I don’t know but I am working too much now. For somehow when I come in, I don’t feel like anything but singing or hearing Mary play, or lying [246]down on the floor & kicking the carpet and thinking about the girls or some nonsense. I can’t read, write, or study, without getting to sleep.

We got our Sunday School underweigh last Sabbath—in great style —fifty scholars. I had the biggest class—overgrown boys.

We purchased about 83 (increased to 97 when I close) books for Library. I added three of mine that I had finished and shall have contributed and expended about a dollar more. I still have my class at Amboy. The school there is not large or well conducted as ours at Fairmount.

I think I shall join the Church at Amboy in July. I have talked about it with the pastor, a very good youngish man—his wife from Meriden. His name Lathrop, brother of some missionary’s wife that died in Smyrna. I wish they hadn’t Articles of Faith &c. I don’t see the need of them. A man ought to be able to receive the Communion when he considers it desirable, without professing any particular religious views—and when perhaps he has none except Christ & him crucified.

The truth is, I do believe the Episcopal Church is the only true Catholic (I mean not exclusive, not sectarian. The Creed is all that a man is obliged to own.) Church amongst all of them. Though I should hate to identify myself with such a bigoted set as most of them (churchmen) are, I must honestly confess that as far as creeds go I am much better satisfied with theirs than any other.

I am not sure now if I was to cut loose from prejudices of education, &c., conquer all family and personal and sectional and hereditary and national pride, as I know I ought to—and all regard for wounding the pride—feelings—of my friends, &c., I would be a member of the old true church of our ancestors—what the Episcopal Church was and yet intends to be. And then again perhaps I would not. At any rate, I don’t think it of sufficient importance to worry myself about a great deal. There’s nothing in the Prayer Book (or the Bible) to prevent my receiving all the sacraments tomorrow, if I choose. And if they were offered to me I am not sure I should decline.

I’d like to know what you think of Baptism. What’s the use of it to babies. Is it not a “means of grace?” And if it is, what is that but the beginning of the “work of Sanctification.” I believe my heart began to change at Baptism and has been changing ever since. And I hope it will continue to be in a renewing state.

I believe that I was brought up to regard it in a very different light. And if I had seen it as I now do I should have been a better man or should have begun to try to be a better man much sooner than I did begin to try to be. I believe that in partaking (as to partaking unworthily, who can judge?) of the body & blood of my Redeemer, my supplies of grace—of light from on high, of assistance and comfort—will be increased. And I believe that I ought to have begun to partake of them years ago. Penitence is a work of grace. If I [247]was not then sufficiently penitent—and was aware of it, if I was not then convicted of sin (but I was), if I did not then see the way of salvation clearly, if I was not then devoted to God, and if this (sufficient or abundant—or whatever may express the quantity or strength of the necessary) conviction, conversion, & devotion is the result of Divine Grace, why should I be refused —or be instructed to wait until I had received it before I accepted and partook of these appointed means for receiving enlarged supplies?

Considering it in this way, am I now a member of the church of Christ? This, I suppose, is the Episcopal doctrine. If I did not disagree with the common views held upon this subject by most of our folks—and such as you entertained when you shrunk from thinking (from “conviction”) of the subject, falsely supposing that your duties or your great duty and responsibility would be dreadfully increased (or commence?) by beginning to do your duty, I would not I think join any church without being rebaptised. The sacraments must be more than symbols. Well, I’ll drop the subject for the present—perhaps to take it up in connection with something else before this goes.

As to farming I am doing well, and now have a good deal of faith in myself as a farmer. I wrote to father a day or two ago very hastily and concluded very abruptly, being interrupted by tea bell and the mail cart. And at this moment it is ding dinging again. Mr. Geddes gone and I have to head the table.

Post Tea. We had the greatest rain storm this morning you ever saw. I had just got the garden in fine order, and it is half washed downhill. The gate to our irrigating canal was carried away, and the pen a-bursting out gullied up the ground the worst kind before I could get a wheel barrow load of stuff into the gap. Fence blew down and horses into the meadow—so I learned how to build bear-a-hand fence. Our garden is placed thus:

B.Y. Barn Yard, P. Pool, C. Canal. Side hill S.E. exposure. You see how nicely we can tap our canal or main drain and irrigate all below. (As at “T” “T”.)

