All feeling hearts will sympathize with me in what I am now about to add. The surgical6 operation, above referred to, necessarily brought into the open air a part of the chimney previously7 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 acclimate8 itself, ere long began to fail—showing blotchy9 symptoms akin10 to those in measles11. 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 ivy12. 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 crumbling13 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 invalid14 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 awry15, 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 spaciousness16 below. At its base in the cellar, it is precisely17 twelve feet square; and hence covers precisely one hundred and forty-four superficial feet. What an appropriation18 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 stout19 peddler, Atlas20 of old, was enabled to stand up so bravely under his pack. The dimensions given may, perhaps, seem fabulous21. 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 attentively22 survey that vast square of masonry23. I stand long, and ponder over, and wonder at it. It has a druidical look, away down in the umbrageous24 cellar there whose numerous vaulted25 passages, and far glens of gloom, resemble the dark, damp depths of primeval woods. So strongly did this conceit26 steal over me, so deeply was I penetrated27 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 pelted28 by a March storm. Plying29 my blunted spade, how vexed30 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 gibes31 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, solitary32 and alone—not a council—of ten flues, but, like his sacred majesty33 of Russia, a unit of an autocrat34.
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 fixed35 stars are computed36.
It need hardly be said, that the walls of my house are entirely37 free from fireplaces. These all congregate38 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 chambers39, 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 savage40 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 abode41 from whose chimney issues such a continual smoke—betokening that if the inmates42 are not stirring, at least fires are, and in case of an alarm, candles may readily be lighted, to say nothing of muskets43.
But stately as is the chimney—yea, grand high altar as it is, right worthy44 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 mighty45 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 avers46 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 attaining47 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 solely48 by the chimney; and hence-owing to the gradual tapering49 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 abrupt50 turns, and three minor51 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 ascending52 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 nurturing53 and subtle ripening54 of the chimney’s gentle heat, distilled56 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 ripen55 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 amplitude57. “But, wife,” said I, “the chimney—consider the chimney: if you demolish58 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 mightiness59 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 craving60 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 mare62, 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 attic63. 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 faculties64 are alert as her limbs and her senses. No danger of my spouse65 dying of torpor66. The longest night in the year I’ve known her lie awake, planning her campaign for the morrow. She is a natural projector67. The maxim68, “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 dozy69 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 indefatigable70 painstaking71 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 Christian72. Advanced in years, as she knows she must be, my wife seems to think that she is to teem73 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 jeeringly74 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 exhaustion75 even of the most fiery76 life; judge how to me this unwarrantable vitality77 in my wife must come, sometimes, it is true, with a moral and a calm, but oftener with a breeze and a ruffle78.
If the doctrine79 be true, that in wedlock80 contraries attract, by how cogent81 a fatality82 must I have been drawn83 to my wife! While spicily84 impatient of present and past, like a glass of ginger-beer she overflows85 with her schemes; and, with like energy as she puts down her foot, puts down her preserves and her pickles86, and lives with them in a continual future; or ever full of expectations both from time and space, is ever restless for newspapers, and ravenous87 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 undue88 encroachment89 of hers.
Old myself, I take to oldness in things; for that cause mainly loving old Montague, and old cheese, and old wine; and eschewing90 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 cosy91 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 juvenility92 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 raving61 after all sorts of salads and spinages, and more particularly green cucumbers (though all the time nature rebukes93 such unsuitable young hankerings in so elderly a person, by never permitting such things to agree with her), and has an itch5 after recently-discovered fine prospects94 (so no graveyard95 be in the background), and also after Sweden-borganism, and the Spirit Rapping philosophy, with other new views, alike in things natural and unnatural96; and immortally97 hopeful, is forever making new flower-beds even on the north side of the house where the bleak98 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 orchard99; 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 persecute100, until death, my high-mantled old chimney. By what perverse101 magic, I a thousand times think, does such a very autumnal old lady have such a very vernal young soul? When I would remonstrate102 at times, she spins round on me with, “Oh, don’t you grumble103, old man (she always calls me old man), it’s I, young I, that keep you from stagnating104.” 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 monsoon105, too, blowing a brisk gale106 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 abdicate107; that, renouncing108 further rule, like the venerable Charles V, I should retire into some sort of monastery109. 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 jurisdiction110, I find myself, through my easy compliances, insensibly stripped by degrees of one masculine prerogative111 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 premises112 fresh deposits of mysterious boards and timbers, the oddity of the incident at length begat serious meditation113. “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.
