So that in this sense we may all be considered
'fatalists,' and all things _fated_. Why not? However, in the following
from _Festus_, it is the 'deil' that makes the assertion:

'FESTUS. Forced on us.

LUCIFER. _All things are of necessity._

FESTUS. Then best.

But the good are never fatalists. The bad
Alone act by necessity, they say.

LUCIFER. It matters not what men assume to be;
Or good, or bad, they are but what they are.'

In which we may agree that his majesty was not so very far wrong.

Moreover, 'Why _should_ we mourn departed friends?'--since we know that
they are but lying in the [Greek: moimeterion] (cemetery)--the _sleeping
place_; or, as the vivid old Hebrew faith would have it, _the house of
the living_ (Bethaim). Is not this testimony for the soul's immortality
worth as much as all the rhapsody written thereon, from Plato to
Addison?

Some words are the very essence of poetry; redolent with all beauteous
phantasies; odoriferous as flowers in spring, or discoursing an awful
organ-melody, like to the re-bellowing of the hoarse-sounding sea. For
instance, those two noble old Saxon words 'main' and 'deep,' that we
apply to the ocean--what a music is there about them! The 'main' is the
_maegen_--the strength, the _strong one_; the great 'deep' is precisely
what the name imports. Our employment of 'deep' reminds of the Latin
_altum_, which, properly signifying high or lofty, is, by a familiar
species of metonymy, put for its opposite.

By the way, how exceedingly timid are our poets and poetasters generally
of the open sea--_la pleine mer_. They linger around the shores thereof,
in a vain attempt to sit snugly there _a leur aise_, while they 'call
spirits from the vasty deep'--that never did and never would come on
such conditions, though they grew hoarse over it. We all remember how
Sandy Smith labors with making abortive _grabs_ at its _amber tails_,
_main_, etc. (rather slippery articles on the whole)--but he is not

'A shepherd in the Hebrid Isles,
_Placed far amid the melancholy main!_'

Hail shade of Thomson! But hear how the exile sings it:

'La mer! partout la mer! des flots, des flots encor!
L'oiseau fatigue en vain son inegal essor.
Ici les flots, la-bas les ondes.
Toujours des flots sans fin par des flots repousses;
L'oeil ne voit que des flots dans l'abime entasses
Rouler sous les vaques profondes.'[2]

This we, for our part, wo