Boardman had taken great pains to furnish in a style of magnificence worthy the royal rank of its future occupant. -- It was about this time, that 'the pressure in the money market' commenced. Harry, 'the merchant and millionaire,' was deep in the importing line of British manufactures. He had heavy arrivals of stocks there was no sale — and what was worse, the American merchant in London, who had been giving him accommodating facilities, by the acceptance of drafts, could get funds no longer from the Bank of England, and his drafts came back protested. He had been largely concerned in cotton, and the article was down flat in Europe. His Eastern Land Speculation' proved that it was much easier to talk of making two or three hundred thousand dollars, than it was to sell his township,' after an advance of twenty-five per centum of the purchase-money. India Rubber Stock,' though very elastic, was no sale;' and his Western Lots,' where a city was to show its aspiring head, remained much in a state of nature; and in this state of things, it seemed quite natural that Harry Boardman, 'the millionaire' should prove the extent of his operations, by failing for two millions of dollars, bringing in his father, as the endorser of his bills, for nearly half the amount. When the news reached Grove Hall,' the Boardmans gave, the next night after, a fête of extra magnificence, probably on the principle of the London banker, who had always gone on foot, until his credit was doubted, when he added a splendid carriage and servants in livery to his establishment. All the world were at this superb flareup; and among the number was a rich and very respectable English family, who were making the tour of America. They were invited, out of especial respect to the Duke, and were presented with the ceremony becoming his high rank and royal extraction. But their astonishment can alone be imagined by the reader, when they recognised in the pretended Duke the eloped son of a small woollen-draper of London, who had no other claims to blood royal than the manners he had caught in his shop acquaintance,' in fitting coats to the royal customers of his father. Josephine- the proud, uplifted Josephine, who had all her life repudiated the very name of a mechanic, and the odor of the shop'was horrified. He no Duke, but the son of a tailor! a half-and half cutter of gaiters, and fitter of small clothes! Was ever woman so treated!' she feelingly exclaimed, with the scandalized Pauline. 'How the world will talk! The wife of a mechanic a low-born, vulgar tape-and-scissars! How it will ring at the great party of the Worthingtons: Josephine Boardman married to a tailor! I'm no Duchess, after all!' and she swooned in the arms of her mother, and refused to see the Duke' ever after. Well did she say, 'The world will talk. The explosion, although the pride of the family sought its secrecy, went upon the wings of gossip. The Duke and the Duchess' were upon all tongues, and a theme of sarcastic merriment to all parties. The Duke was forbidden Grove Hall,' and warned to flee, as a vile impostor. It soon appeared, however, that he had made the most of his borrowed honors, having, like other great dignitaries, 'lived like a gentleman while in. Now that he was only a tailor's son,' a swarm of tradesmen, of almost every description, became clamorous for their dues; and the splendid mansion, and the superb furniture, given Josephine as a bridal present, went under the hammer to satisfy the Duke's debts of honor, (gambling liabilities,) and small matters in proportion. That man was a philosopher, who said, 'Misfortunes never come singly." So happened it to the Boardmans. The shock given to the established house of the elder Boardman, by the failures of Harry, began to be whispered on 'Change. It was known that the establishment was under heavy responsibilities, and that its 'factory business' had brought losses upon the concern. The banks began to be wary. They finally refused his paper; and for the first time during his mercantile career, the head of the firm was driven into the market to buy money at a premium. He passed restless nights and anxious days, determined as he was, at every hazard, to support the credit of his establishment, and maintain the position in which the labor of nearly half a century had placed him. And he would have done so, had not a new calamity burst like a thunder-bolt upon him. His son John, whom we have seen for several years pursuing the life of a gentleman at ease, had contracted habits of vice which almost invariably follow indolence and a want of regular employment. For the last two years, he had been a constant visitant at the Subscription House,' the great gambling establishment for private gentlemen; and though fate had hovered over this awful crisis in the affairs of the Boardmans, in the midst of the father's embarrassments, he was called upon to pay notes amounting to nearly twenty thousand dollars, or follow his son to prison. In hopes of concealment, the notes were paid: but the affair soon got abroad; the house could not sustain this additional shock to its credit; and in a short time, the old firm of Boardman, the importer, failed for upward of three millions of dollars, and with it were crushed the hopes and the fortunes of the Boardmans of Grove Hall.' This sad reverse was too much for the old merchant. Cut off from the busy scenes of active life; his family degraded, shattered and ruined; himself neglected, or passed by with cold recognition, he sought a temporary retreat in an interior town; but the wandering ejaculation and the vacant stare denoted too soon that intellect had left vacant the temple of reason; and, in less than two years afterward, he died, broken-hearted and forlorn, in the retreat for lunatics in the heart of the commonwealth. John, the gentleman of leisure, and the private gambler, had, by the last descending step, become a professional gamester; and perhaps the reader may recollect the Confessions of a Gambler,' who paid the penalty of his life for murder within the sovereignty of these states-and whose painful narrative alluded to the misspent time and wasted opportunities of his youth. It was he whose first public crime was forgery, and whose deeds hastened to ruin the father who had yielded him a fatal lenity. Thomas, the other son of indolence, became a wasted, wretched, miserable and debauched drunkard, and died a cast-off in the city alms-house. Harry, the millionaire,' exhibited the benefit of having been employed, although he had made some most fatal mistakes in business. He ultimately became a navigator, and is now a respectable sea-captain to a foreign port. But Edward, the youngest brother, coming on the theatre of life after