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