“why, old man, don’t you know i am building a new barn? didn’t you know that, old man?”

this is the poor old lady who was accusing me of tyrannizing over her.

to return now to the chimney. upon being assured of the futility of her proposed hall, so long as the obstacle remained, for a time my wife was for a modified project. but i could never exactly comprehend it. as far as i could see through it, it seemed to involve the general idea of a sort of irregular archway, or elbowed tunnel, which was to penetrate the chimney at some convenient point under the staircase, and carefully avoiding dangerous contact with the fireplaces, and particularly steering clear of the great interior flue, was to conduct the enterprising traveler from the front door all the way into the dining-room in the remote rear of the mansion. doubtless it was a bold stroke of genius, that plan of hers, and so was nero’s when he schemed his grand canal through the isthmus of corinth. nor will i take oath, that, had her project been accomplished, then, by help of lights hung at judicious intervals through the tunnel, some belzoni or other might have succeeded in future ages in penetrating through the masonry, and actually emerging into the dining-room, and once there, it would have been inhospitable treatment of such a traveler to have denied him a recruiting meal.

but my bustling wife did not restrict her objections, nor in the end confine her proposed alterations to the first floor. her ambition was of the mounting order. she ascended with her schemes to the second floor, and so to the attic. perhaps there was some small ground for her discontent with things as they were. the truth is, there was no regular passage-way up-stairs or down, unless we again except that little orchestra-gallery before mentioned. and all this was owing to the chimney, which my gamesome spouse seemed despitefully to regard as the bully of the house. on all its four sides, nearly all the chambers sidled up to the chimney for the benefit of a fireplace. the chimney would not go to them; they must needs go to it. the consequence was, almost every room, like a philosophical system, was in itself an entry, or passage-way to other rooms, and systems of rooms—a whole suite of entries, in fact. going through the house, you seem to be forever going somewhere, and getting nowhere. it is like losing one’s self in the woods; round and round the chimney you go, and if you arrive at all, it is just where you started, and so you begin again, and again get nowhere. indeed—though i say it not in the way of faultfinding at all—never was there so labyrinthine an abode. guests will tarry with me several weeks and every now and then, be anew astonished at some unforseen apartment.

the puzzling nature of the mansion, resulting from the chimney, is peculiarly noticeable in the dining-room, which has no less than nine doors, opening in all directions, and into all sorts of places. a stranger for the first time entering this dining-room, and naturally taking no special heed at which door he entered, will, upon rising to depart, commit the strangest blunders. such, for instance, as opening the first door that comes handy, and finding himself stealing up-stairs by the back passage. shutting that, he will proceed to another, and be aghast at the cellar yawning at his feet. trying a third, he surprises the housemaid at her work. in the end, no more relying on his own unaided efforts, he procures a trusty guide in some passing person, and in good time successfully emerges. perhaps as curious a blunder as any, was that of a certain stylish young gentleman, a great exquisite, in whose judicious eyes my daughter anna had found especial favor. he called upon the young lady one evening, and found her alone in the dining-room at her needlework. he stayed rather late; and after abundance of superfine discourse, all the while retaining his hat and cane, made his profuse adieus, and with repeated graceful bows proceeded to depart, after fashion of courtiers from the queen, and by so doing, opening a door at random, with one hand placed behind, very effectually succeeded in backing himself into a dark pantry, where he carefully shut himself up, wondering there was no light in the entry. after several strange noises as of a cat among the crockery, he reappeared through the same door, looking uncommonly crestfallen, and, with a deeply embarrassed air, requested my daughter to designate at which of the nine he should find exit. when the mischievous anna told me the story, she said it was surprising how unaffected and matter-of-fact the young gentleman’s manner was after his reappearance. he was more candid than ever, to be sure; having inadvertently thrust his white kids into an open drawer of havana sugar, under the impression, probably, that being what they call “a sweet fellow,” his route might possibly lie in that direction.

another inconvenience resulting from the chimney is, the bewilderment of a guest in gaining his chamber, many strange doors lying between him and it. to direct him by finger-posts would look rather queer; and just as queer in him to be knocking at every door on his route, like london’s city guest, the king, at temple-bar.

now, of all these things and many, many more, my family continually complained. at last my wife came out with her sweeping proposition—in toto to abolish the chimney.

