I have but a short time to spare just now to answer your good favor of Wednesday, now on hand. But as I have not written you for some time and am going out of town tomorrow, I’ll try, for somewhat.

Thank God for Miss Baldwin and all the rest. What an angel she [233]will make! How glad I am! Do you recollect our wondering how such a sensible girl could live without religion. I knew she must think about it a great deal, and I thought sh’d be coming out. But I did not think—I don’t know but I did too—that ’twould be so soon. But I did not think it would be so sudden. I should have picked her out for a gradual, I think. I can’t understand it.

We used to talk about answering prayer. I think, and always have, Revivals and Conversions, etc., etc. were more connected with prayer than anything else and seemed more directly the result of prayer. I’d like to know how many folks have remembered her (and them) in their devotions the last three months. If you and I have, how much more a good many others! I believe those girls Hetty Blake & Miss Bacon & ______ have saved many souls this spring.

I wish you’d tell me more about her and the operation—the process. Ask her—pray—does she really think ’twas a miracle, or the like of one? I wish you would. A case of “special interpose” etc. or anything like it? If she thinks so and you do, I’m swamped on that tack. You say “would be more gradual with such fellows as,” etc. Now I should say she was just one of those fellows. I wish you’d tell her so, and see if she would not have thought so. You say you are in a mist of doubts. Why, bless you, I’m in a real old bank fog and becalmed without steering way, at that, almost. But the sun does shine through occasionally.

Spirit of God or Human Sympathy? I expect to see people as excited tonight at the Whig Caucus as I ever saw them in a Methodist camp meeting. If ’twas a Loco Foco meeting you might say Spirit of ______ —something else. But it is not. And if ’twas a church meeting to elect a deacon, it might be all the same.

My character might be changed as much by an intimate acquaintance with Miss Baldwin or anybody else I admired and respected so much. As much as some people I know have been changed by an acquaintance with Christ—to my poor judgment—and good Christians, too, I suppose. Now I’ll bet Miss Baldwin wouldn’t believe that possible. Perhaps she’ll be more likely to next year. The fact is I don’t quite believe it myself. But change of heart, etc. does puzzle me. I don’t believe mine has been orthodoxically anyhow. I’ve got a confoundly filthy one now, and I believe it’s been growing cleaner and softer—a considerable spell at least—ten years I should think.

I wrote John hoping to draw his attention to religion. His answer don’t show much feeling, but perhaps that is my fault. Among other things, I urged him to read the Bible daily, etc. He replies that he has been in the habit of reading the Bible, some. “Never could perceive any good effects or great advantage from it”(!) How much is some? Why, I did not see him read it but once, and then in French, all last term.

He says he means to “do as near right as the imperfections of human [234]nature will allow and, repenting of the rest, put his trust in Christ,” and “It don’t seem to me I should be much changed—except in my motives. They might be less selfish, & look more to God’s glory. Cant, I abhor.”

I don’t know but I ought to make a public profession, but I can not tell you all the reasons why I do not.

I have been out to your folks’. All well and send love. Mary declares she don’t go to New Milford (Blast it, as much as you are a mind to. ’Twill ease you) until she knows who is going to have them peaches.

It’s too bad, but so we go. “Where” I go I don’t know—New York —Albany—West to Syracuse down to Owego. Expect to find a place somewhere.

I meant to have told you about my jolly ride up that time: Getting spilt with all the things & the luncheon into soft snowdrifts, carrying a lady (of 150 pounds) and baby (of course) several miles over bare ground, getting out & pushing up hill & being offered six and a quarter cents, & no thanks for it. Meeting and bowing to young ladies while Jerry, all jaded out, was dragging (on a slow walk), me in a dashing cutter & furs down through Asylum Hill. Some clay there, but not a speck of snow. God bless you, Charley. Write again after you have seen her immediately. A little more time to spare; I’ll go on.

While I think of it, where is the fourth of Sterne—Sterne’s Letters?

I begin to think I do love Miss B. Really. The fact is—never mind. If I never did before I do now. What a blessed thing she must be.

Pshaw! I am going to be Clodpole. I should be a scamp to think of making her Mrs. Clodpole. She ought to be a queen—or a martyr—or a missionaryess or a schoolmistress—or an angel. She’s too good for any course vulgar man merely, is not she? I don’t see how you can stay in College while she is in the same town. Don’t she run away with you altogether? Oh, I’d give considerable if not more to go there with you tomorrow night. Well, Well. There’s plenty more good fish in the sea. But shall we ever look upon her like again. No Sir! I don’t believe it. I vow I wish I’d never seen her. Farewell, Miss B!

I go to Collinsville tomorrow. Tell Fred I mean to try to write him before I go if I can, but if I don’t he must not wait. I hope to find letters from both of you by Wednesday when I return—by Lucius—your valisse anyway.

Stick to Old Hartford, Charley. We all love you here. Au revoir.