I wish I knew your plan for vacation and father’s with dates. And I wish I could calculate how long I am to stay here &c. I wish to get my time between this and then staked out. I have promised to go to Skaneateles and to the Indian Onondaga Castle. I have some thoughts of going to Auburn to see Mr. Skinner “and things” 4th July.

In writing to father I mentioned the visit of Mrs. Geddes’ brothers and niece. They came while we were shearing. And the first they saw of me, I was “all in a sweat” and smock frock—pretty considerably dirty and rum looking anyway—on the barn floor laying across a sheep’s belly. By and by [248]Geddes said “Come Mr. Olmsted—supposing you knock off. Come in and cool off and see what’s in the papers.”

So after I had washed & “slicked up” a little, I walked into the parlour and rather astonished the young gentlemen by my transmogrification. The young Medic was a fine clever fellow—and the girl—faith! I believe I more than half got in love with her. I’ll tell you how that was, bye and bye. She is tall and handsomely proportioned. And the first interview, I got the impression that she was a goodish gay jolly sort of thing—somewhere between 16 and 21—pleasing healthy face—More like unto Frank Condit’s than somebody else’s. And you know how ridiculously resemblances strike some eyes. They say—when I came here—folks talked of my reminding them of her—and I liked to be taken for her brother.

After tea, we went down to her cousins—the Jerome girls. And I found she had no city airs or starch—or anything of that. You’ll believe it, I suppose, when I tell you three of us swung together. (Finally swing broke, nobody hurt, and I shinnied up the standing part to repair it and displayed sailorship.)

From what I have told you of Geddes you will have judged that I feared his Religious views were very—un sound—too Rational and self glorifying. And I had hoped for an opportunity to provoke him to an avowal and discussion of them. That evening it was providentially afforded. He thinks the Apostles preached faith, and not works so strongly, because at that time it was entirely new and strange—difficult to be understood &c., &c. Our divines or fathers, in protesting against and opposing the penance doctrines &c. of the Roman church, carried their views altogether too far—and works are sacrificed &c., &c.

We were in a dark(ish) room—he on the sofa, she and I in front. As I said, I took her for a gay girl, and I thought that I was rather impolite to occupy the conversation entirely on such matters as I supposed were entirely uninteresting to her, or worse than that, but I did not like to lose the opportunity. Well, I had forgotten her entirely and got quite warm. Finally having got him fairly open, I told him I did not believe most people even among the most constant church goers and priest and sermon ridden communities really understood the mediation of Christ, &c., now. I then described (what I feared was his own mistake—as) the common feeling of the world. And then with all the warmth and eloquence I could, I gave my views, concluding I believe with some strong expressions—and “that is my opinion!”

Miss Sarah, who had been entirely silent hitherto, immediately said, “and I uphold you in that opinion, Sir!” After that I gave it up pretty much to her—finding she was both able and anxious. And her views and assistance, and her earnest and sweet manner of expressing herself encouraged and delighted me.

She only stayed over night. [. . .] Heighho! Speaking of guns— [249]

Maria Porter Geddes

Now for Geddes’ view of Baptism—which I meant to speak of when I dropped the subject. I got them that same night. He thinks Baptism was never intended for anything but proselytes. We are brought up—not Heathen, not Jews—nothing but Christians. And (except for converts from Paganism, Ismailism, &c.) it is entirely useless and never intended.

Mr. Geddes was asked by an agent for the three adjoining Conferences to allow them to appoint him their lay delegate to the World’s Convention. [250]His business interfered. They offered to pay expenses. He corresponds with and often entertains Bishop Hedding. He has not had children baptised.

I wish you’d tell me all the news from Emma and New Milford as well as up street. And by the way, I should most decidely like to know why Charley don’t write me. You may read this letter to him and to Fred, for I don’t expect to write another this summer. And tell Fred I wrote him last week. I mention it because I think it possible the letter mis-carried, but he may answer this one—whether or no!

Mr. Geddes is gone to Plank Road a good deal of the time. Mrs. G. is a good sort of woman, but says but little for herself. However she took a private opportunity to express her agreement and sympathy with the views I had advocated in regard to Baptism, the Influence of the Spirit, &c. She and her husband are Methodists—the old lady , a Presbyterian. By the way, the old lady claims to be a cousin (she was a Jerome from Berkshire County) of Miss Dwight of New Haven. And some of her relations out here married a Colonel Olmsted of Connecticut. I had looked for a letter from you this morning. You ought to write more—hadn’t you?

June 20th