My first thought upon reading this note was, not of the alleged
mystery of manner to which, at the outset, it alluded-for none
such had I at all observed in the master-mason during his
surveys--but of my late kinsman, Captain Julian Dacres, long a
ship-master and merchant in the Indian trade, who, about thirty
years ago, and at the ripe age of ninety, died a bachelor, and in
this very house, which he had built. He was supposed to have
retired into this country with a large fortune. But to the
general surprise, after being at great cost in building himself
this mansion, he settled down into a sedate, reserved and
inexpensive old age, which by the neighbors was thought all the
better for his heirs: but lo! upon opening the will, his property
was found to consist but of the house and grounds, and some ten
thousand dollars in stocks; but the place, being found heavily
mortgaged, was in consequence sold. Gossip had its day, and left
the grass quietly to creep over the captain's grave, where he
still slumbers in a privacy as unmolested as if the billows of
the Indian Ocean, instead of the billows of inland verdure,
rolled over him. Still, I remembered long ago, hearing strange
solutions whispered by the country people for the mystery
involving his will, and, by reflex, himself; and that, too, as
well in conscience as purse. But people who could circulate the
report (which they did), that Captain Julian Dacres had, in his
day, been a Borneo pirate, surely were not worthy of credence in
their collateral notions. It is queer what wild whimsies of
rumors will, like toadstools, spring up about any eccentric
stranger, who settling down among a rustic population, keeps
quietly to himself. With some, inoffensiveness would seem a prime
cause of offense. But what chiefly had led me to scout at these
rumors, particularly as referring to concealed treasure, was the
circumstance, that the stranger (the same who razeed the roof and
the chimney) into whose hands the estate had passed on my
kinsman's death, was of that sort of character, that had there
been the least ground for those reports, he would speedily have
tested them, by tearing down and rummaging the walls.
Nevertheless, the note of Mr. Scribe, so strangely recalling the
memory of my kinsman, very naturally chimed in with what had been
mysterious, or at least unexplained, about him; vague flashings
of ingots united in my mind with vague gleamings of skulls. But
the first cool thought soon dismissed such chimeras; and, with a
calm smile, I turned towards my wife, who, meantime, had been
sitting nearby, impatient enough, I dare say, to know who could
have taken it into his head to write me a letter.
"Well, old man," said she, "who is it from, and what is it
about?"
"Read it, wife," said I, handing it.
Read it she did, and then--such an explosion! I will not pretend
to describe her emotions, or repeat her expressions. Enough that
my daughters were quickly called in to share the excitement.
Although they had never dreamed of such a revelation as Mr.
Scribe's; yet upon the first suggestion they instinctively saw
the extreme likelihood of it. In corroboration, they cited first
my kinsman, and second, my chimney; alleging that the profound
mystery involving the former, and the equally profound masonry
involving the latter, though both acknowledged facts, were alike
preposterous on any other supposition than the secret closet.
But all this time I was quietly thinking to myself: Could it be
hidden from me that my credulity in this instance would operate
very favorably to a certain plan of theirs? How to get to the
secret closet, or how to have any certainty about it at all,
without making such fell work with my chimney as to render its
set destruction superfluous? That my wife wished to get rid of
the chimney, it needed no reflection to show; and that Mr.
Scribe, for all his pretended disinterestedness, was not opposed
to pocketing five hundred dollars by the operation, seemed
equally evident. That my wife had, in secret, laid heads together
with Mr. Scribe, I at present refrain from affirming. But when I
consider her enmity against my chimney, and the steadiness with
which at the last she is wont to carry out her schemes, if by
hook or crook she can, especially after having been once baffled,
why, I scarcely knew at what step of hers to be surprised.
Of one thing only was I resolved, that I and my chimney should
not budge.
In vain all protests. Next morning I went out into the road,
where I had noticed a diabolical-looking old gander, that, for
its doughty exploits in the way of scratching into forbidden
enclosures, had been rewarded by its master with a portentous,
four-pronged, wooden decoration, in the shape of a collar of the
Order of the Garotte. This gander I cornered and rummaging out
its stiffest quill, plucked it, took it home, and making a stiff
pen, inscribed the following stiff note:
CHIMNEY SIDE, April 2.
