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Can he warm his blue hands by holding them up to the grand northern lights?

But what thinks Lazarus?

Let them talk of their oriental summer climes of everlasting conservatories; give me the privilege of making my own summer with my own coals.

What a fine frosty night; how Orion glitters; what northern lights!

Euroclydon! says old Dives, in his red silken wrapper -- (he had a redder one afterwards) pooh, pooh!

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. *Raised from the dead by Christ...

The universe is finished; the copestone is on, and the chips were carted off a million years ago.

But it's too late to make any improvements now.

What a pity they didn't stop up the chinks and the crannies though, and thrust in a little lint here and there.

Yes, these eyes are windows, and this body of mine is the house.

True enough, thought I, as this passage occurred to my mind -- old black-letter, thou reasonest well.

"In judging of that tempestuous wind called Euroclydon," says an old writer -- of whose works I possess only the copy extent -- "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...

Euroclydon,* nevertheless, is a mighty pleasant zephyr to any one in-doors, with his feet on the hob quietly toasting for bed. *Wind that shipwrecked Saint Paul; see the Bible, Acts 27.

It stood on a sharp bleak corner, where that tempestuous wind Euroclydon kept up a worse howling than ever it did about poor Paul's tossed craft.

It was a queer sort of place -- a gable-ended old house, one side palsied as it were, and leaning over sadly. I forgot to respond to this; I said we're doing the whole thing - so we're doin' the whole thing. ;) I have the Barnes & Nobles Classics edition BTW, hence I'm also including the...

As the light looked so dim, and the place, for the time, looked quiet enough, and the dilapidated little wooden house itself looked as if it might have been carted here from the ruins of some burnt district, and as the swinging sign had a poverty-stricken sort of creak to it, I thought that here...

But it is a common name in Nantucket, they say, and I suppose this Peter here is an emigrant from there.

Rather ominous in that particular connection, thought I.

Coffin? -- Spouter?

Moving on, I at last came to a dim sort of out-hanging light not far from the docks, and heard a forlorn creaking in the air; and looking up, saw a swinging sign over the door with a white painting upon it, faintly representing a tall straight jet of misty spray, and these words underneath --...