by Edgar Allan Poe

Nullus enim locus sine genio est -- Servius

"LA MUSIQUE," says Marmontel, in those "Contes Moraux" {*1} which in all our translations, insisted upon calling "Moral Tales," in mockery spirit -- "la musique est le seul des talents qui jouissent de lui-meme; tous les autres veulent des temoins " He here confounds the pleasure derivable from sweet sounds capacity for creating them No more than talent, for music susceptible of complete enjoyment, where no second party to appreciate its exercise And only in common with other talents produces effects fully enjoyed in solitude The idea which the raconteur has either failed to entertain clearly, or has sacrificed in its expression national love of point, is, doubtless, the very tenable one higher order of music most thoroughly estimated when exclusively alone The proposition, form, admitted at once who love the lyre for its own sake, and for its spiritual uses But one pleasure still reach of fallen mortality and perhaps -- which owes even more than does music accessory sentiment of seclusion I mean the happiness experienced contemplation of natural scenery In truth, the man behold aright the glory of God upon earth must in solitude behold that glory , , the presence -- not of human life only, but of life in form than that green things which grow soil voiceless -- is stain landscape -- is at war genius scene I love, indeed, to regard the dark valleys, gray rocks, waters that silently smile, forests that sigh in uneasy slumbers, proud watchful mountains that look down upon all, -- I love to regard these as themselves but the colossal members of one vast animate and sentient whole -- whole whose form (that sphere) most perfect and most inclusive of all; whose path is among associate planets; whose meek handmaiden moon, whose mediate sovereign sun; whose life is eternity, whose thought of God; whose enjoyment is knowledge; whose destinies are lost in immensity, whose cognizance of ourselves is akin own cognizance animalculae which infest the brain -- being which we, in consequence, regard as purely inanimate and material much same manner animalculae must thus regard us

Our telescopes mathematical investigations assure us on every hand -- notwithstanding the cant more ignorant priesthood -- that space, and therefore that bulk, is an important consideration eyes Almighty The cycles stars move are those best adapted evolution, without collision, greatest possible number of bodies The forms bodies are accurately such as, within given surface, to include the greatest possible amount of matter; -- while the surfaces themselves are so disposed accommodate denser population than accommodated same surfaces otherwise arranged Nor any argument against bulk being an object with God, that space itself is infinite; for an infinity of matter it And since we see clearly endowment of matter with vitality is principle -- indeed, as far as our judgments extend, the leading principle operations of Deity, -- scarcely logical to imagine it confined regions minute, where we daily trace it, and not extending august As cycle within cycle without end, -- yet all revolving around one far-distant centre the God-head, may we not analogically suppose same manner, life within life, the less greater, and all Spirit Divine ? In short, madly erring, through self-esteem, in believing man, in either his temporal or future destinies, of more moment universe than that vast "clod valley" which he tills and contemns, and he denies soul for no more profound reason than that behold it in operation {*2}

These fancies, and such , have always given to my meditations mountains forests, rivers ocean, tinge of what the everyday world fail to term fantastic My wanderings amid such scenes many, and far-searching, and often solitary; interest strayed through many dim, deep valley, or gazed reflected Heaven of many bright lake, an interest greatly deepened thought that strayed and gazed alone What flippant Frenchman who said in allusion well-known work of Zimmerman, that, "la solitude est une belle chose; mais il faut quelqu'un pour vous dire que la solitude est une belle chose ? " The epigram gainsayed; but the necessity is thing exist

during one lonely journeyings, amid far distant region of mountain locked within mountain, and sad rivers and melancholy tarn writhing or sleeping within all -- that I chanced upon certain rivulet and island upon them suddenly leafy June, and threw myself turf, beneath the branches of an unknown odorous shrub, that doze as I contemplated the scene that thus only should I look upon it -- such character of phantasm which it wore

On all sides -- save west, where the sun was about sinking -- arose the verdant walls forest The little river which turned sharply in its course, and was thus immediately lost to sight, seemed no exit from its prison, but absorbed deep green foliage trees east -- while opposite quarter (so it appeared as I lay and glanced upward) there poured down noiselessly and continuously valley, rich golden and crimson waterfall sunset fountains sky

About midway short vista which my dreamy vision took in, one small circular island, profusely verdured, reposed bosom stream

So blended bank and shadow there

That each seemed pendulous in air -- so mirror-like glassy water, scarcely possible at what point slope emerald turf its crystal dominion began

My position enabled me to include in single view both the eastern and western extremities islet; and I observed singularly-marked difference in their aspects The latter was all one radiant harem of garden beauties It glowed and blushed beneath the eyes slant sunlight, and fairly laughed with flowers The grass was short, springy, sweet-scented, and Asphodel-interspersed The trees were lithe, mirthful, erect -- bright, slender, and graceful, -- of eastern figure and foliage, with bark smooth, glossy, and parti-colored There seemed deep sense of life and joy about all; and although no airs blew from out the heavens, yet every thing had motion gentle sweepings to and fro of innumerable butterflies, that mistaken for tulips with wings {*4}

The other or eastern end isle was whelmed blackest shade sombre, yet beautiful and peaceful gloom here pervaded all things The trees were dark in color, and mournful in form and attitude, wreathing themselves into sad, solemn, and spectral shapes that conveyed ideas of mortal sorrow and untimely death The grass wore the deep tint cypress, heads blades hung droopingly, and hither and thither among it were many small unsightly hillocks, low and narrow, and not very long, that had the aspect of graves, but ; although over and all the rue rosemary clambered The shade trees fell heavily water, and seemed to bury itself therein, impregnating the depths element with darkness I fancied that each shadow, sun descended lower and lower, separated itself sullenly trunk that gave it birth, and thus became absorbed stream; while other shadows issued momently trees, taking the place predecessors thus entombed

This idea, having once seized upon my fancy, greatly excited it, and I lost myself forthwith in revery "If ever island were enchanted," said I to myself, " it haunt few gentle Fays who remain wreck race Are these green tombs theirs ? -- or do they yield up their sweet lives as mankind yield up their own ? In dying, do they not rather waste away mournfully, rendering unto God, little by little, their existence, trees render up shadow after shadow, exhausting their substance unto dissolution ? What the wasting tree is water that imbibes its shade, growing thus blacker by what it preys upon, may not the life Fay be death which engulfs it ? "

As I thus mused, with half-shut eyes, while the sun sank rapidly to rest, and eddying currents careered round and round the island, bearing upon their bosom large, dazzling, white flakes bark sycamore-flakes which, in their multiform positions water, quick imagination converted into any thing it pleased, while I thus mused, it appeared form of one very Fays about whom I pondering made its way slowly darkness from out the light western end island She stood erect in singularly fragile canoe, and urged it mere phantom of an oar While influence lingering sunbeams, her attitude seemed indicative of joy -- but sorrow deformed it as she passed shade Slowly she glided along, and rounded the islet and re-entered the region of light "The revolution just been made Fay," continued I, musingly, " cycle brief year of her life She has floated through her winter and through her summer year nearer unto Death; for fail that, as she came shade, her shadow fell from her, and was swallowed up dark water, making its blackness more black "