a worse howling than ever it did about poor Paul's tossed craft.
Euroclydon, nevertheless, is a mighty pleasant zephyr to any one
in-doors, with his feet on the hob quietly toasting for bed.
In judging of that tempestuous wind called Euroclydon,"
says an old writer--of whose works I possess the only copy
extant--"it maketh a marvellous difference, whether thou lookest
out at it from a glass window where the frost is all on the outside,
or whether thou observest it from that sashless window,
where the frost is on both sides, and of which the wight Death
is the only glazier." True enough, thought I, as this passage
occurred to my mind--old black-letter, thou reasonest well.
Yes, these eyes are windows, and this body of mine is the house.
What a pity they didn't stop up the chinks and the crannies though,
and thrust in a little lint here and there. But it's too late
to make any improvements now. The universe is finished;
the copestone is on, and the chips were carted off a million
years ago. Poor Lazarus there, chattering his teeth against
the curbstone for his pillow, and shaking off his tatters
with his shiverings, he might plug up both ears with rags,
and put a corn-cob into his mouth, and yet that would not keep
out the tempestuous Euroclydon. Euroclydon! says old Dives,
in his red silken wrapper--(he had a redder one afterwards)
pooh, pooh! What a fine frosty night; how Orion glitters;
what northern lights! Let them talk of their oriental summer
climes of everlasting conservatories; give me the privilege
of making my own summer with my own coals.

But what thinks Lazarus? Can he warm his blue hands by holding them up
to the grand northern lights? Would not Lazarus rather be in Sumatra
than here? Would he not far rather lay him down lengthwise along