The fault is ours, not theirs. The pleasure-grounds of a city ought to be, and in this case are, adapted to the seasons during which the inhabitants make use of them. But in the height of summer, Nature only in her free fresh beauty can afford enjoyment. We have no business to come here now in search of wood and stream and field, which alone can content our souls, athirst and wearied by the heat. The fault, as I have said, is ours; not that of Dresden, which really may be said in some degree to rival Florence in its pretensions to beauty, and which has of course an individual character of its own.
P goes almost every night to the Opera. The heat is so very great, that I have only seldom ventured. The house is very pretty; and I had hoped, as there are some good singers, to hear some of the chef-d’œuvres of German composers. I am disappointed. At Berlin, we had Masaniello: here we have La Dame Blanche—Die weise Frau—instead of the Huguenots, which our musical friend considers the finest composition of modern times—inferior only to Mozart; superior to him, inasmuch as orchestral accompaniment is so wonderfully improved and extended since the day when Figaro and the Zauberflaüte were brought out. I am much disappointed in not hearing this opera. The tenor is a young, good-looking man, with a very pleasing voice and
