brought into the open air a part of the chimney previously 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 acclimate itself, ere long
began to fail--showing blotchy symptoms akin to those in measles.
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 ivy. 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 crumbling through the aforesaid blotchy parts, where
the chimney joined the roof. "Wife," said I, "far better that my
house should bum 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 invalid
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,