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to incidentaly , he added: “I can’t even spell such a word as that right.”
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    During this time, Olmsted began to pursue various romantic possibilities, though his approach was similarly scattershot. He accompanied a variety of different young women to a variety of different events, such as lectures, book-club meetings, hymn sing-alongs, and Sunday sociables. In Puritan New England, for someone of Olmsted’s background, these were the kind of chaste—and frequently chaperoned—activities that were available. But Olmsted made the most of it. Yale, one of his main stomping grounds, was an all-male university at this time. Between Hartford and New Haven proper, however, there seemed to be an endless stream of prospects to choose among.
    Olmsted mooned over Abby Clark, a student at the Hartford Female Seminary. He went to a dance with Sarah Cook. And in New Haven, he went on a group picnic with a young woman that he identified only as Anna. “’Twas a fine day and I believe we all, particularly the girls enjoyed very much,” he wrote to his brother. “Capital dinner on the rocks. Siesta (charming with Anna’s lap for a pillow). Smoke, reading, pomp, sentiment, and ride home by moonshine.”
    Of course, Olmsted wasn’t what one would call an eligible bachelor. His career prospects weren’t exactly sterling. Then again, he wasn’t really looking to get married at this point. Rather, he seemed thrilled by the opportunity to spend time with witty and cultivated young women. His various companions, in turn, seemed to appreciate that he already had some real-life experience, and his time at sea made for especially vivid stories. Maria Mounds had also been on an ocean voyage, and the pair had a “few yarns to spin,” as Olmsted termed it.
    Yet another object of Olmsted’s affections was Frances Condit. At one point, he arranged to meet up with her at a social gathering at a house in Hartford. He stayed way beyond the household’s calling hours. Mary Ann Olmsted, who had accompanied him, left early and fretted that her stepson had committed a faux pas. To John Sr., she confided that Fred appeared smitten in the wake of his overlong stay: “He has dreamed about her regularly every week since. I know not whether the admiration is mutual.”

    As he often would in the course of his life, Olmsted had gotten caught up in a kind of frenzy—a frenzy of courtship. He wrote to Brace: “I am desperately in love—now, and no mistake, only for the life of me I can’t tell who it’s with—the whole of ’em, I believe.”
    Still, there was one particular woman who stood apart, as a special object of his affections, dispersed as they were. Elizabeth Baldwin was beautiful, refined, and deeply religious, and she came from one of the most distinguished families in Connecticut—in the whole United States, for that matter. Olmsted’s circle of friends called her “Miss B.” as a token of their awe and respect. Her great-grandfather was Roger Sherman, the only person to sign America’s four seminal documents: the Continental Association, the Declaration of Independence, the Articles of Confederation, and the Constitution. “Mr. Sherman, of Connecticut, a man who never said a foolish thing in his life,” is how Thomas Jefferson described him. Her father had until recently served as the governor of the state.
    Olmsted met Elizabeth Baldwin at a literary evening held at her home in New Haven. From the outset, he recognized that he was utterly overmatched. Still, he was deeply flattered that she took him seriously. She recommended some books to him by Emerson and Lowell. Years later, Olmsted would credit her with helping to “rouse a sort of scatter-brained pride and to make me realize that my secluded life, country breeding and mis-education was not such a bar to an ‘intellectual life’ as I was in the