"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