MR. SCRIBE
Sir:-For your conjecture, we return you our joint thanks and
compliments, and beg leave to assure you, that we shall remain,
Very faithfully,
The same,
I AND MY CHIMNEY.
Of course, for this epistle we had to endure some pretty sharp
raps. But having at last explicitly understood from me that Mr.
Scribe's note had not altered my mind one jot, my wife, to move
me, among other things said, that if she remembered aright, there
was a statute placing the keeping in private of secret closets on
the same unlawful footing with the keeping of gunpowder. But it
had no effect.
A few days after, my spouse changed her key.
It was nearly midnight, and all were in bed but ourselves, who
sat up, one in each chimney- corner; she, needles in hand,
indefatigably knitting a sock; I, pipe in mouth, indolently
weaving my vapors.
It was one of the first of the chill nights in autumn. There was
a fire on the hearth, burning low. The air without was torpid and
heavy; the wood, by an oversight, of the sort called soggy.
"Do look at the chimney," she began; "can't you see that
something must be in it?"
"Yes, wife. Truly there is smoke in the chimney, as in Mr.
Scribe's note."
"Smoke? Yes, indeed, and in my eyes, too. How you two wicked old
sinners do smoke!--this wicked old chimney and you."
"Wife," said I, "I and my chimney like to have a quiet smoke
together, it is true, but we don't like to be called names."
"Now, dear old man," said she, softening down, and a little
shifting the subject, "when you think of that old kinsman of
yours, you KNOW there must be a secret closet in this chimney."
"Secret ash-hole, wife, why don't you have it? Yes, I dare say
there is a secret ash-hole in the chimney; for where do all the
ashes go to that drop down the queer hole yonder?"
"I know where they go to; I've been there almost as many times as
the cat."
"What devil, wife, prompted you to crawl into the ash-hole? Don't
you know that St. Dunstan's devil emerged from the ash-hole? You
will get your death one of these days, exploring all about as you
do. But supposing there be a secret closet, what then?"
"What then? why what should be in a secret closet but--"
"Dry bones, wife," broke in I with a puff, while the sociable old
chimney broke in with another.
"There again! Oh, how this wretched old chimney smokes," wiping
her eyes with her handkerchief. "I've no doubt the reason it
smokes so is, because that secret closet interferes with the
flue. Do see, too, how the jambs here keep settling; and it's
down hill all the way from the door to this hearth. This horrid
old chimney will fall on our heads yet; depend upon it, old man."
"Yes, wife, I do depend on it; yes indeed, I place every
dependence on my chimney. As for its settling, I like it. I, too,
am settling, you know, in my gait. I and my chimney are settling
together, and shall keep settling, too, till, as in a great
feather-bed, we shall both have settled away clean out of sight.
But this secret oven; I mean, secret closet of yours, wife; where
exactly do you suppose that secret closet is? "
"That is for Mr. Scribe to say."
"But suppose he cannot say exactly; what, then?"
"Why then he can prove, I am sure, that it must be somewhere or
other in this horrid old chimney."
"And if he can't prove that; what, then?"
"Why then, old man," with a stately air, "I shall say little more
about it."
"Agreed, wife," returned I, knocking my pipe-bowl against the
jamb, "and now, to-morrow, I will for a third time send for Mr.
Scribe. Wife, the sciatica takes me; be so good as to put this
pipe on the mantel."
"If you get the step-ladder for me, I will. This shocking old
chimney, this abominable old-fashioned old chimney's mantels are
so high, I can't reach them."
No opportunity, however trivial, was overlooked for a subordinate
fling at the pile.
Here, by way of introduction, it should be mentioned, that
besides the fireplaces all round it, the chimney was, in the most
haphazard way, excavated on each floor for certain curious
out-of-the-way cupboards and closets, of all sorts and sizes,
clinging here and there, like nests in the crotches of some old
oak. On the second floor these closets were by far the most
irregular and numerous. And yet this should hardly have been so,
since the theory of the chimney was, that it pyramidically
diminished as it ascended. The abridgment of its square on the
roof was obvious enough; and it was supposed that the reduction
must be methodically graduated from bottom to top.
