‘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 businessman, 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 giving 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!’

‘Pshaw! 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 church-robbing gossip and knave. Yes, wife, a vile eaves-dropping varlet was Momus.’

‘Moses?—Mumps? Stuff with your mumps and your Moses!’

The truth is, my wife, like all the rest of the world, cares not a fig for my philosophical jabber. In dearth of other philosophical companionship, I and my chimney have to smoke and philosophise together. And sitting up so late as we do at it, a mighty smoke it is that we two smoky old philosophers make.