owing to its pyramidal shape, the reduction of the chimney inordinately widened its razeed summit. inordinately, i say, but only in the estimation of such as have no eye to the picturesque. what care i, if, unaware that my chimney, as a free citizen of this free land, stands upon an independent basis of its own, people passing it, wonder how such a brick-kiln, as they call it, is supported upon mere joists and rafters? what care i? i will give a traveler a cup of switchel, if he want it; but am i bound to supply him with a sweet taste? men of cultivated minds see, in my old house and chimney, a goodly old elephant-and-castle.
all feeling hearts will sympathize with me in what i am now about to add. the surgical operation, above referred to, necessarily brought into the open air a part of the chimney previously under cover, and intended to remain so, and, therefore, not built of what are called weather-bricks. in consequence, the chimney, though of a vigorous constitution, suffered not a little, from so naked an exposure; and, unable to acclimate itself, ere long began to fail—showing blotchy symptoms akin to those in measles. whereupon travelers, passing my way, would wag their heads, laughing; “see that wax nose—how it melts off!” but what cared i? the same travelers would travel across the sea to view kenilworth peeling away, and for a very good reason: that of all artists of the picturesque, decay wears the palm—i would say, the ivy. in fact, i’ve often thought that the proper place for my old chimney is ivied old england.
in vain my wife—with what probable ulterior intent will, ere long, appear—solemnly warned me, that unless something were done, and speedily, we should be burnt to the ground, owing to the holes crumbling through the aforesaid blotchy parts, where the chimney joined the roof. “wife,” said i, “far better that my house should burn down, than that my chimney should be pulled down, though but a few feet. they call it a wax nose; very good; not for me to tweak the nose of my superior.” but at last the man who has a mortgage on the house dropped me a note, reminding me that, if my chimney was allowed to stand in that invalid condition, my policy of insurance would be void. this was a sort of hint not to be neglected. all the world over, the picturesque yields to the pocketesque. the mortgagor cared not, but the mortgagee did.
so another operation was performed. the wax nose was taken off, and a new one fitted on. unfortunately for the expression—being put up by a squint-eyed mason, who, at the time, had a bad stitch in the same side—the new nose stands a little awry, in the same direction.
of one thing, however, i am proud. the horizontal dimensions of the new part are unreduced.
large as the chimney appears upon the roof, that is nothing to its spaciousness below. at its base in the cellar, it is precisely twelve feet square; and hence covers precisely one hundred and forty-four superficial feet. what an appropriation of terra firma for a chimney, and what a huge load for this earth! in fact, it was only because i and my chimney formed no part of his ancient burden, that that stout peddler, atlas of old, was enabled to stand up so bravely under his pack. the dimensions given may, perhaps, seem fabulous. but, like those stones at gilgal, which joshua set up for a memorial of having passed over jordan, does not my chimney remain, even unto this day?
very often i go down into my cellar, and attentively survey that vast square of masonry. i stand long, and ponder over, and wonder at it. it has a druidical look, away down in the umbrageous cellar there whose numerous vaulted passages, and far glens of gloom, resemble the dark, damp depths of primeval woods. so strongly did this conceit steal over me, so deeply was i penetrated with wonder at the chimney, that one day—when i was a little out of my mind, i now think—getting a spade from the garden, i set to work, digging round the foundation, especially at the corners thereof, obscurely prompted by dreams of striking upon some old, earthen-worn memorial of that by-gone day, when, into all this gloom, the light of heaven entered, as the masons laid the foundation-stones, peradventure sweltering under an august sun, or pelted by a march storm. plying my blunted spade, how vexed was i by that ungracious interruption of a neighbor who, calling to see me upon some business, and being informed that i was below said i need not be troubled to come up, but he would go down to me; and so, without ceremony, and without my having been forewarned, suddenly discovered me, digging in my cellar.
“gold digging, sir?”
“nay, sir,” answered i, starting, “i was merely—ahem!—merely—i say i was merely digging-round my chimney.”
“ah, loosening the soil, to make it grow. your chimney, sir, you regard as too small, i suppose; needing further development, especially at the top?”
“sir!” said i, throwing down the spade, “do not be personal. i and my chimney—”
“personal?”
“sir, i look upon this chimney less as a pile of masonry than as a personage. it is the king of the house. i am but a suffered and inferior subject.”
in fact, i would permit no gibes to be cast at either myself or my chimney; and never again did my visitor refer to it in my hearing, without coupling some compliment with the mention. it well deserves a respectful consideration. there it stands, solitary and alone—not a council—of ten flues, but, like his sacred majesty of russia, a unit of an autocrat.
even to me, its dimensions, at times, seem incredible. it does not look so big—no, not even in the cellar. by the mere eye, its magnitude can be but imperfectly comprehended, because only one side can be received at one time; and said side can only present twelve feet, linear measure. but then, each other side also is twelve feet long; and the whole obviously forms a square and twelve times twelve is one hundred and forty-four. and so, an adequate conception of the magnitude of this chimney is only to be got at by a sort of process in the higher mathematics by a method somewhat akin to those whereby the surprising distances of fixed stars are computed.