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1
inordinately
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| adv.无度地，非常地 | |
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picturesque
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| adj.美丽如画的，（语言）生动的，绘声绘色的 | |
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unaware
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| a.不知道的，未意识到的 | |
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mere
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| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
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itch
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| n.痒，渴望，疥癣；vi.发痒，渴望 | |
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surgical
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| adj.外科的，外科医生的，手术上的 | |
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previously
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| adv.以前，先前（地） | |
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acclimate
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| v.使服水土，使习惯于新环境 | |
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blotchy
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| adj.有斑点的，有污渍的；斑污 | |
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akin
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| adj.同族的，类似的 | |
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measles
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| n.麻疹，风疹，包虫病，痧子 | |
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ivy
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| n.常青藤，常春藤 | |
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crumbling
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| adj.摇摇欲坠的 | |
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invalid
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| n.病人，伤残人；adj.有病的，伤残的；无效的 | |
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awry
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| adj.扭曲的，错的 | |
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spaciousness
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| n.宽敞 | |
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precisely
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| adv.恰好，正好，精确地，细致地 | |
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appropriation
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| n.拨款，批准支出 | |
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atlas
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| n.地图册，图表集 | |
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fabulous
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| adj.极好的；极为巨大的；寓言中的，传说中的 | |
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attentively
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| adv.聚精会神地；周到地；谛；凝神 | |
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masonry
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| n.砖土建筑；砖石 | |
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umbrageous
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| adj.多荫的 | |
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vaulted
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| adj.拱状的 | |
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conceit
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| n.自负，自高自大 | |
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penetrated
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| adj. 击穿的，鞭辟入里的 动词penetrate的过去式和过去分词形式 | |
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pelted
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| （连续地）投掷( pelt的过去式和过去分词 )； 连续抨击； 攻击； 剥去…的皮 | |
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plying
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| v.使用（工具）( ply的现在分词 )；经常供应（食物、饮料）；固定往来；经营生意 | |
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vexed
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| adj.争论不休的；（指问题等）棘手的；争论不休的问题；烦恼的v.使烦恼( vex的过去式和过去分词 )；使苦恼；使生气；详细讨论 | |
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gibes
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| vi.嘲笑，嘲弄（gibe的第三人称单数形式） | |
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solitary
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| adj.孤独的，独立的，荒凉的；n.隐士 | |
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majesty
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| n.雄伟，壮丽，庄严，威严；最高权威，王权 | |
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autocrat
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| n.独裁者；专横的人 | |
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fixed
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| adj.固定的，不变的，准备好的；(计算机)固定的 | |
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computed
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| adj.[医]计算的，使用计算机的v.计算，估算( compute的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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entirely
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| ad.全部地，完整地；完全地，彻底地 | |
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congregate
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| v.(使)集合，聚集 | |
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chambers
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| n.房间( chamber的名词复数 )；（议会的）议院；卧室；会议厅 | |
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savage
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| adj.野蛮的；凶恶的，残暴的；n.未开化的人 | |
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abode
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| n.住处，住所 | |
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inmates
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| n.囚犯( inmate的名词复数 ) | |
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muskets
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| n.火枪，（尤指）滑膛枪( musket的名词复数 ) | |
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worthy
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| adj.(of)值得的，配得上的；有价值的 | |
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mighty
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| adj.强有力的；巨大的 | |
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avers
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| v.断言( aver的第三人称单数 )；证实；证明…属实；作为事实提出 | |
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47
attaining
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| （通常经过努力）实现( attain的现在分词 )； 达到； 获得； 达到（某年龄、水平、状况） | |
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48
solely
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| adv.仅仅，唯一地 | |
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tapering
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| adj.尖端细的 | |
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50
abrupt
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| adj.突然的，意外的；唐突的，鲁莽的 | |
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51
minor
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| adj.较小(少)的，较次要的；n.辅修学科；vi.辅修 | |
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52
ascending
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| adj.上升的，向上的 | |
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53
nurturing
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| 养育( nurture的现在分词 )； 培育； 滋长； 助长 | |
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54
ripening
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| v.成熟，使熟( ripen的现在分词 )；熟化；熟成 | |
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55
ripen
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| vt.使成熟；vi.成熟 | |
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56
distilled
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| adj.由蒸馏得来的v.蒸馏( distil的过去式和过去分词 )；从…提取精华 | |
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57
amplitude
