. The winter queen, being the unhappy history of Elizabeth Stuart, electress palatine, queen of Bohemia; a romance . and fears, consoled himfor lifes cruelty. Even death could not change duty,even despair could not banish courage. The paintersonly chronicled that she had passed her calvary, but ontheir canvasses they recorded, too, something of thegrandeur of her bravery, which was cheerfulness in spiteof sorrow. The face which Mierevelt loved to paint wasno longer the same, though laughter—that shield behindwhich grief so often hides—concealed her sorrow fromthose around her. How strange it i
. The winter queen, being the unhappy history of Elizabeth Stuart, electress palatine, queen of Bohemia; a romance . and fears, consoled himfor lifes cruelty. Even death could not change duty,even despair could not banish courage. The paintersonly chronicled that she had passed her calvary, but ontheir canvasses they recorded, too, something of thegrandeur of her bravery, which was cheerfulness in spiteof sorrow. The face which Mierevelt loved to paint wasno longer the same, though laughter—that shield behindwhich grief so often hides—concealed her sorrow fromthose around her. How strange it is that those who arebound closest by the bond of daily life, really see little ofa man or womans true aspect, miss the tragedy, overlookthe rapture, are blind to the grandeur which is yetwritten on the well-known faces. The visions focus iswrong, perhaps, and those who stand afar see moreclearly. Yet if there is pain and loneliness herein thereis a merciful ordering also, for the human soul shrinksbefore too sharp a scrutiny. But with the inconsistencywhich is eternally human, how we cry out for comprehen-. Elizabeth of Bohemia. F7-om a jtniniing hy Honthorst in the National Portrait Gallery TIDINGS OF DESPAIR 347 sion, how we thirst for nearness ! Impatient of thatloneliness, which perhaps was given by God as a protec-tion, we for ever seek understanding, forgetting that onlyonce in a lifetime can it be other than a corroding chain,forgetting that it is only bearable when it comes as aflash of intuitive sympathy, that the soul cannot bearscrutiny, God having made each soul to be alone. Nowadays, on Elizabeth Stuarts face there were writtenthree things: the cheerfulness of courage, the patiencewhich life teaches to the impatient, the sadness of anundying memory. She was never the same after theHalberstadters death, and she deemed she had drained thechalice of sorrow. She knew not that in the dregs thereremained the poison-drops of sordid anxiety, of the bitter-ness of humil
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