The last purple shadows of twilight died away, the lamplight grew distinct amid the surrounding gloom, yet Sophie never stirred from her seat. Her long fair hair, pressed back from her feverish temples, had gradually become loosened from its confinement, and had fallen around her. Her cheek was even paler; and the eyelashes were wet with tears, that rose from a wretchedness they could not relieve. Yet hers was a common subject of human thought—she was thinking how happy she might have been.
"Why was I born," muttered she, "in a rank so surrounded by restraints? why am I a mere machine in the hands of others, who never ask whether there is a beating or a human heart within? Why are these feelings given me, if they are for ever to be repelled with a bitter sense of wrong? I feel, deeply feel, that there can be no happiness but in affection."
The Electress was right; she was but one of the many victims sacrificed to that gilded misery—a state marriage: a remains of feudal barbarism. The crime and sorrow of such a marriage is even yet imperfectly understood; and yet what is a royal union but an outrage on all natural feeling? Two strangers meet, between whom there can be no sympathy; all the illusions, all the delicacy of sentiment, are put harshly aside; in all probability they do not even please each other externally; they have not a remembrance in common; and yet they are at once bound to each other by the most sacred vows. To what has this led, this forced and unnatural position? To the most disgraceful profligacy, and the most bitter unhappiness. Whether in the palace or the cottage, marriage, not to be intolerable must be one of affection, nothing can supply its place; and what can be said in defence of a system which coldly puts attachment aside, and where even mutual liking—love is a holier word—where even liking is a chance.
Sophie was essentially gentle and feminine in her nature,
