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.
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