures that I have met with since I first put on the cap
and bells, but I can assure you that I would not contend with them
again for what little glory and stamps they have won for me. I have
written two books, but my pet is Josh Billings’ Farmer’s Almanac,
which has been issued for the last three years, the annual sale of
which has exceeded one hundred thousand copies. This little waif will
soon make its appearance for 1873, and I hope to make it a welcome
guest for many years to come.
“My lectures, if they can be called lectures, are three in number,
rejoicing under the very familiar titles of Milk, What I Know About
Hotels, and the Pensive Cockroach. In this last discourse, a large
invoice of reptiles, beasts, and fishes are handled, without mercy,
commencing with the dreamy cockroach and touching lightly at times
the cunning of the fox, the strange uncertainty of the flea, and the
wondrous hypocracy of the cat.
“Please excuse, my dear sirs, in this hasty sketch what may appear
not to be true, for he who writes about himself is in great danger of
telling too much, or too little. My only apology for this monograph
is, that it has been written at your request.
“Yours calmly,