I hadn’t allegoried (to myself) more than two or three minutes, probable, when I see a form I knew, Jonathan Beans’es ex-wife by name, and a vegetable widow by trade. I rose right up and catched holt of her pin back, and says I, “Jonathan Beans’es ex-wife, how do you do?” she turned round.

“Why Josiah Allen’s wife! is it you?” And we shook hands, and kissed each other, (though I don’t make a practice of it.) And then I told her that Josiah had gone to be took, and I was a waitin’ for him, and she sot right down by me, cousin Bean did. Perhaps you will notice that I say Bean, and not ex-Bean, as formally; she is livin’ with her husband again, so she told me the first thing. Bean has come back, and they are keepin’ a hen dairy in Rhode Island; I asked her if the hens didn’t bother her a fallin’ off in the water, and she said they didn’t; and I told her you couldn’t always tell by the looks of a map how things really was. Then we talked a good deal about the Sentinal, and then I inquired about Miss Astor and the boys; and then we spoke about Alexander, and I told her I felt awful cut down when I heerd he was gone; and then we talked about Alexander’s Widder, and we felt glad to think that it wasn’t likely she would ever be put to it for things to eat or wear, and had a comfortable house to live in, “most a new one,” Miss Bean said.

I told her I was glad she had a house that wouldn’t want shinglin’ right away; it is hard enough to be a Widder without bein’ leaked down on.

And then we meandered off into other friends in the village, and I asked her if Victoria had been cuttin’ up and behavin’?

She said, she guessed my advice had quieted her down. She hadn’t heerd of her actin’ for quite a spell. I felt noble when she told me this, but her very next words made me feel different; I didn’t feel so good as I did. Says she: “Beecher has been talked about some sense you was to the village.”

Says I in a almost dry tone, “I have heerd his name mentioned once or twice durin’ the past few years.”

“I believe he is guilty,” says she with a radiant look.

“Well I don’t,” says I almost warmly. “I don’t believe it no more than I believe my pardner is a drumedary.” And says I firmly, “I will come out still plainer; I don’t believe it no more than I believe Josiah Allen is an ostridge.”

“Oh!” says she with a still more delighted and lively mean, “I never see anybody talked about quite so bad as he has been; and that shows that meetin’ house folks haint no better than common folks.”

Miss Bean is a Nothingarian in good standin’, and loves to see meetin’ house folks brought low; loves it dearly. “Jest think,” says she with that proud and raptuous look on her, “how high he has stood up on a meetin’ house, and how he has been run down it.”

But I interrupted of her by askin’ her this conundrum, in about as cold a tone as they make.

“Miss Bean, which would be apt to have the biggest, blackest shadder at its feet; a mullien stalk, or a meetin’ house?”

“Why, a meetin’ house, of course,” says she.

“Well,” says I, “that is reasonable. I didn’t know,” says I in a very dry tone, “but you would expect to see a shadder as black and heavy as a meetin’ house shadder, a taggin’ along after a mullien stalk. But it wouldn’t be reasonable; the cloud of detraction and envy and malice that follers on at the feet of folks is generally proportioned to their size.” Says I, “Jonathan Beans’es wife, you are not a runnin’ at Henry, you are runnin’ at Religion.”

Says I, “If Christianity can stand ag’inst persecution and martyrdom, if it is stronger than death and the grave, do you s’pose Jonathan Beans’es wife, and the hull Nothingarian church is a goin’ to overthrow it?”

Says I, “Eighteen hundred years ago the unbelievers thought they had hurt it all it could be; they thought they had crucified it, buried it up, and rolled a stun ag’inst it; but it was mightier than death and the grave, it rose up triumphant. And the fires of martyrdom in which they have tried to destroy it ever sense, has only burnt away the chaff; the pure seed has remained, and the waves of persecution in which time and again they have tried to drownd it, has only scattered the seed abroad throughout the world, wafted it to kinder shores: friendlier soils, in which it has multiplied and blossomed a thousand fold more gloriously. And,” says I, “the wave of infidelity that is sweepin’ over it now, will only sweep away the dross, the old dry chaff of dead creeds, superstitions, and bigotry—it can no more harm religion than you can scatter dust on the floor of heaven.”