it need hardly be said, that the walls of my house are entirely free from fireplaces. these all congregate in the middle—in the one grand central chimney, upon all four sides of which are hearths—two tiers of hearths—so that when, in the various chambers, my family and guests are warming themselves of a cold winter’s night, just before retiring, then, though at the time they may not be thinking so, all their faces mutually look towards each other, yea, all their feet point to one centre; and, when they go to sleep in their beds, they all sleep round one warm chimney, like so many iroquois indians, in the woods, round their one heap of embers. and just as the indians’ fire serves, not only to keep them comfortable, but also to keep off wolves, and other savage monsters, so my chimney, by its obvious smoke at top, keeps off prowling burglars from the towns—for what burglar or murderer would dare break into an abode from whose chimney issues such a continual smoke—betokening that if the inmates are not stirring, at least fires are, and in case of an alarm, candles may readily be lighted, to say nothing of muskets.
but stately as is the chimney—yea, grand high altar as it is, right worthy for the celebration of high mass before the pope of rome, and all his cardinals—yet what is there perfect in this world? caius julius caesar, had he not been so inordinately great, they say that brutus, cassius, antony, and the rest, had been greater. my chimney, were it not so mighty in its magnitude, my chambers had been larger. how often has my wife ruefully told me, that my chimney, like the english aristocracy, casts a contracting shade all round it. she avers that endless domestic inconveniences arise—more particularly from the chimney’s stubborn central locality. the grand objection with her is, that it stands midway in the place where a fine entrance-hall ought to be. in truth, there is no hall whatever to the house—nothing but a sort of square landing-place, as you enter from the wide front door. a roomy enough landing-place, i admit, but not attaining to the dignity of a hall. now, as the front door is precisely in the middle of the front of the house, inwards it faces the chimney. in fact, the opposite wall of the landing-place is formed solely by the chimney; and hence-owing to the gradual tapering of the chimney—is a little less than twelve feet in width. climbing the chimney in this part, is the principal staircase—which, by three abrupt turns, and three minor landing-places, mounts to the second floor, where, over the front door, runs a sort of narrow gallery, something less than twelve feet long, leading to chambers on either hand. this gallery, of course, is railed; and so, looking down upon the stairs, and all those landing-places together, with the main one at bottom, resembles not a little a balcony for musicians, in some jolly old abode, in times elizabethan. shall i tell a weakness? i cherish the cobwebs there, and many a time arrest biddy in the act of brushing them with her broom, and have many a quarrel with my wife and daughters about it.
now the ceiling, so to speak, of the place where you enter the house, that ceiling is, in fact, the ceiling of the second floor, not the first. the two floors are made one here; so that ascending this turning stairs, you seem going up into a kind of soaring tower, or lighthouse. at the second landing, midway up the chimney, is a mysterious door, entering to a mysterious closet; and here i keep mysterious cordials, of a choice, mysterious flavor, made so by the constant nurturing and subtle ripening of the chimney’s gentle heat, distilled through that warm mass of masonry. better for wines is it than voyages to the indias; my chimney itself a tropic. a chair by my chimney in a november day is as good for an invalid as a long season spent in cuba. often i think how grapes might ripen against my chimney. how my wife’s geraniums bud there! bud in december. her eggs, too—can’t keep them near the chimney, an account of the hatching. ah, a warm heart has my chimney.
how often my wife was at me about that projected grand entrance-hall of hers, which was to be knocked clean through the chimney, from one end of the house to the other, and astonish all guests by its generous amplitude. “but, wife,” said i, “the chimney—consider the chimney: if you demolish the foundation, what is to support the superstructure?” “oh, that will rest on the second floor.” the truth is, women know next to nothing about the realities of architecture. however, my wife still talked of running her entries and partitions. she spent many long nights elaborating her plans; in imagination building her boasted hall through the chimney, as though its high mightiness were a mere spear of sorrel-top. at last, i gently reminded her that, little as she might fancy it, the chimney was a fact—a sober, substantial fact, which, in all her plannings, it would be well to take into full consideration. but this was not of much avail.
and here, respectfully craving her permission, i must say a few words about this enterprising wife of mine. though in years nearly old as myself, in spirit she is young as my little sorrel mare, trigger, that threw me last fall. what is extraordinary, though she comes of a rheumatic family, she is straight as a pine, never has any aches; while for me with the sciatica, i am sometimes as crippled up as any old apple-tree. but she has not so much as a toothache. as for her hearing—let me enter the house in my dusty boots, and she away up in the attic. and for her sight—biddy, the housemaid, tells other people’s housemaids, that her mistress will spy a spot on the dresser straight through the pewter platter, put up on purpose to hide it. her faculties are alert as her limbs and her senses. no danger of my spouse dying of torpor. the longest night in the year i’ve known her lie awake, planning her campaign for the morrow. she is a natural projector. the maxim, “whatever is, is right,” is not hers. her maxim is, whatever is, is wrong; and what is more, must be altered; and what is still more, must be altered right away. dreadful maxim for the wife of a dozy old dreamer like me, who dote on seventh days as days of rest, and out of a sabbatical horror of industry, will, on a week day, go out of my road a quarter of a mile, to avoid the sight of a man at work.
