Hapgood up to witness a
remarkable tableau or an impromptu charade. Piles of illustrated
papers filled one corner, and, when all else failed, the children
used to pore over the sensational pictures of the Civil War,
dwelling with an especial interest on the scenes of death and
carnage. In another corner was arranged a long row of old
andirons, warming-pans, and candlesticks, flanked by an ancient
wooden cradle with a projecting cover above the head. Rows of
dilapidated chairs there were, of every date and every degree of
shabbiness,--those old friends which start in the parlor and
slowly descend in rank, first to the sitting-room or library, then
up-stairs, and so, by easy stages, to the hospital asylum of the
garret. And up through the very midst of it all, midway between
the two small windows which lighted the opposite ends of the
attic, rose the huge gray stone chimney, like a massive backbone
to the body of the house. What stories of the past the old chimney
could have told! What descriptions of Hapgoods, long dead, who had
warmed themselves about it! What secret papers had been burned in
its wide throat! What sweet and tender home scenes had been
enacted on the old settles ranged before its glowing hearths,
which put to shame our tiny modern fireplaces and insignificant
grates! But the old chimney kept its own counsel, and did not
whisper a word, even to the swallows that built their nests in the
crannies of its sides.
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