May 11.—­At last in this “Florence of the Elbe,” as the Saxons have christened it.  Exclusive of its glorious galleries of art, which are scarcely surpassed by any in Europe, Dresden charms one by the natural beauty of its environs.  It stands in a curve of the Elbe, in the midst of green meadows, gardens and fine old woods, with the hills of Saxony sweeping around like an amphitheatre, and the craggy peaks of the Highlands looking at it from afar.  The domes and spires at a distance give it a rich Italian look, which is heightened by the white villas, embowered in trees, gleaming on the hills around.  In the streets there is no bustle of business—­nothing of the din and confusion of traffic which mark most cities; it seems like a place for study and quiet enjoyment.

The railroad brought us in three hours from Leipsic, over the eighty miles of plain that intervene.  We came from the station through the Neustadt, passing the Japanese Palace and the equestrian statue of Augustus the Strong, The magnificent bridge over the Elbe was so much injured by the late inundation as to be impassable; we worn obliged to go some distance up the river bank and cross on a bridge of boats.  Next morning my first search was for the picture gallery.  We set off at random, and after passing the Church of Our Lady, with its lofty dome of solid stone, which withstood the heaviest bombs during the war with Frederick the Great, came to an open square, one side of which was occupied by an old, brown, red-roofed building, which I at once recognized, from pictures, as the object of our search.

I have just taken a last look at the gallery this morning, and left it with real regret; for, during the two visits, Raphael’s heavenly picture of the Madonna and child had so grown into my love and admiration, that it was painful to think I should never see it again.  There are many more which clung so strongly to my imagination, gratifying in the highest degree the love for the Beautiful, that I left them with sadness, and the thought that I would now only have the memory.  I can see the inspired eye and god-like brow of the Jesus-child, as if I were still standing before the picture, and the sweet, holy countenance of the Madonna still looks upon me.  Yet, though this picture is a miracle of art, the first glance filled me with disappointment.  It has somewhat faded, during the three hundred years that have rolled away since the hand of Raphael worked on the canvass, and the glass with which it is covered for better preservation, injures the effect.  After I had gazed on it awhile, every thought of this vanished.  The figure of the virgin seemed to soar in the air, and it was difficult to think the clouds were not in motion.  An aerial lightness clothes her form, and it is perfectly natural for such a figure to stand among the clouds.  Two divine cherubs look up from below, and in her arms sits the sacred child.  Those two faces beam from the picture like those of