I have known few persons with as exquisite æsthetical perceptions as my lovely friend Minnie. So I promised myself great pleasure in taking her to see Cole's celebrated series of pictures—The Course of Time. It was soon after Cole's lamented death; and, as Minnie had been some time living where she was deprived of such enjoyments, she had never seen these fine pictures.
As we drove along towards the Art Union Gallery, the fair enthusiast was all eager expectation. "How often my kind friend Mr. S—— B. R——, used to talk to me of Cole," said she, "and promise me the pleasure of knowing him. When he died I felt as though I had lost a dear friend, as I had indeed, for all who worship art, have a friend in each child of genius."
"Cole was emphatically one of these," returned I, "as his conceptions alone prove."
"Yes, indeed," replied Minnie, "I always think of him as the poet-painter, since I saw his first series—the 'Progress of Empire.' Only a poet's imagination could conceive his subjects."
I placed my sweet friend in the most favorable position for enjoying each picture in succession, and seated myself at her side, rather for the gratification of listening to the low murmurs of delight that should be breathed by her kindred soul, than to view the painter's skill, as that no longer possessed the attraction of novelty for me.
We had just come to the sublime portraiture of "Manhood," and Minnie seemed wholly absorbed in her own thoughts and imaginings. Suddenly a silly giggle broke the charmed stillness. The Devotee of the Beautiful started, as if abruptly awakened from a dream, and a slight shiver ran through her sensitive frame.
Turning, I perceived, standing close behind us, a group of young persons, chattering and laughing, and pointing to different parts of the picture before us. Their platitudes were not, perhaps, especially stupid, nor were they more noisy and rude than I have known free-born republicans before, under somewhat similar circumstances; but poor Minnie endured absolute torture; her idealized delight vanished before a coarse reality. I well remember the imploring and distressed look with which she whispered: "Let us go, dear Colonel;" and one glance at her pale face satisfied me that the spell was irrevocably broken for her, and that her long anticipated "joy," in beholding "a thing of beauty" had indeed been cruelly alloyed.
If my memory serves me aright, I told you something, in a former letter, of an interesting lady, a friend of mine, whose husband was shot all to pieces in the Mexican War, and after lying for many months in an almost hopeless condition, finally so far recovered as to be removed to the sea-board, to take ship for New Orleans. When informed of this, his beautiful young wife—a belle, a beauty, and the petted idol of a large family circle before her marriage—set out, at mid-winter, accompanied by one of her brothers and taking with her the infant-child, whom its soldier-father had never seen, to meet her husband on his homeward route. This explanation will render intelligible the following incident, which she herself related to me.
"My brother remained with us some time at New Orleans," said the fair narrator; "but, as Ernest began to improve, I entreated him to return home, as both his business and his family demanded his attention; and you know, Colonel Lunettes," she added, with a sad smile, "that a soldier's wife must learn to be brave, for her own sake as well as for his. Ernest had with him an excellent, faithful servant, who was fully competent to such service as I could not render, and my little boy's nurse was with me, of course. So we made our homeward journey by slow stages, but with less suffering to my husband than we could have hoped, and I grew strong as soon as we were re-united, and felt adequate to anything, almost."