that matches are made in heaven, may be, but my wife would have been just the wife for peter the great, or peter the piper. how she would have set in order that huge littered empire of the one, and with indefatigable painstaking picked the peck of pickled peppers for the other.
but the most wonderful thing is, my wife never thinks of her end. her youthful incredulity, as to the plain theory, and still plainer fact of death, hardly seems christian. advanced in years, as she knows she must be, my wife seems to think that she is to teem on, and be inexhaustible forever. she doesn’t believe in old age. at that strange promise in the plain of mamre, my old wife, unlike old abraham’s, would not have jeeringly laughed within herself.
judge how to me, who, sitting in the comfortable shadow of my chimney, smoking my comfortable pipe, with ashes not unwelcome at my feet, and ashes not unwelcome all but in my mouth; and who am thus in a comfortable sort of not unwelcome, though, indeed, ashy enough way, reminded of the ultimate exhaustion even of the most fiery life; judge how to me this unwarrantable vitality in my wife must come, sometimes, it is true, with a moral and a calm, but oftener with a breeze and a ruffle.
if the doctrine be true, that in wedlock contraries attract, by how cogent a fatality must i have been drawn to my wife! while spicily impatient of present and past, like a glass of ginger-beer she overflows with her schemes; and, with like energy as she puts down her foot, puts down her preserves and her pickles, and lives with them in a continual future; or ever full of expectations both from time and space, is ever restless for newspapers, and ravenous for letters. content with the years that are gone, taking no thought for the morrow, and looking for no new thing from any person or quarter whatever, i have not a single scheme or expectation on earth, save in unequal resistance of the undue encroachment of hers.
old myself, i take to oldness in things; for that cause mainly loving old montague, and old cheese, and old wine; and eschewing young people, hot rolls, new books, and early potatoes and very fond of my old claw-footed chair, and old club-footed deacon white, my neighbor, and that still nigher old neighbor, my betwisted old grape-vine, that of a summer evening leans in his elbow for cosy company at my window-sill, while i, within doors, lean over mine to meet his; and above all, high above all, am fond of my high-mantled old chimney. but she, out of the infatuate juvenility of hers, takes to nothing but newness; for that cause mainly, loving new cider in autumn, and in spring, as if she were own daughter of nebuchadnezzar, fairly raving after all sorts of salads and spinages, and more particularly green cucumbers (though all the time nature rebukes such unsuitable young hankerings in so elderly a person, by never permitting such things to agree with her), and has an itch after recently-discovered fine prospects (so no graveyard be in the background), and also after sweden-borganism, and the spirit rapping philosophy, with other new views, alike in things natural and unnatural; and immortally hopeful, is forever making new flower-beds even on the north side of the house where the bleak mountain wind would scarce allow the wiry weed called hard-hack to gain a thorough footing; and on the road-side sets out mere pipe-stems of young elms; though there is no hope of any shade from them, except over the ruins of her great granddaughter’s gravestones; and won’t wear caps, but plaits her gray hair; and takes the ladies’ magazine for the fashions; and always buys her new almanac a month before the new year; and rises at dawn; and to the warmest sunset turns a cold shoulder; and still goes on at odd hours with her new course of history, and her french, and her music; and likes a young company; and offers to ride young colts; and sets out young suckers in the orchard; and has a spite against my elbowed old grape-vine, and my club-footed old neighbor, and my claw-footed old chair, and above all, high above all, would fain persecute, until death, my high-mantled old chimney. by what perverse magic, i a thousand times think, does such a very autumnal old lady have such a very vernal young soul? when i would remonstrate at times, she spins round on me with, “oh, don’t you grumble, old man (she always calls me old man), it’s i, young i, that keep you from stagnating.” well, i suppose it is so. yea, after all, these things are well ordered. my wife, as one of her poor relations, good soul, intimates, is the salt of the earth, and none the less the salt of my sea, which otherwise were unwholesome. she is its monsoon, too, blowing a brisk gale over it, in the one steady direction of my chimney.
not insensible of her superior energies, my wife has frequently made me propositions to take upon herself all the responsibilities of my affairs. she is desirous that, domestically, i should abdicate; that, renouncing further rule, like the venerable charles v, i should retire into some sort of monastery. but indeed, the chimney excepted, i have little authority to lay down. by my wife’s ingenious application of the principle that certain things belong of right to female jurisdiction, i find myself, through my easy compliances, insensibly stripped by degrees of one masculine prerogative after another. in a dream i go about my fields, a sort of lazy, happy-go-lucky, good-for-nothing, loafing old lear. only by some sudden revelation am i reminded who is over me; as year before last, one day seeing in one corner of the premises fresh deposits of mysterious boards and timbers, the oddity of the incident at length begat serious meditation. “wife,” said i, “whose boards and timbers are those i see near the orchard there? do you know anything about them, wife? who put them there? you know i do not like the neighbors to use my land that way, they should ask permission first.”
she regarded me with a pitying smile.