the sad reverse of his family, had no factitious aid to help him onward; but he was determined to procure an education; and teaching in the intervals between his regular studies, he is now one of the most popular pulpit orators in the United States, and has gathered his mother and her daughters to a neat little cottage, where they feel it their duty to teach, by the melancholy illustration of their own history, the great error of the present day seeking to live like other people. Erect, frowning forms of the chieftains yet flitted, C. W. D. AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF A BROOMSTICK. BY THE AUTHOR OF OUR VILLAGE, THE OLD CHURCH,' 'MARINE FREEBOOTER,' ETC. NUMBER TWO. THE reader will probably recollect, that I closed the first chapter of my autobiography on my arrival in this city, and soon after I had been taken in possession by a lame mendicant, and by him converted into a crutch. I was, of course, simple and rustic in my aspect, and beheld many strange things in this great metropolis. Yet it must be confessed, I had seen something of the world. I had found industry and virtue linked to prosperity and, on the other hand, the misery that is invariably attendant upon vice. But now I was in the great emporium, and the feeble support of a beggar. There were splendor and magnificence on every side, but with me, all was misery and gloom. I belonged to one of a class for whom death had no terrors. Indeed, he looked forward to it as his only hope — his final rest. To the rich, death is an utmost, an only fear; but, in the beautiful language of Scripture, the clods of the valley shall be sweet unto the bitter in soul; he shall rejoice exceedingly and be glad when he can find the grave.' A blessed light beameth from the tomb, for the man whose way is hid, and whom God hath hedged in, so that he longeth for death, and diggeth for it more than for hid treasures.' Of what a strange compound is this world composed! Perhaps the reader will pardon me, while I give a brief history of the miserable family with whom I was domiciliated. I can aver that it is a plain, unadorned truth. Thirty years ago, when it was quite uncommon to behold coaches in our streets, Broadway was almost daily enlivened by a splendid vehicle, which rolled in solemn pomp along the pavé, provided with out-riders, and all that was necessary for fashion or beauty. There was no mystery attached to the occupants and owner of this splendid equipage. They belonged to the wealthy Mr. B—, the head of fashionable life; the polite gentleman, the accomplished scholar, the dispenser of banquets and festal entertainments. He was universally known, and as universally beloved; and even while I write, I cannot help thinking that there may be some whose eyes will follow these lines, who will immediately recognise the character alluded to. Many, undoubtedly, yet remember his accomplished daughters. Amiable and lovely, they attracted a large circle of admirers, and their smiles and frowns were long the food of joy and misery. There was one defect in them, and but one- and, sad to tell, it is one which is almost universal among the wealthy, even at the present day. They were utterly ignorant of the practical matters of the world. They had been nursed with the beautiful substances of life; their views of human nature had been on the gorgeous and poetical side; they had never gone down from their high places into the valley and shadow of the world, where poverty and want rear their gloomy throne, but, exalted as they were on the summit of prosperity, they felt alone the sunshine of existence warm ing around them. They were the victims of the false method adopted by the wealthy in rearing their offspring. How many fond fathers wonder at the fashionable airs of their children at their indolence - their disregard of care. With a mother all industry, they are the queens of sluggards. Good advice is given, but it falls unheeded. The midnight festival, the pomp of assemblies, and all the circumstance of comfort and extravagance, are the only shrines at which they worship. Fond fathers! - weak mothers! you who train and guide your offspring in one path of life, yet expect them to travel all equally safe! As well might the English-trained parrot speak French as well might the wild Arab steed, whose mouth never clasped the bit, whirl the chariot in safety the rose bear thistles, or the pink violets. But to return. Misfortunes befel the family, but not until the marriage of the daughters. Their lords' were poor; and the necessity of maintaining their families with their accustomed dignity, continued to impoverish them still more. At last, the charm and romance of existence began to wear off, and poverty to press with severer hand upon them. One grievance closed upon another, until at last gambling and intemperance, those final engines of destruction, stepped in to finish the drama, and to drop the curtain upon the last scene of their prosperity. What finally became of the majority of the brothers and sisters of this family, I am unable to say. But one was the wife of the mendicant to whom I was given in pity by the teamster. She was indeed sunk in the lowest depths of misery. With several young children about her, occupying a damp ground-room in a decayed section of the city, amid poverty, raggedness, sickness, and death, well might she weep that she ever had been born. Her husband was not only intemperate, but partially insane. I do not know that I ever saw such a surprising effect from liquor. Death generally releases the inebriate from life, ere he has reached such a state as that to which he had arrived. He took much pride in decorating himself with long slips of paper, and binding fancy strips of cloth about him, and thus promenading the streets, to the great amusement of the city. This, with his hobbling movement, rendered him extremely ludicrous. At times, he would procure a long pole, and bind upon it the daily journals, attracting the cheers and shouts of the urchins as he passed. This being was once the merchant, the gentleman, and the scholar. Previous to becoming crippled, and partially deranged, he had gathered a penny here and there, by running of small errands for gentlemen, which served to supply him with liquor. In those days, glimpses of sobriety would sometimes cross his brain, when the agony he seemed to endure was heart-rending. Had they lasted long, it would undoubtedly have destroyed his life. In his latter days, he tenanted the open city nightly; and staggering toward home one January evening, he fell in the street, where, sleeping until morning, he froze his limbs, which came near depriving him of life, and was the cause of his crippled state, when I fell into his possession. |