In the autumn of 1814, as already stated, I established, in company with a friend, a pocket-book factory at Hartford; but the peace put a speedy termination to that enterprise. We came out of it with a small loss, and my kind-hearted partner pocketed this, "for he had money, and I had none." He forgave me, and would have done the same had the deficit been more considerable, for he was a true friend.
Early in the following spring, I made an arrangement to go to Paris as a clerk in the branch of the importing house of Richards, Taylor & Wilder, of New York. About a month afterwards the news came that Napoleon had suddenly returned from Elba, and as business was prostrated by that event, my engagement failed. For nearly a year, my health continued indifferent, and my eyes in such a state that I was incapable of undertaking any serious business. I spent my time partly at Berlin, and partly at Hartford. I read a little, and practised my French with Value and his scholars. I also felt the need of disciplining my hands and feet, which about these days seemed to me to have acquired a most absurd development, giving me a feeling of great embarrassment when I entered into company. I therefore took lessons in dancing, and, whether I profited by it or not as to manners, I am persuaded that this portion of my education was highly beneficial to me in other points of view.
As many good people have a prejudice against dancing, I am disposed to write down my experience on the subject. In the winter, our good old teacher had weekly cotillion parties, for the purpose of improving his scholars. The young men invited the young women, and took them to these gatherings, and after the exercises conducted them home again. I know this will sound strange to those who only understand metropolitan manners at the present day; but I never knew an instance, in my own experience or observation, in which the strictest propriety was departed from. These parties took place in the evening: they began at eight o'clock, and continued till ten or eleven—sometimes till twelve. The company consisted entirely of young persons, from fifteen to twenty years of age: they included the children of the respectable inhabitants, with a number of young ladies from the boarding-schools. Some of these I have since seen the wives of bishops, senators, and governors of States—filling the first stations to which women can aspire in this country, and I am satisfied that these Hartford parties, under the auspices of our amiable and respected old teacher, were every way refining and elevating: not only did they impart ease of manner, but, as I think, purity of sentiment.
In the spring of 1815 I paid a visit to New York, and having letters of introduction to Oliver Wolcott and Archibald Gracie, I called on these gentlemen. My lodgings were at the City Hotel, situated on the western side of Broadway, between Thames and Cedar Streets, the space being now occupied by warehouses. It was then the chief hotel of New York, and was kept by a model landlord, named Jennings, with a model bar-keeper by the name of Willard. The latter was said never to sleep night or day, for at all hours he was at his post, and never forgot a customer, even after an absence of twenty years.
It was late in the spring, and Mr. Gracie called for me and took me to his country seat, occupying a little promontory on the western side of Hurlgate, a charming spot. Contiguous to it were the summer residences of many of the leading citizens of New York.
Here I spent a fortnight very agreeably. Mr. Gracie was at this period distinguished alike on account of his wealth, his intelligence, and his amiable and honorable character. Never have I witnessed anything more charming—more affectionate, dignified, and graceful, than the intercourse of the family with one another. Not many years after, Mr. Gracie lost his entire fortune by the vicissitudes of commerce, but his character was beyond the reach of accident. He is still remembered with affectionate respect by all those whose memories reach back to the times in which he flourished, and when it might be said, without disparagement to any other man, that he was the first merchant in New York.
Early in the ensuing summer, my uncle, Chauncey Goodrich, being in bad health, paid a visit to Saratoga and Ballston for the benefit of the waters, and I accompanied him. We soon returned, however, for it was now apparent that he had a disease of the heart, which was rapidly tending to a fatal result. Experiencing great suffering at intervals, he gradually yielded to the progress of his malady, and at last, on the 18th of August, 1815, while walking the room, and engaged in cheerful conversation, he faltered, sank into a chair, and instantly expired. "His death," says the historian, "was a shock to the whole community. Party distinctions were forgotten, under a sense of the general calamity; and in the simple but expressive language which was used at his funeral, 'all united in a tribute of respect to the man who had so long been dear to us, and done us so much good.'" To me, the loss was irreparable; leaving, however, in my heart a feeling of gratitude that I had witnessed an example of the highest intellectual power united with the greatest moral excellence, and that, too, in one whose relationship to me enforced and commended its teachings to my special observance. Alas, how little have I done in life that is worthy of such inspiration!
Not long after this, my friend George Sheldon, who had established himself as a bookseller and publisher, invited me to become his partner, and this I did early in the year 1816. We pursued the business for nearly two years, during which time we published, among other works, Scott's Family Bible, in five volumes quarto—a considerable enterprise for that period in a place like Hartford. In the autumn of 1817 I had gone to Berlin, for the purpose of making a short excursion for the benefit of my health, when a messenger came from Hartford, saying that my partner was very ill, and wished me to return. I immediately complied, and on entering the room of my friend I found him in a high fever, his mind already wandering in painful dreams. As I came to his bedside he said,—"Oh, take away these horrid knives, they cut me to the heart!" I stooped over him and said,—
"There are no knives here; you are only dreaming."
"Oh, is it you?" said he. "I am glad you have come. Do stay with me, and speak to me, so as to keep off these dreadful fancies."