“Well,” says she, “Sam Snyder’ses wife, she that was Cassandra Bean is a waitin’ for me and I must go.” She looked uneasy, and she told me she would see me the next day, and started off.

And I sot there and waited for Josiah, and when he did come I see he was wore almost completely out, and his mean looked as bad as I ever see a mean look. He didn’t seem to want to talk, but I would make him tell the particulars, and finally he up and told ’em. He said he got into the wrong buildin’—one that had pictures to show off, but didn’t take ’em. But a clever lookin’ feller showed him the way to go to be took, way acrost Agricultural Avenue, and he got into the wrong house there, got into Judges Hall, right where they was a judgin’. He said he never felt so mortified in his life.

“I should think as much,” says I.

But he looked still more deprested, and says he:

“Worse is to come, Samantha.” I see by his looks he had had a tegus time. I see he was completely unstrung, and it was my duty to try to string him up with kindness and sympathy, and so says I almost tenderly, “Tell your pardner all about it Josiah.”

“I hate too,” says he.

Says I firmly, “Josiah, you must.”

“Well,” says he. “I got into another wrong room, where some wimmen was a kinder dressin’ ’em.”

“Josiah Allen!” says I sternly.

“Well, who under the sun would have been a lookin’ out for any such thing. Who would think,” says he with a deeply injured air, “that wimmen would go a prancin’ off so fur from home before they got their dresses hooked up, or anything.”

I knew there was a room there a purpose for ladies to go and fix up in, and I says more mildly—for his mean most skairt me—“I persume there was no harm done Josiah, only most probable you skairt ’em.”

“Skairt ’em!” says he. “I should think so; they yelled like lunys.”

“And what did you say?” says I.

“I told ’em,” says he, “I wanted to be took.”

“And what did they say?” says I, for he would keep a stoppin’ in the particulars.

“Oh! they yelled louder than ever; they seemed to think I was crazy, and a policeman come—”

“And what did you tell him?” says I.

“What could I tell him?” he snapped out. “Of course I told him I wanted to be took, and he said he’d take me, and he did,” says Josiah sadly. Again the particulars stopped, and again I urged him. And says he: “Comin’ out of that room, and down the steps so awful sudden, got my head kinder turned round, and instead of goin’ into the picture room, I went the wrong way and got into the Japan house.”

“Did you make any move towards gittin’ me a Japaned dust pan?” I interrupted of him.

“No, I didn’t! I should think I see trouble enough, without luggin’ round dust pans. I told them I wanted to be took, and they didn’t understand me, and I come right out and offered a boy I see there, five cents to git me headed right, and he did it.”

Josiah stopped here, as if he wasn’t goin’ to speak another word. But says I, “Josiah Allen was you took?”

“Yes I was,” he snapped out.

“Lemme see the picture,” says I firmly.

He hung off, and tried to talk with me on religion, but I stood firm, and says I, “You was a lottin’ on a handsome picture, Josiah Allen.”

“Throw that in my face will you, what if I was. I’d like to know if you expect a man to have a handsome dressy expression, after he has traipsed all over Pennsylvany, and been lost, and mortified, and helped round by policeman, and yelled at by wimmen. And the man told me after I sot down, to look at a certain knot-hole, and git up a brilliant happy expression, and git inspired and animated. I did try to, but the man told me such a gloomy expression wouldn’t do no how, and says he, ‘my kind friend, you must look happier; think of the beautiful walk you had a comin’ here; think of the happy scenes you passed through.’

“I did think of ’em,” says Josiah, “and you can see for yourselves jest how it looks.”

It truly went ahead of anything I ever see for meachinness, and wretchedness. But I wouldn’t say a word to add to his gloom, I only says in a warnin’ way, “You had better keep by your pardner after this Josiah Allen.” And I added as I heerd the hour a strikin’ from the great clock on Machinery Hall, “It is time for us to go home.” And we went.