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| n.广大；充足；振幅 | |
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58
demolish
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| v.拆毁(建筑物等)，推翻(计划、制度等) | |
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59
mightiness
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| n.强大 | |
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60
craving
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| n.渴望,热望 | |
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raving
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| adj.说胡话的；疯狂的，怒吼的；非常漂亮的；令人醉心[痴心]的v.胡言乱语(rave的现在分词)n.胡话；疯话adv.胡言乱语地；疯狂地 | |
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mare
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| n.母马，母驴 | |
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63
attic
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| n.顶楼，屋顶室 | |
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64
faculties
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| n.能力( faculty的名词复数 )；全体教职员；技巧；院 | |
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spouse
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| n.配偶(指夫或妻) | |
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66
torpor
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| n.迟钝；麻木；（动物的）冬眠 | |
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projector
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| n.投影机，放映机，幻灯机 | |
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maxim
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| n.格言，箴言 | |
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dozy
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| adj.困倦的；愚笨的 | |
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indefatigable
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| adj.不知疲倦的，不屈不挠的 | |
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painstaking
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| adj.苦干的；艰苦的，费力的，刻苦的 | |
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Christian
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| adj.基督教徒的；n.基督教徒 | |
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73
teem
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| vi.(with)充满，多产 | |
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jeeringly
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| adv.嘲弄地 | |
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exhaustion
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| n.耗尽枯竭，疲惫，筋疲力尽，竭尽，详尽无遗的论述 | |
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fiery
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| adj.燃烧着的，火红的；暴躁的；激烈的 | |
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vitality
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| n.活力，生命力，效力 | |
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ruffle
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| v.弄皱，弄乱；激怒，扰乱；n.褶裥饰边 | |
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doctrine
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| n.教义；主义；学说 | |
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80
wedlock
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| n.婚姻，已婚状态 | |
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cogent
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| adj.强有力的，有说服力的 | |
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fatality
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| n.不幸，灾祸，天命 | |
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83
drawn
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| v.拖，拉，拔出；adj.憔悴的，紧张的 | |
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spicily
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| adv.香地；讽刺地；痛快地；下流地 | |
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overflows
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| v.溢出，淹没( overflow的第三人称单数 )；充满；挤满了人；扩展出界，过度延伸 | |
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86
pickles
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| n.腌菜( pickle的名词复数 )；处于困境；遇到麻烦；菜酱 | |
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ravenous
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| adj.极饿的，贪婪的 | |
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undue
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| adj.过分的；不适当的；未到期的 | |
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encroachment
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| n.侵入，蚕食 | |
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eschewing
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| v.（尤指为道德或实际理由而）习惯性避开，回避( eschew的现在分词 ) | |
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cosy
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| adj.温暖而舒适的，安逸的 | |
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juvenility
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| n.年轻，不成熟 | |
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rebukes
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| 责难或指责( rebuke的第三人称单数 ) | |
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prospects
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| n.希望，前途(恒为复数) | |
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graveyard
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| n.坟场 | |
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unnatural
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| adj.不自然的；反常的 | |
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immortally
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| 不朽地，永世地，无限地 | |
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bleak
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| adj.(天气)阴冷的；凄凉的；暗淡的 | |
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orchard
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| n.果园，果园里的全部果树，(美俚)棒球场 | |
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persecute
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| vt.迫害，虐待；纠缠，骚扰 | |
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perverse
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| adj.刚愎的；坚持错误的，行为反常的 | |
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102
remonstrate
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| v.抗议，规劝 | |
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103
grumble
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| vi.抱怨；咕哝；n.抱怨，牢骚；咕哝，隆隆声 | |
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stagnating
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| v.停滞，不流动，不发展( stagnate的现在分词 ) | |
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monsoon
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| n.季雨，季风，大雨 | |
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gale
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| n.大风，强风，一阵闹声（尤指笑声等） | |
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107
abdicate
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| v.让位，辞职，放弃 | |
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108
renouncing
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| v.声明放弃( renounce的现在分词 )；宣布放弃；宣布与…决裂；宣布摒弃 | |
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109
monastery
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| n.修道院，僧院，寺院 | |
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110
jurisdiction
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| n.司法权，审判权，管辖权，控制权 | |
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111
prerogative
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| n.特权 | |
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112
premises
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| n.建筑物，房屋 | |
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113
meditation
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| n.熟虑，（尤指宗教的）默想，沉思，（pl.）冥想录 | |
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