The few days of my residence in Dresden were solely devoted to the picture-gallery.  The antiquities still stood in the pavilion of the great garden; but I declined seeing them, as well as all the other precious things which Dresden contained, being but too full of the conviction, that, even in and about the collection of paintings, much must yet remain hidden from me.  Thus I took the excellence of the Italian masters more on trust and in faith, than by pretending to any insight into them.  What I could not look upon as nature, put in the place of nature, and compare with a known object, was without effect upon me.  It is the material impression which makes the beginning even to every more elevated taste.

With my shoemaker I lived on very good terms.  He was witty and varied enough, and we often outvied each other in merry conceits:  nevertheless, a man who thinks himself happy, and desires others to do the same, makes us discontented; indeed, the repetition of such sentiments produces weariness.  I found myself well occupied, entertained, excited, but by no means happy; and the shoes from his last would not fit me.  We parted, however, as the best friends; and even my hostess, on my departure, was not dissatisfied with me.

Shortly before my departure, something else very pleasant was to happen.  By the mediation of that young man, who wished to somewhat regain his credit with me, I was introduced to the Director Von Hagedorn, who, with great kindness, showed me his collection, and was highly delighted with the enthusiasm of the young lover of art.  He himself, as becomes a connoisseur, was quite peculiarly in love with the pictures which he possessed, and therefore seldom found in others an interest such as he wished.  It gave him particular satisfaction that I was so excessively pleased with a picture by Schwanefeld, and that I was not tired of praising and extolling it in every single part; for landscapes, which again reminded me of the beautiful clear sky under which I had grown up, of the vegetable luxuriance of those spots, and of whatever other favors a warmer climate offers to man, were just the things that most affected me in the imitation, while they awakened in me a longing remembrance.

These delightful experiences, preparing both mind and sense for true art, were nevertheless interrupted and damped by one of the most melancholy sights,—­by the destroyed and desolate condition of so many of the streets of Dresden through which I took my way.  The Mohrenstrasse in ruins, and the Church (Kreuzkirche) of the Cross, with its shattered tower, impressed themselves deeply upon me, and still stand like a gloomy spot in my imagination.  From the cupola of the Lady Church (Frauenkirche) I saw these pitiable ruins scattered about amid the beautiful order of the city.  Here the clerk commended to me the art of the architect, who had already fitted up church and cupola for so undesirable an event, and had built them bomb-proof.  The good sacristan then pointed out to me the ruins on all sides, and said doubtfully and laconically, “The enemy hath done this!”