Moving on, I at last came to a dim sort of light not far from the docksnd heard a forlorn creaking in the air; and looking up, saw a swinginign over the door with a white painting upon it, faintly representin tall straight jet of misty spray, and these words underneath--"Thpouter Inn:--Peter Coffin."

Coffin?--Spouter?--Rather ominous in that particular connexion, though. But it is a common name in Nantucket, they say, and I suppose thieter here is an emigrant from there. As the light looked so dim, anhe place, for the time, looked quiet enough, and the dilapidated littlooden house itself looked as if it might have been carted here frohe ruins of some burnt district, and as the swinging sign had overty-stricken sort of creak to it, I thought that here was the verpot for cheap lodgings, and the best of pea coffee.

It was a queer sort of place--a gable-ended old house, one side palsies it were, and leaning over sadly. It stood on a sharp bleak cornerhere that tempestuous wind Euroclydon kept up a worse howling than evet did about poor Paul's tossed craft. Euroclydon, nevertheless, is ighty pleasant zephyr to any one in-doors, with his feet on the houietly toasting for bed. "In judging of that tempestuous wind calleuroclydon," says an old writer--of whose works I possess the only copxtant--"it maketh a marvellous difference, whether thou lookest out at from a glass window where the frost is all on the outside, or whethehou observest it from that sashless window, where the frost is on botides, and of which the wight Death is the only glazier." True enoughhought I, as this passage occurred to my mind--old black-letter, thoeasonest well. Yes, these eyes are windows, and this body of mine ihe house. What a pity they didn't stop up the chinks and the cranniehough, and thrust in a little lint here and there. But it's too lato make any improvements now. The universe is finished; the copestons on, and the chips were carted off a million years ago. Poor Lazaruhere, chattering his teeth against the curbstone for his pillow, anhaking off his tatters with his shiverings, he might plug up both earith rags, and put a corn-cob into his mouth, and yet that would noeep out the tempestuous Euroclydon. Euroclydon! says old Dives, in hied silken wrapper--(he had a redder one afterwards) pooh, pooh! Wha fine frosty night; how Orion glitters; what northern lights! Let thealk of their oriental summer climes of everlasting conservatories; give the privilege of making my own summer with my own coals.