“what!” said i, “abolish the chimney? to take out the backbone of anything, wife, is a hazardous affair. spines out of backs, and chimneys out of houses, are not to be taken like frosted lead pipes from the ground. besides,” added i, “the chimney is the one grand permanence of this abode. if undisturbed by innovators, then in future ages, when all the house shall have crumbled from it, this chimney will still survive—a bunker hill monument. no, no, wife, i can’t abolish my backbone.”

so said i then. but who is sure of himself, especially an old man, with both wife and daughters ever at his elbow and ear? in time, i was persuaded to think a little better of it; in short, to take the matter into preliminary consideration. at length it came to pass that a master-mason—a rough sort of architect—one mr. scribe, was summoned to a conference. i formally introduced him to my chimney. a previous introduction from my wife had introduced him to myself. he had been not a little employed by that lady, in preparing plans and estimates for some of her extensive operations in drainage. having, with much ado, exhorted from my spouse the promise that she would leave us to an unmolested survey, i began by leading mr. scribe down to the root of the matter, in the cellar. lamp in hand, i descended; for though up-stairs it was noon, below it was night.

we seemed in the pyramids; and i, with one hand holding my lamp over head, and with the other pointing out, in the obscurity, the hoar mass of the chimney, seemed some arab guide, showing the cobwebbed mausoleum of the great god apis.

“this is a most remarkable structure, sir,” said the master-mason, after long contemplating it in silence, “a most remarkable structure, sir.”

“yes,” said i complacently, “every one says so.”

“but large as it appears above the roof, i would not have inferred the magnitude of this foundation, sir,” eyeing it critically.

then taking out his rule, he measured it.

“twelve feet square; one hundred and forty-four square feet! sir, this house would appear to have been built simply for the accommodation of your chimney.”

“yes, my chimney and me. tell me candidly, now,” i added, “would you have such a famous chimney abolished?”

“i wouldn’t have it in a house of mine, sir, for a gift,” was the reply. “it’s a losing affair altogether, sir. do you know, sir, that in retaining this chimney, you are losing, not only one hundred and forty-four square feet of good ground, but likewise a considerable interest upon a considerable principal?”

“how?”

“look, sir!” said he, taking a bit of red chalk from his pocket, and figuring against a whitewashed wall, “twenty times eight is so and so; then forty-two times thirty—nine is so and so—ain’t it, sir? well, add those together, and subtract this here, then that makes so and so,” still chalking away.

to be brief, after no small ciphering, mr. scribe informed me that my chimney contained, i am ashamed to say how many thousand and odd valuable bricks.

“no more,” said i fidgeting. “pray now, let us have a look above.”

in that upper zone we made two more circumnavigations for the first and second floors. that done, we stood together at the foot of the stairway by the front door; my hand upon the knob, and mr. scribe hat in hand.

“well, sir,” said he, a sort of feeling his way, and, to help himself, fumbling with his hat, “well, sir, i think it can be done.”

“what, pray, mr. scribe; what can be done?”

“your chimney, sir; it can without rashness be removed, i think.”

“i will think of it, too, mr. scribe,” said i, turning the knob and bowing him towards the open space without, “i will think of it, sir; it demands consideration; much obliged to ye; good morning, mr. scribe.”

“it is all arranged, then,” cried my wife with great glee, bursting from the nighest room.

“when will they begin?” demanded my daughter julia.

“to-morrow?” asked anna.

“patience, patience, my dears,” said i, “such a big chimney is not to be abolished in a minute.”

next morning it began again.

“you remember the chimney,” said my wife. “wife,” said i, “it is never out of my house and never out of my mind.”

“but when is mr. scribe to begin to pull it down?” asked anna.

“not to-day, anna,” said i.

“when, then?” demanded julia, in alarm.

now, if this chimney of mine was, for size, a sort of belfry, for ding-donging at me about it, my wife and daughters were a sort of bells, always chiming together, or taking up each other’s melodies at every pause, my wife the key-clapper of all. a very sweet ringing, and pealing, and chiming, i confess; but then, the most silvery of bells may, sometimes, dismally toll, as well as merrily play. and as touching the subject in question, it became so now. perceiving a strange relapse of opposition in me, wife and daughters began a soft and dirge-like, melancholy tolling over it.

at length my wife, getting much excited, declared to me, with pointed finger, that so long as that chimney stood, she should regard it as the monument of what she called my broken pledge. but finding this did not answer, the next day, she gave me to understand that either she or the chimney must quit the house.

