By the possessor of Wordsworth’s Greece, where every spot almost, of the slightest historical interest, is given in a picture on its pages, these “Picturesque Sketches” will be read with the highest gratification that scenes and descriptions together can supply.  There is so much of mind in them; so much of sound philosophy in the observations; such beautiful thoughts; so well, so elegantly expressed; so many allusions to the past, that are continually placing before us Pericles, Themistocles, or Demosthenes, that we are improved while amused, and feel at every page that we are reading a work far above the general works on such subjects; a work of lasting interest, that may be read and re-read, and still with delight and advantage.

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DEATH AND SLEEP.

FROM THE GERMAN OF KRUMMACHER.

In brotherly embrace walked the Angel of Sleep and the Angel of Death upon the earth.

It was evening.  They laid themselves down upon a hill not far from the dwelling of men.  A melancholy silence prevailed around, and the chimes of the evening-bell in the distant hamlet ceased.

Still and silent, as was their custom, sat these two beneficent Genii of the human race, their arms entwined with cordial familiarity, and soon the shades of night gathered around them.

Then arose the Angel of Sleep from his moss-grown couch, and strewed with a gentle hand the invisible grains of slumber.  The evening breeze wafted them to the quiet dwelling of the tired husbandman, infolding in sweet sleep the inmates of the rural cottage—­from the old man upon the staff, down to the infant in the cradle.  The sick forgot their pain:  the mourners their grief; the poor their care.  All eyes closed.

His task accomplished, the benevolent Angel of Sleep laid himself again by the side of his grave brother.  “When Aurora awakes,” exclaimed he, with innocent joy, “men praise me as their friend and benefactor.  Oh! what happiness, unseen and secretly to confer such benefits!  How blessed are we to be the invisible messengers of the Good Spirit!  How beautiful is our silent calling!”

So spake the friendly Angel of Slumber.

The Angel of Death sat with still deeper melancholy on his brow, and a tear, such as mortals shed, appeared in his large dark eyes.  “Alas!” said he, “I may not, like thee, rejoice in the cheerful thanks of mankind; they call me upon the earth their enemy, and joy-killer.”

“Oh! my brother,” replied the gentle Angel of Slumber, “and will not the good man, at his awakening, recognize in thee his friend and benefactor, and gratefully bless thee in his joy?  Are we not brothers, and ministers of one Father?”

As he spake, the eyes of the Death-Angel beamed with pleasure, and again did the two friendly Genii cordially embrace each other.

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