"Mr. Scribe," said I when, the next day, with an eager aspect,
that individual again came, "my object in sending for you this
morning is, not to arrange for the demolition of my chimney, nor
to have any particular conversation about it, but simply to allow
you every reasonable facility for verifying, if you can, the
conjecture communicated in your note."
Though in secret not a little crestfallen, it may be, by my
phlegmatic reception, so different from what he had looked for;
with much apparent alacrity he commenced the survey; throwing
open the cupboards on the first floor, and peering into the
closets on the second; measuring one within, and then comparing
that measurement with the measurement without. Removing the
fireboards, he would gaze up the flues. But no sign of the hidden
work yet.
Now, on the second floor the rooms were the most rambling
conceivable. They, as it were, dovetailed into each other. They
were of all shapes; not one mathematically square room among them
all--a peculiarity which by the master-mason had not been
unobserved. With a significant, not to say portentous expression,
he took a circuit of the chimney, measuring the area of each room
around it; then going down stairs, and out of doors, he measured
the entire ground area; then compared the sum total of the areas
of all the rooms on the second floor with the ground area; then,
returning to me in no small excitement, announced that there was
a difference of no less than two hundred and odd square
feet--room enough, in all conscience, for a secret closet.
"But, Mr. Scribe," said I, stroking my chin, "have you allowed
for the walls, both main and sectional? They take up some space,
you know."
"Ah, I had forgotten that," tapping his forehead; "but," still
ciphering on his paper, "that will not make up the deficiency."
"But, Mr. Scribe, have you allowed for the recesses of so many
fireplaces on a floor, and for the fire-walls, and the flues; in
short, Mr. Scribe, have you allowed for the legitimate chimney
itself--some one hundred and forty-four square feet or
thereabouts, Mr. Scribe?"
"How unaccountable. That slipped my mind, too."
"Did it, indeed, Mr. Scribe?"
He faltered a little, and burst forth with, "But we must now
allow one hundred and forty-four square feet for the legitimate
chimney. My position is, that within those undue limits the
secret closet is contained."
I eyed him in silence a moment; then spoke:
"Your survey is concluded, Mr. Scribe; be so good now as to lay
your finger upon the exact part of the chimney wall where you
believe this secret closet to be; or would a witch-hazel wand
assist you, Mr. Scribe?"
"No, Sir, but a crowbar would," he, with temper, rejoined.
Here, now, thought I to myself, the cat leaps out of the bag. I
looked at him with a calm glance, under which he seemed somewhat
uneasy. More than ever now I suspected a plot. I remembered what
my wife had said about abiding by the decision of Mr. Scribe. In
a bland way, I resolved to buy up the decision of Mr. Scribe.
"Sir," said I, "really, I am much obliged to you for this survey.
It has quite set my mind at rest. And no doubt you, too, Mr.
Scribe, must feel much relieved. Sir," I added, "you have made
three visits to the chimney. With a business man, time is money.
Here are fifty dollars, Mr. Scribe. Nay, take it. You have earned
it. Your opinion is worth it. And by the way,"--as he modestly
received the money-"have you any objections to give me
a--a--little certificate--something, say, like a steamboat
certificate, certifying that you, a competent surveyor, have
surveyed my chimney, and found no reason to believe any
unsoundness; in short, any--any secret closet in it. Would you be
so kind, Mr. Scribe?"
"But, but, sir," stammered he with honest hesitation.
"Here, here are pen and paper," said I, with entire assurance.
Enough.
That evening I had the certificate framed and hung over the
dining-room fireplace, trusting that the continual sight of it
would forever put at rest at once the dreams and stratagems of my
household.
But, no. Inveterately bent upon the extirpation of that noble old
chimney, still to this day my wife goes about it, with my
daughter Anna's geological hammer, tapping the wall all over, and
then holding her ear against it, as I have seen the physicians of
life insurance companies tap a man's chest, and then incline over
for the echo. Sometimes of nights she almost frightens one, going
about on this phantom errand, and still following the sepulchral
response of the chimney, round and round, as if it were leading
her to the threshold of the secret closet.
"How hollow it sounds," she will hollowly cry. "Yes, I declare,"
with an emphatic tap, "there is a secret closet here. Here, in
this very spot. Hark! How hollow!"
