beat too wildly, nor the diamond coronet still the throbbing of the feverish temples, where the pulse was too quick and too keen.
Sophie was used to a more genial atmosphere than the court of Hanover. Her own princely home had been warmed by the most simple and true affection; and she had been her mother’s darling. Suddenly she was transported into a cold and unkindly atmosphere, where life was a thing of forms and ceremonies, and thoughts and feelings were forbidden words—a royal victim, sacrificed to that state necessity, whose origin is in false pride and false prejudice, her hand was given, but the heart remained behind. Married to a man whom she could not love, she might have honored him; but that was equally out of the question. She might have forgiven his neglect and his inconstancy, for it is strange how much a woman who loves will endure; but then she must love. Now, her husband’s neglect grew out of his utter incapability of appreciating her, and his inconstancy from all that was mean in his nature—he needed low amusement and coarse flattery.
I know nothing in royal history more pitiable than its marriages, or more miserable than the system of state expediency on which they are founded. It is one of those mistakes which human pride so often commits when left to its own devices. General good was never yet purchased by individual wrong; and the affection, which is the most exalted and hallowed feeling in our nature, is not to be sacrificed to political exigences with impunity.
Sophie was much altered, and yet lovelier than ever. She was now very pale, a sad soft paleness, fairer than the rose; and her large eyes were like the moonlight, melancholy and full of poetry and thought.
"Leave me, Mimi," said the Electress.
The girl looked sorrowful, but obeyed. She was scarcely gone before her mistress half rose to call her back; she missed