finding matters coming to such a pass, i and my pipe philosophized over them awhile, and finally concluded between us, that little as our hearts went with the plan, yet for peace’ sake, i might write out the chimney’s death-warrant, and, while my hand was in, scratch a note to mr. scribe.

considering that i, and my chimney, and my pipe, from having been so much together, were three great cronies, the facility with which my pipe consented to a project so fatal to the goodliest of our trio; or rather, the way in which i and my pipe, in secret, conspired together, as it were, against our unsuspicious old comrade—this may seem rather strange, if not suggestive of sad reflections upon us two. but, indeed, we, sons of clay, that is my pipe and i, are no whit better than the rest. far from us, indeed, to have volunteered the betrayal of our crony. we are of a peaceable nature, too. but that love of peace it was which made us false to a mutual friend, as soon as his cause demanded a vigorous vindication. but, i rejoice to add, that better and braver thoughts soon returned, as will now briefly be set forth.

to my note, mr. scribe replied in person.

once more we made a survey, mainly now with a view to a pecuniary estimate.

“i will do it for five hundred dollars,” said mr. scribe at last, again hat in hand.

“very well, mr. scribe, i will think of it,” replied i, again bowing him to the door.

not unvexed by this, for the second time, unexpected response, again he withdrew, and from my wife, and daughters again burst the old exclamations.

the truth is, resolved how i would, at the last pinch i and my chimney could not be parted.

“so holofernes will have his way, never mind whose heart breaks for it,” said my wife next morning, at breakfast, in that half-didactic, half-reproachful way of hers, which is harder to bear than her most energetic assault. holofernes, too, is with her a pet name for any fell domestic despot. so, whenever, against her most ambitious innovations, those which saw me quite across the grain, i, as in the present instance, stand with however little steadfastness on the defence, she is sure to call me holofernes, and ten to one takes the first opportunity to read aloud, with a suppressed emphasis, of an evening, the first newspaper paragraph about some tyrannic day-laborer, who, after being for many years the caligula of his family, ends by beating his long-suffering spouse to death, with a garret door wrenched off its hinges, and then, pitching his little innocents out of the window, suicidally turns inward towards the broken wall scored with the butcher’s and baker’s bills, and so rushes headlong to his dreadful account.

nevertheless, for a few days, not a little to my surprise, i heard no further reproaches. an intense calm pervaded my wife, but beneath which, as in the sea, there was no knowing what portentous movements might be going on. she frequently went abroad, and in a direction which i thought not unsuspicious; namely, in the direction of new petra, a griffin-like house of wood and stucco, in the highest style of ornamental art, graced with four chimneys in the form of erect dragons spouting smoke from their nostrils; the elegant modern residence of mr. scribe, which he had built for the purpose of a standing advertisement, not more of his taste as an architect, than his solidity as a master-mason.

at last, smoking my pipe one morning, i heard a rap at the door, and my wife, with an air unusually quiet for her brought me a note. as i have no correspondents except solomon, with whom in his sentiments, at least, i entirely correspond, the note occasioned me some little surprise, which was not dismissed upon reading the following:—

new petra, april 1st.

sir—during my last examination of your chimney, possibly you may have noted that i frequently applied my rule to it in a manner apparently unnecessary. possibly, also, at the same time, you might have observed in me more or less of perplexity, to which, however, i refrained from giving any verbal expression.

i now feel it obligatory upon me to inform you of what was then but a dim suspicion, and as such would have been unwise to give utterance to, but which now, from various subsequent calculations assuming no little probability, it may be important that you should not remain in further ignorance of.

it is my solemn duty to warn you, sir, that there is architectural cause to conjecture that somewhere concealed in your chimney is a reserved space, hermetically closed, in short, a secret chamber, or rather closet. how long it has been there, it is for me impossible to say. what it contains is hid, with itself, in darkness. but probably a secret closet would not have been contrived except for some extraordinary object, whether for the concealment of treasure, or for what other purpose, may be left to those better acquainted with the history of the house to guess.

but enough: in making this disclosure, sir, my conscience is eased. whatever step you choose to take upon it, is of course a matter of indifference to me; though, i confess, as respects the character of the closet, i cannot but share in a natural curiosity. trusting that you may be guided aright, in determining whether it is christian-like knowingly to reside in a house, hidden in which is a secret closet, i remain, with much respect,

yours very humbly,

hiram scribe.