Euroclydon, nevertheless, is a mighty pleasant zephyr to anyone indoors, when his feet on the hob quietly toasting for bed. âIn judging of that tempestuous wind called Euroclydon,â says an old writer-of whose works I possess the only copy extant - âit maketh a marvelous difference, whether thou lookest out at it from a glass window where the frost is all on the outside, or whether though observeth it from that sashless window, where the frost is on both sides, and of which the wightdeath is the only Glazier.â True enough, thought I, as this passage occurred to my mind- old black letter, thou reasoneth well. Yes these eyes are windows and this body of mine is the house. what a Pity that they didnât stop up the chinks of the crannies and thrust in a little lint here and there but itâs too late to make any improvements now. the universe is finished the copestone is on the chips were carted off a million years ago. Poor Lazarus there chattering his teeth against the curbstone of his pillow, and shaking off his tattered his 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 silk and 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 thiks Lazarus? Can he warm his blue Hands by holding them up in the Grand Northern Lights? would he far be in samatra than here? would he not far rather lay him down lengthwise along the line of the Equator; yea, ye gods! go down to the fiery put itself, in order to keep out this frost!
Now that Lazarus should lie stranded there on the curb Stone before the door of the Dives, this is more wonderful than that an Iceberg should be more to one of the Moluccas.
Yet to Dives himself he too lives like a Czar in an ice palace if frozen sighs, and being a president of a Temperance Society he only drinks the tipid tears of Orphans. but no more of this blubbering now, we are going a-Wailing. And there is plenty of that yet to come. Let us scrape the ice from our frosted feet, and see what sort of place this âSpouterâ May be.