"Psha! wife, of course it is hollow. Who ever heard of a solid
chimney?" But nothing avails. And my daughters take after, not
me, but their mother.
Sometimes all three abandon the theory of the secret closet and
return to the genuine ground of attack--the unsightliness of so
cumbrous a pile, with comments upon the great addition of room to
be gained by its demolition, and the fine effect of the projected
grand hall, and the convenience resulting from the collateral
running in one direction and another of their various partitions.
Not more ruthlessly did the Three Powers partition away poor
Poland, than my wife and daughters would fain partition away my
chimney.
But seeing that, despite all, I and my chimney still smoke our
pipes, my wife reoccupies the ground of the secret closet,
enlarging upon what wonders are there, and what a shame it is,
not to seek it out and explore it.
"Wife," said I, upon one of these occasions, "why speak more of
that secret closet, when there before you hangs contrary
testimony of a master mason, elected by yourself to decide.
Besides, even if there were a secret closet, secret it should
remain, and secret it shall. Yes, wife, here for once I must say
my say. Infinite sad mischief has resulted from the profane
bursting open of secret recesses. Though standing in the heart of
this house, though hitherto we have all nestled about it,
unsuspicious of aught hidden within, this chimney may or may not
have a secret closet. But if it have, it is my kinsman's. To
break into that wall, would be to break into his breast. And
that wall-breaking wish of Momus I account the wish of a
churchrobbing gossip and knave. Yes, wife, a vile eavesdropping
varlet was Momus."
"Moses? Mumps? Stuff with your mumps and Moses?"
The truth is, my wife, like all the rest of the world, cares not
a fig for philosophical jabber. In dearth of other philosophical
companionship, I and my chimney have to smoke and philosophize
together. And sitting up so late as we do at it, a mighty smoke
it is that we two smoky old philosophers make.
But my spouse, who likes the smoke of my tobacco as little as she
does that of the soot, carries on her war against both. I live in
continual dread lest, like the golden bowl, the pipes of me and
my chimney shall yet be broken. To stay that mad project of my
wife's, naught answers. Or, rather, she herself is incessantly
answering, incessantly besetting me with her terrible alacrity
for improvement, which is a softer name for destruction. Scarce
a day I do not find her with her tape-measure, measuring for her
grand hall, while Anna holds a yardstick on one side, and Julia
looks approvingly on from the other. Mysterious intimations
appear in the nearest village paper, signed "Claude," to the
effect that a certain structure, standing on a certain hill, is a
sad blemish to an otherwise lovely landscape. Anonymous letters
arrive, threatening me with I know not what, unless I remove my
chimney. Is it my wife, too, or who, that sets up the neighbors
to badgering me on the same subject, and hinting to me that my
chimney, like a huge elm, absorbs all moisture from my garden? At
night, also, my wife will start as from sleep, professing to hear
ghostly noises from the secret closet. Assailed on all sides, and
in all ways, small peace have I and my chimney.
Were it not for the baggage, we would together pack up and remove
from the country.
What narrow escapes have been ours! Once I found in a drawer a
whole portfolio of plans and estimates. Another time, upon
returning after a day's absence, I discovered my wife standing
before the chimney in earnest conversation with a person whom I
at once recognized as a meddlesome architectural reformer, who,
because he had no gift for putting up anything was ever intent
upon pulling them down; in various parts of the country having
prevailed upon half-witted old folks to destroy their
old-fashioned houses, particularly the chimneys.
But worst of all was, that time I unexpectedly returned at early
morning from a visit to the city, and upon approaching the house,
narrowly escaped three brickbats which fell, from high aloft, at
my feet. Glancing up, what was my horror to see three savages, in
blue jean overalls in the very act of commencing the
long-threatened attack. Aye, indeed, thinking of those three
brickbats, I and my chimney have had narrow escapes.
It is now some seven years since I have stirred from my home. My
city friends all wonder why I don't come to see them, as in
former times. They think I am getting sour and unsocial. Some say
that I have become a sort of mossy old misanthrope, while all the
time the fact is, I am simply standing guard over my mossy old
chimney; for it is resolved between me and my chimney, that I and
my chimney will never surrender.
